The Ladies Lindores

in which horse and man seemed to have fallen. But Rintoul evidently had been too much impressed by the sight to be able to dwell on the subject. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and took again large draughts of water as he brought forth sentence after sentence. “Get me some wine, or brandy, or something⁠—I am done,” he cried; but when his father rang the bell, Rintoul recoiled. “Let Edith fetch it; don’t let us have any prying servants about here.” “There is no reason why we should be afraid of prying servants,” said Lord Lindores, with surprise and disapproval. “It is not a matter to be concealed. I suppose there is nothing to conceal?” “Oh no, no,” said Rintoul, with a groan⁠—“nothing to be concealed; you can’t conceal a dead man,” and he shuddered, but added directly, raising himself to meet his father’s eye, “it was accident⁠—nothing but accident⁠—everybody has warned him. I said myself something was sure to happen sooner or later at the Scaur.” Edith, who had flown to bring him the wine he asked for, here came back with it, having sent away the officious butler, anxious to hear all about it, who hovered near the door. Her brother took the decanter from her hand without a word of thanks, and poured out the wine lavishly, but with a shaking hand, into the glass from which he had been drinking water. It brought a little colour back into his cheeks. To Edith the emotion he showed was a new revelation. She had never expected from Rintoul so much tenderness of feeling. But Lord Lindores went on with his questions.

“Something sure to happen? Yes⁠—to children or people incapable of taking care of themselves; but Torrance, who knew it all like his own hand! had he⁠—been drinking, poor fellow?”

“Not that I know of; but how can I tell? Nobody knows.”

“Someone must have seen him before the accident happened. There must be someone who can tell. Of course everything must be investigated. Where had he been? Why was he not with you, when you went by appointment to see the place? It was surely very extraordinary⁠—”

“He was with us at first,” said Rintoul, “but he took offence at some of Millefleurs’s criticisms; and then John Erskine⁠—”

“What had John Erskine to do with it?”

“They had some words. I can’t remember; something passed. Erskine left early too. Now that I think of it,” said Rintoul, suddenly, “Erskine must have gone that way, and perhaps⁠—But no, no; I mistake⁠—they did not meet.”

“They had no words,” said Edith, eagerly; “there was no quarrel, if that is what you mean. Mr. Torrance was annoyed because Lord Millefleurs⁠—But Mr. Erskine had nothing to do with it,” she added, her colour rising. Lord Lindores paced up and down the room, stopping at every turn to ask another question. Rintoul sat leaning his head upon his hand, his face concealed by it; while Edith, to whom this reference had given animation, stood between them, her senses quickened, her mind alert. But they were both too deeply occupied to notice the change in her which was made by the mention of this name.

“Of course there must be a thorough investigation into all the circumstances,” Lord Lindores said.

“Who can do that? I thought there were no coroners in Scotland?” said Rintoul, rousing himself. “I was thinking, indeed, what a good thing for poor Carry to be spared this. Besides, what can investigation do? He went off from among us excited. Very likely, poor fellow, he had been drinking. He rode off in haste, thundering down that dangerous road, as was his custom. Everybody knows it was his custom. It was his way of blowing off steam. Coming back, the road was soft with the rain, and he still excited and in a nervous state. He pushed Black Jess a step too close. She reared, and⁠—I don’t know what you can find out more by any investigation.” Rintoul wiped his forehead again and poured himself out more wine.

“That may be, but there must be an investigation all the same,” said Lord Lindores. “A man of importance like poor Torrance does not disappear like this in a moment without any notice being taken of it. If he had been a ploughman, perhaps⁠—”

Here the door was opened hastily, and Lady Lindores hurried in. “What is this?” she cried; “what is this I hear?⁠—the servants are full of it. Something about Torrance and a bad accident. What does it mean?”

Edith ran to her mother, taking her by the arm, with the instinct of supporting her against the shock; and Lord Lindores gave her the information, not without that almost pleasure in recounting even the most terrible news, which is the instinctive sentiment of those whose hearts are not deeply concerned. Lady Lindores heard it with horror⁠—with the instant and keen self-question as to whether she had done justice to this man, of whom no one now could ask pardon⁠—whose wrongs, if he had any, could never be remedied⁠—which, in a generous mind, is the first result of such a tragedy. Out of keen excitement and horror she shed a few tears, the first that in this house at least had been expended on the dead man. A pang of wondering pity was in her heart. The sight of this softer feeling stilled the others. She arrested every other sentiment in a natural pause of terrified compassion. She who had never called him by it in his life, suddenly found his Christian name come to her lips: “Oh, poor Pat! poor Pat! like that⁠—in a moment⁠—with his home close by that he was so proud of, and all his good things⁠—summoned in a moment. O God, have mercy upon him!” she cried.

“It is too late for that,” said Lord Lindores, gravely, for the moment ashamed of all other questions. “Short as the time is, and dreadful as it is to think of it, his account must be made by this time. It