XX
They were very glad to see him—very kind to him—impossible to be kinder; ready to enter into all their experiences of town, and to find out who were the people he knew among their friends, and to discuss all their amusements and occupations. Perhaps the fact that there were few people with whom they could discuss these proceedings had something to do with it; for the county in general went little to town, and was jealous and easily offended by the superior privileges of others. But this was a cynical view to take of the friendly effusion of the ladies when John paid them the visit which he thought he had timed religiously, so as neither to be too early, as presuming on the intimacy they had accorded him, nor too late, as showing any indifference to it. No such calculation was in the cordial greeting he received from Lady Lindores. “You are a great deal too timid, Mr. Erskine,” she said. “No, it is not a fault for a young man—but you know what I mean. You would not come to meet us though you were there, and you have let two days pass without coming to see us. Fie! As your aunt Barbara says, you should have more confidence in your friends.”
Was it possible to be more encouraging, more delightful than this? and then they plunged into the inevitable personalities which are so offensive to outsiders, but which people with any mutual knowledge of a certain restricted society are scarcely able to refrain from. “You know the Setons. There have been great changes among them. Two of the girls are married. To whom? Well, I scarcely remember. Yes, to be sure. Sir Percy Faraway married the eldest, and they went off to California on their wedding-trip. And Charley is with his regiment at Cabul. Old Lady Seton, the grandmother—you know that delightful old lady—is—” and so on, and so on. The county people thought, with strong disapproval, that for intelligent people like the Lindores, who gave themselves airs on this score, it was both frivolous and derogatory to talk so much about individuals; but John, who knew the individuals, was not so critical.
“Rintoul has come with us,” said Lady Lindores. “He has paused on the way to pay a little visit; but we expect him this evening. He will stay only a very short time; but he is coming back again in August, when the house will be full.”
John made a little bow, and no reply. He did not care for the intelligence. Rintoul, he felt instinctively, would be no friend to him. And in the little contrariety produced by this, he, too, brought forth his piece of news. “I heard of one of your visitors—Lord Millefleurs. He was my fag at Eton, and the drollest little fellow. How has he grown up? I have not seen him since the Eton days.”
“He is droll still—like a little fat robin-redbreast,” said Edith, with a laugh.
Lady Lindores checked her daughter with a look. “He is—odd,” she said, “but very original and—entertaining.” She had begun in her heart to feel that something was worth sacrificing to the chance of seeing Edith a duchess. “They say he has been a kind of prodigal—but a very virtuous one—wandering over the world to see life, as he calls it—a very different thing from what many of you young men call life, Mr. Erskine.”
John felt nettled, he did not quite know why. “I am glad to know Millefleurs has become so interesting,” he said. “The only thing that now gives him interest to me is that I hear Beaufort—you will perhaps recollect Beaufort, Lady Lindores—”
The two ladies started a little, then gave each other a mutually warning look. “Indeed I remember Mr. Beaufort very well,” said Lady Lindores, shaking her head—“very well. We have seen him—seen a good deal of him lately. He is perhaps coming here.”
“But we hope not,” said Edith, under her breath.
“Edith, you must not say anything so unkind.”
“Oh, mamma, what is the use of pretending to Mr. Erskine? either he knows already, or he will be sure to find it out.”
“There is nothing to find out,” said Lady Lindores, hastily; and then her countenance melted, and she turned to John, holding out her hand. “You are an old friend—and I am sure you are a true friend, Mr. Erskine.”
“I am sure I am true,” he said.
“Yes, I know it—I know it! Mr. Erskine, there was—something between Carry and Mr. Beaufort. You guessed it even if you did not know? But afterwards it became impossible. Her father objected—as he had a good right to object. And now you know everything is changed. We women, who take all these things so much to heart—we don’t want Mr. Beaufort to come here. We think it might be painful. Lord Lindores, who probably has never given the subject another thought, has invited him to come with Lord Millefleurs. You know he is acting as a sort of—best friend to Lord Millefleurs.”
“I must tell you now on my side that I have heard from Beaufort,” said John. “He wrote to me asking to come to Dalrulzian, if it was decided that he should come North at all. I answered him that I did not think he had better come. Pardon me, there was no betrayal. He did not explain—nor did I
