This was Val’s last summer at Eton; he went away with deep regret, as
all well-conditioned boys do, and was petted and made much of at home in
the interval between his school and his university life. Lady Eskside,
who had once carried little Val with her, with care so anxious, was
proud and happy beyond description now when Val accompanied her anywhere
with that air of _savoir faire_ and intimate knowledge of the world
which distinguishes his kind. He had already a circle much enlarged from
hers, and knew people whom even the Dowager Duchess, who was more in the
world than Lady Eskside, could not pretend to know. He was a head taller
than good-natured Lord Hightowers, and a thousand times handsomer and
better bred. “But not the least like his father,” said her Grace, with
pointed particularity. “Not so like as he was,” said Lady Eskside, not
unprepared for this attack; “but I can still see the resemblance--though
the difference of complexion is bewildering to those who don’t know both
faces so well as I do,” she added, with a smile. To be sure, no one else
could know the two faces as well as she did. Val was extremely well
received in the county, and considered, young as he was, an acquisition
to general society; and was asked far and wide to garden-parties, which
were beginning to come into fashion, and to the few dances which
occurred now and then. He had to go, too, to various entertainments
given by the new people in Lord Eskside’s feus. During Val’s boyhood,
the feus which the old lord and his factor laid out so carefully had
been built upon, to the advantage of the shopkeepers in Lasswade, for
one thing; and a row of, on the whole, rather handsome houses, in solid
white stone, somewhat urban in architecture for the locality, and built
to resist wind and storm for centuries, rose on the crown of the green
bank which overlooked the road, and were to be seen from the terrace at
Rosscraig. There were two ladies in them who gave parties,--one the wife
of a retired physician, the other a well-connected widow. Val had to
dance at both houses, for the very good reason that the widow was well
connected, which made it impossible to refuse her; while the other house
had a vote, more important still. “It is your business to make yourself
agreeable to everybody, Val,” said Lord Eskside, feeling, as he looked
at the boy’s long limbs and broad shoulders, that the time was
approaching in which his ambition should at last be gratified, and a
Ross be elected for the county, notwithstanding all obstacles. Within
the next four or five years a general election was inevitable; and it
was one of the old lord’s private prayers that it might not come until
Val was eligible. He did all he could to communicate to him that
interest in politics which every young man of good family, according to
Lord Eskside, should be reared in. Val had been rather inattentive on
this point: he held, in an orthodox manner, those conventional and not
very intelligent Tory principles which belong to Eton; but he had not
thought much about the subject, if truth must be told, and was rather
amused than impressed by Lord Eskside’s eloquence. “All right,
grandpapa,” he would say, with that calm general assent of youth which
is so trying to the eager instructor. He was quite ready to accept both
position and opinions, but he did not care enough about them to take the
trouble of forming any decision for himself.
But he went to Mrs Rintoul’s party, and made himself very agreeable; and
not only the retired doctor himself, but what was perhaps more
important, his daughters--from Miss Rintoul of five-and-thirty to the
little one of sixteen--were ready as one woman to adopt his cause, and
wear his colours when the time came. “What does it matter between them,
papa?” said Miss Rintoul, who was very strong-minded. “Tory or
Radical--what does it matter? They are all conservative in office, and
destructive out of it. If I had a vote--and at my age it’s a disgrace to
England that I haven’t--I should stand by friends and neighbours. That’s
a better rule than your old-fashioned Tory and Whig. A good man is the
one thing needful; over whom, if necessary, one can exert intelligent
influence,” said this enlightened woman. I do not think her papa, who
was better aware how very impossible it is to influence any human
creature, was entirely of her opinion; but he informed Willie Maitland
that probably on the whole, if no candidate exactly of his own way of
thinking appeared in the field, he would not hesitate to support Mr
Ross, if he carried out, as there was every reason to expect, the
promise of his youth. Thus Val, in gay unconsciousness, was made to
begin his canvassing when he was nineteen, and while still the episode
of the university lay between him and public life. Lord Eskside invited
a large party for the 1st of September, and the house continued full up
to the time of Val’s departure for Oxford; and besides this party of
guests at home, there was such a succession of entertainments given at
Rosscraig as had not been known before for many years,--not since Val’s
father was on his promotion, like Val. Mary Percival was one of the
party during this gay time, aiding Lady Eskside to receive her guests
and do the honours of her house. She came when it was definitely
ascertained that Richard was not coming, as his parents wished. He wrote
that he was deeply occupied, and that in the present state of Italian
politics it was impossible that he could leave his post--a letter over
which Lady Eskside sighed; but as Mary came to make up the deficiency,
there was something gained to atone for this loss.
Mary, however, never would commit herself to that enthusiasm for Val
which his grandmother felt was her boy’s due. She liked him very well,
she said--oh, very well: he was a nice boy; she was very glad he had
done so well at school, and she hoped he would take a good place at
Oxford; but I leave the reader to judge whether this mild approbation
was likely to satisfy the old people, who by this time--husband as well
as wife--were, as the servants said, altogether “wrapt up” in Val. Mary
offended her friend still more by the perverse interest she took in the
Pringle family, and her many visits to the Hewan, where Val was
delighted to accompany her as often as she chose to go. Violet was “in
residence,” as he said, at the cottage, living a somewhat lonely life
there, though the others of the family came and went, spending a day or
a night as they could manage it. I do not know if any thought of
“falling in love” had ever come into Valentine’s boyish head; but there
was a delicate link of affection and interest between Violet and himself
which affected him he could not quite tell how. As for poor little Vi, I
fear her young imagination had gone further than Valentine’s. It was not
love in her case, perhaps, any more than in his; but it was fancy, which
at seventeen is almost as strong. I think this was the primary reason of
Mary’s frequent visits to the Hewan. She saw what was going on in the
girl’s young head and heart; and with that intense recollection of the
circumstances which decided her own fate which such gentlewomen, thrown
out of the common path of life, often have, she had conceived an almost
exaggerated anxiety for the fate of Vi, which seemed to be shaping
itself after the model of her own.
“I wish my dear old lady would not spoil that boy so,” she said one
September morning, when she had walked alone through the woods to the
Hewan. Her pretty _particular_ grey gown (for Mary was not without
something of that precise order which it is usual to call
old-maidishness, about her dress) was marked here and there with a
little spot from the damp ferns and grass, which she rubbed with her
handkerchief as she spoke, and which suddenly brought back to Violet’s
memory that one day of “playing truant” which had been about the
sweetest of her life. Mary had perceived that Violet gave a quick look
for the other figure which generally followed, and that there was a
droop of disappointment about her, when she perceived that her visitor
was alone. “I wish she would not spoil that boy so. He is not a bad
boy----”
“Is it possible you can mean Val?” said Violet, with dignity, erecting
her small head.
“Yes, indeed, my dear, it is quite possible; I do mean Val. He is a good
boy enough, if you would not all spoil him with adulation--as if he were
something quite extraordinary, and no one had ever seen his like
before.”
“You do not like Val, Miss Percival--you never did; but he likes you,
and always walks with you when you will let him.”
“Ah, that is when I am coming here,” said Mary, with a momentary
compunction. Then perceiving a pleased glow diffuse itself over Vi’s
face, she added, quickly, “I mean, he likes to go with me when it
pleases himself; but if I were to ask any little sacrifice of his will
from him, you should see how he would look. He is one of the most
self-willed boys I know.”
Violet did not make any answer. She patted her foot upon the carpet, and
the corners of her little mouth were drawn down. She would have frowned
had she known how; as it was, she averted her face in wrath and dismay.
“Violet, my dear, I take a great interest in you,” said Mary. “When I
look at you, I sometimes think I see myself at your age. I don’t like
to think that you may grow up to make a demigod of Val--or indeed of any
other.”
“Miss Percival!--I! Oh, how dare you?--how can you say so?” cried
Violet, springing to her feet, her face crimson, her eyes shining. “I!
make a--anything of Val. Oh, how can you be so unkind, you grown-up
people? Must a girl never speak to a boy unless he is her brother? And
Val has been just like my brother. I think of him--as I think of Sandy.”
“Oh, you little story-teller!” cried Mary, laughing in spite of herself,
as Violet’s indignant voice faltered into uncertainty; “but, Vi, I am
not going to scold--don’t be afraid. I am going to tell you for your
good what happened to me. I don’t like doing it,” she said, with a blush
that almost neutralised the difference of age between herself and the
girl who listened to her; “but I think it may be for your good, dear.
Violet, when I was your age there was some one--whom I was constantly in
the habit of seeing, as you might be of seeing Val. There was never
any--flirtation or nonsense between us. How shall I say it, Violet?--for
I don’t care to speak of such things any more than you would. I liked
him, as I thought, as you do, like a brother; and he was always kept
before me--never any one but Richard. After a while he went out into the
world, and there did--something which separated us for ever! oh, not
anything wrong, Vi--not a crime, or even vice--but something which
showed me that I, and all I was, such as I was, was nothing in the world
to him--that nothing was of value to him but his own caprice. I never
got over it, Violet. You see me now growing old, unmarried; and of
course I never shall marry now, nor have young ones round me like your
mother----”
“Oh, dear Miss Percival,” cried Violet, with tears in her eyes, “who
cares for being married? What has that to do with it? Is it not far
finer, far grander, to live like you, for ever constant to your first
love? Is not that the best of all?” cried the little enthusiast,
flushing with visionary passion. Mary caught her by her pretty
shoulders, shook her and kissed her, and laughed, and let one or two
tears drop, a tribute, half to her own, half to the child’s excitement.
“You little goose!” she cried. “Vi, I saw him after, years after--such a
man to waste one’s life for!--a poor petty _dilettante_, more fond of a
bit of china than of child or wife, or love or honour. Ah, Vi, you
don’t understand me! but to think I might have been the mother of a
child like you, but for that poor creature of a man!”
“Oh, don’t, don’t!” cried Vi, putting her hands to her ears; “I will not
listen to you, now. If you--loved him,” said the girl, hesitating and
blushing at the word, “you never, never could speak of him like that.”
“I never--never could have been deceived in him,--is that what you mean?
Vi, I hope you will never follow my example.”
“Hollo!” cried another voice of some one coming in at the door, which
stood open all day long, as cottage doors do--“is there any one in--is
Mary here? Are you in, Vi?” and Val’s head, glowing with a run up the
brae, bright with life and mirth, and something which looked very much
like boyish innocence and pleasure, looked in suddenly at the parlour
door. Val was struck by consternation when he saw the agitated looks
which both endeavoured to hide. “What’s the row?” he asked, coming in
with his hat in his hand. “You look as if you had been crying. What have
you been doing, Mary, to Vi?”
“Scolding her,” said Miss Percival, laughing. “I hope you have no
objection, Val.”
“But I have great objections; nobody shall bother Violet and make her
cry, if I can help it. She never did anything in her life to deserve
scolding. Vi,” cried Val, turning to her suddenly, “do you remember the
day we played truant? If Mary hadn’t been here, I meant to carry you off
again into the woods.”
Violet looked up first at him and then at Mary; the first glance was
full of delight and tender gratitude, the other was indignant and
defiant. “Is this the boy you have been slandering?” Vi’s eyes said, as
plain as eyes could speak, to her elder friend. Miss Percival rose and
made the gentleman a curtsy.
“If Mary is much in your way, she will go; but as Vi is a young lady
now, perhaps Mary’s presence would be rather an advantage than
otherwise. I put myself at your orders, young people, for the woods, or
wherever you like.”
“Well,” said Val, with the composure of his age, “perhaps it might be as
well if you would come too. Run to the larder, Violet, and look if
there’s a pie. I’ll go and coax Jean for the old basket--the very old
basket that we had on that wonderful day. Quick! and your cloak, Vi.”
He rushed away from them like a whirlwind; and soon after, while the two
ladies were still looking at each other in doubt whether he should be
humoured or not, Jean’s voice was heard approaching round the corner
from her nest.
“Pie! set you up with dainty dishes! Na, Mr Valentine, you’ll get nae
pie from me, though you have the grace to come and ask for it this time;
but I’ll make you some sandwiches, if you like, for you’ve a tongue like
the very deil himself. Oh, ay--go away with your phrases. If you were
not wanting something you would take little heed o’ your good Jean, your
old friend.”
“Listen,” said Mary to Vi.
“No that ye’re an ill laddie, when a’s said. You’re not one of the
mim-mouthed ones, like your father before you; but I wouldna say but you
were more to be lippened to, with all your noise and your nonsense.
There, go away with you. I’ll do the best I can, and you’ll take care of
missie. Here’s your basket till ye, ye wild lad.”
Vi had grasped Mary’s arm in return when old Jean continued; but being
pitiful, the girl in her happiness would not say anything to increase
what she felt must be the pain of the woman by her side. Vi had divined
easily enough that it was Valentine’s father of whom Mary spoke; and the
child pitied the woman, who was old enough to be her mother. Ah, had it
but been Valentine! He never would disappoint any one--never turn into a
_dilettante_, loving china better than child or wife. She kissed Mary in
a little outburst of pity--pity so angelic that Violet almost longed to
change places with her, that she might see and prove for herself how
different Valentine was. As for Mary, she made herself responsible for
this mad expedition with a great confusion and mingling of feelings. She
went, she said to herself, to prevent harm; but some strange mixture of
a visionary maternity, and of a fellow-feeling quite incompatible with
her mature age, was in her mind at the same time. She said to herself,
with a sigh, as she went down the slope, that she might have been the
boy’s mother, and let her heart soften to him, as she had never done
before; though I think this same thought it was which had made her feel
a little instinctive enmity to him, because he was not her son but
another woman’s. How lightly the boy and girl tripped along over the
woodland paths, waiting for her at every corner, chattering their happy
nonsense, filling the sweet, mellow, waving woods with their laughter!
They pushed down to the river, though the walk was somewhat longer than
Mary cared for, and brought her to the glade in which the two runaways
had eaten their dinner, and where Vi had been found asleep on Val’s
shoulder. “It looks exactly as it did then; but how different we are!”
cried Violet, on the warm green bank where her shoes and stockings had
been put to dry. Mary sat down on the sunny grass, and watched them as
they poked into all the corners they remembered, and called to them with
maternal tremblings, when the boy once more led the girl across the
stepping-stones to the great boulder by the side of which Esk foamed and
flashed. She asked herself, was it possible that this bold brown boy
would ever turn out to be like his father? and tried to recollect
whether Richard had ever been so kind, so considerate of any one’s
comfort as Val was of Vi’s. Was it perhaps possible that, instead of her
own failure, this romance, so prettily begun, might come to such a
climax of happiness as romances all feign to end in? Mary, I fear,
though she was so sensible, became slightly foolish as she sat under the
big beech, and looked at the two in the middle of the stream together,
Esk roaring by over his rocks, and making the words with which she
called them back quite inaudible. How handsome Val looked, and how
pretty and poetic his little companion! The bank of wood opposite was
all tinted with autumn colour, rich and warm. It was a picture which any
painter would have loved, and it went to Mary’s heart.
“But you are too big, Val, to play at the Babes in the Wood nowadays,”
said old Lady Eskside, with a little wrinkle in her brow, when she heard
of the freak; “and I wonder the Pringles leave that poor little thing by
herself at the Hewan, sometimes for days together. They say it’s for her
health; but I think it would be much better for her health if she were
under her mother’s eye.”
“You must remember that I was with them,” said Mary, “representing her
mother, or a middle-aged supervision at least.”
“My dear,” said Lady Eskside, half angry, half smiling, as she shook her
finger at her favourite, “I have my doubts that you are just a romantic
gowk; though you might know better.”
“Yes, I might know better--if experience could teach,” said Mary; but
experience so seldom teaches, notwithstanding all that is said to the
contrary. And Mary could not but reflect that Lady Eskside had not
frowned, but smiled, upon her own delusion. Perhaps in such cases
parental frowns are safer than smiles.