The Ladies Lindores

meaning in its fullest extent. Old Miss Barbara Erskine was the only one who had partly divined him; but of all the people who did not understand his intention, the wife of his bosom was the first. To her high mind, finely unsuspicious because so contemptuous of mean motives, this little ambition would perhaps have seemed pettier than it really was; for if nobility is worth having at all, surely it is best to possess all its privileges. And perhaps, had Lady Lindores been less lofty in her ideal, her husband would have been more disposed to open his inmost thoughts to her, and thus correct any smaller tendency. It was this that had made him insist upon Carry’s marriage. He wanted to ally himself with the richest and most powerful people within his reach, to strengthen himself in every way, extending the family connection so that he should have every security for success when the moment came for his great coup. And he was anxiously alive to every happy chance that might occur for the two of his children who were still to marry⁠—anxious yet critical. He would not have had Rintoul marry a grocer’s daughter for her hogsheads, as Miss Barbara said. He would have him, if possible, to marry the daughter of a Minister of State, or some other personage of importance. He intended Rintoul to be a popular Member of Parliament, a rising man altogether, thinking he could infuse enough of his own energy as well as ambition into the young man to secure these ends. And this great aim of his was the reason why he underwent the expense of a season, though a short one, in town. He was of opinion that it was important to keep himself and his family in the knowledge of the world, to make it impossible for any fastidious fashionable to say, “Who is Lord Lindores?” The Earl, by dint of nursing this plan in his mind, and revealing it to nobody, had come to think it was a great aim.

It was, as we have said, a rainy morning when the family left Lindores. They made the journey from Edinburgh to London by night, as most people do. But before they reached Edinburgh, there was a considerable journey, and those two ferries, of which Rolls had reminded Colonel Barrington. Two great firths to cross, with no small amount of sea when the wind is in the east, was no such small matter. Lady Caroline had driven over in the morning to bid her mother goodbye, and it was she who was to deposit Nora Barrington at Chiefswood, where her next visit was to be paid. There had been but little conversation between the mother and daughter on the subject of that scene which Edith had witnessed, but Lady Lindores could not forbear a word of sympathy in the last half-hour they were to spend together. They were seated in her dressing-room, which was safe from interruption. “I do not like to leave you, my darling,” Lady Lindores said, looking wistfully into her daughter’s pale face.

“It does not matter, mother. Oh, you must not think of me, and spoil your pleasure. I think perhaps things go better sometimes when I have no one to fall back upon,” said poor Lady Caroline.

“Oh, Carry, my love, what a thing that is to say!”

Carry did not make any reply at first. She was calm, not excited at all. “Yes; I think perhaps I am more patient, more resigned, when I have no one to fall back upon. There is no such help in keeping silence as when you have no one to talk to,” she added, with a faint smile.

Her mother was much more disturbed in appearance than she. She was full of remorse as well as sympathy. “I did not think⁠—I never knew it was so bad as this,” she said, faltering, holding in her own her child’s thin hands.

“What could it be but as bad as this?” said Carry. “We both must have known it from the beginning, mother. It is of no use saying anything. I spoke to Edith the other day because she came in the midst of it, and I could not help myself. It never does any good to talk. When there is no one to speak to, I shall get on better, you will see.”

“In that case, it is best for us to be away from you⁠—Carry, my darling!” Lady Lindores was frightened by the wild energy with which her daughter suddenly clutched her arm.

“Oh no, no! don’t think that. If I could not look across to Lindores and think there was someone there who loved me, I should go out of my senses. Don’t let us talk of it. How curious to think you are going away where I used always to wish to go⁠—to London! No, don’t look so. I don’t think I have the least wish to go now. There must be ghosts there⁠—ghosts everywhere,” she said, with a sigh, “except at home. There are no ghosts at Tinto; that is one thing I may be thankful for.”

“I don’t think,” said her mother, with an attempt to take a lighter tone, “that London is a likely place for ghosts.”

“Ah, don’t you think so? Mother,” said Carry suddenly, “I am afraid of John Erskine. He never knew of what happened⁠—after. What so likely as that he might have people to stay with him⁠—people from town?”

“Nobody⁠—whose coming would make any difference to us⁠—would accept such an invitation, Carry. Of that you may be sure.”

“Do you think so, mother?” she said; then added, with some wistfulness, “But perhaps it might be thought that no one would mind. That must be the idea among people who know. And there might be, you know, a little curiosity to see for one’s self how it was. I think I could understand that without any blame.”

“No, I do not think so⁠—not where there was any delicacy of mind. It would