Mr Monypenny announced, however, to the perfect understanding of the authorities present, that the person who had really encountered the unfortunate Mr Torrance last, and been concerned in the scuffle which no doubt unfortunately was the cause of the accident, had come to his house on the previous night and given himself up. The man's statement was perfectly clear and satisfactory, and would be supported by all the circumstantial evidence. He had kept back nothing, but displayed the most honourable anxiety to clear the gentleman who had been so unjustly accused and put to so much personal inconvenience.
"Is the man in court?" the sheriff asked.
"The man is here," said Mr Monypenny. The good man was conscious of the great effect he was producing. He looked round upon the group of gentlemen with thorough enjoyment of the situation; but he, too, was startled by the extraordinary aspect of Lord Rintoul. The young man was livid; great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; the lines about his eyes were drawn tight, and the eyes themselves, two unquiet watchers, full of horror and astonishment, looked out wildly, watching everything that was done. His lips had dropped apart; he stood like a man who did not know what the next word might bring upon him.
"This is the man," Mr Monypenny said. Rintoul made a sudden step forward, striking his foot violently against the bench in front of him. The sheriff looked up angrily at the noise. There is something in a great mental struggle of any kind which moves the atmosphere around it. The sheriff looked up and saw three men standing at unequal distances before him: Mr Monypenny in front of his chair with somebody tranquil and insignificant beside him, and in the distance a face full of extraordinary emotion. "Will you have the goodness to step forward?" the sheriff said: and then stopping himself peevishly, "This is all out of order. Produce the man."
Rolls had risen quietly by Mr Monypenny's side. He was not like a brawler, much less an assassin. He was somewhat pale, but in his professional black coat and white tie, who could have looked more respectable? He had "cleaned himself," as he said, with great care that morning. Haggard and unshaven as he had been on the previous night after his wanderings, he would scarcely have made so great a sensation as he did now, trim as a new pin, carefully shaved, carefully brushed. There was a half shout, half cry, from the little band of spectators, now thoroughly demoralised and incapable of keeping order. "Rolls, old Rolls!" John Erskine cried with consternation. Could this be the explanation of it? As for Rolls himself, the outcry acted upon him in the most remarkable way. He grew red and lost his temper. "It's just me, gentlemen," he said; "and can an accident not happen to a man in a humble condition of life as well as to one of you?" He was silenced at once, and the stir of amazement repressed; but nothing could prevent the rustle and whisper among the gentlemen, which would have become tumultuous had their presence there been more than tolerated. They all knew Rolls, and to connect him with such an event was impossible. The tragedy seemed over, and at the utmost a tragi-comedy, a solemn farce, had taken its place.
Rolls's statement, however, was serious enough. It was to the effect that he had met his master coming down from Tinto in the condition of which so much had been made, when he himself was going up to make a request to Mr Torrance about a lease—that he met Torrance close to the Scaur "coming thundering down the brae" in a state of excitement and temper such as it was well enough known Tinto was subject to. Rolls acknowledged that in such circumstances he ought not to have stopped him and introduced his suit—but this was merely an error of judgment. Tinto, he said, received his request very ill, and called his nephew—for whom he was going to plead—a ne'er-do-weel—which was not the case, let him say it that would. And here again Rolls was wrong, he allowed—it was another error of judgment—but he was not going to have his own flesh and blood abused. He stood up for it to Tinto's face that Willie Rolls was as respectable a lad as ever ploughed land. It was well known what Tinto was, a man that had no thought but a word and a blow. He rode at Rolls furiously. "I took hold of the beast's bridle to push her back,—what I could do. She would have had her hoofs on me in a moment." Then he saw with horror the rear, the bound back, the false step; and then horse and man went thundering over the Scaur. Rolls declared that he lost no time in calling for help—in trying all he could to save the victim. Lord Rintoul would bear him witness, for his lordship met him in the wood, routing like a wild beast. Nothing could be more consistent, more simple, than the whole story—it bore the stamp of truth on every line—or such at least was the conclusion of the sheriff, and the procurator, and the crier, and the town officer, and every official about the Town House of Dunearn.
The formidable examination which had excited so much interest terminated by the return of John's fly to Dunnotter, with the butler in it, very grave and impressive in the solemn circumstances. Rolls himself did not choose to consider his position lightly. He acknowledged with great respect the salutations of the gentlemen, who could not be prevented from crowding to the door of the fly after him. Sir James, who was the first, thrust something secretly into Rolls's hand. "They'll not treat you so well as they treated your master. You must fee them—fee them, Rolls," said the old general. "It'll be better than I deserve, Sir James," Rolls said. "Hoot! nothing will happen to you, man!" said Sir James. "He was well inspired to make a clean breast of it," Mr Monypenny said. "The truth before all—it's the best policy." "You're very kind to say sae, sir," said Rolls, solemnly. As he spoke he met the eye of Lord Rintoul, who stood behind fixing his regard upon the face of John's substitute. It was a trouble to Rolls to understand what the young lord could mean, "glowering" as he did, but saying nothing. Was he better aware of the facts of the case than any one suspected? might he come in with his story and shatter that of Rolls? This gave the old servant a little anxiety as he sat back solemnly in his corner, and was driven away.
It would be impossible to enumerate all the visitors who thronged into Miss Barbara Erskine's house that day. She had three more leaves put into her dining-table, and Janet added dish to dish with the wildest prodigality. Sir James Montgomery was one of those who "convoyed" John to his old relative's house. He walked upon one side of the hero, and Lord Lindores upon the other. "I will not conceal my fault from you, Miss Barbara," he said. "I thought when I heard his story first it was just the greatest nonsense. But it worked upon me—it worked upon me; and then Lady Montgomery, she would not hear a word."
"Women understand the truth when they hear it; it's none so often," Miss Barbara said, flushed with triumph and happiness. Rintoul had come in with the rest—or rather after the rest. He and John were the two who were somewhat out of all this tumult and rejoicing. They had not spoken to each other, keeping apart with an instinctive repugnance, silent in the midst of the rejoicing. But the rest of the company made up the deficiency. Such a luncheon! a duke's son from England, an earl, all the best men in the county: and Janet's dishes praised and consumed to the last morsel, and the best wine brought up from the cellar, and the house not big enough to contain the guests. Miss Barbara sat at the head of the table, with a little flush of triumph on her cheek. "It's like a marriage feast," she said to Sir James when they rose from the table.
"And I cannot see what should hinder it to be the forerunner—but the breakfast shall be at my house, Miss Barbara, since her parents have no house of their own here."