When she had thus delivered her cheerful message, Miss Barbara turned homeward, not without another remark upon Nora's anxious gaze along the road. "You are looking for your fine friends from Lindores; we'll see none of them to-day," said the old lady resolutely, turning her companion away. She went on talking, altogether unaware how the girl was suffering, yet touched by a perception of some anxiety in her. "You are not to be unhappy about John Erskine," she said at last. These words came to Nora's ears vaguely, through mists of misery, anger, bitter disappointment, and that wrath with those we love which works like madness in the brain. What did she care for John Erskine? She had almost said so, blurting out the words in the intolerance of her trouble, but did not, restrained as much by incapacity to speak as by any other hindrance. To think that he for whom she was watching had proved himself incapable of an act of simple justice! to think that the man whom she had begun by thinking lightly of, but had been beguiled into loving she did not know how, sure at all events of his honour and manliness—to think that he should turn out base, a coward, sheltering himself at the cost of another! Oh, what did it matter about John Erskine? John Erskine was a true man—nothing could happen to him. Then there arose all at once in poor Nora's inexperienced brain that bitterest struggle on earth, the rally of all her powers to defend and account for, while yet she scorned and loathed, the conduct of the man she loved. It is easy to stand through evil report and good by those who are unjustly accused, who are wronged, for whom and on whose behalf you can hold your head high. But when, alas! God help them, they are base, and the accusation against them just! Nora, young, unused to trouble, not knowing the very alphabet of pain, fell into this horrible pit in a moment, without warning, without escape. It confused all her faculties, so that she could do nothing save stumble blindly on, and let Miss Barbara talk of John Erskine—as if John Erskine and the worst that could happen to him were anything, anything! in comparison with this passion of misery which Nora had to bear.
And she was so little used to suffering. She did not know how to bear. Spartans and Indians and all those traditionary Stoics are bred to it—trained to bear torture and make no sign; but Nora had never had any training, and she was not a Spartan or a Red Indian. She was a woman, which is perhaps next best. She had to crush herself down; to turn away from the road by which Rintoul might still appear; to go in to the quiet rooms, to the ordinary morning occupations, to the needle-work which Miss Barbara liked to see her do. Anything in the world would have been easier; but this and not anything else in the world was Nora's business. And the sunny silence of the gentle feminine house, only disturbed by Miss Barbara's ceaseless talk about John, closed round her. Janet came "ben" and had her orders. Agnes entered softly with her mistress's cap and indoor shawl. All went on as it had done for years.
This calm, however, was soon interrupted. The Lindores' carriage drew up at the door, with all the dash and splendour which distinguishes the carriage of a countess when it stops at a humble house. Miss Barbara had a standing prejudice against these fine half-foreign (as she supposed) people. She rose up with the dignity of an archduchess to receive her visitors. Lady Lindores was full of anxiety and sympathy. "We are as anxious as you can be," she said, kissing Miss Barbara warmly before the old lady could draw back.
"'Deed I cannot say that I am anxious at all," said Miss Barbara, with her head high. "A thing that never happened cannot be proved against any man. I am expecting my nephew to his luncheon at half-past one. As there's nothing against him, he can come to no harm. I will be glad to see your ladyship and Lady Edith to meet him—at half-past one," the old lady said, with marked emphasis. She had no inclination to allow herself to be intruded upon. But Edith attained what her mother failed to achieve. She could not conceal her agitation and excitement. She grew red and pale a dozen times in a minute. "Oh yes, Miss Barbara, I feel with you. I am not anxious at all!" she cried.
Why should she be anxious? what had she to do with John? Her flutter of changing colour touched Miss Barbara's heart in spite of herself. No, she would not be a suitable wife for John Erskine; an earl's daughter was too grand for the house of Dalrulzian. But yet——Miss Barbara could not help being mollified. She pushed an easy-chair towards the mother of this bonnie creature. "It will be a pleasure to him to hear that there are kind hearts caring for what happens to him. If your ladyship will do me the honour to sit down," she said, with punctilious yet suspicious respect.
"Papa is there now," said Edith, whispering to Nora; "and Lord Millefleurs came with us, and will bring us word how things are going. Rintoul started before any of us——"
"Rintoul!" said Nora—at least she thought she said it. Her lips moved, a warm suffusion of colour came over her, and she looked wistfully in Edith's face.
"He thought he would get to Dunearn before us,—but, after all, horses go faster than men. What is the matter? Are you ill, Nora?"
Nora was past making any reply. The cessation of pain, that is more, a great deal more, than a negative good. For the first moment, at least, it is bliss, active bliss—more than anything else known to men. Of course Nora, when she came to herself, explained that it was a sudden little spasm, a feeling of faintness,—something she was used to. She was quite well, she declared; and so it proved by the colour that came back to her face. "She has not been herself all the morning," said Miss Barbara; "she will be the better of young company—of somebody like herself."
After this the ladies tried to talk on indifferent subjects. There were inquiries to be made for Lady Caroline, "poor thing!" and she was described as being "better than we should have dared to hope," with as near an approach to the truth as possible; and then a scattered fire of remarks, now one, now another, coming to the front with sudden energy; while the others relapsed into the listening and strain of curiosity. Miss Barbara held her head high. It was she who was the most steady in the conversation. She would not suffer it to be seen that she had any tremor as to what was going on. But the girls were unequal to this fortitude. They fluctuated from red to white, and from white to red. They would stop in the middle of a sentence, their voices ending in a quaver, as if the wind had blown them out. Why should they be so moved? Miss Barbara noted it keenly, and felt with a thrill of pleasure that John was getting justice. Two of them!—the bonniest creatures in the county! How their rival claims were to be settled afterwards she did not inquire; but in the meantime, at the moment when he was under so dark a cloud, it warmed her heart to see him so much thought of: the Erskines always were so; they were a race that women loved and men liked, and the last representative was worthy of his sires.