The Ladies Lindores

a greater respect for the world’s opinion, and made offences of this sort almost impossible? It was a strange thing (he thought) when you came to think of it. A fellow, now, like the late Tinto would have been in every kind of scrape had he been a poor man; but somehow, being a rich one, he had kept out of the hands of the law. Such a thing never happened from year’s end to year’s end. And to think now that it was not one of our ordinary Scots lairds, but the pink of education and good breeding, from England and abroad! This gave a momentary theoretical satisfaction to his musings by the way. But immediately after, he thought with self-reproach that it was young Erskine of whom he was permitting himself such criticism: young Dalrulzian, poor lad! all the more to be pitied that he had been brought up, as Rolls said, away from home, and with no father to look after him. The cob was used to take his own way along those roads which he knew so well, but at this point Mr. Monypenny touched him with the indignity of a whip, and hurried along. He met Beaufort returning, driving, with a little hesitation at the corner of the road, John’s dogcart homeward; and Mr. Monypenny thought he recognised the dogcart, but he did not stop to say anything to the stranger, who naturally knew nothing of him. Nor was his interview with John at all satisfactory when he came to his journey’s end. The young man received his man of business with that air of levity which, mixed with indignation, had been his prevailing mood since his arrest. He laughed when he said, “This is a curious place to receive you in,” and for some time he would scarcely give any heed to the anxious questions and suggestions of Mr. Monypenny. At length, however, this veil was thrown off, and John permitted the family friend, of whose faithfulness he could have no doubt, to see the depth of wounded feeling that lay below. “Of course it can be nothing to me,” he said, still holding his head high. “They cannot prove a falsehood, however they may wish it; but to think that of all these men with whom I have eaten and drunk, who have professed to welcome me for my father’s sake⁠—to think that not one of them would step in to stand by a fellow, or give him the least support⁠—”

“When you reflect that even I knew nothing about it,” said Mr. Monypenny⁠—“not a word⁠—till old Rolls came⁠—”

“Did you hear none of the talk?” said John. “I did not hear it, indeed, but I have felt it in the air. I knew there was something. Everybody looked at me suspiciously; the very tone of their voice was changed⁠—my own servants⁠—”

“Your servants are very anxious about you, Mr. Erskine, if I may judge from old Rolls. I have seldom seen a man so overcome; and if you will reflect that your other friends throughout the county can have heard nothing, any more than myself⁠—”

“Then you did not hear the talk?” said John, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Monypenny’s countenance fell.

“I paid no attention to it. There’s some story forever going on in the countryside. Wise men just shut their ears,” he said.

“Wise men are one thing and friends another,” said John. “Had I no one who could have told me, at least, on how small a thread my reputation hung? I might have gone away,” he said, with some vehemence, “at the height of it. If business, or even pleasure, had called me, no doubt I should, without a notion of any consequences. When I think of that I shiver. Supposing I had gone away?”

“In that case,” said Mr. Monypenny, clearing his throat; but he never got any further. This alarm affected him greatly. He began to believe that his client might be innocent altogether⁠—an idea which, notwithstanding all the disclaimers which he and Rolls had exchanged, had not crossed his mind before; but when he heard John’s story, his faith was shaken. He listened to it with the deepest interest, waiting for the moment when the confession would be made. But when it ended, without any end, so to speak, and John finally described Torrance as riding up towards the house, while he himself went down, Mr. Monypenny’s countenance fell. He was disappointed. The tale was such as he expected, with this important difference⁠—it wanted a conclusion. The listener gave a gasp of interest when the crisis arrived, but his interest flagged at once when it was over, and nothing had happened. “And then?” he said, breathlessly. And then?⁠—but there was no then. John gazed at him wondering, not perceiving the failure of the story. “That is all,” he said. Mr. Monypenny grew almost angry as he sat gazing at him across the table.

“I have just been telling Rolls,” he said, “that the best policy in such a case is just downright honest truth. To get into a panic and keep back anything is the greatest mistake. There is no need for any panic. You will be in the hands of those that take a great interest in you, Mr. John⁠—begging your pardon for using that name.”

“You do not seem satisfied with what I have told you,” John said.

“Oh, me! it’s little consequence what I think; there’s plenty to be thought upon before me. I would make no bones about it. In most things the real truth is the best, but most especially when you’re under an accusation. I’m for no half measures, if you will let me say so.”

“I will let you say whatever you please⁠—so long as you understand what I am saying. I have told you everything. Do I look like a man in a panic?” said John.

“Panic has many meanings. I make no doubt you are a brave man, and ready to face fire and sword if there was any need.