It was some years before the Towers was visited again. Tom went to Oxford and had a not very fortunate career there, which gave his mother a certain justification in resisting all attempts to take her back to what she felt to be so ill-omened a house. Beaufort took the common-sense part in these controversies. What did one house or another matter? he said. Why should one be ill-omened more than another? As well say that Oxford was ill-omened where Tom got into scrapes rather more easily than he could have done elsewhere; indeed, even Easton, the most peaceable place in the world, had not been without dangers for the headstrong boy whose passions were so strong and his prudence so small. A boy who is not to be trusted to keep his word, who cares only for his own pleasure, who likes everything he ought not to like, and cares for nothing that he ought, how should he be safe anywhere? Beaufort was too polite to say all these things about Carry’s boy, but he tried his best to persuade her that the discipline of having guests to entertain, and the occupation of shooting—‘something to do,’ which is so essential for every creature—would be the best things possible for Tom. Probably he was right, and she injudicious. Who can tell beforehand what procedure is the best? But poor Lady Car could not get out of her eyes Tom’s wild aspect as he had burst into the hall on that dreadful evening across the track of the procession going in to dinner. Peccadilloes of this kind had since been kept out of her sight, and she had tried to convince herself that it was the place and not the boy who had been in the wrong. And Janet somehow had come to share her mother’s disinclination for the Towers. Janet had received a letter, not long after her return to Easton, which had plunged her into the deepest alarm; it had, indeed, reached her innocently enough without any remark, being taken for a letter from one of her cousins at Dalrulzian, but it frightened her more than words could say. She had despatched a furtive note in reply, imploring ‘Mr. Charlie’ not to write—oh, not to write any more!—and promising eagerly not to forget either him or the pony if he only would do what she asked, and not write again. And poor Janet had been on the tenterhooks for a long time, terrified every day to see another missive arrive. She could scarcely believe in her good fortune when she found herself unmolested: but she was too much frightened to wish to return to the Towers. And thus time went on, which is so much longer to the young than it is to the old. Lady Car indeed was not old, but the children were so determined on believing her so, and her life of disappointments had been so heavy, that she fell very early into the passive stage. All that she had done had been so ineffectual, the result had been so completely unresponsive to her efforts; at least, it seemed the only policy to accept everything, to attempt nothing. Life at Easton had accordingly fallen into a somewhat dull but exceedingly comfortable routine. Beaufort’s beautiful library was a place where he read the papers, or a novel, or some other unfatiguing book. Sometimes his studies were classical; that is to say, he went over his favourite bits of classical authors, in delightful dilettantism, and felt that his occupations were not frivolous, but the highest that could occupy the mind. He was quite contented, though his life was not an eventful one. He had, he said, no desire to shine. Sometimes he rode into Codalton to the County Club; sometimes he went up to town to the AthenÆum, to see what was going on. His wife’s society was always pleasant to him in the intervals. Nothing could be more agreeable, more smooth, and soft, and refined, and pleasurable than his life; nothing more unlike the life of high endeavour and power of which Lady Car had dreamed. Poor Lady Car! She had dreamed of so many things which had come to nothing. And she had much to make her happy: a serene and tranquil life; a husband full of affection. Her son, indeed, was likely, people thought, to give her trouble. No doubt she had reason to be anxious about her son. But, happily, he was not dependent upon his own industry, nor was it of very much importance to him to do well at college. A young man with a good estate may sow his wild oats, and all be well. And this was the only rumpled leaf in her bed of roses, people said.

She herself never disclosed to anybody what was in her inmost heart. She had a smile for them all. The only matter in which she stood for her own way was that question of going to Scotland—not there, not there! but anywhere else—anything else. She fell into a sort of petite santÉ during these years. She said she was not ill—not ill at all, only languid and lazy; but gradually fell into the quiescent condition which might be appropriate to a mother of seventy, but not to one of forty. Tom and Janet did not see much difference between these ages, and as for Beaufort, the subdued and gentle charm of his wife’s character was quite appropriate to a cessation from active ventures. He liked her better almost upon her sofa, or taking a quiet walk through the garden leaning upon his arm, her wishes all confined within that peaceful enclosure, happy to watch the moon rise and the sun set, and apparently caring for nothing more. He talked to her of the light and shade, the breadth of the quiet soft landscape, the stars in the sky, or about the new books, and sometimes what was going on—everything he would have said. They were spectators of the uneasy world, which rolled on as if they were outside of it in some little Paradise of their own, watching how men ‘play such pranks before high heaven as make the angels weep.’ He was fond of commenting on all this, on the futility of effort, on the way in which people flung themselves against the impossible, trying to do what no man could ever do, to affect the movement of the spheres. He would smile at statesmen and philanthropists, and all kinds of restless people, from his little throne on the lawn, looking out over the peaceful landscape. And Lady Car would respond with a smile, with a glance that often lingered upon him as he talked, and in which he sometimes felt there was something which he did not quite understand. But what could that be—that something that he did not understand? He understood most things, and talked beautifully. He was the most perfect gentleman; his every tone, his every thought was full of refinement. And Lady Car was well pleased, who could doubt? to lie back in her deep chair and listen. What happiness could a woman—a woman no longer young, not in very good health, an idealist, a minor poet—what could she desire more?

There came, however, a time when the claims of the Towers could no longer be ignored. Tom came of age, and Lady Car could no longer combat the necessity of going back to hold the necessary festivities and put him in possession of his lands and his home. Tom had come altogether to blows with his college and all its functionaries by this time, and had been requested to remove himself from the University in a somewhat hasty manner, which he declared loudly was very good fun, but did not perhaps in his secret heart enjoy the joke of so much as he made appear—for he had a great deal of that Scotch pride which cannot bear to fail, even when he had done everything to bring the catastrophe about. He had not met with many reproaches at home, for Lady Car was so convinced of the great futility of anything she could say that, save for the ‘Oh, Tom!’ with which he was received, and the tear which made her eyes more lucid than usual, she made no demonstration at all of her distress. Beaufort looked very grave, but took little notice. ‘It was evident that this must have come sooner or later,’ he said coldly, with a tone in which Tom read contempt.

‘Why did you send me then,’ the young man cried, reddening sullenly, ‘if you knew that this was what must come?’

‘I suppose your mother sent you—because it is considered necessary for a gentleman,’ Beaufort said.

‘And I suppose you mean I’m not one,’ cried Tom.

‘I never said so,’ his stepfather answered coldly. Janet seized upon her brother’s arm and drew him away.

‘Oh, what is the good of quarrelling with Beau? Did you expect nobody was to say a word?’ cried Janet.

‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘they can’t prevent me coming of age next year, whatever they do: and then I should like to know, who will have any right to say a word?’

‘Mother will always have a right to say whatever she pleases, Tom.’

‘Oh, mother!’ he said. Janet shook him by the arm she held. She cried passionately—

‘I wouldn’t if it had been me. I shouldn’t have let anyone say that what was needed for a gentleman was too much for me. Oh, I would have died sooner!’ Janet said.

He shook her off with a muttered oath. ‘Much you know about gentlemen—or ladies either. I know something of you that if I were to tell mother——’

‘What?’ Janet cried, almost with a shriek.

‘Oh, I know—and if you don’t sing very small I’ll tell; but, mind, I’ll not say Oh Den! like mother. I’ll turn you out of house and home if you carry on with any fellow when you’re with me.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Janet: but her conscience was too much for her. She could not maintain a bold front. The recollection came burning to her cheeks, and brought a hot flood of tears to her eyes. ‘I only rode the pony. I meant no harm. I didn’t know it was wrong. Oh Tom! Tom, don’t tell mother,’ she cried.

‘You had better behave, then,’ said Tom, ‘and don’t think you can crow over me. I’ve done nothing at all. It’s only those old saps that cannot bear to see a young fellow having his fun.’

It was certainly a great contrast to the humiliated condition in which he came home to think of all the immense preparations that were making to do the young scapegrace honour. Very far from pointing a moral to young men of Tom’s tastes was his triumphant coming of age after the academical disgrace. No disgrace, however, can hinder a young man from attaining his twenty-first birthday, nor change the universal custom which makes that moment a period of congratulation and celebration, as if it were by any virtue of his that the boy became a man. It occurred to some of the family counsellors who had to be summoned for the great occasion that, considering his past behaviour, Tom’s majority should be passed over with as little merry-making as possible. But Beaufort once more was the young fellow’s champion. He was not the sort of man to take lightly the stigma of the University, and therefore he was listened to with all the more attention. ‘I must repeat again,’ he said, ‘that there is nothing in all this to prevent Tom from doing well enough in his natural position. It might be ruin to some boys, but not to him. I never expected him to do anything at Oxford, and I am not surprised at what has happened. But everybody is not thinking of this as we are. A great many people will never have heard of it, nor would they attach any importance to it if they did hear. I have told you before, Carry, that the best of women are unjust to boys. It is very natural that it should be so. Even now, however, there is nothing to prevent Tom from doing very well.’

‘The thing is that he seems to be getting a reward for his foolishness, instead of any punishment,’ said Edith Erskine, who was, as she thought, upholding her sister’s view. As for Carry herself, she had said nothing. To discuss her boy’s follies was more than she was capable of. She could not silence the others who spoke, but she only looked at them, she could not speak.

‘He has been foolish at Oxford, and the authorities there have punished him; but we have no right to put back the clock in his life, and keep him out of his rights for anything he has done. I am sure that is what his mother thinks——’

‘His mother has always been too indulgent, and this is what has come of it,’ said old Lord Lindores, shaking his head. He would have sent Tom off to Africa or somewhere with an unfortunate if highly paid bear-leader from the University to keep him in order, if Tom would have submitted on the verge of his lawful freedom to any such bondage; but this his grandfather did not take into account. He shook his head over Carry’s indulgence, and did not at all understand the look which she turned upon him and in which there were unspeakable things. ‘You may be angry if you please, my dear, but I must tell you my opinion. The boy has been spoilt all along. He is not of a nature to stand it; he wanted a vigorous hand over him. You should have remembered the stock of which he came.’

Lady Car looked at her father with a light in her mild eyes such as no one could remember to have seen there before. ‘Why was my boy of that stock?’ she said, in a voice which was very low, but full of a passion that could not be restrained. Her mother and sister started with one impulse to stop further utterance. ‘Carry!’ they cried.

‘What? What did she say?’ cried Lord Lindores; but neither Carry nor any of the others repeated what she had said.

After this strange little scene there was, however, no more said about Tom’s coming of age, which they could not have kept back if they would. But all kinds of preparations were made to make the celebration worthy, if not of Tom, yet of the position which he ought to take in the county so far as wealth went. His long minority, and the scrupulous care with which both his estate and his money had been managed, made Tom one of the richest commoners in Scotland, the very richest perhaps whose income came from property alone, and not from trade; and though the county did not recollect his father with very particular regard, nor anticipate very much from himself—for everybody knew those unsatisfactory points in Tom’s history which it was hoped had attracted no observation—yet Lady Car had gained all respect, and for her sake, and perhaps a little for their own amusement, the neighbours threw themselves readily into all the details of the feastings, and drank his health, and wished him joy, with every appearance of friendliness and sincerity. And there were many ladies heard to declare that a good wife would just be the making of the young man. Perhaps this sentiment as much as respect for Lady Car made the county people warm in their sympathy. There were a great many young ladies in the county; it might very well happen that one of these was destined by Providence to be the making of the second Tom Torrance of the Towers. And the parents who thought, with a softened consideration of all the circumstances that had been against him, that a daughter of theirs might perhaps have that mission to fulfil, had certainly much less to tolerate and forgive than Lord Lindores had when he married his daughter to Tom’s father. Therefore everybody accepted the invitations that were sent out, and for a week the house blazed with light and rang with festive sounds, and life stirred and quickened throughout the entire neighbourhood. The long interregnum was over, and Tom had come into his kingdom.

Happily an event of this kind exercises a certain influence on all minds. Perhaps Lady Car allowed herself to be moved by her husband’s optimism, and was able with him to believe that Tom might do very well notwithstanding his youthful indiscretions; perhaps it was only that mild and indulgent despair which had taken possession of her inmost soul, and which made it evident that nothing that could be done by her would affect her boy, and that all she was now good for was to tolerate and forgive; but at least she presided over all the rejoicings with apparent pleasure, sparing no fatigue, thinking of everything, resuming to a wonderful extent the more active habits of former years. And Beaufort played to perfection the rÔle of the pÈre noble, the dignified disinterested paternal guardian giving his support and countenance to the novice without ever interfering with his pretensions as the real master of the house. Indeed Beaufort, with his fastidious superiority, had much greater influence over Tom than his mother had, and overawed him as no one else was capable of doing; so that everything went well during this great era, and the young Laird appeared to the best advantage, making those parents of daughters say to each other that really there was nothing that May or Beatrice need object to. Such birds of prey as hung about the horizon even in these moral regions perhaps sharpened their beaks—but that was out of sight. And the only one of the party who did not wear a guise of happiness was Janet, about whom there hung a nervous haze of suppressed feeling altogether alien to her character and which no one could fathom. Perhaps it would have been more comprehensible had anyone heard the occasional word which now and then dropped from Tom, and which he repeated with a mischievous boy’s pleasure in the trouble he could create. ‘Are you going on the pony to-day?’ he would ask in Lady Car’s presence, with a significant look and laugh. ‘Are you off for the East road?’ No one but Janet knew what he meant. He threw these stones at her, out of the very height of his own triumph. And Janet dared scarcely go out, even in the protection of her mother’s company, lest she should see Charlie Blackmore turning reproachful eyes upon her. He did pass the carriage on one occasion and took off his hat, but the salutation was so universal that no one noted who the individual was: and Janet alone saw the look. Yet even for Janet nothing disagreeable happened during these eight days.