his friend’s horse along the road with which he was so little acquainted, but from which presently he saw the great house of Tinto on one side, and on the other the towers of Lindores appearing from among the trees. How hard it was to keep his thoughts to John, with these exciting objects on either side of him! This country road, which all its length kept him in sight of the big castellated front of Tinto, with its flag half-mast high—the house in which she was who had been his love and promised bride—seemed to Beaufort to have become the very thread of his fate. That Carry should be there within his reach, that she should be free and mistress of herself, that there should be even a certain link of connection which brought him naturally once more within the circle of her immediate surroundings, was so wonderful that everything else seemed of less importance. He could not disengage his thoughts from this. He was not a man in whose mind generosity was the first or even a primary quality, and it is so difficult to think first of another when our own affairs are at an exciting stage. The only step which he could think of for John’s advantage confused him still more, for it was the first direct step possible to put him once more in contact with Carry. He turned up the avenue of Lindores with a thrill of sensation which penetrated his whole being. He was relieved indeed to know that the ladies were not there—that he would not at least be exposed to their scrutiny, and to the self-betrayal that could scarcely fail to follow; but the very sight and name of the house was enough to move him almost beyond his errand. The last rays of the sunset had gone out, and the autumn evening began to darken by the time he got there. He went on like a man in a dream, feeling the very air about him tremulous with his fate, although he made an attempt to think of John first. How could he think of anything but of Carry, who was free? or recollect anything except that the mistress of this house had allowed him to call her mother; and that even its lord, before he was its lord, had not refused to permit the suggestion of a filial relationship? There was a carriage already standing before the door when he drove up, but his mind was by this time too much excited to be moved by any outside circumstance. But when he stepped into the hall upon his mission, and, following the servant to the presence of Lord Lindores, suddenly found himself face to face with the two ladies going out, Beaufort’s agitation was extreme. They were returning to Tinto, after a day’s expedition in search of those “things” which seem always necessary in every domestic crisis. Lady Lindores recognised him with a start and cry of amazement. “
Mr. Beaufort! you here!” she cried, unable to contain herself. She added, “at such a time!” in a lower tone, with the self-betrayal to which impulsive persons are always liable, and with so much indignation mingled with her astonishment, that a man in full possession of his faculties might have drawn from it the most favourable auguries. But Beaufort, to do him justice, was not cool enough for this. He said hurriedly, “I came on Thursday—I knew nothing. I came—because it was impossible to help it.” Edith had come close up behind her mother, and grasped her arm, half in support, half in reproof. “You knew
Mr. Beaufort was coming, mamma; why should you be surprised?” she said, with a certain disdain in the tone with which she named him. Edith was unreasonable, like all the rest. She would have had him throw away everything rather than come here to interfere with Carry’s comfort, notwithstanding that her own father had invited him to come, and though it had been explained to her that all his prospects depended upon the favour of the Duke, Lord Millefleurs’s gracious papa. Her idea was, that a man should have thrown away all that, rather than put himself in a false position, or expose a woman whom he had once loved to embarrassment and pain. They were all unreasonable together, but each in his or her characteristic way. After these first utterances of agitation, however, they all stopped short and looked at each other in the waning light, and awoke to a recollection of the ordinary conventionalities which in such circumstances are so great a relief to everybody concerned.
“We must not detain you, Mr. Beaufort,” Lady Lindores said; “you were going to my husband—or Lord Millefleurs—who is still here.”
The last four words were said with a certain significance, as if intended for a hint—persuade him, they seemed to say, that this is not a time to remain here. “It is getting late, mother,” said Edith, with a touch of impatience.
“One moment, Lady Lindores. I must tell you why I have come: not for myself—to ask help for Erskine, whom I have just left in custody, charged with having occasioned somehow—I can’t tell you how—the death of—the late accident—your son-in-law,” Beaufort stammered out.
The next moment he seemed to be surrounded by them, by their cries of dismay, by their anxious questions. A sharp keen pang of offence was the first feeling in Beaufort’s mind—that John should be so much more interesting to them than he was! It gave him a shock even in the excitement of the moment.
“This was what he meant”—he could at last hear Edith distinctly after the momentary babel of mutual exclamations—“this was what he meant: that we might hear something, which he might not be able to explain, but that we were to believe in him—you and I, mamma.”
“Of course we believe in him,” cried Lady Lindores; “but something else must be done, something more. Come this way, Mr. Beaufort; Lord Lindores is
