And in another moment, so it seemed, the dogcart stopped again. John went over the streets of Dunearn like a man in a dream—in a sort of exquisite anguish, a mingled sweetness and bitterness such as never went into words. Their looks seemed to cling together, as, with a start, the horse went on; and now they stopped again and got down—for a very different encounter. Even now, however, John’s progress was to be interrupted. Someone called to him as he was about to go into the sheriff’s court in the little Town-house of Dunearn. “Is that you, John Erskine? and what has brought you here?” in peremptory tones. He turned round quickly. It was Miss Barbara in her pony-carriage, which Nora was driving. The old lady leaned across the young one and beckoned to him with some impatience. “Come here. What are you doing in Dunearn without coming to me? It’s true I’m out, and you would not have found me; but Janet would have understood to be prepared for your luncheon. And what’s your business in the Town-house this fine morning, and with strange company?” Miss Barbara said. She cast a keen glance at the man, who stood aside respectfully enough, and yet, backed by his assistant, kept a watchful eye on John.
“I am afraid I cannot wait to tell you now. It is not pleasant business,” John said.
“Come round here,” said the old lady, imperiously; “can I keep on skreighing to you before all the town? Come round here.” Her keen eyes took in the whole scene: John’s glance at his grave companion, the most imperceptible gesture with which that person made way for him. Miss Barbara’s perceptions were keen. She gripped her nephew by the arm. “John Erskine, have ye done anything to bring ye within the power of the law?”
“Nothing,” he said firmly, meeting her eye.
“Then what does that man mean glowering at you? Lord guide us! what is it, boy? It cannot be money, for money has none of these penalties now.”
“It is not money—nor anything worth a thought.”
“Mr. Erskine,” said the officer, civilly, “the sheriff is waiting.” And after that, there was no more to be said.
XXXIII
Rolls went upstairs and dressed himself in his best—his “blacks,” which he kept for going to funerals and other solemnities—not the dress in which he waited at table and did his ordinary business. The coat, with its broad, square tails, gave him an appearance something between that of a respectable farmer and a parish minister—a little too solemn for the one, too secular for the other; and to show that he was “his own man,” and for today at least no man’s servant, he enveloped his throat in a large black silk neckerchief, square in shape, and folded like a substantial bandage with a little bow in the front. His forehead was lined with thought. When he had finished his toilet, he opened the large wooden “kist” which stood in a corner of his room, and was the final receptacle of all his worldly goods. Out of that he took a blue-spotted handkerchief, in which a pocketbook was carefully wrapped up, and took from it a few somewhat dirty pound-notes. Then restoring the pocketbook, he locked the kist carefully, and went downstairs with the key—a very large one—in his hand. This he gave to Bauby, who still hung about the door with her apron to her eyes. “You should go ben to your work, my woman,” said Rolls, “and no make the worst of what’s happened: in a’ likelihood the master will be back afore the dinner’s ready.” “Do you think that, Tammas? do you really think that?” cried Bauby, brightening up and showing symptoms of an inclination to cry for joy as she had done for sorrow. “I’m no’ saying what I think. I’m thinking mony things beyond the power o’ a woman person to faddom,” said Rolls, solemnly. “And if the maister should be back, it’s real possible I mayna be back. You’ll just behave conformably, and put forrit Marget. If she wasna so frightened, she’s no’ a bad notion at a’ of waiting at table. And if there’s ony question where I am, or what’s become of me—”
“Oh, Tammas, what will I say? It will be the second time in a week. He’ll no’ like it,” cried Bauby, diverted from one trouble to another. The absence of her brother when the dinner was ready was almost as extraordinary as her master’s conveyance away to unknown dangers by the functionaries of the law.
“If he’s here to be angry, a’ will be well,” said Rolls, grimly; and then he handed her the key. “If there should be any question about me, when I’m no’ here to answer for myself, you’ll inform whoever it concerns that the kist is yours and everything in it, in proof of which you’ll produce the key. That’s no’ to say but what you’ll respect the bits of things in it, and hand me back possession when I come, soon or late,” said Rolls. “You’ll mind what I say to you, Bauby. It’s yours in the one case, but no’ in the other. You’ll take possession if there is ony other claimant; but me being back, you’ll respect my rights.”
“I wuss I would ken what you meant first,” said Bauby, gazing at him wistfully. Rolls had an air of satisfaction on his face for the first time: he was pleased to have puzzled her. His face relaxed almost into a smile as he said, “According to a’ probabilities, you’ll soon understand that.”
With these words he set out from the hall-door, walking very deliberately, and crushing the pebbles under his feet at every step. He had taken his best silk umbrella, which, loosened from its habitual folds, and used as a stick, made a sort of flapping accompaniment to his
