depended upon the favour of the Duke, Lord Millefleurs's gracious papa. Her idea was, that a man should have thrown away all that, rather than put himself in a false position, or expose a woman whom he had once loved to embarrassment and pain. They were all unreasonable together, but each in his or her characteristic way. After these first utterances of agitation, however, they all stopped short and looked at each other in the waning light, and awoke to a recollection of the ordinary conventionalities which in such circumstances are so great a relief to everybody concerned.
"We must not detain you, Mr Beaufort," Lady Lindores said; "you were going to my husband – or Lord Millefleurs – who is still here."
The last four words were said with a certain significance, as if intended for a hint, – persuade him, they seemed to say, that this is not a time to remain here. "It is getting late, mother," said Edith, with a touch of impatience.
"One moment, Lady Lindores. I must tell you why I have come: not for myself – to ask help for Erskine, whom I have just left in custody, charged with having occasioned somehow – I can't tell you how – the death of – the late accident – your son-in-law," Beaufort stammered out.
The next moment he seemed to be surrounded by them, by their cries of dismay, by their anxious questions. A sharp keen pang of offence was the first feeling in Beaufort's mind, – that John should be so much more interesting to them than he was! It gave him a shock even in the excitement of the moment.
"This was what he meant" – he could at last hear Edith distinctly after the momentary babel of mutual exclamations – "this was what he meant: that we might hear something, which he might not be able to explain, but that we were to believe in him – you and I, mamma."
"Of course we believe in him," cried Lady Lindores; "but something else must be done, something more. Come this way, Mr Beaufort; Lord Lindores is here."
She called him Mr Beaufort without any hesitation now – not pausing, as she had done before, with the more familiar name on her lips. It was John who was in the foreground now – John who, perhaps, for anything they knew, had caused the event which had put them in mourning. With a whimsical mortification and envy, Beaufort exaggerated in his own mind the distress caused by this event. For the moment he looked upon it as a matter of real loss and pain to this unthinking family who showed such interest in the person who perhaps – But the sentiment did not go so far as to be put into words; it resolved itself into a half-indignant wonder at the interest taken in John, and sense of injured superiority on his own account – he, of whom no man could say that he had been instrumental in causing the death even of a dog.
Lady Lindores led the way hastily into the library, where three figures were visible against the dim light in the window as the others came in. Lord Lindores, seated in his chair; little Millefleurs, leaning against the window, half turned towards the landscape; and in front of the light, with his back to it, Rintoul, who was speaking. "With you as bail," he was saying, "he may be set free to-night. Don't let him be a night in that place."
"Are you speaking of John Erskine, Robin, my dear boy? Oh, not a night, not an hour! Don't lose any time. It is too dreadful, too preposterous. Your father will go directly. Take the carriage, which is at the door. If we are a little late, what does it matter?" said Lady Lindores, coming forward, another shadow in the dim light. Millefleurs turned half round, but did not come away from the window on which he was leaning. He was somewhat surprised too, very curious, perhaps a trifle indignant, to see all this fuss made about Erskine. He drew up his plump little person, altogether indifferent to the pronounced manifestation of all its curves against the light, and looked beyond Lady Lindores to Edith, – Edith, who hurried after her mother, swift and silent, as if they were one being, moved by the same unnecessary excitement. Millefleurs had not been in a comfortable state of mind during these last days. The delay irritated him; though Lord Lindores assured him that all was well, he could not feel that all was well. Why should not Edith see him, and give him his answer? She was not so overwhelmed with grief for that brute. What did it mean? And now, though she could not see him on such urgent cause, she was able to interest herself in this eager way on behalf of John Erskine! Millefleurs was very tolerant, and when the circumstances demanded it, could be magnanimous, but he thought he had reason of offence here.
There was a momentary pause – enough to show that Lord Lindores did not share the feeling so warmly expressed. "I am surprised that you should all be so inconsiderate," he said; "you, at least, Rintoul, who generally show more understanding. I have understood that Erskine had laid himself under suspicion. Can you imagine that I, so near a connection of poor Torrance, am the right person to interfere on behalf perhaps of his – murd – that is to say, of the cause – of the instrument – "
"It is impossible," cried Edith, with such decision that her soft voice seemed hard – "impossible! Can any one suppose for a moment – "
"Be silent, Edith," cried her father.
"Why should she be silent?" said Lady Lindores. "Robert, think what you are saying. We have all known John Erskine for years. He is as incapable as I am – as unlikely as any one of us here. Because you are so near a connection, is not that the very reason why you should interfere? For God's sake, think of that poor boy in prison – in prison! and lose no time."
"I will do it, mother," said Rintoul.
"Oh, God bless you, my boy! I knew you were always right at heart."
"Rintoul," said his father, "enthusiasm of this sort is new in you. Let us take a little common-sense into the question. In the first place, nothing can be done to-night – that is evident. Then consider a moment: what does 'in prison' mean? In the governor's comfortable rooms, where he will be as well off as at home; and probably – for he is not without sense – will be taking the most reasonable view of the matter. He will know perfectly well that if he deserves it he will find friends; in short, that we are all his friends, and that everybody will be too glad to assist him – as soon as he has cleared himself – "
"As soon as he wants it no longer," cried Lady Lindores.
"My dear, you are always violent; you are always a partisan," said her husband, drawing back his chair a little, with the air of having ended the discussion; and there was a pause – one of those breathless pauses of helplessness, yet rebellion, which make sick the hearts of women. Lady Lindores clasped her hands together with a despairing movement. "This is the curse of our life," she cried. "I can do nothing; I cannot go against your father, Edith, and yet I am neither a fool nor a child. God help us women! we have to stand by, whatever wrong is done, and submit – submit. That is all that is left for us to do – "
"Submit!" Edith said. She was young and strong, and had not learned her lesson. It galled her beyond endurance. She stood and looked round her, seeing the whiteness of the faces, but little else in the evening gloom. Was it true that there was nothing – nothing in her power? In poetry, a girl can throw herself on her knees, can weep and plead – but only weep and plead; and she, who had not been trained to that, who was conscious of her individuality, her independent mind and judgment in every nerve – heaven above! was she as helpless still? She stood breathless for a moment, with wondering eyes fixed on the darkness, with a gasp of proud resistance to fate. Submit to injustice, to cruel heartlessness of those who could aid, to still more cruel helplessness – impotence, on her own part? She stood for a moment gazing at the blank wall that seemed to rise before her, as the poor, the helpless have to do, – as women have to do in all circumstances. It was her first experience in this kind. She had been proud to know that she was not as Carry, that no tyranny could crush her spirit: but this was different. She had not anticipated such a trial as this. There came from her bosom one sob of supreme pain which she could not keep in. Not for John only, whom she could not help in his moment of need, but for herself also – to feel herself impotent, helpless, powerless as a child.
Millefleurs came
