“Holloa!” he cried. “Gone, are they! I thought I should have been in time to say goodbye. But there are plenty of you without me. Why, Car, you look as if you had buried them all, both you and Erskine. What’s the matter? is she going to faint?”
“I never faint,” said Lady Caroline, softly, from the carriage window. “I am tired a little. Nora, we need not wait now.”
“And you look like a dead cat, Erskine,” said the civil squire. “It must have been a tremendous parting, to leave you all like this. Hey! wait a moment; don’t be in such a hurry. When will you come over and dine, and help Lady Car to cheer up a bit? After this she’ll want somebody to talk to, and she don’t appreciate me in that line. Have we anything on for Tuesday, Car, or will that suit?”
“Any day that is convenient for Mr. Erskine,” said Carry, faltering, looking out with pitiful deprecation and a sort of entreaty at John standing by. Her wistful eyes seemed to implore him not to think her husband a brute, yet to acknowledge that he was so all the same.
“Then we’ll say Tuesday,” said Torrance. “Come over early and see the place. I don’t suppose you have so many invitations that you need to be asked weeks in advance. But don’t think I am going to cheat you of your state dinner. Oh, you shall have that in good time, and all the old fogeys in the county. In the meantime, as you’re such old friends, it’s for Lady Car I’m asking you now.” This was said with a laugh which struck John’s strained nerves as the most insolent he had ever heard.
“I need not say that I am at Lady Caroline’s disposition—when she pleases,” he replied, very gravely.
“Oh, not for me—not for me,” she cried, under her breath. Then recovering herself—“I mean—forgive me; I was thinking of something else. On Tuesday, if you will come, Mr. Erskine—it will be most kind to come. And, Nora, you will come too. To Chiefswood,” she said, as the servant shut the door, falling back with a look of relief into the shelter of the carriage. The two men stood for a moment looking after it as it whirled away. Why they should thus stand in a kind of forced antagonism, John Erskine, at least, did not know. The railway forces looked on vaguely behind; and Torrance, curbing his impatient horse, made a great din and commotion on the country road.
“Be quiet, you brute! We didn’t bargain for Nora—eh, Erskine? she’s thrown in,” said Torrance, with that familiarity which was so offensive to John. “To be sure, three’s no company, they say. It’s a pity they play their cards so openly—or rather, it’s a great thing for you, my fine fellow. You were put on your guard directly, I should say. I could have told them, no man was ever caught like that—and few men know better than I do all the ways of it,” he said, with a laugh.
“You have the advantage of me,” said Erskine, coldly. “I don’t know who is playing cards, or what I have to do with them. Till Tuesday—since I have Lady Caroline’s commands,” he said, lifting his hat.
“Confound—” the other said, under his breath; but John had already turned away. Torrance stared after him, with a doubt in his eyes whether he should not pursue and pick a quarrel on the spot; but a moment’s reflection changed his plans. “I’ll get more fun out of him yet before I’m done with him,” he said, half to himself. Then he became aware of the observation of Sandy Struthers the porter and the boy who had formed the background, and were listening calmly to all that was said. He turned round upon them quickly. “Hey, Sandy! what’s wrong, my man? Were you waiting to spy upon Mr. Erskine and me?”
“Me—spying! No’ me; what would I spy for?” was the porter’s reply. He was too cool to be taken by surprise. “What’s that to me if twa gentlemen spit and scratch at ilk ither, like cats or women folk,” he said, slowly. He had known Tinto “a’ his days,” and was not afraid of him. A porter at a little roadside station may be pardoned if he is misanthropical. He did not even change his position, as a man less accustomed to waiting about with his hands hanging by his side might have done.
“You scoundrel! how dare you talk of spitting and scratching to me?”
“ ’Deed, I daur mair than that,” said Sandy, calmly. “You’ll no’ take the trouble to complain to the Directors, Tinto, and I’m feared for naebody else. But you shouldna quarrel—gentlemen shouldna quarrel. It sets a bad example to the countryside.”
“Quarrel! nothing of the sort. That’s your imagination. I was asking Mr. Erskine to dinner,” said Tinto, with his big laugh.
“Weel, it looked real like it. I wouldna gang to your dinner, Tinto, if you asked me like that.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t take a shilling if I tossed it to you like that.”
“It’s a’thegither different,” said Sandy, catching the coin adroitly enough. “I see nae analogy atween the twa. But jist take you my advice and quarrel nane, sir, especially with that young lad: thae Erskines are a dour race.”
“You idiot! I was asking him to dinner,” Torrance said. He was on friendly terms with all the common people, with a certain jocular roughness which did not displease them. Sandy stood imperturbable, with all the calm of a man accustomed to stand most of his time looking on at the vague and quiet doings of the world about him. Very little ever happened about the station. To have had a crack with Tinto was a great entertainment after the morning excitement, enough to maintain life upon
