"Dear Mr Erskine,—I do not know what words to use to tell you how pained and distressed we are—I speak for my mother as well as myself—to find that nothing has been done to relieve you from the consequence of such a ridiculous as well as unhappy mistake. We found my brother Robin as anxious as we were, or more so, if that were possible, to set matters right at once; but unfortunately on the day after, the funeral took up all thoughts: and what other obstacles intervened next day I cannot rightly tell, but something or other—I am too impatient and pained to inquire what—came in the way; and they tell me now that to-morrow is the day of the examination, and that it is of no use now to forestall justice, which will certainly set you free to-morrow. Oh, dear Mr Erskine, I cannot tell you how sick and sore my heart is to think that you have been in confinement (it seems too dreadful, too ludicrous, to be true), in confinement all these long days. I feel too angry, too miserable, to think of it. I have been crying, as if that would do you any good, and rushing up and down abusing everybody. I think that in his heart Robin feels it more than any of us: he feels the injustice, the foolishness; but still he has been to blame, and I don't know how to excuse him. We have not dared to tell poor Carry—though, indeed, I need not attempt to conceal from you, who have seen so much, that poor Carry, though she is dreadfully excited and upset, is not miserable, as you would expect a woman to be in her circumstances. Could it be expected? But I don't know what she might do if she heard what has happened to you. She might take some step of her own accord, and that would be not prudent, I suppose; so we don't tell her. Oh, Mr Erskine, did you ever think how miserable women are? I never realised it till now. Here am I, and, still more, here is my mother. She is not a child, or an incapable person, I hope! yet she can do nothing—nothing to free you. She is as helpless as if she were a baby. It seems to me ridiculous that Robin's opinion should be worth taking, and mine not; but that is quite a different matter. My mother can do nothing but persuade and plead with a boy like Robin, to do that which she herself, at her age, wise as she is, good as she is, cannot do. As you are a man, you may think this of no importance; and mamma says it is nature, and cannot be resisted, and smiles. But if you suppose she does not feel it!—if she could have been your bail, or whatever it is, you may be sure you would not have been a single night in that place! but all that we can do is to go down on our knees to the men who have it in their power, and I, unfortunately, have not been brought up to go down on my knees. Forgive me for this outburst. I am so miserable to think where you are, and why, and that I—I mean we—can do nothing. What can I say to you? Dear Mr Erskine, our thoughts are with you constantly. My mother sends you her love.

"Edith."

Edith felt perhaps that this was not a very prudent letter. She was not thinking of prudence, but of relieving her own mind and comforting John Erskine, oppressed and suffering. And besides, she was herself in a condition of great excitement and agitation. She had been brought back from Tinto, she and her mother, with a purpose. Perhaps it was not said to her in so many words; but it was certainly conveyed to the minds of the female members of the family generally that Millefleurs was at the end of his patience, and his suit must have an answer once for all. Carry had been told of the proposal by her mother, and had pledged herself to say nothing against it. And she had kept her promise, though with difficulty, reserving to herself the power to act afterwards if Edith should be driven to consent against her will. "Another of us shall not do it," Carry said; "oh, not if I can help it!" "I do not believe that Edith will do it," said Lady Lindores; "but let us not interfere—let us not interfere!" Carry, therefore, closed her mouth resolutely; but as she kissed her sister, she could not help whispering in her ear, "Remember that I will always stand by you—always, whatever happens!" This was at Lindores, where Carry, pining to see once more the face of the outer world since it had so changed to her, drove her mother and sister in the afternoon, returning home alone with results which were not without importance in her life. But in the meantime it is Edith with whom we have to do. She reached home with the sense of having a certain ordeal before her—something which she had to pass through, not without pain—which would bring her into direct antagonism with her father, and convulse the household altogether. Even the idea that she must more or less vex Millefleurs distressed and excited her; for indeed she was quite willing to admit that she was "very fond of" Millefleurs, though it was ridiculous to think of him in any other capacity than that of a brotherly friend. And it was at this moment she made the discovery that, notwithstanding the promises of Rintoul and Millefleurs, nothing had been done for John. The consequence was, that the letter which we have just quoted was at once an expression of sympathy, very warm, and indeed impassioned—more than sympathy, indignation, wrath, sentiments which were nothing less than violent—and a way of easing her own excited mind which nothing else could have furnished. "I am going to write to John Erskine," she said, with the boldness produced by so great a crisis; and Lady Lindores had not interfered. She said, "Give him my love," and that was all. No claim of superior prudence, or even wisdom, has been made for Lady Lindores. She had to do the best she could among all these imperfections. Perhaps she thought that, having expressed all her angry glowing heart to John, in the outflowing of impassioned sympathy, the girl would be more likely, in the reaction and fear lest she had gone too far, to be kind to Millefleurs; for who can gauge the ebbings and flowings of these young fantastic souls? And as for Lady Lindores's private sentiments, she would not have forced her daughter a hairbreadth; and she had a good deal of pain to reconcile herself to Millefleurs's somewhat absurd figure as the husband of Edith. But yet, when all is said, to give your child the chance of being a duchess, who would not sacrifice a little? If only Edith could make up her mind to it! Lady Lindores went no further. Nevertheless, when the important moment approached, she could not help, like Carry, breathing a word in her child's ear, "Remember, there is no better heart in existence," she said. "A woman could not have a better man." Edith, in her excitement, grasped her mother's arms with her two hands; but all the answer she gave was a little nervous laugh. She had no voice to reply.

"You will remember, Millefleurs, that my daughter is very young—and—and shy," said Lord Lindores, on the other side. He was devoured by a desire to say, "If she refuses you, never mind—I will make her give in;" which indeed was what he had said in a kind of paraphrase to Torrance. But Millefleurs was not the sort of person to whom this could be said. He drew himself up a little, and puffed out his fine chest, when his future father-in-law (as they hoped) made this remark. If Edith was not as willing to have him as he was to have her, she was not for Millefleurs. He almost resented the interference. "I have no doubt that Lady Edith and I will quite understand each other—whichever way it may be," Millefleurs added with a sigh, which suited the situation. As a matter of fact, he thought there could not be very much doubt as to the reply. It was not possible that they could have made him stay only to get a refusal at the end—and Millefleurs was well aware that the girls were very few who could find it in their hearts to refuse a future dukedom: besides, had it not been a friendship at first sight—an immediate liking, if not love? To refuse him now would be strange indeed. It was not until after dinner that the fated moment came. Neither Lord Lindores nor Rintoul came into the drawing-room; and Lady Lindores, having her previous orders, left the field clear almost immediately after the entrance of the little hero. There was nothing accidental about it, as there generally is, or appears to be, about the scene of such events. The great drawing-room, all softly lighted and warm, was never abandoned in this way in the evening. Edith stood before the fire, clasping her hands together nervously, the light falling warm upon her black dress and the gleams of reflection from its jet trimmings. They had begun to talk before Lady Lindores retreated to the background to look for something, as she said; and Millefleurs allowed the subject they were discussing to come to an end before he entered upon anything more important. He concluded his little argument with the greatest propriety, and then he paused and cleared his throat.

"Lady Edith," he said, "you may not have noticed that we are alone." He folded his little hands together, and put out his chest, and made all his curves more remarkable, involuntarily, as he said this. It was his way of opening a new subject, and he was not carried out of his way by excitement as Edith was.

She looked round breathlessly, and said, "Has mamma gone?" with a little gasp—a mixture of agitation and shame. The sense even that she was false in her pretence at surprise—for did she not know what was coming?—agitated her still more.

"Yeth," said Millefleurs, drawing out his lisp into a sort of sigh. "I have asked that I might see you by yourself. You will have thought, perhaps, that for me to stay here when the family was in—affliction, was, to say the least, bad taste, don't you know?"

"No," said Edith, faltering, "I did not think so; I thought——"

"That is exactly so," said Millefleurs, seriously. "It is a great bore, to be sure; but you and I are not like two nobodies. The truth is, I had to speak to your father first: it seemed to be the best thing to do,—and now I have been waiting to have this chance. Lady Edith, I hope you are very well aware that I am—very fond of you, don't you know? I always thought we were fond of one another——"

"You were quite right, Lord Millefleurs," cried Edith, nervously; "you have been so nice—you have been like another brother——"

"Thanks; but it was not quite in that way." Here Millefleurs put out his plump hand and took hers in a soft, loose clasp—a clasp which was affectionate but totally unimpassioned. He patted the hand with his fingers as he held it in an encouraging, friendly way. "That's very pleasant; but it doesn't do, don't you know? People would have said we were, one of us, trifling with the other. I told Lord Lindores that there was not one other girl in the world—that is, in this country—whom I ever could wish to marry but you. He was not displeased, and I have been waiting ever since to ask; don't you think we might marry, Lady Edith? I should like it if you would. I hope I have not been abrupt, or anything of that sort."

"Oh no!—you are always considerate, always kind," cried Edith; "but, dear Lord Millefleurs, listen to me,—I don't think it would do——"

"No?" he said, with rather a blank air, suddenly pausing in the soft pat of encouragement he was giving her upon the hand; but he did not drop the hand, nor did Edith take it from him. She had recovered her breath and her composure; her heart fluttered no more. The usual half laugh with which she was in the habit of talking to him came into her voice.

"No?" said Millefleurs. "But, indeed, I think it would do very nicely. We understand each other very well; we belong to the same milieu" (how pleased Lord Lindores would have been to hear this, and how amazed the Duke!), "and we are fond of each other. We are both young, and you are extremely pretty. Dear Edith—mayn't I call you so?—I think it would do admirably, delightfully!"

"Certainly you may call me so," she said, with a smile; "but on the old footing, not any new one. There is a difference between being fond of any one, and being—in love." Edith said this with a hot, sudden blush; then shaking her head as if to shake that other sentiment off, added, by way of reassuring herself, "don't you know?" with a tremulous laugh. Little Millefleurs's countenance grew more grave. He was not in love with any passion; still he did not like to be refused.

"Excuse me, but I can't laugh," he said, putting down her hand; "it is too serious. I do not see the difference, for my part. I have always thought that falling in love was a rather vulgar way of describing the matter. I think we have all that is wanted for a happy marriage. If you do not love me so much as I love you, there is no great harm in that; it will come in time. I feel sure that I should be a very good husband, and you——"

"Would not be a good wife—oh no, no!" cried Edith, with a little shudder, shrinking from him; then she turned towards him again with sudden compunction. "You must not suppose it is unkindness; but think,—two people who have been like brother—and sister."

"The only time," said Millefleurs, still more seriously, "that I ever stood in this position before, it was the relationship of mother and son that was suggested to me—with equal futility, if you will permit me to say so;—brother and sister means little. So many people think they feel so, till some moment undeceives them. I think I may safely say that my feelings have never—except, perhaps, at the very first—been those of a brother,—any more," he added in a parenthesis, "than they were ever those of a son."

What Edith said in reply was the most curious request ever made perhaps by a girl to the man who had just asked her to marry him. She laid her hand upon his arm, and said softly, "Tell me about her!" in a voice of mild coaxing, just tempered with laughter. Millefleurs shook his head, and relieved his plump bosom with a little sigh.

"Not at this moment, dear Edith. This affair must first be arranged between us. You do not mean to refuse me? Reflect a moment. I spoke to your father more than a week ago. It was the day before the death of poor Mr Torrance. Since then I have waited, hung up, don't you know, like Mahomet's coffin. When such a delay does occur, it is generally understood in one way. When a lady means to say No, it is only just to say it at once—not to permit a man to commit himself, and leave him, don't you know, hanging on."

"Dear Lord Millefleurs——"

"My name is Wilfrid," he said, with a little pathos; "no one ever calls me by it: in this country not even my mother—calls me by my name."

"In America," said Edith, boldly, "you were called so by—the other lady——"

He waved his hand. "By many people," he said; "but never mind. Never by any one here. Call me Wilfrid, and I shall feel happier——"

"I was going to say that if you had spoken to me, I should have told you at once," Edith said. "When you understand me quite, then we shall call each other anything you please. But that cannot be, Lord Millefleurs. Indeed you must understand me. I like you very much. I should be dreadfully sorry if I thought what I am saying would really hurt you—but it will not after the first minute. I think you ought to marry her——"

"Oh, there would be no hindrance there," said Millefleurs; "that was quite unsuitable. I don't suppose it could ever have been. But with you," he said, turning to take her hand again, "dear Edith! everything is as it should be—it pleases your people, and it will delight mine. They will all love you; and for my part, I am almost as fond of dear Lady Lindores as I am of you. Nothing could be more jolly (to use a vulgar word—for I hate slang) than the life we should lead. I should take you over there, don't you know, and show you everything, as far as San Francisco if you like. I know it all. And you would form my opinions, and make me good for something when we came back. Come! let it be settled so," said Millefleurs, laying his other hand on Edith's, and patting it softly. It was the gentlest fraternal affectionate clasp. The hands lay within each other without a thrill in them—the young man kind as any brother, the girl in nowise afraid.

"Do you think," said Edith, with a little solemnity, from which it cost her some trouble to keep out a laugh, "that if I could consent (which I cannot: it is impossible), do you think it would not be a surprise, and perhaps a painful one, to—the other lady—if she heard you were coming to America so?"

Lord Millefleurs raised his eyes for a moment to the ceiling, and he sighed. It was a tribute due to other days and other hopes. "I think not," he said. "She was very disinterested. Indeed she would not hear of it. She said she regarded me as a mother, don't you know? There is something very strange in these things," he added, quickly forgetting (as appeared) his position as lover, and putting Edith's hand unconsciously out of his. "There was not, you would have supposed, any chance of such feelings arising. And in point of fact it was not suitable at all. Still, had she not seen so very clearly what was my duty——"

"I know now," said Edith; "it was the lady who—advised you to come home."

He did not reply directly. "There never was anybody with such a keen eye for duty," he said; "when she found out I hadn't written to my mother, don't you know, that was when she pulled me up. 'Don't speak to me,' she said. She would not hear a word. I was just obliged to pack up. But it was perfectly unsuitable. I never could help acknowledging that."

"Wilfrid," said Edith, half in real, half in fictitious enthusiasm,—for it served her purpose so admirably that it was difficult not to assume a little more than she felt—"how can you stand there and tell me that there was anything unsuitable in a girl who could behave so finely as that. Is it because she had no stupid little title in her family, for example? You have titles enough for half-a-dozen, I hope. Are you not ashamed to speak to one girl of another like that——"

"Thank you," said Millefleurs, softly,—"thank you; you are a darling. All you say is quite true. But she is not—exactly a girl. The fact is—she is older than—my people would have liked. Of course that was a matter of complete indifference to me."

"O—oh! of course," said Edith, faintly: this is a point on which girls are not sympathetic. She was very much taken aback by the intimation. But she recovered her courage, and said with a great deal of interest, "Tell me all about her now."

"Are you quite decided?" he said solemnly. "Edith,—let us pause a little; don't condemn me, don't you know, to disappointment and heartbreak, and all that, without sufficient cause. I feel sure we should be happy together. I for one would be the happiest man——"

"I could not, I could not," she cried, with a sudden little effusion of feeling, quite unintentional. A flush of hot colour ran over her, her eyes filled with tears. She looked at him involuntarily, almost unconscious, with a certain appeal, which she herself only half understood, in her eyes. But Millefleurs understood, not at the half word, as the French say, but at the half thought which he discovered in the delicate transparent soul looking at him through those two involuntary tears. He gazed at her for a moment with a sudden startled enlargement of his own keen little eyes. "To be sure!" he cried. "How was it I never thought of that before?"

Edith felt as if she had made some great confession, some cruel admission, she did not know what. She turned away from him trembling. This half comic interview suddenly turned in a moment to one of intense and overwhelming, almost guilty emotion. What had she owned to? What was it he made so sure of? She could not tell. But now it was that Millefleurs showed the perfect little gentleman he was. The discovery was not entirely agreeable to his amour propre, and wounded his pride a little; but in the meantime the necessary thing was to set Edith at her ease so far as was possible, and make her forget that she had in any way committed herself. What he did was to set a chair for her, with her back to the lamp, so that her countenance need not be revealed for the moment, and to sit down by her side with confidential calmness. "Since you wish it," he said, "and are so kind as to take an interest in her, there is nothing I should like so much as to tell you about my dear Miss Nelly Field. I should like you to be friends."

Would it were possible to describe the silent hush of the house while these two talked in this preposterous manner in the solitude so carefully prepared for them! Lord Lindores sat breathless in his library, listening for every sound, fixing his eyes upon his door, feeling it inconceivable that such a simple matter should take so long a time to accomplish. Lady Lindores in her chamber, still more anxious, foreseeing endless struggles with her husband if Millefleurs persevered, and almost worse, his tragical wrath and displeasure if Millefleurs (as was almost certain) accepted at once Edith's refusal, sat by her fire in the dark, and cried a little, and prayed, almost without knowing what it was that she asked of God. Not, surely, that Edith should sacrifice herself? Oh no; but that all might go well—that there might be peace and content. She did not dictate how that was to be. After a while both father and mother began to raise their heads, to say to themselves that unless he had been well received, Millefleurs would not have remained so long oblivious of the passage of time. This brought a smile upon Lord Lindores's face. It dried his wife's eyes, and made her cease praying. Was it possible? Could Edith, after all, have yielded to the seductions of the dukedom? Her mother felt herself struck to the heart by the thought, as if an arrow had gone into her. Was not she pleased? It would delight her husband, it would secure family peace, it would give Edith such a position, such prospects, as far exceeded the utmost hopes that could have been formed for her. Somehow, however, the first sensation of which Lady Lindores was conscious was a humiliation deep and bitter. Edith too! she said to herself, with a quivering smile upon her lips, a sense of heart-sickness and downfall within her. She had wished it surely—she had felt that to see her child a duchess would be a fine thing, a thing worth making a certain sacrifice for; and Millefleurs had nothing in him to make a woman fear for her daughter's happiness. But women, everybody knows, are inaccessible to reason. It is to be doubted whether Lady Lindores had ever in her life received a blow more keen than when she made up her mind that Edith was going to do the right thing, the prudent wise thing, which would secure family peace to her mother, and the most dazzling future to herself.

When a still longer interval had elapsed, and no one came to tell her of the great decision, which evidently must have been made, Lady Lindores thought it best to go back to the drawing-room, in which she had left Edith and her lover. To think that Edith should have found the love-talk of Millefleurs so delightful after all, as to have forgotten how time passed, and everything but him and his conversation, made her mother smile once more, but not very happily. When she entered the drawing-room she saw the pair at the other end of it, by the fire, seated close together, he bending forward talking eagerly, she leaning towards him, her face full of smiles and interest. They did not draw back, or change their position, as lovers do, till Lady Lindores, much marvelling, came close up to them, when Millefleurs, still talking, jumped up to find a chair for her. "And that was the last time we met," Millefleurs was saying, too much absorbed in his narrative to give it up. "An idea of duty like that, don't you know, leaves nothing to be said."

Lady Lindores sat down, and Millefleurs stood in front of the two ladies, with his back to the fire, as Englishmen love to stand. There was a pause—of extreme bewilderment on the part of the new-comer. Then Millefleurs said, in his round little mellifluous voice, folding his hands,—"I have been telling dear Edith of a very great crisis in my life. She understands me perfectly, dear Lady Lindores. I am very sorry to tell you that she will not marry me; but we are friends for life."