Carry was standing by the mantelpiece, her tall figure in its black clinging dress scarcely distinguishable at first, but the animation with which she spoke, and the natural eloquence of her gestures, brought it out against the white marble. Then there came Beaufort’s deeper voice: “You know, Lady Lindores, I am ready to do whatever is best for her. If I can comfort her after all that has happened to her, how can I go away? I wish to do only what is best for her.”
“I beg to remark,” said Lord Lindores, coming forward, “that I knocked before coming in. This, I suppose, is why your servant looked alarmed when he admitted me. Is this gentleman, may I ask, living here?”
Carry drew back at the sound of his voice as if she had received a blow. She clung to the edge of the tall white mantelpiece, shrinking, her figure drawn together, an impersonation of terror and trouble. Beaufort started too, but slightly, and stood instinctively out of the way to make room for the newcomer. Lord Lindores went straight forward to the fire and took up his position with his back to it, with a certain straightforward ease and authority, like a man in his own house, who has no doubt of his right to do his pleasure there. But as a matter of fact, he was by no means so certain as he looked.
“We did not hear you,” said Carry, with a breathless gasp in her voice. “We were talking—over points on which my mother does not agree with me.”
“I can easily imagine that,” he replied.
And then there was a dreadful pause. Lady Lindores, on the other side of the fire, did not move or speak. It was the crisis of Carry’s fate, and except in defence or help of her child, the mother vowed to herself that she would take no part. It was hard, but it was best for Carry. Whatever was going to happen to her, she must decide for herself now.
“I asked,” said Lord Lindores in that calm, clear, collected voice, which was so strange a contrast to the agitation of the others, “whether this gentleman is living here? If so, it is very inappropriate and unsuitable. Your mother would prefer, I am sure, if Mr. Beaufort is here about any business, to offer him a bed at Lindores.”
There was a universal holding of the breath at this extraordinary proposition. Had he burst into all the violence of passion, they would have been prepared, but not for this politeness and calm.
“I am not living here, Lord Lindores,” said Beaufort, with some confusion. “I am on my way from the North. I could not resist the temptation of staying for an hour or two on my way to inquire—”
“That was very kind,” he said; “and kindness which interferes with personal comfort is very rare. If you are going to Edinburgh, you must remember you have two ferries to cross.”
“Probably,” Beaufort cried, faltering a little, “I shall stay all night in Dunearn. Lady Caroline—had some commissions for me.”
“You had much better come to Lindores. Commissions, Carry! I suppose Mr. Beaufort is acting as a sort of agent for you in your new arrangements. Is it bric-a-brac? You young men are all learned in that.”
Nobody made any reply, but the very air seemed to tingle with the extraordinary tumult of feeling. To accept Beaufort as an ordinary caller, and to invite him to Lindores, was a masterstroke. But the two people between whom he stood were so surcharged with passionate feeling, that any touch must produce an explosion of one sort or another. This touch was given inadvertently by Lady Lindores, who—terribly bewildered by the course that things were taking, but feeling that if Beaufort could be induced to go to Lindores, it would cut the thread better than any other expedient—rose softly out of the twilight, and coming forward to him, laid her hand upon his arm: “Yes, yes, that is much the best. Come to Lindores,” she said.
At which Carry lost the control of herself which people in their ordinary senses have. Between panic and passion she was beside herself. Fear has a wild temerity which goes far beyond courage;—her tall straight figure seemed to fling suddenly out of the shade, and launch itself upon this milder group. She put Lady Lindores away with a vehement gesture.
“Mother,” she cried, “do not you meddle. Edward! do not go, do not go; it is a trap, it is a snare. If you go it will all be over, all over!” Her voice rose almost to a scream. She had reached the point at which reason has no longer any hold, and all the reticence and modesty of nature yields to the wild excitement of terror. She was trembling all over, yet capable of any supreme effort of desperation—ready to defend to the last, against the same powers that had crushed her before, her last hope.
“Carry,” said Lord Lindores—he kept up, at incalculable cost to himself, his tone of conciliation—“I do not understand what you fear. Is it I that am to lay traps or snares? I forgive you, my poor child; but this is a strange way to talk to Mr. Beaufort—he cannot stay here—”
“I have no intention of staying here, Lord Lindores,” said Beaufort hastily. “You may be sure I will not expose her to any comment.”
“I am very sure, nevertheless, that you are doing so,” said Lord Lindores.
The contrast of this brief dialogue with Carry’s impassioned tones was extraordinary. She felt it through the haze of excitement that surrounded her, though her intelligence of all outside matters was blurred by the wild strain of her own feelings, which would have utterance. “Father,” she said hoarsely, putting her hand on his arm, “go away from us—do not interfere. You know what you made of me when I was in your hands. Oh, let us alone now! I am not a girl—I am
