The Ladies Lindores

would the folk say then? Would a veil drop after today upon the unblemished record of his life? He had never stood before a magistrate in all his days⁠—never seen how the world looked from the inside of a prison, even as a visitor⁠—had nothing to do, nothing to do with that side of the world. He waved his hand, as if separating by a mystic line between all that was doubtful or disreputable, and his own career. But now⁠—Thus through the misty darkening road, with now a red gleam from a smithy, and now a softer glimmer from a cottage door, and anon the trees standing out of the mists, and the landscape widening about him, Rolls came on slowly, very seriously, to Dunearn. The long tower of the Town House, which had seemed to threaten and call upon Lord Rintoul, was the first thing that caught the eye of Rolls. The moon shone upon it, making a white line of it against the cloudy sky.

Mr. Monypenny was at dinner with his family. They dined at six o’clock, which was thought a rather fashionable hour, and the comfortable meal was just over. Instead of wine, the good man permitted himself one glass of toddy when the weather grew cold. He was sitting between the table and the fire, and his wife sat on the other side giving him her company and consolation⁠—for Mr. Monypenny was somewhat low and despondent. He had been moved by Sir James Montgomery’s warm and sudden partisanship and belief of John Erskine’s story; but he was a practical man himself, and he could not, he owned, shaking his head, take a sensational view. To tell him that there should have been just such an encounter as seemed probable⁠—high words between two gentlemen⁠—but that they should part with no harm done, and less than an hour after one of them be found lying dead at the bottom of the Scaur⁠—that was more than he could swallow in the way of a story. To gain credence, there should have been less or more. Let him hold his tongue altogether⁠—a man is never called upon to criminate himself⁠—or let him say all. “Then you must just give him a word, my dear, to say nothing about it,” said Mrs. Monypenny, who was anxious too. “But that’s just impossible, my dear, for he blurted it all out to the sheriff just as he told it to me.” “Do you not think it’s a sign of innocence that he should keep to one story, and when it’s evidently against himself, so far as it goes?” “A sign of innocence!” Mr. Monypenny said, with a snort of impatience. He took his toddy very sadly, finding no exhilaration in it. “Pride will prevent him departing from his story,” he said. “If he had spoken out like a man, and called for help like a Christian, it would have been nothing. All this fuss is his own doing⁠—a panic at the moment, and pride⁠—pride now, and nothing more.”

“If ye please,” said the trim maid who was Mr. Monypenny’s butler and footman all in one⁠—the “table-maid,” as she was called⁠—“there’s one wanting to speak to ye, sir. I’ve put him into the office, and he says he can wait.”

“One! and who may the one be?” said Mr. Monypenny.

“Weel, sir, he’s got his hat doon on his brows and a comforter aboot his throat, and he looks sore for-foughten, as if he had travelled all the day, and no’ a word to throw at a dog; but I think it’s Mr. Rolls, the butler at Dalrulzian.”

“Rolls!” said Mr. Monypenny. “I’ll go to him directly, Jeanie. That’s one thing off my mind. I thought that old body had disappeared rather than bear witness against his master,” he said, when the girl had closed the door.

“But oh, if he’s going to bear witness against his master, it would have been better for him to disappear,” said the sympathetic wife. “Nasty body! to eat folk’s bread, and then to get them into trouble.”

“Whesht with your foolish remarks, my dear: that is clean against the law, and it would have had a very bad appearance, and prejudiced the Court against us,” Mr. Monypenny said as he went away. But to tell the truth, he was not glad; for Rolls was one of the most dangerous witnesses against his master. The agent went to his office with a darkened brow. It was not well lighted, for the lamp had been turned down, and the fire was low. Rolls rose up from where he had been sitting on the edge of a chair as Mr. Monypenny came in. He had unwound his comforter from his neck, and taken off his hat. His journey, and his troubled thoughts, and the night air, had limped and damped him; the starch was out of his tie, and the air of conscious rectitude out of his aspect. He made a solemn but tremulous bow, and stood waiting till the door was closed, and the man of business had thrown himself into a chair. “Well, Rolls⁠—so you have come back!” Mr. Monypenny said.

“Ay, sir, I’ve come back. I’ve brought you the man, Mr. Monypenny, that did yon.”

“Good Lord, Rolls! that did what? You take away my breath.”

“I’ll do it more or I’m done. The man that coupit yon poor lad Tinto and his muckle horse ower the brae.”

Mr. Monypenny started to his feet. “Do you mean to tell me⁠—Lord bless us, man, speak out, can’t ye! The man that⁠—Are ye in your senses, Rolls? And who may this man be?”

“You see before you, sir, one that’s nae better than a coward. I thought it would blow by. I thought the young master would be cleared in a moment. There was nae ill meaning in my breast. I did the best I could for him as soon as it was done, and lostna a moment. But my courage failed me to say it was me⁠—”

“You!” cried Monypenny,