"Dear Mr Erskine,—I do not know what words to use to tell you how pained and distressed we are—I speak for my mother as well as myself—to find that nothing has been done to relieve you from the consequence of such a ridiculous as well as unhappy mistake. We found my brother Robin as anxious as we were, or more so, if that were possible, to set matters right at once; but unfortunately on the day after, the funeral took up all thoughts: and what other obstacles intervened next day I cannot rightly tell, but something or other—I am too impatient and pained to inquire what—came in the way; and they tell me now that to-morrow is the day of the examination, and that it is of no use now to forestall justice, which will certainly set you free to-morrow. Oh, dear Mr Erskine, I cannot tell you how sick and sore my heart is to think that you have been in confinement (it seems too dreadful, too ludicrous, to be true), in confinement all these long days. I feel too angry, too miserable, to think of it. I have been crying, as if that would do you any good, and rushing up and down abusing everybody. I think that in his heart Robin feels it more than any of us: he feels the injustice, the foolishness; but still he has been to blame, and I don't know how to excuse him. We have not dared to tell poor Carry—though, indeed, I need not attempt to conceal from you, who have seen so much, that poor Carry, though she is dreadfully excited and upset, is not miserable, as you would expect a woman to be in her circumstances. Could it be expected? But I don't know what she might do if she heard what has happened to you. She might take some step of her own accord, and that would be not prudent, I suppose; so we don't tell her. Oh, Mr Erskine, did you ever think how miserable women are? I never realised it till now. Here am I, and, still more, here is my mother. She is not a child, or an incapable person, I hope! yet she can do nothing—nothing to free you. She is as helpless as if she were a baby. It seems to me ridiculous that Robin's opinion should be worth taking, and mine not; but that is quite a different matter. My mother can do nothing but persuade and plead with a boy like Robin, to do that which she herself, at her age, wise as she is, good as she is, cannot do. As you are a man, you may think this of no importance; and mamma says it is nature, and cannot be resisted, and smiles. But if you suppose she does not feel it!—if she could have been your bail, or whatever it is, you may be sure you would not have been a single night in that place! but all that we can do is to go down on our knees to the men who have it in their power, and I, unfortunately, have not been brought up to go down on my knees. Forgive me for this outburst. I am so miserable to think where you are, and why, and that I—I mean we—can do nothing. What can I say to you? Dear Mr Erskine, our thoughts are with you constantly. My mother sends you her love.
"Edith."
Edith felt perhaps that this was not a very prudent letter. She was not thinking of prudence, but of relieving her own mind and comforting John Erskine, oppressed and suffering. And besides, she was herself in a condition of great excitement and agitation. She had been brought back from Tinto, she and her mother, with a purpose. Perhaps it was not said to her in so many words; but it was certainly conveyed to the minds of the female members of the family generally that Millefleurs was at the end of his patience, and his suit must have an answer once for all. Carry had been told of the proposal by her mother, and had pledged herself to say nothing against it. And she had kept her promise, though with difficulty, reserving to herself the power to act afterwards if Edith should be driven to consent against her will. "Another of us shall not do it," Carry said; "oh, not if I can help it!" "I do not believe that Edith will do it," said Lady Lindores; "but let us not interfere—let us not interfere!" Carry, therefore, closed her mouth resolutely; but as she kissed her sister, she could not help whispering in her ear, "Remember that I will always stand by you—always, whatever happens!" This was at Lindores, where Carry, pining to see once more the face of the outer world since it had so changed to her, drove her mother and sister in the afternoon, returning home alone with results which were not without importance in her life. But in the meantime it is Edith with whom we have to do. She reached home with the sense of having a certain ordeal before her—something which she had to pass through, not without pain—which would bring her into direct antagonism with her father, and convulse the household altogether. Even the idea that she must more or less vex Millefleurs distressed and excited her; for indeed she was quite willing to admit that she was "very fond of" Millefleurs, though it was ridiculous to think of him in any other capacity than that of a brotherly friend. And it was at this moment she made the discovery that, notwithstanding the promises of Rintoul and Millefleurs, nothing had been done for John. The consequence was, that the letter which we have just quoted was at once an expression of sympathy, very warm, and indeed impassioned—more than sympathy, indignation, wrath, sentiments which were nothing less than violent—and a way of easing her own excited mind which nothing else could have furnished. "I am going to write to John Erskine," she said, with the boldness produced by so great a crisis; and Lady Lindores had not interfered. She said, "Give him my love," and that was all. No claim of superior prudence, or even wisdom, has been made for Lady Lindores. She had to do the best she could among all these imperfections. Perhaps she thought that, having expressed all her angry glowing heart to John, in the outflowing of impassioned sympathy, the girl would be more likely, in the reaction and fear lest she had gone too far, to be kind to Millefleurs; for who can gauge the ebbings and flowings of these young fantastic souls? And as for Lady Lindores's private sentiments, she would not have forced her daughter a hairbreadth; and she had a good deal of pain to reconcile herself to Millefleurs's somewhat absurd figure as the husband of Edith. But yet, when all is said, to give your child the chance of being a duchess, who would not sacrifice a little? If only Edith could make up her mind to it! Lady Lindores went no further. Nevertheless, when the important moment approached, she could not help, like Carry, breathing a word in her child's ear, "Remember, there is no better heart in existence," she said. "A woman could not have a better man." Edith, in her excitement, grasped her mother's arms with her two hands; but all the answer she gave was a little nervous laugh. She had no voice to reply.
"You will remember, Millefleurs, that my daughter is very young—and—and shy," said Lord Lindores, on the other side. He was devoured by a desire to say, "If she refuses you, never mind—I will make her give in;" which indeed was what he had said in a kind of paraphrase to Torrance. But Millefleurs was not the sort of person to whom this could be said. He drew himself up a little, and puffed out his fine chest, when his future father-in-law (as they hoped) made this remark. If Edith was not as willing to have him as he was to have her, she was not for Millefleurs. He almost resented the interference. "I have no doubt that Lady Edith and I will quite understand each other—whichever way it may be," Millefleurs added with a sigh, which suited the situation. As a matter of fact, he thought there could not be very much doubt as to the reply. It was not possible that they could have made him stay only to get a refusal at the end—and Millefleurs was well aware that the girls were very few who could find it in their hearts to refuse a future dukedom: besides, had it not been a friendship at first sight—an immediate liking, if not love? To refuse him now would be strange indeed. It was not until after dinner that the fated moment came. Neither Lord Lindores nor Rintoul came into the drawing-room; and Lady Lindores, having her previous orders, left the field clear almost immediately after the entrance of the little hero. There was nothing accidental about it, as there generally is, or appears to be, about the scene of such events. The great drawing-room, all softly lighted and warm, was never abandoned in this way in the evening. Edith stood before the fire, clasping her hands together nervously, the light falling warm upon her black dress and the gleams of reflection from its jet trimmings. They had begun to talk before Lady Lindores retreated to the background to look for something, as she said; and Millefleurs allowed the subject they were discussing to come to an end before he entered upon anything more important. He concluded his little argument with the greatest propriety, and then he paused and cleared his throat.
"Lady Edith," he said, "you may not have noticed that we are alone." He folded his little hands together, and put out his chest, and made all his curves more remarkable, involuntarily, as he said this. It was his way of opening a new subject, and he was not carried out of his way by excitement as Edith was.
She looked round breathlessly, and said, "Has mamma gone?" with a little gasp—a mixture of agitation and shame. The sense even that she was false in her pretence at surprise—for did she not know what was coming?—agitated her still more.
"Yeth," said Millefleurs, drawing out his lisp into a sort of sigh. "I have asked that I might see you by yourself. You will have thought, perhaps, that for me to stay here when the family was in—affliction, was, to say the least, bad taste, don't you know?"
"No," said Edith, faltering, "I did not think so; I thought——"
"That is exactly so," said Millefleurs, seriously. "It is a great bore, to be sure; but you and I are not like two nobodies. The truth is, I had to speak to your father first: it seemed to be the best thing to do,—and now I have been waiting to have this chance. Lady Edith, I hope you are very well aware that I am—very fond of you, don't you know? I always thought we were fond of one another——"