“That is it,” said Rintoul, eagerly—“who perhaps never dreamt at the moment. And even if he knows now, such a man might think, as you did, that it would come to nothing with Erskine. I believe it will come to nothing—a day, or two days, in prison.”
“But if it should turn out more serious,” said Nora, “even a tramp—would give himself up, surely—would never let an innocent man suffer?”
“We must hope so, at least,” said Lord Rintoul. His countenance had never relaxed all this time. It was almost solemn, set, and rigid—the muscles about his mouth unmoving. “There should not be any question about right and wrong, I know,” he said, “but such a man might say to himself—he might think—Young Erskine is a gentleman, and I’m only a common fellow—they will treat him better than they would treat me. He might say to himself—”
“I cannot believe it,” cried Nora. “In such a case there could be no question of what anyone would do. It is like A.B.C. What! let another man suffer for something you have done! Oh no, no—even in the nursery one knows better than that!”
“I don’t think,” said Rintoul, “that you ever can understand all the excuses a man will make for himself till you’ve been in the same position. Things look so different when you’ve done it—from what they do when someone else has done it. There are so many things to be taken into consideration. Punishment is not the same to all; it might ruin one, and not do much harm to another. A man might feel justified, or at least there would be excuses for him, if he let another bear the punishment which would not hurt him much, but would be destructive to himself. Of course it would be his business to make it up somehow.”
“Lord Rintoul, this is dreadful doctrine!” said Nora; “if it were carried out, then you might do any wickedness you wished, and hire somebody to be punished instead of you.” She laughed half nervously, shaking off the graver turn the conversation had taken. “But this is absurd,” she said; “of course you don’t mean that. I think I know what you mean;—but I must not delay longer, I must tell Miss Barbara.”
“Don’t disturb her now,” said Rintoul, eagerly. “Besides, I really have not time. If you would say that it is unfortunately true—that Erskine is—detained till there can be a full investigation. I am hurrying off to get bail for him, for of course they must accept bail—and it will only be for a few days. The investigation—at which we shall all be examined,” he said, with a nervous tremor—“will clear up everything, I hope.”
“I hope so, with all my heart,” said Nora, waving her hand to him as he hurried away. Rintoul had reached the garden door on his way out, when he suddenly paused, and came back to her, and took that hand, holding it for a moment between his own.
“All this is very hard upon me,” he said, incoherently; “it gives me a great deal of misery. Feel for me—stand by me. Will you, Nora? I don’t care for the rest, if you—”
And he wrung her hand almost violently, dropped it, and hurried away. The girl stood looking after him with wonder and dismay, and yet with a gush of a different kind of feeling, which filled her heart with a confusing warmth. “A great deal of misery!” Was it the tenderness of his heart for his sister, for the unfortunate man who had been summoned out of the world so abruptly—though he did not love him—and for his friend who was unjustly accused, which made Rintoul say this? But anyhow, Nora was not capable of resisting such an appeal. Poor Rintoul: though he did not show it to anyone, how tender he was, how full of sympathy! John Erskine (against whom she could not help entertaining a little grudge) died out of her mind altogether. She was so much more sorry for the other, who felt it so deeply though it was not his concern.
XXXIV
Beaufort drove home on that eventful afternoon by himself. He had left his friend in the county jail, in a state in which surprise was still perhaps the predominant feeling. John had said little on the way, except to point out, with something which perhaps bore the character of bravado, the new features of the landscape beyond Dunearn. “It is an opportunity for you to see a little more of the country,” he said, with a smile. Something of the same indignant amusement which had been his first apparent sensation on hearing the sheriff’s decision was still in his manner now. He held his head high and a little thrown back, his nostrils were dilated, his eyes more widely open and alert than usual, and a smile in which there was a little scorn was upon his face. Those who did not know John or human nature might have thought him unusually triumphant, excited by some occurrence which enhanced instead of humiliating his pride. “I cannot tell you how surprised I am to see you here, Mr. Erskine,” said the governor of the jail with consternation. “You cannot be more surprised than I am,” said John. He gave his orders about the things he wanted in the same tone, taking no notice of the anxious suggestion that it would only be for a few days. He was too deeply offended with fate to show it. He only smiled and said, “The first step is so extraordinary that I prefer not to anticipate the next.” “But they must allow you bail,” said Beaufort; “that must be my first care.” John laughed. He would not condescend to be anxious. “Or hang me,” he said; “the one just as sensible as the other.” Beaufort drove away with the strangest feelings, guiding
