The profoundest of the many wounds inflicted upon Lord Lindores, at this terrible period of his life, was that which he thus received at the hands of Rintoul: it was so altogether unexpected, so unlike anything that he had imagined of his son, so sudden, that it took away his breath. For the first moment he could not speak in the bitterness of his disappointment and outraged expectations. Rintoul had always been the strictly reasonable member of his family,—he had never given in to any sentimental nonsense. His reasoning had all been upon substantial data, and led to distinct conclusions. He had not looked at things in any visionary way, but as they were contemplated by the world in general. From the point of view of personal advantage and family progress, nothing could have been more judicious or sound than his opinions in respect to Carry and Edith. He had supported the Tinto marriage (which had on the whole turned out so well, better than could have been hoped—the man, the only objectionable feature in it, being now dead and out of the way, and all the substantial advantages secured) quietly but firmly. He had been very earnest about Millefleurs. It was no fault of his if that arrangement had proved unsuccessful. In all these concerns, Lord Lindores had found his son his right hand, supporting him steadily. He could not help reminding him of this now, after the first outburst of his wrath and mortification. "You," he said at length, "Rintoul! I have been prepared for folly on the part of your sisters, but I have always felt I had a tower of strength in you."

"There is no difference in me," said Rintoul,—"I should be just as ready to back you up about the girls as ever I was; but if you will recollect, I never said a word about myself. I consider it as our duty to look after the girls. For one thing, they are not so well qualified to judge for themselves. They see things all from one side. They don't know the world. I wouldn't let them sacrifice their prospects to a bit of silly sentiment; but I never said a word about myself. That's different. A man has a right to please himself as to who he's going to marry, if he marries at all. Most fellows don't marry at all—at least it's usual to say so; I don't know that it's true. If you'll remember, when you spoke to me of Lady Reseda, I never said anything one way or another. I have never committed myself. It has always been my determination in this respect to take my own way."

Lord Lindores was subdued by this calm speech. He was almost cowed by it. It was very different from Carry's tears, and even from Edith's impassioned defiance. Rintoul knew perfectly well what he was about. There was no excitement to speak of in his steady confidence in his own power. And his father knew very well that there was nothing to be done. A family scandal might indeed be made: a breach in their relations,—a quarrel which would amuse the world. He might withdraw Rintoul's allowance, or refuse to increase it, but this, though vexatious, was not in any way final; for the estates were all strictly entailed, and his heir would have little difficulty in procuring what money he needed. It was like fighting against a rock to struggle with Rintoul. When their father worked himself up into a rage, and launched sharp phrases at the girls, bitter cuts and slashes of satire and fierce denunciations, these weapons cut into their tender flesh like knives, and they writhed upon the point of the paternal spear. But Rintoul did not care. A certain amount of vituperation was inevitable, he knew, and he did not mind it. His father might "slang" him as much as he pleased; fierce words break no bones, and he knew exactly how far it could go. Lord Lindores also knew this, and it had the most curious composing and subduing effect upon him. What is the use of being angry, when the object of your anger does not care for it? There is no such conqueror of passion. If nobody cared, the hastiest temper would learn to amend itself. Lord Lindores was aware that Rintoul would hear him out to the end,—that he would never, so to speak, turn a hair,—that he would reply with perfect coolness, and remain entirely unmoved. It would be like kicking against a blank wall,—a child's foolish instinctive paroxysm of passion. Therefore he was not violent with Rintoul, nor sharply satirical, except by moments. He did not appeal to his feelings, nor stand upon his own authority. If indeed he could not keep his exasperation out of his voice, nor conceal his annoyance, he did this only because he could not help it, not with any idea of influencing Rintoul. But it was indeed a very serious blow which he had received,—the most telling of all.

"After this," he said, "why should I go on struggling? What advantage will it be to me to change Lindores into a British peerage? I could not enjoy it long in the course of nature, nor could I afford to enjoy it. And as for my son, he will have enough to do to get bread and butter for his numerous family. A season in town, and a seat in the House of Lords, will after this be perfectly out of the question."

"I suppose it's just as likely as not that the House of Lords will be abolished before my time," said Rintoul calmly,—"at least they say so."

"They say d——d nonsense, sir," cried the earl, touched at his tenderest point. "The House of Lords will outlive you and half a hundred like you. They don't know Englishmen who say so. I had hoped to see my family advancing in power and influence. Here was poor Torrance's death, for instance, coming in providentially to make up for Edith's folly about Millefleurs." Here Lord Lindores made a little pause and looked at his son. He had, beyond expectation, made, he thought, an impression upon him. "Ah," he said, "I see, you forgot the Tinto influence. You thought it was all up with my claims when Millefleurs slipped through our fingers. On the contrary, I never felt so like attaining my point as now."

"That is not what I was thinking, father," said Rintoul in a slightly broken voice. He had risen from his chair and walked to the window, and stood there, keeping his face averted as he spoke. "I cannot tell you," he said more earnestly, "the effect it has upon me when you speak of getting an advantage from—what has happened. Somehow it makes my blood run cold. I'd rather lose everything I have than profit by that—accident. I can't bear the idea. Besides," he added, recovering himself, "I wouldn't build so upon it if I were you. It's all in Carry's hand, and Carry will like to have things her own way."

"This exhibition of sentiment in respect to Pat Torrance takes me altogether by surprise," said Lord Lindores. "I was not aware you had any such friendship for him. And as to Carry. Pooh! Carry has not got a way of her own."

This subject, though it was so painful to Rintoul, brought the conversation to an easier level. But when the young man had left him, Lord Lindores remained for a long time silent, with his head in his hands, and a bitterness of disappointment pervading his mind, which, if it had not a very exalted cause, was still as keen as any tragedy could require. He had let things go much as they would before he came to his kingdom; but when Providence, with that strange sweep of all that stood before him, had cleared his way to greatness, he had sworn to himself that his children should all be made instrumental in bringing the old house out of its humble estate—that they should every one add a new honour to Lindores. Now he said to himself bitterly that it would have been as well if his brothers had lived,—if he had never known the thorns that stud a coronet. What had the family gained? His son would have been quite good enough for Nora Barrington if he had never been more than Robin Lindores; and John Erskine would have been no great match for his daughter, even in the old times. It would have been as well for them if no change had come upon the fortunes of the family,—if all had remained as when they were born. When he thought of it, there was a moment when he could have gnashed his teeth with rage and mortification. To have sworn like a trooper or wept like a woman, would have been some relief to his feelings; or even to clench his hands and his teeth, and stamp about the floor like a baffled villain on the stage. But he did not dare to relieve himself by any of these safety-valves of nature. He was too much afraid of himself to be melodramatic or hysterical. He sat and gnawed his nails, and devoured his own heart. His house seemed to be tumbling about his ears like a house of cards. Why should he take any further trouble about it? Neither money nor importance, nothing but love, save the mark! idiocy—the passing fancy of boys and girls. Probably they would all hate each other in a year or two, and then they would understand what their folly had done for them. He thought of this with a vindictive pleasure; but even of that indifferent satisfaction he could not be sure.

Meanwhile there was, as may easily be supposed, the greatest excitement in the house. Rintoul told his mother and sister, and was half angered by their sympathy. Edith, who was herself in great agitation, received the intimation with delight; but this delight was quite distasteful to her brother, who stopped her by a wrathful request to her not to think this was a nonsensical affair like her own. "I know what I'm about; but as for you, it is just a piece of idiocy," he said: at which poor Edith, aghast, retired into herself, wounded beyond description by this rejection of her sympathy. Having thus snubbed his sister, he defied the alarmed surprise and tempered disapprobation with which his mother heard his story. "I know that you were never a very great friend to Nora," he said. "I suppose when another girl cuts out your own, you can't be expected to be quite just. But my father and I understand each other," said Rintoul. He went out after having thus mowed down the ranks on either side of him, in a not uncomfortable frame of mind, carrying with him, in order to post it with his own hand, the letter to Colonel Barrington, which he had informed his father had been written on the previous day. And this was quite true; but having written it, Rintoul had carefully reserved it till after his interview with his father. Had Lord Lindores been very violent, probably Colonel Barrington would not have had his letter; not that Rintoul would have given Nora up, but that he had, like most wise men, a strong faith in postponement. Wait a little and things will come right, was one of the chief articles of his creed; but as Lord Lindores—kept down by the certainty that there was very little to be made of Rintoul except by giving him his own way—had not been violent, the letter went without delay.

Thus, as it sometimes happens, the worst of the family misfortunes was the one that was condoned most easily; for certainly, in the matrimonial way, Rintoul's failure was the worst. Daughters come and daughters go—sometimes they add to the family prestige, sometimes they do the reverse; but at all events, they go, and add themselves to other families, and cease to be of primary importance as concerns their own. But the eldest son, the heir, is in a very different position. If he does nothing to enrich the race, or add honour to it, the family stock itself must suffer. Nora Barrington would bring some beauty with her to Lindores; but not even beauty of an out-of-the-way kind—honest, innocent, straightforward, simple beauty, but no more,—and no connections to speak of; her uncle, the head of her family, being no more than a Devonshire M.P. This was very sad to think of. Rintoul, in his matter of fact way, felt it as much as any one. There were moments even when he seemed to himself to have been unfairly dealt with by Providence. He had not gone out of his way to seek this girl,—she had been put down before him; and it was hard that it should have so happened that one so little eligible should have been the one to catch his heart. But to do him justice, his heart being caught, he made no material resistance. He was entirely steadfast and faithful to his own happiness, which was involved. But it did not occur to him as it might have done to a feebler mind, that he was in any way disabled from opposing the unambitious match of his sister in consequence of the similar character of his own. He held to his formula with all the solidity of judgment which he had always shown. When his mother pointed out to him his inconsistency, he refused to see any inconsistency in it. "I never would, and never did, say anything as to myself. I never meant to give up my own freedom. The girls—that's quite different. It was your duty and my duty to do the best we could for the girls. I say now, a stop should be put to Edith. Erskine's a gentleman, but that's all you can say. She will never be anybody if she marries him; whereas, if she had not been a fool, what a far better thing for her to have had Millefleurs. I should put a stop to it without thinking twice; and I can't imagine what my father means not to do it." This was Rintoul's opinion upon his sister's affairs.

"And supposing Colonel Barrington had been of the same opinion in respect to Nora?" Lady Lindores said.

"In respect to Nora? I consider," said Rintoul, "that Nora is doing very well for herself. We are not rich, but the title always counts. A fellow can't shut his eyes. I know very well that there are a good many places where I—shouldn't have been turned away: though you don't think very much of me, mother. Colonel Barrington is not a fool; he knows Nora couldn't have been expected to do better. You see cleverness is not everything, mamma."

"I think you are very clever, Robin," his mother said, with a smile and a sigh—a sigh of wonder that her son (always such a mystery to a woman) should feel and talk and think so unlike herself; a smile that he should be so much justified in doing so, so successful in it. Both the smile and the sigh were full of wonder and of pain. But she was comforted to think that Rintoul at least was capable of something heavenly—of true love and disinterested affection. That was something, that was much, in the dearth of fame.

Thus Rintoul's marriage was consented to, while Edith's was first peremptorily denied, then grudgingly entertained, and made the subject of delays and procrastinations enough to have wearied out any pair of lovers. But they had various consolations and helps to support them, the chief of which was that they lived so near each other, and were able to meet often, and talk over in infinite detail every step that was taken, and all the objections seen by others, and all the exquisite reasons in favour of their love which were known to themselves. And Lady Lindores was from the first upon their side, though she respected her husband's unwillingness to bestow his daughter so humbly. Carry was to her mother a standing admonition against any further weakness on this point. In every word and step by which the young widow showed her thankfulness for her deliverance, she struck with horror the fine sense of fitness and reverence which was in her mother's mind. Lady Lindores had not been false in the sentiments of pity and remorseful regret with which she had heard of the death of Torrance. There are some souls which are so finely poised that they cannot but answer to every natural claim, even when against themselves. Had she been Torrance's wife, all the privileges of freedom would not have emancipated her from that compassion for the man struck down in the midst of his life, which took almost the shape of tenderness and sorrow. And when Carry exulted, it gave her mother a pang with which her whole being shivered. God forbid that she should ever be instrumental in placing another creature in such a position as Carry's! She stood very gently but very firmly against her husband on Edith's behalf. She would not consent to interfere with the love and choice of her child.

Carry adopted her sister's cause with a still warmer devotion. She promised her support, her help in every possible manner, would have sanctioned an instant rebellious marriage, and settled half of her own large jointure upon Edith to justify the step, if she could have had her own way, and would scarcely listen to the suggestions of prudence. This nervous partisanship was not of any great advantage to the lovers, but still it gave them the consolation of sympathy. And by-and-by the whole county became aware of the struggle, and took sides with the warmest feeling. Old Sir James Montgomery, as everybody knows, had entertained other views; but when he heard of Nora's promotion, and of the position of affairs in general, his kind old heart was greatly moved. He went off instantly to talk over the matter with Miss Barbara Erskine at Dunearn, from whose house Nora had just departed. "To think that this should have been going on all the time, and you and me never the wiser," the old General said,—"the little cutty! But no doubt they were left in great tribulation as to what my lord the Earl's majesty would say."

"Young persons have a great notion of themselves nowadays," said Miss Barbara; "they will not hear of advice from the like of you or me. Yet I think Nora might have said a word to an old friend. I am getting blind and doited. I never suspected anything. What my heart was set on was to get her for my nephew John."

"Just that," said Sir James, nodding his head; "that was my own idea. But you see John, he has chosen for himself—and a bonnie creature too, if she is as good as she is bonny."

"I am not very fond of the family. What are they but strangers? My heart is most warm to them that I know," said Miss Barbara. But this was a very mild statement, and uttered with little vehemence, for Miss Barbara was not insensible to the pleasure of having an earl's daughter in the family. "There is no doubt about the beauty," she added, "and there's a great deal of good in her, from all I hear."

"With those eyes ye may be sure there's no harm," said Sir James, growing enthusiastic. "And I like the lad that had the sense to see what was in my little Nora. She'll make a bonny countess, and I wish she was here that I might give her a kiss and tell her so. But this Lady Edith is a bonny creature too; and as for Lord Lindores himself, he's no stranger, you know—he's just little Robby Lindores that both you and me mind. The one that has raised a prejudice, I make no doubt, is just that foreign wife of his——"

"She is not foreign that ever I heard——"

"Well, well—maybe not according to the letter; but she has foreign ways, and without doubt it is her influence that has kept the family from settling down as we had a right to expect. My Lady Rintoul will set that right again. Bless me, who would have thought that little Nora——But we must let by-gones be by-gones, Miss Barbara. We must just stand up for the young couple, and defeat the machinations of the foreign wife."

Sir James laughed at this fine sentence of his; but yet he meant it. And even Miss Barbara agreed that this stranger woman was no doubt at the bottom of the mischief. When Sir James departed, the old lady felt herself nerved to a great exertion. By this time it was winter, and she went out but seldom, the pony-chaise being a cold conveyance. But that night she electrified her household by ordering the "carriage"—the old carriage, never produced but on occasions of great solemnity—for the next day. "Where will ye be going?" Janet asked, open-mouthed, after she had got over the shock of the announcement. But her mistress did not condescend to give her any answer. It was through Agnes, at a later hour, that information descended upon the household. "Sae far as I can make out, she is just going to Lindores to settle a' about thae two marriages," Agnes said in great excitement. "What two marriages? Ye think of nothing but marriages," said Janet. But nevertheless that excellent person was as much excited as any one when the huge vehicle drew up at the door next morning, and stood out in the rain to hear the orders which were given to the coachman. Agnes, seated within in attendance on her mistress, gave her a little nod with her eyelids, as much as to say, Who's in the right now? "To Lindores." "Bless me!" said Janet, "single women are aye so keen on that subject. They would ken better if they had ever had a man o' their ain."

And indeed Miss Barbara's magnificent intention was to make a proposal to Lord Lindores, which must, she could not doubt, make everything smooth. Lord Lindores was a gentleman, and took pains not to show the old lady, to whom the credit of the house of Dalrulzian was so dear, that he did not think the Erskines good enough to mate with his family: which was also a laudable exercise of discretion; for Miss Barbara was very strong in dates, and knew when the earldom of Lindores was founded, and who was the first of the family, as well as the exact period when the Erskines were settled at Dalrulzian. Lord Lindores forbore, partly out of good feeling, partly from alarm, and partly because Miss Barbara's offer was not one to be refused. If it should so happen that he might be compelled to give in, then the settlement upon Edith of Miss Barbara's fortune would make a very distinct difference in the case. He did not intend to give in, but still——The proposal was received with great politeness at least. "There are many things to be taken into consideration," he said. "I had other plans——You will excuse me if I cannot give up my intentions in a moment, because two young people have chosen to fall in love with each other——" "It is what we all have to do, my lord," said Miss Barbara, who was old-fashioned, and gave every man his title. "It is the only thing, in my experience, that it is useless to fight against." Then Lord Lindores made her a fine bow, and declared that this was a most appropriate sentiment from a lady's lips; but a man must be excused if he took a graver view. There was a sharp accent in his voice which not all his politeness could quite disguise. "For my part," Miss Barbara said, "I have just had to swallow my own disappointment, and think nothing of it; for what I had set my heart upon was to wed my nephew John to Nora Barrington, that now it appears, in the arrangements of Providence, is to be your lordship's daughter-in-law, my Lady Rintoul." Lord Lindores jumped up at this as if a knife had been put into him. He could scarcely trust himself to speak. "I can't allow it to be an arrangement of Providence," he cried bitterly, but recovered himself, and forced a smile upon his angry countenance, and assured Miss Barbara that her proposal was most generous. He gave her his arm to the drawing-room, in which Lady Lindores and Edith were sitting, and withdrew, with his face drawn into a certain wolfish expression which his wife was aware meant mischief, but without betraying himself in speech. When he got back to his library, he launched a private anathema at the "old witch" who had taken it upon herself to interfere. But nevertheless, in Lord Lindores' mind there arose the conviction that though he never would consent, yet if he did——why, that Miss Barbara and her proposal were worth making a note of: and he did so accordingly. Miss Barbara, on her part, left the Castle half affronted, half mollified. She was angry that her proposal did not settle everything in a moment; but she was touched by the sweetness of Edith, and a little moved out of her prejudices in respect to Lady Lindores. "She has no foreign accent," she said suddenly, in the midst of the drive, to the astonishment of Agnes—"no more than any of us. And she has none of that sneering way,—my lord yonder, he just cannot contain himself for spite and illwill—but I cannot see it in her. No doubt she's one of them that is everybody's body, and puts on a fine show—but nothing from the heart."

Some time after this another incident, which had no small bearing upon the story of one of these young pairs, occurred at Dalrulzian. Rintoul had never concealed his opposition, but neither had it ever become a subject of personal conflict between John Erskine and himself. He had gone away after his own explanation, for time did not stand still while these events were going on, and even a Guardsman has periods of duty. Shortly after he returned to Lindores, some question about the boundaries of the estates made it expedient that there should be formal communications between the two houses. Rintoul undertook to be the messenger. He had been with his regiment for the last two months, and he had not inquired into local events. He was, therefore, not in the least prepared for the sight that encountered him when he knocked at John Erskine's door. It was opened to him by Rolls, in all the glory of shining "blacks" and snowy neckcloth, as composed, as authoritative, as fully in command of himself and everything about him, as he had ever been. Rintoul, though he was a lord and a soldier and a fine fellow, gave a jump backwards, which scattered the gravel on the path. "Good lord, Rolls!" he cried. It was not an agreeable surprise. He had done his best to forget Rolls, and he had succeeded. To have so many painful associations thus recalled was unpleasant; and the sight of him, so suddenly, without warning, an undeniable shock.

"Ay, my lord, it's just Rolls," said the butler, barring, as it were, his entrance. Rolls regarded the young man with a stern air; and even when Rintoul, recovering himself, began to express pleasure at his return, and great interest in hearing how it was, the face of Rolls remained unmoved. He changed his mind, however, about barring the entrance, and slowly showed Rintoul into the vacant dining-room, which he entered after him, shutting the door.

"I'll easy tell your lordship how I got out," he said; "but there's mair pressing matter in hand. They tell me, my lord, that ye will not yield to have my maister, John Erskine of Dalrulzian, for Lady Edith's man. I would like to hear if that's true."

"It's a curious sort of question to ask," said Rintoul. "I might ask what's that to you, Rolls?"

"Ay, so ye might—it would be just like you, my lord; but I do not think it would be politic in all the circumstances. What for are you opposing it? Ye're to marry Miss Nora, and get your ain will and pleasure. I wish her much joy, poor thing, and strength of mind to bear a' that's before her. What is your lordship's objection to my maister, if I may make so bold as to ask?"

"You are not very complimentary," said Rintoul, growing red.

"No, I'm no' complimentary, my lord; it's no' my line. Will you tell me what's set you against this marriage? for that is what I would like to ken."

Rintoul tried to laugh, though it would have pleased him better to knock his monitor down. "You must see, Rolls, that a thing like this is my own concern," he said.

"It's my concern as well," said Rolls. "There's mair between you and me, my lord, than I'm wanting to tell; but if I was in your lordship's place, I would not rin counter to them that has proved themselves your best friend——"

"Rolls! what are you doing here?" cried John Erskine, with amazement, suddenly opening the door.

The countenance of Rolls was quite impassive. "I was giving my Lord Rintoul an account of my marvellous deliverance out o' my prison, sir," he said, "and how it was thought I had suffered enough in my long wait for the trial. And that was true. Much have I suffered, and many a thought has gone through my head. I'm real ripened in my judgment, and awfu' well acquaint with points o' law. But I hope I may never have anything more ado with such subjects—if it be not upon very urgent occasion," Rolls said. And he withdrew with a solemn bow to Rintoul, in his usual methodical and important way.

Rintoul had come to see John Erskine upon a matter of business; but they had never ceased to be friends—as good friends, that is, as they ever had been. And the similarity of their situation no doubt awakened new sympathies in their minds. At least, whatever was the cause, this meeting did much to draw them together. It was now that Rintoul showed to John the real good feeling that was in him. "I have not been on your side, I confess," he said. "I have thought Edith might do better. I don't hide it from you. But you need not fear that I will stand in your way. I'm in the same box myself. My lord likes my affair just as little as he likes yours. But of course if she sticks fast to you, as she'll certainly do, what can he make of it? Everything must come right in the end."