The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 44 (2/2)

“I am sick of thinking what is better for me,” said Beaufort. “I shall please myself for once in my life. What have the convenances to do with me?” He did not meet the look of his junior and supposed pupil, but got up and threw away his cigar and stalked to the window, where his long figure shut out almost all the light. Little Millefleurs folded his plump hands, and shook his round boyish head. The other was a much more dignified figure, but his outline against the light had a limp irresolution in it. He knew that he ought to go away; but how could he do it? To find your treasure that was lost after so many years, and then go straight away and leave it⁠—was that possible? And then, perhaps, it had flashed across Beaufort’s mind, who had been hanging on waiting for fortune so long, and never had bestirred himself⁠—perhaps it flashed upon him that now⁠—now⁠—the Duke’s patronage, and the places and promotions in his power, might be of less importance. But this was only a shadow flying like the shadows of the hills upon which he was gazing, involuntary, so that he was not to blame for it. Millefleurs went away alone next day. He took a very tender farewell of the ladies at Lindores, asking permission to write to them. “And if I hear anything of her, don’t you know? I shall tell you,” he said to Edith, holding her hand affectionately in both of his. “You must hear something of her⁠—you must go and find her,” said Edith. Millefleurs put his head on one side like a sentimental robin. “But it is quite unsuitable, don’t you know?” he said, and drove away, kissing his hand with many a tender token of friendship. Lord Lindores could scarcely endure to see these evidences of an affectionate parting. He had come out, as in duty bound, to speed the parting guest with the proper smile of hospitable regret; but as soon as Millefleurs was out of sight, turned upon his heel with an expression of disgust. “He is a little fool, if he is not a little humbug. I wonder if he ever was in earnest at all?” This was addressed to Rintoul, who of late had avoided all such subjects, and now made no reply.

“I say, I wonder whether he ever meant anything serious at all?” said Lord Lindores, in a tone of irritation, having called his son into the library after him; “and you don’t even take the trouble to answer me. But one thing he has done, he has invited you to Ess Castle; and as I suggested to you before, there is Lady Reseda, a very nice girl, in every way desirable⁠—”

“I have had my leave already,” said Rintoul, hastily. “It was kind of Millefleurs; but I don’t see how I can go⁠—”

“I never knew before that there was any such serious difficulty about leave,” said his father. “You can cut off your last fortnight here.”

“I don’t think that would do,” said Rintoul, with a troubled look. “I have made engagements⁠—for nearly every day.”

“You had better speak out at once. Tell me, what I know you are thinking, that the Duke’s daughter, because your father suggests her, is not to be thought of. You are all alike. I once thought you had some sense, Rintoul.”

“I⁠—I hope I have so still. I don’t think it is good taste to bring in a lady’s name⁠—”

“Oh, d⁠⸺⁠n your good taste,” cried the exasperated father; “a connection of this kind would be everything for me. What I am trying to obtain will, remember this, be for you and your children as well. You have no right to reap the benefit if you don’t do what you can to bring it about.”

“I should like to speak to you on⁠—on the whole subject⁠—some time or other,” said the young man. He was like a man eager to give a blow, yet so frightened that he ran away in the very act of delivering it. Lord Lindores looked at him with suspicious eyes.

“I don’t know any reason why you shouldn’t speak now. It would be well that we should understand each other,” he said.

But this took away all power from Rintoul. He almost trembled as he stood before his father’s too keen⁠—too penetrating eyes.

“Oh, don’t let me trouble you now,” he said, nervously; “and besides, I have something to do. Dear me, it is three o’clock!” he cried, looking at his watch and hurrying away. But he had really no engagement for three o’clock. It was the time when Nora, escaping from her old lady, came out for a walk; and they had met on several occasions, though never by appointment. Nora, for her part, would not have consented to make any appointment. Already she began to feel herself in a false position. She was willing to accept and keep inviolable the secret with which he had trusted her; but that she herself, a girl full of high-mindedness and honour, should be his secret too, and carry on a clandestine intercourse which nobody knew anything of, was to Nora the last humiliation. She had not written home since it happened; for to write home and not to tell her mother of what had happened, would have seemed to the girl falsehood. She felt false with Miss Barbara; she had an intolerable sense at once of being wronged, and wrong, in the presence of Lady Lindores and Edith. She would no more have made an appointment to meet him than she would have told a lie. But poor Nora, who was only a girl after all, notwithstanding these high principles of hers, took her walk daily along the Lindores road. It was the quietest, the prettiest. She had always liked it better than any other⁠—so she said to herself; and naturally Rintoul, who could not go to Dunearn save by that way, met her there. She received him, not with any rosy flush of pleasure, but with a blush that was hot and angry, resolving that tomorrow she would turn her steps in a different direction, and that this should not occur again; and she did not even give him her hand when they met, as she would have done to the doctor or the minister, or anyone of the ordinary passersby.

“You are angry with me, Nora,” he said.

“I don’t know that I have any right to be angry. We have very little to do with each other, Lord Rintoul.”

“Nora!” he cried; “Nora! do you want to break my heart. What is this? It is not so very long since!⁠—”

“It is long enough,” she said, “to let me see⁠—It is better that we should not say anything more about that. One is a fool⁠—one is taken by surprise⁠—one does not think what it means⁠—”

“Do you imagine I will let myself be thrown off like this?” he cried, with great agitation. “Nora, why should you despise me so⁠—all for the sake of old Rolls?”

“It is not all for the sake of old Rolls.”

“I will go and see him, if you like, today. I will find out from him what he means. It is his own doing, it is not my doing. You know I was more surprised than anyone. Nora, think! If you only think, you will see that you are unreasonable. How could I stand up and contradict a man who had accused himself?”

“I was not thinking of Rolls,” cried Nora, who had tried to break in on this flood of eloquence in vain. “I was thinking of⁠—Lord Rintoul, I am not a person of rank like you⁠—I don’t know what lords and ladies think it right to do⁠—but I will not have clandestine meetings with anyone. If a man wants me, if he were a prince, he must ask my father⁠—he must do it in the eye of day, not as if he were ashamed. Goodbye! do not expect me to see you any more.” She turned as she spoke, waved her hand, and walked quickly away. He was too much astonished to say a word. He made a step or two after her, but she called to him that she would not suffer it, and walked on at full speed. Rintoul looked after her aghast. He tried to laugh to himself, and to say, “Oh, it is that, is it?” but he could not. There was nothing gratifying to his pride to be got out of the incident at all. He turned after she was out of sight, and went home crestfallen. She never turned round, nor looked back⁠—made no sign of knowing that he stood there watching her. Poor Rintoul crept along homeward in the early gloaming with a heavy heart. He would have to beard the lions, then⁠—no help for it; indeed he had always intended to do it, but not now, when there was so much excitement in the air.