The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 35 (1/2)

XXXV

“Your master is just a young fool. Why, in the name of a’ that’s reasonable,” cried Mr. Monypenny, “did he not send for me?”

“Sir,” said Rolls, “you’re too sensible a man not to know that the last thing a lad is likely to do is what’s reasonable, especially when he’s in that flurry, and just furious at being blamed.”

Mr. Monypenny was walking up and down his business room with much haste and excitement. His house was built on the side of a slope, so that the room, which was level with the road on one side, was elevated on the upper floor at the other, and consequently had the advantage of a view bounded, as was general, by “that eternal Tinto,” as he was in the habit of calling it. The good man, greatly disturbed by what he heard, walked to his window and stared out as Rolls spoke. And he shook his fist at the distant object of so many troubles. “Him and his big house and his ill ways⁠—they’ve been the trouble of the countryside those fifteen years and more,” cried the excited “man of business”; “and now we’re not done with him, even when he’s dead.”

“Far from done with him,” said Rolls, shaking his head. He was seated on the edge of a chair with his hat in his lap and a countenance of dismay. “If I might make so bold as to ask,” he said, “what would ye say, sir, would be done if the worst came to the worst? I’m no’ saying to Mr. Erskine indiveedually,” added Rolls⁠—“for it’s my belief he’s had nothing ado with it⁠—but granting that it’s some person and no mere accident⁠—”

“How can I tell⁠—or any man?” said Mr. Monypenny. “It depends entirely on the nature of the act. It’s all supposition, so far as I can see. To pitch Pat Torrance over the Scaur, him and his big horse, with murderous intent, is more than John Erskine could have done, or any man I know. And there was no quarrel or motive. Culpable homicide⁠—”

“That’ll be what the English gentleman called manslaughter.”

“Manslaughter is a wide word. It would all depend on the circumstances. A year; maybe six months only⁠—If it were to turn out so⁠—which I do not for a moment believe⁠—” said Mr. Monypenny, fixing his eyes upon Rolls with a determination which betrayed internal feebleness of belief.

“Nor me, sir⁠—nor me!” cried Rolls, with the same look. They were like two conspirators regarding each other with the consciousness of the plot, which, even between themselves, each eyeing the other, they were determined to deny.

“But if by any evil chance it were to turn out so⁠—I would advise a plain statement,” said Mr. Monypenny⁠—“just a plain statement, concealing nothing. That should have been done at the moment: help should have been sought at the moment; there’s the error. A misadventure like that might happen to any man. We might any of us be the means of such an accident: but panic is just the worst policy. Panic looks like guilt. If he’s been so far left to himself as to take fright⁠—to see that big man on his big horse thunderin’ over the Scaur would be enough to make any man lose his head,” the agent added, with a sort of apology in his tone.

“If you could think of the young master as in that poseetion,” said Rolls.

“Which is just impossible,” Mr. Monypenny said, and then there was a little pause. “The wisest thing,” he went on, “would be, just as I say, a plain statement. Such and such a thing happened. I lost my head. I thought there was nothing to be done. I was foolish enough to shrink from the name of it, or from the coolness it would make between me and my friends. Ay, very likely that might be the cause⁠—the coolness it would make between him and the family at Lindores⁠—”

“You’re meaning always if there was onything in it at a’?”

“That is what I’m meaning. I will go and see him at once,” Mr. Monypenny said, “and that is the advice I will give. A plain story whatever it may be⁠—just the facts; neither extenuate nor set down aught in malice. And as for you, Rolls, that seem to be mixed up in it yourself⁠—”

“Ay, sir; I’m mixed up in it,” said Rolls, turning upon him an inquiring yet half-defiant glance.

“It was you that found the body first. It was you that met your master at the gate. You’re the most important witness, so far as I can see. Lord bless us, man!” said Mr. Monypenny, forgetting precaution, “had you not the judgment, when you saw the lad had been in a tuilzie, to get him out of other folk’s sight, and keep it to yourself?”

“There was John Tamson as well as me,” said Rolls, very gravely; and then he added, “but ye canna see yet, Mr. Monypenny, how it may a’ turn.”

“I see plenty,” said the man of business, impatiently; and then he added, “the best thing you can do is to find out all you can about the ground, and other details. It was always unsafe; and there had been a great deal of rain. Very likely it was worse than ordinary that day. And call to mind any circumstances that might tell on our side. Ye had better come to me and make me acquainted with all your observations. Neglect nothing. The very way the beast was lying, if ye can rightly remember, might be a help. You’re not without sense, Rolls. I’ve always had a high opinion of your sense. Now here’s a chance for you to prove it⁠—And come back to me, and we’ll judge how the evidence tends. There’s no need,” he said, standing at the window once more with his back to his pupil, “to bring out any points that might turn⁠—the other way.”

“I’m not just such a fool as⁠—some folk think,” said Rolls; “and yet,” he added, in an undertone, “for a’ that, you canna see, Mr. Monypenny, how it may all turn⁠—”

“Don’t haver, Rolls,” said the agent, turning upon him angrily; “or speak out what you mean. There is no man can say how a thing will turn but he that has perfect knowledge of all the circumstances⁠—which is not my case.”

“That’s what I was saying, sir,” said Rolls, with a tranquil assumption which roused Mr. Monypenny’s temper; but the old man was so solemn in his air of superior knowledge, so full of sorrowful decision and despondency, that anger seemed out of place. The other grew alarmed as he looked at him.

“For God’s sake, man,” he cried, “if there’s anything behind that I don’t know, tell it! let me hear the worst. We must know the worst, if it’s to make the best of it. Hide nothing from me.”

“I give ye my word, sir, I’ll hide nothing⁠—when the time comes,” said Rolls, with a sigh; “but I canna just unburden my bozume at this moment. There’s mair thought needful and mair planning. And there’s one thing I would like to make sure of, Mr. Monypenny. If I’m put to expenses, or otherwise laid open to risk and ootlay⁠—there’s no doubt but it would be made up to me? And if, as might happen, anything serious was to befall⁠—without doubt the young maister would think himself bound to take good care o’ Bauby? She’s my sister, maybe you’ll mind: an aixcellent housekeeper and a good woman, though maybe I should leave her praises to ither folk. You see he hasna been brought up in the midst o’ his ain folk, so to speak, or I would have little doubt.”

“I cannot conceive what you mean, Rolls. Of course I know Bauby and her cookery both; but what risk you should run, or what she can have to do with it! Your expenses of course,” said the agent, with a contemptuous wave of his hand, “you may be sure enough of. But you must have done pretty well in the service of the Dalrulzian family, Rolls. I’m surprised that you should think of this at such a moment⁠—”

“That’s just what I expectit, sir,” said Rolls; “but maybe I ken my ain affairs best, having no man of business. And about Bauby, she’s just what I care for most. I wouldna have her vexed or distresst for siller, or put out of her ordinar. The maister he’s but a young man, and no’ attached to us as he would have been had he been brought up at hame. It’s a great drawback to a young lad, Mr. Monypenny”⁠—Rolls broke off his personal argument to say sententiously⁠—“not to be brought up at hame.”

“Because he does not get the chance of becoming attached to his servants?” said Mr. Monypenny, with an impatient laugh. “Perhaps it may be so, but this is a curious moment to moralise on the subject.”

“No’ so curious as you think, sir; but I will not weary you,” said Rolls, with some dignity. “When I was saying ootlay, I meant mair than just a sixpence here or there. But Bauby’s the grand question. I’m in a strange kind of a poseetion, and the one thing I’m clear in is my duty to her. She’s been a rael guid sister to me; aye made me comfortable, studiet my ways, took an interest in all my bits o’ fykes. I would ill like either scorn or trouble to come to Bauby. She’s awfu’ softhearted,” said the old butler, solemnly gazing into vacancy with a reddening of his eyes. Something of that most moving of all sentiments, self-pity, was in his tone. He foresaw Bauby’s apron at her eyes for him, and in her grief over her brother, his own heart was profoundly moved. “There will be some things that nobody can save her from: but for all that concerns this world, if I could be sure that nothing would happen to Bauby⁠—”

“Well, Rolls, you’re past my comprehension,” said Mr. Monypenny; “but so far as taking care of Bauby in case anything happens to you⁠—though what should happen to you I have yet to learn.”

“That is just so,” said Rolls, getting up slowly. There was about him altogether a great solemnity, like a man at a funeral, Mr. Monypenny said afterwards. “I cannot expect you to know, sir⁠—that’s atween me and my Maker. I’m no’ going back to Dalrulzian. I cannot have my mind disturbed at this awfu’ moment, as ye say, with weemen and their ways. If ye see the English gentleman, ye’ll maybe explain. Marget has a very guid notion o’ waitin’; she can do all that’s necessary; and for me, I’ve ither work in hand.”

“You must not look at everything in so gloomy a spirit, Rolls,” said Mr. Monypenny, holding out his hand. He was not in the habit of shaking hands with the butler, but there are occasions when rules are involuntarily broken through.

“No’ a gloomy spirit, sir, but awfu’ serious,” said Rolls. “You’ll tell the young maister no’ to be downhearted, but at the same time no’ to be that prood. Help may come when it’s little looked for. I’m no’ a man of mony words, but I’ve been, as you say, sir, attached to the family all my days, and I have just a feeling for them more than common. The present gentleman’s mother⁠—her that married the English minister⁠—was no’ just what suited the house. Dalrulzian was nothing to her; and that’s what I compleen o’, that the young man was never brought up at hame, to have confidence in his ain folk. It would have been greatly for his advantage, sir,” continued Rolls, “if he had but had the discernment to see that our bonnie Miss Nora was just the person;⁠—but I mustna think now of making conditions,” he said, hurriedly⁠—“we’ll leave that to his good sense. Mony thanks to you, sir, for hearing me out, and shaking my hand as ye’ve done; though there’s maybe things I have said that are a wee hard to understand.”

“Ay, Rolls,” said Mr. Monypenny, laughing, “you’re just like the other prophets; a great deal of what you’ve said is Greek and Hebrew to me.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said Rolls, shaking his head; there was no smile in him, not a line in his countenance that marked even incipient humour. Whatever he meant it was deadly earnest to Rolls. Mr. Monypenny stood and watched him go out, with a laugh gurgling low down in his throat. “He was always a conceited body,” he said to himself. But his inclination to laughter subsided as his visitor disappeared. It was no moment for laughing. And when Rolls was gone, the temptation to speculate on his words, and put meaning into them, subsided also, and Mr. Monypenny gave himself up with great seriousness to consider the position. He ordered his little country carriage⁠—something of the phaeton order, but not elegant enough for classification⁠—and drove away as quickly as his comfortable cob would consent to go, to where John was. Such a thing had not happened to any person of importance in the county since he could remember. Debt, indeed⁠—debt was common enough, and plenty of trouble always, about money, Mr. Monypenny said to himself, shaking his head, as he went along. There had been borrowings and hypothecations of all sorts enough to make a financier’s hair stand on end; but crime never! Not that men were better here than in other quarters; but among the gentry that had never happened. The good man ran on, in a rambling inaudible soliloquy, or rather colloquy with himself, as he drove on, asking how it was, after all, that incidents of the kind were so rare among the gentry. Was the breed better? He shook his head, remembering himself of various details which interfered with so easy a solution. Or was it that things were more easily hushed up? or that superior education enforced a greater respect for the world’s opinion, and made offences of this sort almost impossible? It was a strange thing (he thought) when you came to think of it. A fellow, now, like the late Tinto would have been in every kind of scrape had he been a poor man; but somehow, being a rich one, he had kept out of the hands of the law. Such a thing never happened from year’s end to year’s end. And to think now that it was not one of our ordinary Scots lairds, but the pink of education and good breeding, from England and abroad! This gave a momentary theoretical satisfaction to his musings by the way. But immediately after, he thought with self-reproach that it was young Erskine of whom he was permitting himself such criticism: young Dalrulzian, poor lad! all the more to be pitied that he had been brought up, as Rolls said, away from home, and with no father to look after him. The cob was used to take his own way along those roads which he knew so well, but at this point Mr. Monypenny touched him with the indignity of a whip, and hurried along. He met Beaufort returning, driving, with a little hesitation at the corner of the road, John’s dogcart homeward; and Mr. Monypenny thought he recognised the dogcart, but he did not stop to say anything to the stranger, who naturally knew nothing of him. Nor was his interview with John at all satisfactory when he came to his journey’s end. The young man received his man of business with that air of levity which, mixed with indignation, had been his prevailing mood since his arrest. He laughed when he said, “This is a curious place to receive you in,” and for some time he would scarcely give any heed to the anxious questions and suggestions of Mr. Monypenny. At length, however, this veil was thrown off, and John permitted the family friend, of whose faithfulness he could have no doubt, to see the depth of wounded feeling that lay below. “Of course it can be nothing to me,” he said, still holding his head high. “They cannot prove a falsehood, however they may wish it; but to think that of all these men with whom I have eaten and drunk, who have professed to welcome me for my father’s sake⁠—to think that not one of them would step in to stand by a fellow, or give him the least support⁠—”

“When you reflect that even I knew nothing about it,” said Mr. Monypenny⁠—“not a word⁠—till old Rolls came⁠—”

“Did you hear none of the talk?” said John. “I did not hear it, indeed, but I have felt it in the air. I knew there was something. Everybody looked at me suspiciously; the very tone of their voice was changed⁠—my own servants⁠—”

“Your servants are very anxious about you, Mr. Erskine, if I may judge from old Rolls. I have seldom seen a man so overcome; and if you will reflect that your other friends throughout the county can have heard nothing, any more than myself⁠—”

“Then you did not hear the talk?” said John, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Monypenny’s countenance fell.

“I paid no attention to it. There’s some story forever going on in the countryside. Wise men just shut their ears,” he said.