“This makes me think,” he said, “of the time when I was a wanter, as they say. Take the good of your opportunities, John Erskine. Take your chance, man, while ye have it. When a man’s married, he’s done for; nobody cares a fig for him more. But before he’s fixed his choice, the whole world is at his call. Then’s the time to be petted and made of—everybody smiling upon you—instead of sitting with one peevish face on the other side of the fire at home.”
He ended this speech with one of his huge rude laughs; and there are a great many such speeches permitted in society, laughed at even by those who are themselves the point of the moral. But Rintoul was in an excited condition of mind; contradictory to all his own tenets; going in his heart against his own code; kicking against the pricks. He turned round sharply with a certain pleasure in finding somebody upon whom to let forth an ill-humour which had been growing in him. “You forget, Torrance, who I am, when you speak of this peevish face before me.”
“You!—troth I forgot your existence altogether,” said Torrance, after a pause of astonishment, and a prolonged stare ending in another laugh.
Rintoul flushed a furious red. He was excited by the rising of a love which he meant to get the better of, but which for the moment had got the better of him; and by all the restraints he had put upon himself, and which public opinion required should be put upon him. He flashed upon his brother-in-law an angry glance, which in its way was like the drawing of a sword.
“You had better,” he said, “recall my existence as quickly as you can, Torrance—for it may be necessary to remind you of it very sharply one of these days, from all I hear.”
Torrance replied by another loud insulting laugh. “I mind you well enough when I hear you crow, my little cock-o’-the-walk,” he said.
The conversation had got thus far during the pause which has been described. But now the whole assembly rushed into talk with a general tremor, the band struck up, the dancers flew off with an energy which was heightened by a little panic. Everybody dislikes a family quarrel: the first beginnings of it may excite curiosity, but at a certain point it alarms the most dauntless gossip. To get out of the way of it, the world in general will take any trouble. Accordingly the ranks closed with the eagerness of fear, to continue the metaphor, and the two belligerents were hidden at once from sight and hearing. Men began to talk in their deepest basses, women in their shrillest trebles, and how it ended nobody knew. There were a great many whispered questions and remarks made afterwards when the crisis was over. “Young Erskine had all the trouble in the world to smooth it over.” “One doesn’t know what would have happened if old Sir James had not got hold of Lord Rintoul.” “Half-a-dozen men got round Pat Torrance. They made believe to question him about some racing—and that quieted him,” cried one and another, each into the nearest ear; and the whole assembly with a thrill watched the family of Lindores in all its movements, and saw significance in every one of these. This was the only contretemps that occurred in the whole programme of the festivities at Dalrulzian. It passed out of hearing of Lady Car, who sat the evening out with that soft patience as of one whose day was over—the little smile, the little concealed yawn, the catch of conversation when anyone who could talk drifted by her. Dr. Stirling and she discussed Wordsworth for a whole half-hour, which was the only part of the entertainment that withdrew her at all from herself. “And his noble philosophy of sorrow,” she said, “which is the finest of all. The part which he gives it in the world—” “I am not clear in my own mind,” said the Doctor, “that sorrow by itself does good to anybody.” “Stretch a hand through time to catch the far-off interest of tears,” cried Lady Car with an unfathomable distance in her mild eyes, shaking her head at him and smiling. This was her point of enjoyment. When she thought the hour at which she might withdraw was coming, she sent to her husband to know if he was ready, still quite unaware of his utterance about the peevish face. Poor Lady Car! her face was not peevish. It was somewhat paler than usual, so much as that was possible, as she watched him coming towards her. The more wine he took the less supportable he was. Alarm came into her gentle eyes. “Oh yes, I’m ready,” he said; “I’ve been here long enough,” in a tone which she understood well. She thought it was possibly John who had given him offence, and took leave of her host quickly, holding out her hand to him in passing with a word. “I must not stop to congratulate you now. I will tell how well it has gone off next time I see you,” she said hastily. But her brother would not be shaken off so easily. He insisted on keeping by her side, and took a tender leave of her only at the carriage-door, walking along with her as though determined to make a demonstration of his brotherly regard. “I shall see you again, Rintoul, before you go?” “No,” he cried; “goodbye, Car. I am not coming to Tinto again.” What did it mean? But as they drove home through the dark, shut up together in that strict enclosure, her husband did not fail to make her acquainted with
