The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 45 (1/2)

XLV

Rolls in the county jail, sent hither on his own confession, was in a very different position from John Erskine, waiting examination there. He was locked up without ceremony in a cell, his respectability and his well known antecedents all ignored. Dunnotter was at some distance from the district in which he was known, and Thomas Rolls, domestic servant, charged with manslaughter, did not impress the official imagination as Mr. Rolls the factotum of Dalrulzian had long impressed the mind of his own neighbourhood and surroundings. And Rolls, to tell the truth, was deeply depressed when he found himself shut up within that blank interior, with nothing to do, and nothing to support the amour propre which was his strength, except the inborn conviction of his own righteousness and exemplary position⁠—a sight for all men. But there is nothing that takes down the sense of native merit so much as solitude and absence of appreciation. Opposition and hostility are stimulants, and keep warm in us the sense of our own superiority, but not the contemptuous indifference of a surly turnkey to whom one is No. 25, and who cared not a straw for Rolls’s position and career. He felt himself getting limp as the long featureless days went on, and doubts of every kind assailed him. Had he been right to do it? Since he had made this sacrifice for his master, there had come into his mind a chill of doubt which he had never been touched by before. Was it certain that it was John who had done it? Might not he, Rolls, be making a victim of himself for some nameless tramp, who would never even know of it, nor care, and whose punishment would be doubly deserved and worthy of no man’s interference? Rolls felt that this was a suggestion of the devil for his discomfiture. He tried to chase it out of his mind by thinking of the pleasures he had secured for himself in that last week of his life⁠—of Edinburgh Castle and the Calton Jail and the Earthen Mound, and the wonders of the Observatory. To inspect these had been the dream of his life, and he had attained that felicity. He had believed that this would give him “plenty to think about” for the rest of his life⁠—and that, especially for the time of his confinement, it would afford an excellent provision; but he did not find the solace that he had expected in musing upon Mons Meg and the Scottish Regalia. How dreadful four walls become when you are shut up within them; how the air begins to hum and buzz after a while with your thoughts that have escaped you, and swarm about like bees, all murmurous and unresting⁠—these were the discoveries he made. Rolls grew nervous, almost hysterical, in the unusual quiet. What would he not have given for his plate to polish, or his lamps to trim! He had been allowed to have what are called writing materials⁠—a few dingy sheets of notepaper, a penny bottle of ink, a rusty steel pen⁠—but Rolls was not accustomed to literary composition; and a few books⁠—but Rolls was scornful of what he called “novelles,” and considered even more serious reading, as an occupation which required thought and a mind free of care. And nobody came to see him. He had no effusion of gratitude and sweet praise from his master. Mr. Monypenny was Rolls’s only visitor, who came to take all his explanations, and get a perfect understanding of how his case ought to be conducted. The butler had become rather limp and feeble before even Mr. Monypenny appeared.

“I’m maybe not worthy of much,” Rolls said, with a wave of his hand, “but I think there’s one or two might have come to see me⁠—one or two.”

“I think so too, Rolls; but it is not want of feeling. I have instructions from Mr. Erskine to spare no expense; to have the very best man that can be had. And I make no doubt we’ll carry you through. I’m thinking of trying Jardine, who is at the very top of the tree.”

“And what will that cost, if I may make so bold, Mr. Monypenny?”

When he heard the sum that was needed for the advocate’s fee, Rolls’s countenance fell, but his spirit rose. “Lord bless us!” he said⁠—“a’ that for standing up and discoursing before the Court! And most of them are real well pleased to hear themselves speak, if it were without fee or reward. I think shame to have a’ that siller spent upon me; but it’s a grand thing of the young master, and a great compliment: it will please Bauby too.”

“He ought to have come to see you⁠—so old a servant, and a most faithful one,” said Mr. Monypenny.

“Well-a-well, sir, there’s many things to be said: a gentleman has things to do; there’s a number of calls upon his time. He would mean well, I make no doubt, and then he would forget; but to put his hand in his pocket like that! Bauby will be very well pleased. I am glad, poor woman, that she has the like of that to keep up her heart.”

“Well, Rolls, I am glad to see that you are so grateful. Thinking over all the circumstances, and that you lost no time in giving the alarm, and did your best to have succour carried to him, I think I may say that you will be let off very easy. I would not be astonished if you were discharged at once. In any case it will be a light sentence. You may keep your mind easy about that.”

“It’s all in the hands of Providence,” said Rolls. He was scarcely willing to allow that his position was one to be considered so cheerfully. “It will be a grand exhibition o’ eloquence,” he said; “and will there be as much siller spent, and as great an advocate on the other side, Mr. Monypenny? It’s a wonderful elevating thought to think that the best intellects in the land will be warstlin’ ower a simple body like me.”

“And that is true, Rolls; they will just warstle over ye⁠—it will be a treat to hear it. And if I get Jardine, he will do it con amore, for he’s a sworn enemy to the Procurator, and cannot bide the Lord Advocate. He’s a tremendous speaker when he’s got a good subject; and he’ll do it con amore.”

“Well-a-well, sir; if it’s con amoray or con onything else, sae long as he can convince the jury,” said Rolls. He was pleased with the importance of this point of view; but when Mr. Monypenny left him, it required all his strength of mind to apply this consolation. “If they would but do it quick, I wouldna stand upon the honour of the thing,” he said to himself.

Next day, however, he had a visitor who broke the tedium very effectually. Rolls could not believe his eyes when his door suddenly opened, and Lord Rintoul came in. The young man was very much embarrassed, and divided, apparently, between a somewhat fretful shame and a desire to show great cordiality. He went so far as to shake hands with Rolls, and then sat down on the only chair, not seeming to know what to do next. At length he burst forth, colouring up to his hair, “I want to know what made you say that?⁠—for you know it’s not true.”

Rolls, surprised greatly by his appearance at all, was thunderstruck by this sudden demand. “I don’t just catch your meaning, my lord,” he said.

“Oh, my meaning⁠—my meaning is not very difficult. What are you here for? Is it on Erskine’s account? Did he make any arrangement? What is he to do for you?” said Rintoul hurriedly. “It is all such a mystery to me, I don’t know what to make of it. When I heard you say it, I could not believe my ears.”

Rolls looked at him with a very steady gaze⁠—a gaze which gradually became unbearable to the young man. “Don’t stare at me,” he cried roughly, “but answer me. What is the meaning of it?⁠—that’s what I want to know.”

“Your lordship,” said Rolls, slowly, “is beginning at the hinder end of the subjik, so far as I can see. Maybe ye will tell me first, my lord, what right ye have to come into a jyel that belangs to the Queen’s maist sacred Majesty, as the minister says, and question me, a person awaiting my trial? Are ye a commissioner, or are ye an advocate, or maybe with authority from the Procurator himsel’? I never heard that you had anything to do with the law.”

“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” said Rintoul, subduing himself. “No; I’ve nothing to do with the law. I daresay I’m very abrupt. I don’t know how to put it, you know; but you remember I was there⁠—at least I wasn’t far off: I was⁠—the first person that came. They’ll call me for a witness at the trial, I suppose. Can’t you see what a confusing sort of thing it is for me. I know, you know. Don’t you know I know? Why, how could you have done it when it was⁠—Look here, it would be a great relief to me, and to another⁠—to⁠—a lady⁠—who takes a great interest in you⁠—if you would speak out plain.”

The eyes of Rolls were small and grey⁠—they were not distinguished by any brightness or penetrating quality; but any kind of eyes, when fixed immovably upon a man’s face, especially a man who has anything to hide, become insupportable, and burn holes into his very soul. Rintoul pushed away his chair, and tried to avoid this look. Then he perceived, suddenly, that he had appropriated the only chair, and that Rolls, whom he had no desire to irritate, but quite the reverse, was standing. He rose up hastily and thrust the chair towards him. “Look here,” he said, “hadn’t you better sit down? I didn’t observe it was the only seat in the⁠—room.”

“They call this a cell, my lord, and we’re in a jyel, not a private mansion. I’m a man biding the course of the law.”

“Oh yes, yes, yes! I know all that: why should you worry me?” cried Rintoul. He wanted to be civil and friendly, but he did not know how. “We are all in a muddle,” he said, “and don’t see a step before us. Why have you done it? What object had he in asking you, or you in doing it? Can’t you tell me? I’ll make it all square with Erskine if you’ll tell me: and I should know better what to do.”

“You take a great interest in me⁠—that was never any connection, nor even a servant in your lordship’s family. It’s awfu’ sudden,” said Rolls; “but I’ll tell you what, my lord⁠—I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll tell me what reason you have for wanting to ken, I will tell you whatfor I’m here.”

Rintoul looked at Rolls with a confused and anxious gaze, knowing that the latter on his side was reading him far more effectually. “You see,” he said, “I was⁠—somewhere about the wood. I⁠—I don’t pretend to mean that I could⁠—see what you were about exactly⁠—but⁠—but I know, you know!” cried Rintoul confusedly; “that’s just my reason⁠—and I want you to tell me what’s the meaning? I don’t suppose you can like being here,” he said, glancing round; “it must be dreadful slow work⁠—nothing to do. You remember Miss Barrington, who always took so great an interest in you? Well, it was she⁠—She⁠—would like to know.”

“Oh ay, Miss Nora,” said Rolls. “Miss Nora was a young lady I likit weel. It was a great wish of mine, if we ever got our wishes in this world, that Dalrulzian and her might have drawn together. She was awfu’ fond of the place.”

“Dalrulzian and⁠—! I suppose you think there’s nobody like Dalrulzian, as you call him,” cried Rintoul, red with anger, but forcing a laugh. “Well, I don’t know if it was for his sake or for your sake, Rolls; but Miss Nora⁠—wanted to know⁠—”

“And your lordship cam’ a’ this gait for that young lady’s sake? She is set up with a lord to do her errands,” said Rolls. “And there’s few things I would refuse to Miss Nora; but my ain private affairs are⁠—well, my lord, they’re just my ain private affairs. I’m no’ bound to unburden my bosom, except at my ain will and pleasure, if it was to the Queen hersel’.”

“That is quite true⁠—quite true, Rolls. Jove! what is the use of making mysteries?⁠—if I was ignorant, don’t you see! but we’re both in the same box. I was⁠—his brother-in-law, you know; that made it so much worse for me. Look here! you let me run on, and let out all sort of things.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Lord Rintoul, that it was you that pushed Pat Torrance over the brae?”

The two men stood gazing at each other. The old butler, flushed with excitement, his shaky old figure erecting itself, expanding, taking a commanding aspect; the young lord, pale, with anxious puckers about his eyes, shrinking backward into himself, deprecating, as if in old Rolls he saw a judge ready to condemn him. “We are all⁠—in the same box,” he faltered. “He was mad; he would have it: first, Erskine; if it didn’t happen with Erskine, it was his good luck. Then there’s you, and me⁠—” Rintoul never took his eyes from those of Rolls, on whose decision his fate seemed to hang. He was too much confused to know very well what he was saying. The very event itself, which he had scarcely been able to forget since it happened, began to be jumbled up in his mind. Rolls⁠—somehow Rolls must have had to do with it too. It was not he only that had seized the bridle⁠—that had heard the horrible scramble of the hoofs, and the dull crash and moan. He seemed to hear all that again as he stood drawing back before John Erskine’s servant. Erskine had been in it. It might just as well have happened to Erskine; and it seemed to him, in his giddy bewilderment, that it had happened again also to Rolls. But Rolls had kept his counsel, while he had betrayed himself. All the alarms which he had gone through on the morning of the examination came over him again. Well! perhaps she would be satisfied now.

“Then it was none of my business,” said Rolls. The old man felt as if he had fallen from a great height. He was stunned and silenced for the moment. He sat down upon his bed vacantly, forgetting all the punctilios in which his life had been formed. “Then the young master thinks it’s me,” he added slowly, “and divines nothing, nothing! and instead of the truth, will say till himself, ‘That auld brute, Rolls, to save his auld bones, keepit me in prison four days.’ ” The consternation with which he dropped forth sentence after sentence from his mouth, supporting his head in his hands, and looking out from the curve of his palms with horror-stricken eyes into the air, not so much as noticing his alarmed and anxious companion, was wonderful. Then after a long pause, Rolls, looking up briskly, with a light of indignation in his face, exclaimed, “And a’ the time it was you, my lad, that did it?⁠—I’m meaning,” Rolls added with fine emphasis, “my lord! and never steppit in like a gentleman to say, ‘It’s me⁠—set free that innocent man’⁠—”

“Rolls, look here!” cried Rintoul, with passion⁠—“look here! don’t think so badly till you know. I meant to do it. I went there that morning fully prepared. You can ask her, and she will tell you. When somebody said, ‘The man’s here’⁠—Jove! I stepped out; I was quite ready. And then⁠—you might have doubled me up with a touch;⁠—you might have knocked me down with a feather⁠—when I saw it was you. What could I do? The words were taken out of my mouth. Which of us would they have believed? Most likely they would have thought we were both in a conspiracy to save Erskine, and that he was the guilty one after all.”

It was not a very close attention which Rolls gave to this impassioned statement. He was more occupied, as was natural, with its effect upon his own position. “I was just an auld eediot,” he said to himself⁠—“just a fool, as I’ve been all my born days. And what will Bauby say? And Dalrulzian, he’ll think I was in earnest, and that it was just me! Lord be about us, to think a man should come to my age, and be just as great a fool! Him do it! No; if I had just ever thought upon the subjik; if I hadna been an eediot, and an ill-thinking, suspicious, bad-minded⁠—Lord! me to have been in the Dalrulzian family this thirty years, and kenned them to the backbone, and made such a mistake at the end⁠—” He paused for a long time upon this, and then added, in a shrill tone of emotion, shame, and distress, “And now he will think a’ the time that it was really me!”