After this first experience of his feeling on the subject, Lady Eskside,
though with a painful effort, wisely resolved to avoid further
embarrassment by letting things fall into their natural course, and
making no effort to thrust his child upon Richard’s notice. The little
fellow, already familiar with the house, and fully reconciled, with a
child’s ease and _insouciance_, to the change in his lot, ran about
everywhere, making the great hall resound with his voice, and beginning
to reign over Harding and the rest of the servants, as the spoiled
darling, the heir of the race, is apt to do, especially in the house of
its grandparents. The only person Val was shy of was his father, who
took little or no notice of him, but after his first introduction
expressed no active feeling towards the child one way or another.
Perhaps, indeed, Richard was slightly ashamed of that uncalled-for
demonstration of his feelings. Valentine was his son, whether he liked
it or not, and must be his heir and representative as well as his
father’s; and though it never occurred to him to contemplate the moment
when he himself should reign in his father’s stead, he felt it wise to
make up his mind that his boy should do so, and to give his parents the
benefit of his own experience as to Val’s education. “You must be
prepared for an ungovernable temper and utter unreasonableness,” he said
to his mother, making a decided and visible effort to open the subject.
“My dear, there is nothing of the kind,” cried Lady Eskside, eagerly;
“the bairn is but a bairn, and thoughtless--but nothing of the kind can
I see----”
“He is seven years old, and he is fooled to the top of his
bent--everybody gives in to him,” said Richard. “Mark my words,
mother,--this is what you will have to strive against. Self-control is
unknown to that development of character. So long as they don’t care
very much for anything, all may go well; but the moment that he takes a
fancy into his head----”
Mary was present at this interview, and it was not in human nature to
refrain from a glance at his mother to see how she received this lofty
delineation of a character which Richard evidently thought entirely
different from his own. Lady Eskside saw the glance, and understood it,
and faltered in her reply.
“Many do that, my dear,” she said, meekly, “that are gentle enough in
appearance. I will remember all the hints you give me. But Val, though
he is very high-spirited, is a good child. I think I shall be able to
manage him.”
“Send him to school,” said Richard--“that is the best way; let him find
his level at school. Send him to Eton, if you like, when he is old
enough, but in the mean time, if my advice is worth anything, put him
under some strict master who will keep him well in hand, at once. My
dear mother, you are too good, you will spoil him. With the blood he has
in his veins he wants a firmer hand.”
“My hand is getting old, no doubt,” said Lady Eskside, with a little
glow of rising colour.
“I do not mean that; you are not old--you will never be old,” said her
son, with that flattery which mothers love. This put the disagreeable
parts of his previous speech out of her mind. She smiled at her boy, and
said, “Nonsense, Richard!” with fond pleasure. To be sure it was
nonsense; but then nonsense is often so much better than the sagest
things which wisdom itself can say.
As for the meeting with Mary Percival, that was got over more easily
than she herself could have expected. There were so many other things in
Richard’s mind that he took her presence there the first evening as a
matter of course; and though that too had its sting, she was so great a
comfort and help to them all in the excitement and embarrassment
involved in the first meeting, that Mary was made into a person of the
first importance--a position which always sheds balm upon the mind of
one who has been, or thinks she has been, slighted. This state of
comfort was somewhat endangered next morning, when Richard thought it
proper to express his sense of her great kindness in coming to meet him.
“It was very good of you,” he said--“like yourself; you were always much
kinder to me than I deserved.” Now this is not a kind of acknowledgment
which sensitive women are generally much delighted to receive, from men
of their own age at least.
“Was I?” said Mary, trying to laugh; “but in this case at least I had no
intention of being kind. I was here before there was any question of
your coming; and I do not know that I should have stayed--for when she
has you, Lady Eskside wants no other companion--but that I was very
anxious to know about Val.”
“I ought to be grateful to Val,” said Richard; “he seems to have
supplanted me with all my friends--even my mother is more interested, a
great deal, in Val’s digestion, than she is in my tastes, nowadays. I
have to fall back upon the consolation of all whose day is over. It was
not always so.”
There was the slightest touch of bitterness in this, which partially
conciliated Mary, though it would be difficult to tell why.
“I suppose that is a consolation,” she said. “I feel it too; but in your
case there is no occasion. They worship the child because he is your
son.”
“Yes, it is a consolation,” said Richard, “so far as anything can
console one for the loss of opportunities, the change of circumstances.
I find it safer to say nothing on such subjects, and to live among
people who know nothing; but now that I am forced to stand here again,
to recollect all that might have been----”
It was a still afternoon, the sun shining with lavish warmth and force,
the grass growing, the leaves opening, so that you could almost see
their silent haste of progress. They were standing on the terrace
outside the windows, looking down over the brown woods all basking in
the sunshine, to Esk, which showed here and there in a wider eddy of
foam round some great boulder which interrupted his course. It was too
early for the twitter of swallows; but some of those hardy birds that
dwell all the year at home were interchanging their genial babble, deep
among the multitudinous branches, and a few daring insects hummed in the
air which was so full of sunshine. Floods of golden crocus had come out
on all the borders. It was not the moment for recollection; but these
words raised a swell and expansion of feeling in Mary’s heart which it
was not safe to indulge. Soft moisture came to her eyes. Happily that
rush of sensation was not strong enough to make her wretched, but it
confused her so much that she could not reply.
“All the same,” said Richard, quickly, “I do not agree with Browning in
his rapture over an English spring. You should see Italy at this season:
everything here is pale, a mere shadow of the radiance yonder. From
Bellosguardo, for instance, looking down upon Florence; you have never
been in Italy, Mary?--a sky to which this is darkness, air all lambent
with light and warmth, such towers, such roofs rising up into it, and
the Val-d’Arno stretching away in delicious distance, like the sea, as
ignorant people say--as if the sea could ever be so full of grace and
interest! It is, I suppose, the junction of art with exquisite nature
which gives such a landscape its great charm. Here we have nature to be
sure, pretty enough in its way; but everything that man touches is
monstrous. Those square horrible houses! Happily we don’t see them
here.”
The soft flow of feeling which had risen in Mary’s mind, and had filled
her eyes with moisture, suddenly turned into gall. “No,” she said, “I
have never been in Italy. I don’t know that I want to go. I prefer to
think my own country the most beautiful in the world.”
“Well,” said Richard, “perhaps if you are obliged to live in it all your
life it is the most philosophical way.”
How little Mary was thinking of philosophy at that moment! It was well
for her that his mother came out from the open window, ready to walk
down to the village, which she had made her son promise somewhat
unwillingly to do. “Mary will go with us,” Lady Eskside had said as an
inducement to Richard, not perhaps taking Mary’s inclinations much into
account; for, of course (she reckoned securely), Mary would put her own
feelings in her pocket rather than take away a motive from Richard to do
his duty; and there could be no doubt that it was his duty to visit the
old people who remembered him, and who would be wounded if he took no
notice of them. “We must go to our old Merran’s, your nurse that used to
be. She is married to the smith, you remember, Richard? and doing well,
I believe, though always a great gossip, as she was when she was a young
woman. Her son has come to be under-gamekeeper, and your father thinks
he will give him one of the lodges if he turns out well, for he is going
to be married,” said Lady Eskside, walking briskly down the winding path
through the wood, which was shorter than the avenue,--and full of a
country lady’s satisfaction in that sway over her humble neighbours and
full knowledge of their concerns which is so good for both parties.
Richard went dutifully by her side, and listened at least; while Mary
came behind with little Valentine in wonderful new fine clothes, velvet
and lace, the strangest contrast to his former appearance. He had been a
beautiful child in his poor garments; he was like a little prince now,
with aristocrat (a stranger would have said) written in every fine line
of those features, upon which the noble father and the vagrant mother
had both impressed their image. The mother not being by, the child was
universally wondered over for his resemblance to his father; but to that
father’s eyes Val had nothing that had not come to him from the
other--that other who had once been Richard’s idol, and now was his
enemy and his shame.
Merran Miller, you may be sure, had heard every word of the story, and
more, and knew exactly how the beautiful boy, in his fantastic, costly
dress, had been brought to Rosscraig, and remembered how she had herself
seen him make his entry into his future kingdom, muddy and crying, “a
beggar-wean” by the side of the mother who went to lodge at Jean
Macfarlane’s. She knew it all, but this did not lessen the warmth of her
enthusiasm for Mr Richard’s boy, the bonnie wee gentleman who was so
like his papaw. “Eh, bless him, he’s like a prince! I wish the queen
herself might have the like!” she cried, with all the loyalty of an old
retainer, and wiped her eyes with her apron at thought of the kindness
of Mr Richard coming so far to see “the like of me!” Richard, after he
had said all that was civil to his old nurse, fell back, while his
mother inquired into her domestic affairs, and informed her of Lord
Eskside’s intended favour to the young gamekeeper who was about to be
married. “We cannot forget that you were a good nurse to our boy,” said
the old lady, gracious in her happiness; “and as Providence has been
good to us, giving us back our grandchild, who is the heir, and his
father at the same time, my lord and myself take a pleasure in seeing
other folk happy too.” “Eh, my lady, but you’re kind and good! and what
can I say to you for my Willie--for such a grand start in life!” cried
Merran, once more applying her apron to her eyes. Richard strayed aside,
and would have fallen back upon Mary, not feeling much interest in this
conversation, had not Mary, still affronted, eluded his address.
But as he looked round the cottage, something which interested him still
more attracted his eye. It was the “aumrie” or oak press in which Merran
and her mother before her had kept their “napery” for ages. The
connoisseur rushed at it, and examined every line of its old carving; he
opened the doors and looked over all the drawers and intricacies inside.
“Here is something as fine as any piece of furniture in your house. Ask
her if she will part with it,” he said rapidly to his mother in French.
His blue eyes sparkled with pleasant excitement, and his colour rose.
Since he came back, nothing--not his unknown child, not his parents, not
Mary, nor the associations of home--had given him so warm a glow of
pleasurable feeling. He was in his natural element once more.
It became still more apparent, however, and in a more agreeable way, how
much Richard was changed when the first dinner-party convoked in his
honour assembled at Rosscraig. The best people in the county were there,
straining a point to show the dear old Esksides (as the Dowager-Duchess
herself said) that for their sake their son’s misdoings would be
overlooked, and himself received again as if nothing had happened. They
all came prepared to be kind to him, to forget the disgrace he had
brought upon himself and his family, and to condone all past offences on
condition of future good conduct. But lo! Richard was civil to the
people who had intended to be good to _him_--he received them with the
quiet self-assured air of a man of the world, which was ever so far
removed from that of the conscious offender against social laws whom
they had come to meet. He spoke with a certain gentle authority as a man
much better acquainted with the great world and the highest levels of
life than were his critics--giving them pieces of information about
political matters, and deciding which was the real version of
fashionable scandals in a way which struck the neighbours dumb. “My
dears, we are all under a delusion,” said the same Dowager-Duchess whom
we have already quoted, addressing a little group in the corner of the
drawing-room to which they had retired to compare notes, and make their
astonished comments on leaving the dinner-table. “Depend upon it it’s no
tramp he has married, but some foreign princess. He’s no more ashamed of
himself than I am.” And, indeed, a rumour to this effect ran through all
Mid-Lothian. In the dining-room all the gentlemen were equally
impressed. Before they rose from table, Sir John Gifford, the greatest
land-owner in the district, and son-in-law to the Marquess of Tranent,
asked Richard’s opinion as to what the Ministry would do about the then
existing crisis (I do not remember what it was) in foreign politics; and
they all listened to what he said about the state of feeling in Italy,
and the condition of the smaller courts, as if it had been gospel. “That
son of Eskside’s, whatever he may have done to compromise himself in his
youth, is a rising man, you may take my word for it,” Sir John said
solemnly at the next assembly of the county. “And the less we inquire
into most men’s youth the better, my dear Sir John,” said the
Dowager-Duchess, of whose tongue most people stood in awe; and Sir John
coloured, and felt more and more sympathetic with Dick Ross; for he,
too, had known the drawbacks of a _jeunesse orageuse_.
This revolution was made not gradually but in a single evening. The
first dinner-party at Rosscraig was intended more or less to represent
that entertainment at which the fatted calf was eaten; but in the
curious change of sentiment that ensued there was no more thought of
fatted calves. The indulgent reception intended to be given to the
exile, almost the outlaw, of whom every one had spoken for years with
bated breath, turned imperceptibly into the welcome accorded to a
distinguished guest. Richard’s manners were allowed to be perfect; he
had all the _savoir vivre_, the easy grace, the perfect self-possession
of a man of the world. He knew everybody, he had seen everything; he was
learned in art of every description, from the old masters in painting to
lace and china; and every lady in the county who possessed either was
proud of his approbation. Perhaps he was not quite so great out of
doors, where neither agriculture nor sport were in his way; but men
forgive much to a political authority, as women do to a connoisseur, and
Richard’s visit was an event in the neighbourhood. Lady Eskside’s
feelings on witnessing this revolution were of the strangest. She
watched it with a certain consternation, half frightened, half
triumphant; the poor boy’s humiliation and sufferings, she said to
herself, were all being repaid to him; yet Lady Eskside was a just
woman, and I do not think she was quite sure that Richard deserved to be
thus received with an ovation. But where was there ever a mother who did
not glow with pride and happiness to see her son the observed of all
observers, the hero of her world? Mary Percival, who stood by and looked
on closely, a spectator less prejudiced in Richard’s favour, yet full of
the keenest interest, wondered still more, judging him differently in
her heart. Mary’s feelings were of a kind which would not bear
analysing. She could not keep from watching him, she heard everything
that was said of him, she noted his words and actions with a keen and
never-failing concern; but this wondering interest and a partial
amusement which pained herself, yet would not be altogether subdued,
were not sympathy. She seemed to herself to be behind the scenes, and to
see more than the rest did; and by this means it came about that the
rush of blood to her heart, and the thrill through all her frame with
which Mary had acknowledged Richard’s approach at first in spite of
herself, died away and left her quite calm as all the world awoke to his
merits. This second and less important revolution Lady Eskside perceived
dimly, but did not understand.
However, Richard’s sudden popularity was the most fortunate incident
possible for his child. Many people, after the first eager interest with
which they had received the romantic story of little Val’s first
appearance at Rosscraig, began to doubt it because it was so romantic,
and pointed out to each other the much more likely and sensible way of
accounting for it. “The beggar-wife is all a myth, depend upon it,” said
the Dowager-Duchess,--“a myth founded upon the popular conviction that
Dick Ross was unfortunate in his marriage. Most of us are unfortunate in
our marriages; but it seldom comes to that sort of thing. No, no;
depend upon it, the child came with his father, as was natural and
proper. What better explanation would you have?” There can be no doubt
that this method of introducing a child who is heir to a peerage is a
much more comprehensible and reasonable one than a wild tale by which he
was represented as having been thrust in at the hall-door on a stormy
night. There had been much excitement caused by the story; but that very
excitement was a proof to many sober people that it was ridiculous. Why
search further? they said. His father had come home on a visit, a very
rising young man, and extremely agreeable, and he had brought the child
with him. Valentine’s appearance confirmed the district in this sensible
view of the question. In his velvet tunic and collar of falling lace, he
was utterly unlike anything but a dainty little dandy born to luxury and
bred with every care, whose cheek the winds had never been allowed to
touch rudely. To look at the child was quite enough, said many. He to
have been wandering about the country with a tramp!--the idea was
preposterous. He was a little aristocrat all over--from his dark curls
to the buckles on his dainty shoes. And when the gentry of the country
inquired, as they almost all did individually, into the origin of the
other absurd story, it was universally traced to the servants’ hall. My
Lady Gifford’s maid had got it from Joseph the footman at Rosscraig, and
the Dowager-Duchess had heard it from an under-gardener who kept the
lodge, and with whom she did not disdain an occasional gossip. There is
no limit to the imagination of persons in that class of life, many
people said; and it became a mark of fashion on Eskside by which you
could decide whether any individual really belonged to the cream of
society or not. Belief in the common-sense theory that (of course)
Richard had brought his son to his mother’s care, was for a long time
the shibboleth of the county. Those who had faith in the romantic part
of the story were given over to a reprobate imagination, and stamped
themselves vulgar at once by adopting a theory so ridiculous. Nothing
could have been more fortunate for the young heir. Lady Eskside awoke to
the importance of maintaining this “sensible” view before she had been
tempted to utter the true occasion of her joy to any dear friend. Nobody
knew the real facts of the case except Mary and the servants. Mary was
safe as Lady Eskside herself, and as careful of the honour of the
family; and as for the servants, with their well-known love of the
marvellous, how could any one pin his faith on them? Thus circumstances
arranged themselves for little Val a hundred times better than the most
sanguine imagination could have believed.
But the story lingered in the lower levels of society, where nobody was
deceived. Merran Miller herself, though she had been Richard’s nurse,
and felt herself a partisan of the family, paused to give an elaborate
description of the child and his finery to her friends, when, throwing
her apron over her cap, she rushed out to proclaim her Willie’s good
fortune to all the world: “I wish I was at the bottom o’t,” cried
Merran; “it’s an awfu’ queer story. I’m real glad now that it came into
my head to give the weans a piece, and that I was civil to the woman.
But to see yon bairn decked up like a cheeny image! and him gaun
greeting with a beggar-wife nae later than Wednesday at e’en----!”