“They are going to fill the house in the autumn,” she said, returning to the previous subject. “I hear of several people coming. A certain Lord Millefleurs—”
“That reminds me,” said John, “that I had a letter the other day—from one of our old Swiss party. You will remember him, Lady Caroline—”
Here he paused, with a sudden recollection and putting together of various things which, in the curious inadvertence of an indifferent mind, he had not thought of before. This made him break off somewhat suddenly, and raise his eyes to Carry, at whom he had not been looking, with an alarmed glance.
He saw her take a large grasp, in the hand which had been laid softly upon it, at ease, with extended fingers, of the baby’s shawl. Her face, which had been so smiling and soft, grew haggard and wild in a moment. Her eyes seemed to look out from caverns. There was a momentary pause, which seemed to arouse heaven and earth to listen. Then her voice came into this suddenly altered, vigilant, suspicious atmosphere. “Who was it, Mr. Erskine?” Poor Carry tried to smile, and to keep her voice in its usual tone. But the arrow flying so suddenly at a venture had gone straight into her heart. She had no need to ask—had she not divined it all along?
“Probably you have forgotten—his very name. It was—one of those fellows,” stammered John. “I forget how little a party like ours was likely to interest you. Beaufort—you may remember the name.”
He felt that every word he uttered—his artificial levity, his forced attempt to make that unimportant which only his consciousness that it was deeply important could have suggested such a treatment of, was a new folly. He was doing it for the best—most futile of all excuses. When he looked at her again at the end of this speech, not daring to meet her eyes while he gave it forth, he saw, to his astonishment, a rising colour, a flutter of indignation, in Carry’s pale face.
“Surely,” she said, with a strange thrill in her voice, “you do your friend injustice, Mr. Erskine. So far as I remember, he was very distinguished—far the most remarkable of the party. I do not think I can be mistaken.”
“No, no, you are quite right,” John cried; “I only meant that—these things were much to us; but I did not know whether you would recollect—whether to a lady—”
“You are all so contemptuous of women,” Lady Caroline said, with a faint smile, “even the kindest of you. You think a lady would only notice frivolous excellences, and would not care for real distinction. That is a great mistake. It is all the other way. It is we who think of these things most.”
“I beg a thousand pardons—I had no such meaning,” John said; and she made him a little tremulous bow. She was so deadly pale, that he expected every moment to see her faint. But she did not. She continued, naturally calling him back to what he had been about to tell her.
“You had a letter from Mr. Beaufort? about—you were going to tell me—”
“About coming here,” said John, feeling that to say it out bluntly was now the best. “It appears he has a sort of charge of this Lord Millefleurs.”
“Charge of Lord—? That is not a dignified position—for—your friend, Mr. Erskine.”
“No. I don’t know what it means; he has not made the progress he ought to have made; but there is something special about this,” said John, hesitating, not knowing how far to go.
Again Lady Caroline made him a little bow. She rose, with some stiffness and slowness, as if in pain. “It grows late, though it is so light. Baby will be better indoors,” she said. She went quickly away, but wavering a little in her gait, as if she were unconscious of obstacles in the way, and disappeared through the window of the old library, which was on the same level as the dining-room. John stood looking after her, with a bewildering sense of guilt, and alarm for he knew not what. All this time Torrance had not said a word; but he had taken in every word that was said, and his jealous eyes had noted the changes in his wife’s face. He watched her go away, as John did. When she had disappeared, both of them listened for a moment in silence. Neither would have been surprised to hear a fall and cry; but there was nothing. Torrance threw himself down heavily in the seat from which she had risen.
“That was a pity, Erskine,” he said; “you saw that well enough. You can tell me the rest about this Beaumont—Beaufort—what do you call him?—that you thought it best not to tell Lady Car.”
“There is nothing to tell about Beaufort,” said John, “which Lady Caroline, or any lady, might not hear.”
“Now just look you here, John Erskine,” said Tinto, projecting his big eyes, “I thought you were he—that is the truth. She told me there was somebody. I thought it was you, and I was determined to be at the bottom of it. Now here’s the man, beyond a doubt, and you know it as well as I do.”
“I don’t know it at all,” cried John, “which probably is as much as you do. Can you suppose I should have spoken to Lady
