“Well, well, we’ll name no names,” said Tinto. “They’ll all be after you; no need to name names. And I’ll tell them all you’re an honest fellow. Don’t you be led away by his lordship, no more than the women. Keep your vote to yourself, and your heart to yourself, that’s my advice. Good night to you, John—you’re a very decent fellow,” cried the big voice in the darkness. Torrance had found out that this epithet annoyed young Erskine, and he liked it all the better in consequence. He shouted it after him into the night, as with another great laugh he went back into his house to Lady Car. Alas, poor Carry! The others went away, shook off the disagreeable presence, got out of the atmosphere of his wine and the roar of his laugh; but Carry, than whom there was no more fastidious, delicately nurtured woman—Carry sat helpless, scared, awaiting him. Whatever happened, she could not run away.
As for John, he flew down the avenue in the dark, taking that turn on the top of the scaur, which was allowed by everybody to be so dangerous, without knowing anything about it, guided by instinct and rage; for he had never been there before. When they had passed the danger, Peter, the groom, drew a long breath. “That’s past, the Lord be thankit!” he said. It was natural that Peter should suspect his master of sitting long after dinner, and sharing the excitement of his host.
“What’s past?” said John, angrily: he had nearly taken an inner gate, dogcart and all, as if it had been a fence. His horse was fresh, and his mind ablaze with irritation and impatience. “What’s past?” he repeated, angrily, when the man clambered up again to his side.
“That corner, sir, they call the Scaur. There used to be a paling, but it fell to pieces, and this Laird—I beg your pardon, sir—young Tinto, that is a perfect deevil when he’s on a horse, would never let it be mended. It’s a’ cleared away, and there’s a grand view when there’s daylicht to see it, and doun-bye the sound o’ the river roaring. If it werena for the horse’s feet and the rate we’re going, you would hear it now.”
“You think we’re going too fast—”
“Na—no me,” said the groom, cautiously, “now that I see, sir, you ken what’s what. But it’s a fickle corner in the dark. Not to know is maybe the best way. When you ken, you’re apt to be ower cautious or ower bold—one’s as bad as the ither. A wrang step, a bit swing out on the open, and there would be no help for ye. Neither you nor me, sir, would have seen a freend belonging to us again.”
“It is unpardonable,” said John, “if this is so, to leave it without protection or notice.”
“Well, sir, you see it’s no just the richt road. It’s a shortcut. You take the left hand at thae lily-oaks. I thought you bid to ken, as you took it so bold, without a moment’s thought. I wouldna advise you to do it again. Tinto, he’s a perfect deevil on horseback, as I was saying. He’s aye riding that way. They say he’ll break his neck sometime or other, he’s so wild and reckless—ower that scaur—”
“And no such great loss either,” cried John, in his indignation. He hoped the words were not audible, in the rush of his horse’s hoofs and jingle of the harness, the moment they had left his lips; and he was annoyed by the confidential tone of Peter’s reply.
“Maybe no, sir. There’s plenty is of that opinion. There was mair tint at Shirramuir.”
John felt as if he had condescended to gossip with his servant about his neighbour, and was ashamed of himself. But as he reviewed the events of the evening his pulses beat higher and higher. That he should have pleased this big bully, and received the offer of his friendship, was something half humiliating, half ridiculous. But what could he do? The bonds of neighbourhood are stringent: that you must not, if possible, quarrel with, or markedly avoid, or put any slight upon, the man whose lands march with your own, is a self-evident proposition. And the husband of Carry Lindores! When John thought of this part of it, there escaped from him an almost groan of horror and pity. The rest of the party had dispersed, and were free of the big laugh, the rude jests, the fierce staring eyes; but Carry remained behind.
Peter the groom did not feel so sure that his new master had partaken too freely of the wine at Tinto, which everybody knew to be better and stronger than wine anywhere else, by the time they got to Dalrulzian. But he announced that he was “just one of Tinto’s kind, a deevil when he’s behind a horse,” as he took his supper. This, however, was a suggestion which brought down upon his head the indignant displeasure of Bauby, who regretted audibly that she had kept the potatoes hot for such an ill-speaking loon—and of Rolls, who, accepting the praise implied, put down the superficial judgment of this newcomer as it deserved. “There will no man beat an Erskine for clear head and steady hands,” he said, “if that’s what you ca’ being of Tinto’s kind; but you’ll observe, my lad, that we’re a’ of a reasonable age, and I’ll have nane o’ your rash opinions here.”
XVII
“Oh yes, that’s true—I’m an old Tory.
