“There is no trouble in having you in the house, even in the midst of this calamity; but what did they say to you?” asked Lord Lindores.
“Nothing, I think; but I will stay if you will let me, Lord Lindores, till we can see. And may I hear the details of the accident—if it was an accident.”
“You think there is something more in it?” cried Lord Lindores, quickly.
“No; how can I tell? I should like to hear everything. Sometimes a looker-on, who is not so much interested, sees more of the game, don’t you know.”
“It is a tragic game,” said Lord Lindores, shaking his head; “but there is no agrarian crime here, no landlord-killing, no revenge. Poor Torrance had not an enemy, so far as I know.”
All this time Rintoul stood motionless in the doorway, concealed by the shadow; but here he seemed piqued to speak. “He had plenty of enemies,” he said hastily. “A man of such a temper and manners, how could he help having enemies?”
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” said his father—“say no harm of the dead—”
“That is all very well; but it is of more importance to do no injustice to the living,” said Rintoul, with a sort of sullen solemnity; and he suddenly gave place to the others and went off in the direction of his own den, a little room in which he smoked and kept his treasures. Lord Lindores took his guest into the library, gravely apologetic. “I have never seen Rintoul so upset; his nerves seem to have received a shock. I don’t think he cares to go over the melancholy story again.”
“It is very natural,” said little Millefleurs. “A man who has been always at home, who has never roughed it in the world, naturally loses his head when he first comes in contact with tragedy, don’t you know. I did myself in California the first time I touched actual blood. But that was murder, which is a different sort of thing.”
“Very different,” said Lord Lindores; and he proceeded to satisfy his guest with an account of all the particulars, to which Millefleurs listened very seriously. He had the Scaur described to him with much minuteness, and how it might be possible that such an accident could happen. Instinctively Lord Lindores made it appear that the wonder was it had not happened before. “I warned poor Torrance repeatedly,” he said; although he had in equal good faith expressed his amazement that such a thing could happen to a man who knew the place so well, only a short time before. Millefleurs listened to everything very gravely, giving the profoundest attention to every detail.
The house was full of agitation and excitement, and Lord Lindores sent repeatedly for his son to consult with him over what ought to be done; but Rintoul was not to be found. He had gone out, the servants said; and the general impression was that he had returned to Tinto, though he could only have done that by a long walk through the gloomy night. Millefleurs went out into the grounds while this question was proceeding. He had a great many things to think about. He lit his cigar and wandered about, thoughtfully discussing with himself various questions. Did Edith mean that he should stay? Had he any right to stay in the circumstances of the family? He had a strong desire to do so that was not entirely connected with Edith. To be sure, the suspense in which he was kept, the impossibility of addressing her at such a moment, would have made a passionate lover very restless; but Millefleurs was not the sort of stuff out of which passionate lovers are made. He thought Edith would make him a delightful wife, and that with such a wife he would be a very happy man; but he did not feel that heaven and earth would be changed to him without Edith, and therefore other motives were free to come in. He had something in his mind which for the moment almost obliterated all thoughts of her. He walked up and down in the darkness, turning it over and over in his mind. Vaguely, one way or another, this thought was associated with Edith too. After some time he perceived another red spark in the darkness, and became aware of someone else smoking like himself a thoughtful cigar. He called out to Rintoul and came upon him at the end of an alley. Millefleurs had an internal conviction that Rintoul wished to avoid him, so he went up to him quickly and caught him by the arm.
“It was thought that you had gone back to Tinto,” he said, putting his arm familiarly through his. He had to reach up on tiptoe to do it, but this was what pleased Millefleurs.
“What! walking at this time of night? I am not so eager about it,” said Rintoul. “Besides, what should I do there? Everything is settled so far as it can be for tonight, and my mother and Edith have gone to Carry: there is no need for me.”
“I wish you would tell me all about it, my dear Rintoul.”
“Didn’t my father tell you?”
“Yes, in his way; but that is different. You want the details from an eyewitness, don’t you know. You want to see it through the eyes that have seen it. I have a great curiosity about that kind of thing ever since I have been in California, where it is an incident of everyday life.”
“It is not an incident of everyday life here, and I’m sick of it,” cried Rintoul. “Don’t question me any more—it’s too terrible. It must have been instantaneous they say; that is the only comfort about the business—everything else is hideous from beginning to end.”
“Ah, from the beginning—that is just what I
