Carry's impulse was to say "Now, now!" It seemed to her as if parting with him again would be tempting fate. For the first time since she had got her freedom, she put forth all her powers consciously, and controlled herself. It seemed to her the utmost stretch of self-denial when she said, "To-morrow," with a long-drawn breath, in which her whole being seemed to go out to him. The next moment the carriage was rolling along as it had done before, and Carry had dropped back into her corner, but not as she was before. Her entire world was changed. The glow of life which had come back to her was something which she had not known for years. It belonged to her early bloom, when she had no thought of ever being Lady Car or a great personage. It belonged to the time when Edward Beaufort was the lord of the ascendant, and nobody thought him beneath the pretensions of Carry Lindores. The intervening time had rolled away and was no more. She put her hands over her eyes to shut out everything but this that had been, and was, in spite of all obstacles. Her heart filled all the silence with tumultuous joyful beating. It was all over, the prison-time of her life—the evil time—gone like a bad enchantment—past and over, leaving no sign. It seemed to her that she could take up her life where she laid it down six years ago, and that all would be as though this interruption had never been.
CHAPTER XLII.
No morning ever broke which brought more exciting expectations than the morning of the 25th September in the various houses in which our history lies. Of the dozen people whose interests were concerned, not one but awoke early to the touch of the warm autumnal sunshine, and took up with a start of troubled energy, painful or otherwise, the burden of existence, of which for a few hours they had been partially oblivious. The women had the best of it, which is not usual; although in the mingled feelings of Lady Lindores, glad that her child had carried out her expectations, yet half sorry, now it was over, that Edith had not accepted the great matrimonial prize put into her hands—and in those of Edith herself, happy in having so successfully surmounted the incident Millefleurs, yet greatly disturbed and excited about the coming events as concerned John Erskine, and doubtful whether she ought to have written to him so very frank and undisguised a letter,—there was as much pain as pleasure. As for Carry, when she woke in the gloomy magnificence of Tinto, and all the warmth and glowing hopes of yesterday came back to her mind with a bound, there was nothing in her thoughts which prevented her lying still upon her pillows and letting the flood of light sweep into her heart, in a luxury of happiness and peace which was past describing. She did not for the moment even need to think of the meeting to come. Blessedness seemed suddenly to have become habitual to her once more. She woke to the delight of life. "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive." The past had flown away like a dream: was it a dream altogether, a nightmare, some dark shadow of fear and pain, from which the oppressed soul, having at last awoke, was free? Beaufort at Dalrulzian got up a similar feeling. He had been obliged to find himself something of a failure—but he, too, seemed to be restored to the hopes and the standing-ground of youth. He would now have no excuse to himself for his absence of energy and ambition. His youthful strength was still unimpaired, though he had made so much less of it than he ought. And now here were all the occasions for a fresh beginning—sympathy to support him and to inspire him. Not only would he be happy, but at last he would do something—he would carry out all hopes and prophecies of him now.
This was the brighter side—but in Lindores the sentiments of the chief personages in the house were not so pleasant. Lord Lindores was angry and humiliated, furious with his daughter and still more with his wife, who, he had no doubt, with her ridiculous romance, had filled the girl's head with follies—and not much less with Millefleurs, who had thus suffered himself to be foiled. But his disturbed cogitations were as nothing to the tumult of pain and alarm which rose up in Rintoul's mind when he opened his eyes to the morning light. When the young man awoke he had first a moment of bewildered consideration, what was the meaning of the confused sense of disaster of which he became instantly conscious—and then he sprang from his bed unable to rest, eager for movement or anything which would counterbalance the fever of the crisis. This was the day. He could delay no longer; he could not trifle with the situation, or leave things to chance after to-day. It would be a new beginning in his life. Hitherto all had gone on serenely enough. He had gone with the stream, he had never set himself in opposition to the world or its ways, never done anything to draw men's eyes upon him. But after to-day all would be changed. To-morrow his name would be telegraphed over all the world in newspaper paragraphs; to-morrow every fellow he had ever known would be saying: "Rintoul! what Rintoul? You never can mean?——" No, they would all feel it to be impossible. Rintoul who was so safe, who never got into scrapes, whom they even laughed at as a canny Scot, though he did not feel a Scot at all. It would be incredible to all who had ever known him. And what a scandal, what an outcry it would make! In his own family even! Rintoul knew that Carry was not a broken-hearted widow, and yet it seemed to him that, after she knew, she would never speak to him again. It made his heart sink to think of all the changes that in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, would become inevitable. His father, with what rage, and misery, and confusion of all his plans and hopes, would he hear it! with what consternation his mother and sister! As for himself, everything would be interrupted and set aside, his life in every way turned upside-down, his ambition checked, his hopes destroyed. And all this to save John Erskine from a certain amount of inconvenience! That was how at least it appeared to him—really from inconvenience, nothing more. John was not a man of rank like himself, full in the eyes of the world—he was not responsible to a proud and ambitious father. A short term of imprisonment to him would be like a disagreeable visit, nothing more. Many people had to spend a certain part of every year, for instance, with an old uncle or aunt, somebody from whom they had expectations. It really would be little or nothing more than this. And it was not as if it had been anything disgraceful. The county would not think the worse of him; it was an accident, a thing that might have happened to any one. But to Rintoul how much more terrible! he the brother-in-law of the man, with a sort of interest in his death. He would have to leave his regiment. All his projects for life would be interrupted. By the time he was free again, he would be forgotten in society, and his name would be flétri for ever. These thoughts sent him pacing about his room with hasty steps, the perspiration standing on his forehead. All to save John Erskine, who was just as much to blame as he was—for the first quarrel was the one which had excited that unfortunate fellow; all to save from a little inconvenience another man!
Perhaps if he had been placed simply in front of the question whether he would let another man be punished for what he had done, Rintoul would have had spirit enough to say No; certainly if it had been put to him quickly for an instant decision, without time to think, he would have said No, and held by his honour. But something else more determined than himself stood before him. Nora! He might use sophistries for the confusing of his own intellect—but not hers. She would look at him, he knew how. She would turn away from him, he knew how. The anticipation of that glance of high scorn and unspoken condemnation made Rintoul tremble to the depths of his being. When he thought of it he braced himself up with a rapidity and certainty much unlike the previous hesitating strain of his thoughts. "It must be done," he said to himself. He might beguile himself with argument, but he could not beguile her. The thought might intrude upon him whether he had been wise to let her know—whether it might not have been better to keep it to himself; but, having done it, the question was now not only whether he was content to lose Nora—but if he was content to put up with her scorn and immeasurable contempt.
They all remarked how pale he was when he came to breakfast—ghastly pale, lines under his eyes, the corners of his mouth drooping; his hair, which he had tried hard to brush as usual, hung limp, and would not take its accustomed curl. Lady Lindores tortured him by useless inquiries about his health. "You are ill—I am sure you are ill. You must let me send for the doctor." "For goodness' sake, mother, let a fellow alone. I am as well as you are," had been his amiable answer. He all but swore at the servants, all but kicked the dog, who thrust with confiding importunity his head under his master's arm. The situation was intolerable to him—his thoughts were buzzing in his ears and all about him, so that he did not hear what the other people said; and they talked—with what frivolous pertinacity they talked!—about nothing at all, about the most trivial things; while he was balancing something that, in his excitement, he felt inclined to call life or death.
But, indeed, Rintoul's impressions as to the gaiety and lively conversation going on were as far as possible from the truth. There was scarcely any conversation, but a general embarrassment. Millefleurs was the only one who said much. He bore his disappointment so sweetly, and was so entirely master of the situation, that Lord Lindores grew more and more angry. He made various sharp replies, but the little Marquis took no heed. He gushed forth, like a flowing stream, a great many pleasant details about his going home. He was going home in a day or two. His visit to Lindores was one which he could never forget; it had gained him, he hoped, friends for life. Wherever he went he would carry with him the recollection of the kindness he had received. Thus he flowed forth, doing his best, as usual, to smooth down the embarrassment of the others. But the hour of the repast was somewhat terrible to everybody. Decorum required that they should all sit a certain time at the table, and make a fashion of eating. People have to eat will they nill they, that they may not betray themselves. They all came to the surface, so to speak, with a gasp, as Millefleurs said in his round and velvety voice, "I suppose you are going to Dunearn to this examination, Lord Lindores?"
"It is a private affair, not an open court; but to show an interest, I suppose I ought to be somewhere near——" was the answer; and there arose at that moment a howl of fright and pain from the dog, upon whom Rintoul had spilt a cup of tea. He got up white and haggard, shaking off the deluge from his clothes. "These brutes get insufferable," he cried; "why can we never have a meal without a swarm of them about?"
The proceedings had begun at Dunearn before any of the party from Lindores arrived there. Rintoul, who was the first to set out, walked, with a sort of miserable desire of postponing the crisis; and Lord Lindores, with a kind of sullen friendliness towards John, followed in his phaeton. They were both late, and were glad to be late; which was very different from Miss Barbara, who, wound up by anxiety to an exertion which she could not have believed herself capable of, had walked from her house, leaning on Nora's arm, and was waiting on the spot when John was driven up in a shabby old fly from Dunnottar. The old lady was at the door of the fly before it could be opened, putting out her hand to him. "My bonnie lad, you'll come to your luncheon with me at half-past one; and mind that you're not late," she said, in a loud, cheerful, and confident voice, so that every one could hear. She took no notice of the lookers-on, but gave her invitation and her greeting with a fine disdain of all circumstances. Nora, upon whom she was leaning, was white as marble. Her eyes were strained with gazing along the Lindores road. "Who are you looking for, Nora?" Miss Barbara had already asked half-a-dozen times. It was not much support she got from the tremulous little figure, but the old lady was inspired. She stood till John had passed into the Town House, talking to him all the time in a voice which sounded over all the stir of the little crowd which had gathered about to see him. "Janet cannot bide her dishes to be spoilt. You will be sure and come in time. I'll not wait for you, for I'm not a great walker; but everything will be ready at half-past one."