“Nora,” he said, clasping his hands, “don’t be so hard upon me!”
“What does it mean?” she cried, her soft face growing stern, her nostrils dilating. “Either what you said is false, or this is false; and anyhow, you, you are false, Lord Rintoul! Oh, cannot you tell me what it means? Is it that you are not brave enough to stand up by yourself—to say, It was I—”
“For God’s sake, Nora! I was ready, quite ready to do it, though it would have been ruin to me. I had made up my mind. But what could I do when this man stood up before me and said—He told the whole story almost exactly as—as it happened. I was stupefied; but what could I do? I declare to you, Nora, when old Monypenny got up and said ‘The man is here,’ I jumped up, I stood forward. And then I was confounded, I could not say a word.” Here he approached a little nearer and put out his hand to take hers. “Why should I, Nora—now tell me why should I? when this other man says it was he. He ought to know,” Rintoul added, with a groan of faint tentative humour in his voice. He did not know how far he might venture to go.
Once more Nora stamped her foot on the ground. “Oh, I cannot away with you!” she cried. It was one of Miss Barbara’s old-fashioned phrases. She was at the end of her own. She would have liked, she thought, to strike him as he stood before her deprecating, yet every moment recovering himself.
“If another man chooses to take it upon him, why should I contradict him?” Rintoul said, with good sense unanswerable. “I was stunned with astonishment; but when you reflect, how could I contradict him? If he did it for John Erskine’s sake, it would have spoiled the arrangement.”
“John Erskine would never make any arrangement. If he had been to blame he would have borne it. He would not have shirked or drawn back!”
“You think better of John Erskine than of me, Nora. I do not know what it is, but I have no right to interfere. I’ll give the old fellow something when it’s all over. It is not for me he is doing it, whatever is his reason. I should spoil it all if I said a word. Will you forgive me now?” said Rintoul, with a mixture of calm reason and anxiety. He had quite recovered himself. And Nora, still in a flutter of slowly dissipating excitement, could find no argument against that sturdy good sense of his. For he was strong in sense, however worldly it might be.
“I cannot understand it at all. Do you know who the man was?” she said.
And then he laughed—actually laughed—though he was on the borders of desperation an hour ago. The echo of it seemed to run round the garden among the listening trees and horrified Nora. But at his next word she threw up her hands in consternation, with a cry of bewilderment, confusion, almost amusement too, though she would have thought that impossible—“Old Rolls!”
XLIV
John Erskine returned to Dalrulzian alone after this wonderful morning’s work. He could scarcely believe that he was free to walk where he pleased—to do what he liked. Four days is not a long period of time. But prison has an extraordinary effect, and his very limbs had seemed to tingle when he got the uncontrolled use of them again. Lord Lindores had driven him back as far as the gates of Lindores, and from thence he walked on, glad of the air, the sense of freedom and movement—the silence in which to realise all that had passed. Enough had passed, indeed, to give full occasion for thought; and it was only now that the extraordinary character of the event struck him. Rolls! to associate Rolls with a tragedy. In his excitement John burst into a wild fit of laughter, which echoed along the quiet road; then, horrified by the sound, drew himself quickly together, and went on with the gravest countenance in the world. But it must be added that this thought of Rolls was only momentary—it came and went, and was dropped into the surrounding darkness, in which all accidents of common life were heaped together as insignificant and secondary, in comparison with one central consciousness with which his whole firmament was ablaze. He had demanded “More! more!” but had not received another word. No explanation had ensued. The mother had come in with soft authority, with a steadfast blank of all understanding. Lady Lindores would not see that they wanted to talk to each other. She had not ceased to hold her daughter by the arm, affectionately leaning upon her, until they went away: and Edith had not spoken another word—had not even met his anxious looks with more than the most momentary fugitive glance. Thus John had withdrawn in that state of half certainty which, perhaps, is more absorbing to the faculties and more transporting to the heart than any definite and indisputable fact ever can be. His whole being was in movement, agitated by a delicious doubt, by an eager breathless longing to know, which was sweeter than knowledge. All the
