“Mr. Erskine,” he said, with hesitation, “I came to see you. I mean, I wanted to have some little conversation with you, if you have no objections—about—about this sad affair.”
“What sad affair?” John was bewildered, but still more angry than bewildered. What was the meaning of it all? Was the entire world in a conspiracy against him?
“Sir,” said the old general, giving him one look of reproof, “such events are not so common in our quiet countryside that there should be any doubt as to what I mean.”
“Unless what you mean is to drive me distracted”—cried John. “What is it? First Millefleurs, then you! In heaven’s name, what do you mean? What have I done, that your aspect is changed—that you speak to me like a stranger, like a culprit, like—Speak out, by all means! What is this sad affair? In what way have I wronged any man? Why should my friends turn upon me, and call me Sir, and Mr. Erskine? What have I done?”
“I wish to judge no man,” said Sir James; “I wish to act in the spirit of charity. It was the opinion, not only of myself—for I have not that much confidence in my own judgment—but the opinion of two or three gentlemen, well-judging men, that if I were to make an appeal to you in the matter, to implore you in confidence—that is, if there is any explanation that can be given. We are all inclined to that view. I may seem harsh, because my heart is just sick to think of it; but we are all inclined to believe that an explanation would be possible. Of course, it is needless to say that if there is no explanation, neither the law permits, nor would we wish to lead, anyone to criminate himself.”
“Sir James,” said John, “you have made me a strange speech. There is a great deal of offence in it; but I do not wish to notice the offence. Speak out! I know no dreadful event that has happened in the country but poor Torrance’s death. Do you mean to tell me that you suspect me of having any hand in that?”
Sir James looked up at him from the hat which he was pressing unconsciously in his hands. His countenance was full of distress, every line moving, his eyes moist and agitated. “My poor lad!” he said, “God knows, we’re all ready to make allowances for a moment’s passion! A man that has been hurried by impulse into a sudden step—that has consequences he never dreamt of—he will sometimes try to hide it, and make it look far worse—far worse! Openness is the only salvation in such a case. It was thought that you might confide in me, an old man that has ever been friendly to you. For God’s sake, John Erskine, speak out!”
“What do you suppose I can have to say?” said John, impressed, in spite of himself and all his instinctive resistance, by the anxious countenance and pleading tones of the kind old man who had been charged with such an office. He was so much startled and awed by the apparent consent of so many to attribute something to him—something which he began dimly to divine without even guessing how far public opinion had gone—that the colour went out of his cheeks, and his breath came quick with agitation. Such signs of excitement may be read in many ways. To Sir James they looked like remorseful consciousness and alarm.
“We are all very willing to believe,” he said, slowly, “that you took the beast by the bridle, perhaps in self-defence. He was an incarnate devil when he was roused—poor fellow! He would have ridden a man down in his temper. You did that, meaning nothing but to hold him off—and the brute reared. If you had raised an alarm then and there, and told the circumstances, little blame, if any, could have been laid on you. Silence was your worst plan—your worst plan! That’s the reason why I have come to you. You took fright instead, and hurried away without a word, but not without tokens on you of your scuffle. If you would open your heart now, and disclose all the circumstances, it might not be too late.”
John stood gazing speechless, receiving into his mind this
