So early as next morning the messenger of vengeance had gone like a
fiery cross all over Eskside--up the water and down the water, placarded
in the hamlets, sent flying by the post over all the county. It came by
the morning’s post to Rosscraig itself. The man who went for the letters
got a copy from somebody, which was given with much solemnity and
secrecy to Harding the butler for his private information. The upper
servants laid their heads together over it in the housekeeper’s room
with fright, and yet with that almost agreeable excitement which moves a
little community when any great event happens to the heads of it.
Excitement is sweet, howsoever it comes; and the grim pleasure which
servants often seem to enjoy even in “a death in the family,” is curious
to behold. This was much more piquant than a death, and nobody could
tell to what it might lead; and then there was the thrilling suspense as
to who should venture to tell it to my lord and my lady, and how they
would take it when they found it out.
As was to be expected, it was through Harding’s elaborate care to keep
it from his master that it was found out. Lord Eskside was in his
library before breakfast, very busy with his lists of voters, and the
calculations of each district and polling-place, all of which agreed so
delightfully in the certain majority which must carry Val triumphantly
to his place in Parliament--a triumph which, all the more perfect that
it was late, filled the old lord’s heart. His wrinkled forehead was
smoothed out as if he had swallowed an elixir of life; his shaggy
eyebrows, almost white now, were still, or nearly so; his under lip had
subsided peacefully. How many disappointments had passed over that
rugged old head! His son Richard had been nothing but one disappointment
from beginning to end, sometimes giving acute pain--always a dormant
dissatisfaction to his parents. For years and years he had been lost to
them altogether: he had sinned like a prodigal, bringing in a wild and
miserable romance into the family records, without making up for his sin
by the prodigal’s compensating qualities,--the readiness to confess, the
humility of asking pardon. Richard had done badly by his family, yet was
as proud, and took up as superior a position, as if he had done well.
He had not only disappointed but scorned his father’s hopes. Neither
father nor mother had any comfort in him, any good of him, any more than
if they had no son.
But there was recompense for all their suffering in Val; he was
altogether their own, their creation: and the pleasure with which the
old lord found all his hopes realising themselves in this boy, who was
still young enough to be under his own influence, to take his opinions
as a kind of _credo_ and symbol of faith, to carry out his wishes, and
take up the inheritance of the Rosses, as he had perfected and filled it
up during his long life--was, I think, far greater, more perfect and
delightful, than the success of any middle-aged man like Richard, who,
as old Jean Moffatt said, was quite as old if not older than himself,
could have given him. There were a hundred things in Richard’s character
that jarred upon his father, which his good sense made him accept and
submit to, knowing how hopeless it would be to attempt to shape a man of
the world, who half despised even while he respected his rustic father,
into anything like his own image. But there was nothing yet which was
grieving or contradictory in Val. The boy was passionate, but then every
boy had some defect; and a little wayward and wilful if roused, but
always submissive as a child to the arguments of affection, and candid
to understand when he was wrong. Lord Eskside saw with fond eyes of
affection, and heard from every one--scholastic Grinders, and persons in
society, and men of the world--that no more promising lad could be than
this hero of his, who had accepted all his schemes and fallen in with
all his views. To attain this rare pleasure in your old age is not a
common blessing, and it was all the more exquisite because he knew how
rare it was.
In this state of mind he rose from his library table and his lists of
voters, and stalked out with his hands clasped under his coat tails, to
look at the great registering thermometer which hung outside on the
shady corner at the west wing. When he came into the hall, Lord Eskside
saw Harding in the distance, poring over a paper which he held in his
hand,--a large white broadsheet, very much like Val’s address, of which
there were some copies about the house. Harding’s obtusity was a joke
with the old lord. “Has he not got the sense of it into his old noddle
yet?” he said to himself, half laughing, and watched with quiet
amusement the butler’s absorption. Lord Eskside’s patience, however, was
none of the longest, and he called Harding before many seconds had
passed. The man was too much occupied to hear him, and did not stir.
Then the old lord, half irritated, half laughing, called again. “If
that’s Mr Ross’s address you are reading, bring it here, you haverel,
and I’ll explain it to you,” he said. Harding turned round with a scared
look, and, crushing up the paper in his hand, he thrust it into his
pocket with hurried and almost ostentatious panic.
“It’s not Mr Ross’s address, my lord,” he said.
“Hey! what is it then?--let me see. Lord bless us, man!” said his
irascible master, “why do you put on that look? What is it? Let me see!”
“I assure you, my lord, it’s nothing--nothing of the least consequence,”
said Harding. “Your lordship would not look twice at it; it’s nothing,
my lord.” And he put his hand upon his pocket, as if to defend that
receptacle of treason, and stood with the air of the hero in the poem--
“Come one, come all, this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I.”
Harding, for the first time in his life, was melodramatic in his
determination to give his blood sooner than the objectionable paper.
While the old lord stood looking at him half alarmed, and becoming more
and more impatient, Mrs Harding strayed from her room, which was within
reach of the voices, as it was her habit to do when her husband was
audible in too prolonged colloquy with my lord.
“Marg’ret,” said Lord Eskside, “what has that haverel of a man of yours
got in his pocket? I never can get a word of sense out of him, as you
well know.”
“Hoots, my lord, it’s some of his nonsense papers. What have you in your
pocket, man? Cannot you give my lord a sensible answer? It’s some of the
squibs or things about yon auld Seisin, the lawyer body that’s set up
against us,--a bonnie like thing in our county, that has never had a
Whig member as lang as I can mind.”
“That’s true,” said Lord Eskside, mollified; “it’s scarcely worth the
trouble to publish any squibs. Let’s see it, Harding,--and don’t look so
like a gowk, if you can help it. What is the matter with the man?”
“Give it him without more ado,” whispered Mrs Harding peremptorily to
her spouse. “He maun see it sooner or later, and he’ll think we’ve
something to do wi’ it if you keep it back. Here’s the paper, my lord.
Na, it’s no a squib on auld Seisin. I’m thinking it’s something on the
other side.”
“What do you mean by the other side?” said Lord Eskside, his eyebrows
beginning to work as he snatched it out of her hand.
“Nae doubt they have their squibs too,” said Mrs Harding, making her
escape with as unconcerned a face as possible. Her husband, on the
contrary, stood gaping and pale with horror, not knowing what
thunderbolt might burst upon him now.
The old lord smoothed the crumpled paper, and held it out before him at
a distance to read it without his spectacles. He stood so for a moment,
and then he went back into the library, and shut the door. About half an
hour after he rang the bell, and asked that my lady should be called.
“Ask Lady Eskside to be so good as to come to me here,” he said, in
strange subdued tones, without looking up. This was a very unusual
summons. In all the common affairs of life he went to her, and it was
only when something more grave than usual happened in the house that
Lord Eskside sent for his wife. He did not rise when she came in, which
she did at once, her old face flushed with alarm. All the ruddy rustic
colour had gone out of my lord’s face; his very hand was pallid which
held the paper. He drew a chair close to him with his other hand, and
called to her impatiently, “Come here, Catherine, come here!”
“What has happened?” Her eye ran over the papers on the table, looking
for the yellow cover of a telegram--thinking of her absent son, as
mothers do. If it was nothing about Richard, it could not be anything
very terrible. Having satisfied herself on this point, she sat down by
him, and put her hand upon his arm. “My dear, you are not well?”
“Never mind me,” he said; “I am well enough. Read that.”
Lady Eskside looked at it, wondering, then looked up at him, gave a low
cry, and drew it towards her. This was what she read:--
“_To the free and independent Electors of Eskshire._
“GENTLEMEN,--You were called upon to listen to, applaud, and accept
certain statements yesterday, coming from no less a person than Sir
John Gifford, and other great personages of the county, which it
may perhaps be well to examine dispassionately before acting on
them so far as to send to Parliament as your representative a young
man possessing no real right to such an honour.
“I mean to say nothing against the gentleman calling himself, and
called by others, Mr Valentine Ross. He is young and absolutely
untried; therefore, though it cannot be said that he has done
anything to justify his claims on your support, it is equally true
that he has done nothing to invalidate them, so far as he possesses
any. This, however, is the fundamental question which I wish to
assist you to examine. What are his claims upon you? They are those
of Lord Eskside’s grandson, heir of one of the most considerable
families in the county--a family well known and respected by all of
us, and about whose principles there can be no doubt, any more than
of their high honour and estimation in the district. These are the
pretensions of the party who support Mr Ross as a candidate for
your suffrages. Sir John Gifford--and no one can respect Sir John
more than I do, or would give more weight to his
opinion--introduced his name to you with high eulogies, as ‘one
born among us, brought up among us, the heir of one of the most
ancient and honourable families in the county.’ Now the question I
have to lay before you is straightforward and simple--‘Is this
true?’ Sir John’s first statement is of course to be taken as a
figure of speech, and I will not be so ungracious as to press it,
for we all know that the young gentleman in question was not born
among us. He made his first appearance at Eskside, as most of you
are aware, when a child of about seven years old. How did he make
his first appearance? Was he brought home carefully, out of one
comfortable nursery into another, under the charge of suitable
nurses and attendants, as our own children are, and as it is
natural to suppose the son of the Honourable Richard Ross--a man
holding an important appointment in Her Majesty’s diplomatic
service, and the heir of an old title and very considerable
estate--would be? I answer, unhesitatingly, No. The child, in the
dress and with the appearance of a tramp-child, was brought to Lord
Eskside’s door by a female tramp--a wandering vagrant--who lodged
that night in a low tavern in the neighbourhood. He was thrust in
at the door, and left there without a word; and equally without a
word he was received. The persons who were present know that no
message nor letter nor token of any kind was sent with the child.
He was left like a parcel at Lord Eskside’s door. Lord Eskside
immediately after announced to the world that his grandson had been
sent to him, to be brought up at home. And the child thus strangely
introduced, without mother, without pedigree, without resemblance,
without a single evidence of his identity, is the young gentleman
who is known to us by the name of Mr Valentine Ross, and who now
asks our suffrages on his family’s merits rather than his own.
“Gentlemen, I am not one to disregard any claim which a man, who
has in any way served his country, makes upon his own merits. To
such a man I reckon it an impertinence to ask any question as to
his pedigree. But when a young man says to me, Elect me, because I
am my father’s son, I ask, Is it certain that he is the son of the
man he claims as father? All that we know of his history is against
it. His reputed father has studiously kept out of the way. Why, if
he is Richard Ross’s son, whom we all know, is not Richard Ross
here to acknowledge him? Instead of Richard Ross, we have nothing
but a fond old man who has adopted an ingratiating boy. Lord
Eskside has a right to adopt whom he pleases; but he has no right
to set up some base-born pretender--some chance child thrown on his
bounty--as the heir of his honours and the representative of his
family. Will you send to Parliament, as a Ross of Eskside, an old
man’s pet and pensioner, a supposititious heir? or will you not
rather demand a searching inquiry into a history so mysterious,
before you strengthen, by your election of him, the pretended
rights of an impostor? He may be an innocent impostor, for I say
nothing against the young man in his own person; but until his
claims have been investigated, and some reasonable evidence
afforded, an impostor he must be considered by all Eskside men
whose ambition it is to have everything about them honest and
above-board.
“AN ESKSIDE ELECTOR.”
“The demons!” cried Lady Eskside. Hot tears were shining in her eyes,
forced there by pressure of rage and shame. She clenched her hand in
spite of herself. “Oh, the word’s not bad enough! Devils themselves
would have more heart.”
“It’s Sandy Pringle’s doing,” said the old lord. “I thought he was too
mim and mild. He’s been preparing it these dozen years; and now the
moment’s come, and he’s struck home.”
“It’s too bad for Sandy Pringle,” said the old lady, pushing her chair
from the table. “Oh no, no; it’s too bad for that; the man has bairns of
his own.”
And the tears ran down her cheeks with sheer pain. “We were never ill to
anybody,” she moaned; “never hard-hearted that I know of. Oh, my poor
old lord!--just when your heart was light, and you had your way!”
She turned upon him in the midst of her own pain with a pathetic pity,
and the two pairs of tremulous old hands clasped each other closely with
that sympathy which is far deeper than any words. I do not think it
would have taken much to bring a tear down the old lord’s rugged cheek
as well as his wife’s. The blow had gone straight to his heart.
Pain--helpless, bitter, penetrating, against which the sufferer
surprised by it can do nothing but make a speechless appeal to heaven
and earth--was the chief sensation in his mind. He was so unprepared and
open to attack, so happy and proud, glad and rejoicing in the last
evening lights, which were so sweet. For the first moment neither of
them could think--they could only feel the pain.
Then there came a sense of what had to be done, which roused the old
pair from the pang of the first shock. “It will be all over the county
this morning,” said Lord Eskside. “Of that we may be sure. A man could
not be bad enough to do so much without being bad enough to do more.
We’ll say nothing about it here, Catherine; especially, we’ll tell the
boy nothing about it. Leave him at peace for the moment; to-morrow he is
sure to hear; but in the mean time, as soon as breakfast is over, I’ll
make some excuse, and drive over to Castleton. We’ll keep him out of the
way. I’ll see Lynton, and Sir John, and as many more of the committee as
I can, and consult what’s to be done.”
“You’ll tell them how false it all is, and how devilish,” said my lady;
“devilish, that is the only word.”
“Devilish, if you please,” said Lord Eskside; “but how am I to say it’s
false! Half the county know it’s true.”
Lady Eskside stopped the contradiction which came to her lips. She wrung
her hands in that impotence which it is so much harder on the strong to
bear than on the weak.
“Oh, that woman! that woman!” she cried; “the harm she has done to me
and mine!”
“I will lay the whole matter before them,” said Lord Eskside; “there is
nothing else for it now--they must hear everything. At times it may be
prudent to hold your peace; but when you must speak, you must speak
freely. I will tell them everything. It would have been better to have
done it long ago.”
“Oh, what is the need of telling them?” cried my lady--“do you think
they don’t know? Ay, as well as we do; but do what seems to you good, my
good man. It’s like to break my heart; but I am most sorry for you, my
dear, my dear!”
“Dry your eyes now, Catherine,” he said, hoarsely; “we must not show our
old eyes red to strangers. Come, the bell has rung, and we’ll all be the
better of our prayers.”
They went in, arm in arm, to the great dining-room, where the servants
were waiting, more curious than can be described, to see how my lord and
my lady “were taking it.” They had no satisfaction, I am glad to say.
The old lord read his short “chapter,” and the short prayer which
followed, in a tone in which the most eager ear could detect no
faltering. And my lady, if perhaps not so buoyant in her aspect as
yesterday, did not betray herself even to Mary Percival, who knelt
calmly by her side, and did not know how her old heart was sinking.
“We will give you a holiday to-day, Val,” Lord Eskside said, after
breakfast; “but for me, I will drive over to Castleton and see how
everything is going on.”
Val, who had visions of rushing up to the Hewan, and who felt himself
perfectly safe in his grandfather’s hands, consented gaily. “If you are
sure you don’t want me,” he said; and the old man drove off smiling,
waving his hand to the ladies at the door. Harding and the other
servants were very much puzzled by their master. They had thought it not
unlikely that he might afford them still further excitement by fainting
dead away or going off in a fit.
I do not know which had the hardest task--Lord Eskside telling the
story of his son’s marriage, with all its unfortunate consequences, to
the serious county magnates assembled round the table of the committee
room, and looking as grave as though Valentine had committed high
treason--or his wife at home, trying to look as if nothing had happened,
and to keep Val by her side that he might not hear of the assault upon
him. At one period of the day at least my lady’s work was the hardest.
It was when Val insisted upon having from her a message to Violet
Pringle or her mother, asking that the girl might accompany her next
morning to see the election.
“Violet Pringle,” cried the old lady, tingling in every vein with
resentment and indignation--“of all the people in the world, why should
I take her father’s daughter about with me? You are crazy, Val.”
“Perhaps I am,” said Val, with unusual gravity and humility; “but if I
am crazy, I am still more crazy than you think. Grandma, I want you to
take Vi about with you everywhere. Don’t you know what friends she and I
have always been? Listen, and don’t be angry, Granny dear. When all this
is over, and there is time to think of anything, I want you to give your
blessing to Vi and me. She is going to be my wife.”
The old lady gave a scream: it was nothing else. She was wild for the
moment with wonder, and anger, and horror. “Never! never! it must never
be! Your wife!” she cried. “Oh, Val, you are mad. It can never be!”
“How can you say it can never be, when it _is_?” said Val, gently, with
the smile of secure and confident happiness. “Yes, I don’t mind Mary
hearing, as she is there. Last night I met Vi in the woods. I was half
mad, as you say, to think they had kept her away from me on such a day.
I asked her to promise that it should never be so any more; and now
nothing can come between us,” said the young man in the confidence of
youth. The idea of any strenuous objections on the part of the old
people, who had yielded to every wish he had formed all his life, did
not occur to him. Why should they object? He knew no reason. He had not
announced it last night because there was a great dinner-party, and the
house was full of strangers, but not because he felt any alarm as to how
his news would be received.
“Val, I tell you you are mad,” said Lady Eskside, deeply flushed with
anger, of which she did not venture to show all the causes. “Your
grandfather will never hear of it for a moment. Sandy Pringle has always
been your enemy--always! and has he not shown himself so, openly, now?”
“Oh, of course he must stick to his party,” said Val, lightly. “As for
being my _enemy_, that is nonsense. Why should we be melodramatic? I am
sure he wishes me well in his heart.”
“A likely story!” said the old lady, her old cheeks blazing hotter and
hotter; and when Val announced his intention of going off at once to
make his proposal known to Mr Pringle, and claim his consent, the
passionate resentment and indignation which she strove to suppress were
almost too much for her. She bade the boy remember that he owed it to
his grandfather at least to tell him first of so important a step, but
at last had to come down to arguments of convenience and expediency.
“You may be sure Sandy Pringle is not at the Hewan to-day. He has too
much mischief in hand to stay there in his hole. He is at work, doing
you all the harm he can, the old sneck-drawer!” said the indignant old
lady--not daring to put half her indignation into words.
“As he is to be my father-in-law, you must be more civil to him,
grandmamma,” said Val, half laughing at her vehemence. He gave in at
last, very reluctantly, to put off his going for the day. But even when
this was attained, Lady Eskside’s work was but half done, for Val had to
be kept at home if possible, kept occupied and amused, that he might not
discover prematurely the cruel attack of which he was the victim. She
was afraid he might do something rash, and compromise himself before the
election. In the excitement of that day itself, and when the business
was too near completion to be capable of being deranged by any
hot-headed folly poor Val might be guilty of, the risk would be less--or
so at least the old people thought.
Thus things went on until the evening. Lord Eskside had fortunately left
some business behind him to be completed, which gave Val occupation, and
my lady had a moment of ease in which she could confide all that had
happened to Mary. This last complication about Violet made everything so
much the worse. Lady Eskside would have thought Sandy Pringle’s daughter
a poor enough match for her boy at any time; but now! Her only trust was
that Mrs Pringle was a sensible woman, and might see the necessity of
putting a stop to it; but with the precedent of his father’s reckless
marriage before him, and Val’s hot and hasty disposition, the old lady’s
heart sank at the prospect. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof,” she said at last, letting fall a silent tear or two, as she
sat with Mary waiting in the dusk of the evening for her husband’s
return. “My poor old lord is long of coming; he’ll be worn to death with
this terrible day.”
Lord Eskside was very late. The dressing-bell had rung, and the ladies
were lingering, waiting for him in the pale dusk, which had come on
earlier than usual. The time and the season and the hour were very much
like that other bleak night, fifteen years ago, when Val came first to
Rosscraig. There was no storm, but it had been raining softly all the
afternoon, refreshing the country, but darkening the skies, and
increasing the depression of all who were disposed to be depressed. Val
had gone out in the rain into the woods after his day’s work, not
knowing why it was that some uneasiness in the house had taken hold upon
him, some sense of contradictoriness and contrariety. Were things going
wrong somehow, that had been so triumphantly right? or what was it that
irritated and oppressed him? The ladies, in their anxiety, which he was
not allowed to share, were glad when he went away, releasing them from
all necessity for dissimulation. They sat in different parts of the
room, not even talking to each other, listening to the rain, to the taps
of the wet branches upon the windows, and all the hushed sounds of a
rainy night. Lady Eskside had her back to the window, but, for that very
reason, started with the greater excitement when a sound more distinct
than the taps of the branches--the knocking of some one for admission,
and a low plaintive voice--came to her ear, mingled with the natural
sounds of the night. Crying out, “Mary, for God’s sake! who is it?” she
rose up from her chair. Just about the time and the moment when one of
the boys was brought to her! I think for the time the old lady’s mind
was confused with the pain in it. She thought it was Val’s mother come
back at last with the other boy.
A little figure, young and light, was standing outside the window in the
rain,--not Val’s mother, in her worn and stormy beauty, but poor little
Violet in her blue cloak, the hood drawn over her golden hair--her eyes,
which had been pathetic at their gayest moment, beseeching now with a
power that would have melted the most obdurate. “Oh, my lady, let me in,
let me in!” cried Vi. Lady Eskside stood for a minute immovable. “Her
heart turned,” as she said afterwards, against this trifling little
creature that was the cause of so much trouble (though how poor Vi, who
suffered most, could be the cause, heaven knows!--people are not logical
when they are in pain). Then I think it was the rain that moved her, and
not the child’s pleading face. She could not have left her enemy’s dog,
let alone his daughter, out in that drenching rain. She went across the
room, slow and stately, and opened the window. But when Violet in her
wet cloak came in, Lady Eskside gave her no encouragement. “This is a
wet night for you to be out,” was all she said.
“Oh, Lady Eskside!” said poor Violet, throwing herself down in a heap at
the old lady’s feet--“I have come to ask your pardon on my knees. Oh,
you cannot think we knew of it, mamma and I. She is ill, or she would
have been here too. Oh, my lady, my lady, think a moment! if it is hard
for you, it is worse for us. It will kill mamma; and my heart is broken,
my heart is broken!” cried poor little Vi.
“Miss Pringle, I do not think, on the spur of the moment, that there is
much to be said between you and me.”
“Oh, my lady!” Violet cried out, as if she had been struck, at the sound
of her own name.
“Nothing to be said,” continued Lady Eskside, though her voice wavered.
“Who would blame you, poor thing--or your mother either? but between
your father’s family and mine what can there be to say? That is not a
fit posture for a young lady. We are not in a theatre, but private
life,” said the old lady, severely calm. “If you will rise up and put
off your wet cloak, I will order the carriage to take you home.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Violet, rising to her feet. Her soft eyes sent forth
an answering flash; her pale little face flushed over. “If you will not
have any pity--I meant nothing else, my lady--will you tell--Val,” she
added, with a hysterical sob rising in her throat, “that he is not to
think any more of what he said last night. I’ll--forget it. It cannot be
now, whatever--might have been. Oh, Mary,” cried the girl, turning to
Miss Percival, whom she saw for the first time--“tell him! I never,
never can look him in the face again.”
“If you please, my lady,” said Harding, appearing at the door in the
darkness, “my lord has just come home; and he would be glad to see your
ladyship in his own room.”
Lady Eskside hurried away. She did not pause even to look again at the
suppliant whom she had repulsed. Violet stood looking after her,
wistful, incredulous. The girl could not think it was anything but
cruelty; perhaps at the bottom of her poor little distracted soul she
had hoped that the old lady, who was always so kind to her, would have
accepted her heart-broken apology, and refused to accept her
renunciation. She could not believe that such a terrible termination of
all things was possible, as that Lady Eskside should leave her without a
word. She turned to Mary, and tottered towards her, with such a look of
surprised anguish as went to Miss Percival’s heart.
“My dear, my dear, don’t look so heart-broken! She has gone to hear what
has happened. She is very, very anxious. Come to my room, and change
your wet things, my poor little Vi.”
“No, no! Not another moment! Let me go, let me go!” cried the girl,
escaping from her hold; and, with the swiftness of youth and passion,
Violet turned and fled, through the open window by which she had
entered, out into the darkness, the rain, and the night.