The Ladies Lindores

them. It was not that it was forgotten. If these two men could have opened Dunnottar jail⁠—nay, could they have swept John Erskine away into some happy island where he would have been too blessed to think anything more about them⁠—they would have done it⁠—the one with joyous alacrity, the other with satisfaction at least. This gloomy incident was over, and Lord Lindores had no desire to hear any more of it. It was just the end that anybody might have expected Torrance to come to. Why could not the officious blockheads of the countryside let the matter alone? But he did not feel that desire to help and right John Erskine which his warm adoption of the young man to his friendship would have warranted. For why? such an incident, however it ended, would certainly spoil young Erskine’s influence in the county. He would be of no more advantage to anyone. A quarrel was nothing; but to escape from the consequences of that quarrel, to let a man die at the foot of a precipice without sending help to him, that was a thing which all the countryside turned against. It was this that had roused so strong a feeling against John, and Lord Lindores made up his mind philosophically, that though Erskine would probably be cleared of all imputation of blood-guiltiness, yet, innocent or guilty, he would never get over it, and, consequently, would be of no further use in any public projects. At the same time, his own views had changed in respect to the means of carrying these projects out. Lord Millefleurs was a better instrument than country eminence. A seat gained was of course always an appreciable advantage. But it was not certain even that the seat could have been gained; and a son-in-law in hand is better than many boroughs in the bush. The Duke could not ignore Lord Lindores’s claims if Edith was a member of the family. This was far more important than anything that could concern John Erskine, though Lord Lindores would have been heartily thankful⁠—now that he was good for nothing but to excite foolish sympathies⁠—if he could have got John Erskine happily out of the way.

Millefleurs had reached Lindores some time before: he had returned direct from the funeral along with Beaufort, who, much marvelling at himself, had stood among the crowd, and seen Carry’s husband laid in his grave. The sensation was too extraordinary to be communicated to anyone. It had seemed to him that the whole was a dream, himself a spectre of the past, watching bewildered, while the other, whom he had never seen, who was nothing but a coffin, was removed away and deposited among the unseen. He had not been bold enough to go into the house to see Carry, even from the midst of the crowd. Whether she was sorrowing for her husband, or feeling some such thrills of excitement as were in his own bosom at the thought that she was free, Beaufort could not tell; but when he found himself seated at table that evening with her father and brother, he could not but feel that his dream was going on, and that there was no telling in what new scene it might unfold fresh wonders. The four gentlemen dined alone, and they were not a lively party. After dinner they gathered about the fireplace, not making any move towards the forsaken drawing-room. “This is a sad sort of amusement to provide for you,” Lord Lindores said. “We hoped to have shown you the more cheerful side of Scotch life.”

“I have had a very good time: what you might call a lovely time,” said Millefleurs. Then he made a pause, and drawing closer, laid his plump finger on Lord Lindores’s arm. “I don’t want to make myself a nuisance now; but⁠—not to be troublesome⁠—if I am not likely soon to have an opportunity of addressing myself to Lady Edith, don’t you think I had better go away?”

“You may well be tired of us; a house of mourning,” said Lord Lindores, with a smile of benevolent meaning. “It was not for this you came into those wilds.”

“They are far from being wilds: I have enjoyed myself very much,” said little Millefleurs. “All has been new; and to see a new country, don’t you know, is always the height of my ambition. But such a thing might happen as that I wasn’t wanted. When a lady means to have anything to say to a fellow, I have always heard she lets him know. To say nothing is, perhaps, as good a way of saying no as any. It may be supposed to save a man’s feelings⁠—”

“Am I to understand that you have spoken to my daughter, Millefleurs?”

“I have never had the chance, Lord Lindores. On the very evening, you will remember, when I hoped to have an explanation, this unfortunate accident happened. I am very sorry for the gentleman whom, in the best of circumstances, I can never now hope to call my brother-in-law; but the position is perhaps a little awkward. Lady Edith is acquainted with my aspirations, but I⁠—know nothing; don’t you know?” said the little Marquis. He had his hand upon his plump bosom, and raised himself a little on one foot as he spoke. “It makes a fellow feel rather small⁠—and, in my case, that isn’t wanted,” he added, cheerfully. Nothing less like a despairing lover could be imagined; but though he resembled a robin-redbreast, he was a man quite conscious of the dignities of his position, and not to be played with. A cold chill of alarm came over Lord Lindores.

“Edith will return tomorrow, or next day,” he said; “or if you choose to go to Tinto, her mother regards you so much as a friend and favourite, that she will receive you gladly, I am sure. Go, then⁠—”

“No,” said Millefleurs, shaking his head, “no, that would be too strong. I never saw the poor fellow but once