Violet went back to Edinburgh the day after her meeting in the woods
with Dick. Her heart was so full of what she had heard, that it was all
she could do to keep the particulars from old Jean, who was her guardian
and companion when, in her trouble, poor child, she managed to escape
for a day or two to the Hewan. By a strong effort she kept from talking
over the details with her homely old friend; but she could not keep from
her the fact that Val was ill. I need not say that Jean knew well enough
that there was “something wrong” between the two families--a thing she
had been aware of, with the curious instinct which all our servants
possess--almost before they knew it themselves. And by this time, of
course, Jean knew all that popular opinion said about Mr Pringle’s
supposed guilt in respect to the election; and she was aware that there
had been painful scenes in the house, and that neither his wife, nor his
sons, nor his daughter “held with” the unlucky culprit, who, since the
election, had gone about with drooping head “as if he was gaun to be
hanged,” old Jean said. Jean was very much shocked and distressed when
she heard of Val’s illness. “I thought there was something out o’ the
ordinary,” she said; “him away when there was yon grand dinner, and a
strange look about the house a’thegether. Ye may aye ken when the
family’s in trouble by the look o’ the house. Poor callant! there’s
naething like trouble of mind for bringing on thae fevers; you may take
my word, Miss Violet, it’s something about that weary election. Eh, what
creatures men are! Can they no fecht fair, and take their neives to ane
anither, instead of casting up auld ill stories? They say that’s women’s
way; for my part, I’m of the opinion that if women are ill with their
tongues, men are waur.”
“But fevers are not brought on by trouble of mind,” said Violet,
endeavouring to argue against her own inmost convictions. “Fevers are
brought on by--oh, by very different things, by bad air, and---- you may
read it all in the papers---- Oh, I hope, I hope it is not that, Jean!”
“If you put your faith in the papers,” said Jean, contemptuously, “that
say one thing the day, and another the morn, just as it suits them! Oh
ay, they’ll tell you an honest midden is waur than an ill story, that
creeps into the heart and saps the strength. I’m fond o’ the fresh air
mysel. We’re used to it here up at the Hewan, and it’s like meat and
drink; but if some ill-wisher was to rake up a nasty story about my auld
man that’s in heaven, or my John, what do you think would harm me maist,
Miss Vi’let--that, or a’ the ill smells in Lasswade? and I’ll no say but
what that corner by the smiddy is like to knock you down--though Marion
Miller’s bairns, so far as I can see, are no a prin the waur.”
Violet did not venture upon any reply, for, indeed, it seemed to her
innocent soul that mental causes were far more likely to make one ill
than those vulgar evils upon which the newspapers insisted. For her own
part, she felt very sure, as old Jean did, that Val’s illness arose from
the misery and excitement of the election, and not from any lesser
cause. I suppose this was quite foolish, and that the poor young member
for Eskshire must have gone into some cottage, or passed by some drain
in the course of his canvassing, which was the real occasion of his
fever. My ignorance is too great on such subjects to warrant me in
venturing the supposition that the other part of him, that mental part
so much discredited and put out of court in the present day--the one
thing about us which nobody can quite account for--had anything to do
with it. But Violet and old Jean, both of them as ignorant as myself
though more courageous--and both convinced in their different ways that
this special development of protoplasm called by ignorant persons their
mind, is the most important part of us--unhesitatingly ignored the
drain, which no doubt did the mischief, and set down Val’s fever to his
misery with all the evident precision of cause and effect. Violet could
not say any more to the old woman whose remarks she neither dared to be
sympathetic with or irritated by, since either demonstration would have
betrayed her father, who had done it all. So she hurried home next
morning, attended by her maid, breathless till she reached the mother,
the natural receiver of all her plaints and troubles. Mrs Pringle saw
there was something to tell from the first glance at Violet’s
countenance, in which all her emotions writ themselves easily to the
accustomed eye. She sent her up-stairs to “take off her things,” and
followed her, hoping that old Lady Eskside might perhaps have met the
child somewhere, and melted towards her, the only imaginable way in
which any renewal of friendship could be possible. When she heard what
it was, however, Mrs Pringle shook her head. “My dear,” she said, “you
are letting your feelings run away with you. Men don’t get ill and take
fevers from excitement except in novels. No doubt there must be
something wrong about Rosscraig; these old houses are never quite to be
depended upon. God knows that letter has done you and me harm enough,
more harm than it could do to Valentine--but we have taken no fever. I
am very sorry for him, poor fellow; but he’s young, and has a good
constitution--no doubt he’ll pull through; and my Vi must not cry like
this for a man that is nothing to her,” the good mother said,
proudly--putting her handkerchief and her hand, which was still softer,
across Violet’s streaming eyes to stop her tears.
“Oh, mamma, how can I help it?” sobbed poor Vi.
“My darling, you must help it. I am not saying it will be easy. Me
myself, with children of my own that take up my mind, I find myself
thinking of that poor boy when I have plenty other things to think of.
Ah, Violet, you kiss me for that! but, my dear, ask yourself--after what
has come and gone--how could it ever, ever be?”
“No one wants it to be!” said Violet, with one of her vehement impulses
of maiden pride, raising her head from her mother’s shoulder with a hot
angry flush covering her face; “but one does not cease--to take an
interest--in one’s--friend, because of any quarrel. I am friends with
him for ever, whatever happens. No one can say anything against that.
And we are cousins, whatever happens. I told Mr Brown so.”
Mrs Pringle shook her head over the friendship and cousinship which
continued to take so warm “an interest” in Val; but she was wise and
made no further remark. “I wonder who this Mr Brown may be?” was all she
said, and instantly set her wits to work to find something for Violet to
do. In a house where there were so many boys this was not difficult; and
it cannot be questioned that at this crisis of her young existence the
Hewan would have been a much less safe residence for Violet than Moray
Place.
The next two days were each made memorable by a note from Dick. These
missives were couched almost in the same words, and Violet, reading them
over and over again, could extract nothing from them more than met the
eye. Dick, in a very careful handwriting, too neat perhaps, and legible,
wrote as follows:--
“MADAM,--Mr Ross is just the same. This is not to be wondered at,
as I told Miss Violet that there could be no change till Saturday.
With your permission I will write again to-morrow.--Your obedient
servant,
“RICHARD BROWN.”
Even Mrs Pringle could find nothing to remark upon in this brief
epistle. “I wonder how he knows your name?” was all she said, and Violet
did not feel it necessary to enter into any particulars on this point.
The second bulletin was just like the first. Mrs Pringle had this note
in her pocket in the evening after dinner when her husband came up to
her with an excited look, and thrust the little local Eskside paper, the
‘Castleton Herald,’ into her hand. “Look at this!” he said, pointing
out a paragraph to her with a hand that trembled. How glad she was then
that the news conveyed no shock to her, and that Violet knew with
certainty the state of the matter which the newspaper unfolded so
mysteriously! “We regret to learn,” said the ‘Herald,’ “that the new
member for the county, Mr Ross, whose election so very lately occupied
our pages, lies dangerously ill in England of fever--we suppose of that
typhoid type which has lately made so much havoc in the world, and
threatened still greater havoc than it has made. We have no information
as to how the disease was contracted, but in the meantime Lasswade and
the neighbourhood have been thrown into alarm and gloom by the sudden
departure of such members of the noble family of Eskside as were still
remaining at Rosscraig. We trust before our next week’s issue to be able
to give a better account of Mr Ross’s state.”
“I knew Val was ill,” said Mrs Pringle, composedly; “Violet heard of it
at Eskside.” She could not refrain from a stroke of vengeance as she
handed the paper back to him. “I hope you are satisfied with your
handiwork now,” she said.
“My handiwork?”
“Just yours,” said Mrs Pringle--“just yours, Alexander; and if the boy
should die--which as good as him have done--what will your feelings be?”
“My feelings!” said Mr Pringle; “what have I to do with it?--did I give
him his fever? Of course it must have been bad air or some
blood-poisoning--or something. These are the only ways in which fever
communicates itself;” but as he spoke (for he was not a bad man) his
lips quivered, and there was a tremor in his voice.
“It is easy to say that--very easy to say it--and it may be true; but if
you take the heart and strength out of a man, and leave him no power to
throw off the ill thing when it comes? Alexander,” said Mrs Pringle,
solemnly, “I will never hold up my head again in this world if anything
happens to Val!”
“You speak like a fool--or a woman! It comes to much the same thing,”
cried her husband; and he went away down-stairs and shut himself into
his library quivering with the hot sudden rage which belongs to his
conscience-stricken state. How miserable he was, trying to study a case
in which he had to speak next day, and able to understand nothing
except that Valentine Ross was ill, perhaps dying, and through his
means! He had never meant that. He had meant to have his revenge for an
imaginary wrong, and many little imaginary slights, and perhaps to make
his young supplanter lose his election; but that he might put Val’s life
in danger or injure him seriously had never entered into Mr Pringle’s
thoughts. He tried to persuade himself that it was no concern of his,
pursuing in an undercurrent, as his eyes went over his law-papers, all
the arguments about sanitary dangers he had ever read. “What a fool I am
to think that could have had anything to do with it!” he cried, throwing
away his papers when he could bear it no longer, and beginning to pace
up and down his room. What a burning restless pain he had at his heart!
He cast about him vaguely in a kind of blank hopelessness what he could
do, or if he could do anything. This he had never meant. He would not
(he said to himself) have hurt Val or any one, for all the Eskside
estates ten times over; and if anything happened to the boy he could
never hold up his head again, as his wife said.
Mr Pringle had been wretched enough since that miserable election day.
He had been conscious that even his own friends looked coldly upon him,
suspecting him of something which went too far for ordinary political
animosity or the fair fighting of honourable contest; and feeling that
his own very family, and even the wife of his bosom, were against him,
though Mrs Pringle, after her first very full and indignant expression
of her opinion, had said no more on the subject. Still he had not her
moral support, a backing which had scarcely ever failed him before; and
he had the sense of having broken all the ties of friendship with the
Eskside family--old ties which, though he did not love the Rosses, it
was painful altogether to break. He had thrown away those ties, and made
his adversaries bitter and his friends suspicious. So little was Mr
Pringle a bad man, that he had pursued these thoughts for a long time in
his secret heart without recollecting that, should Valentine die, he
would be reinstalled in his position as heir-presumptive. When this
suddenly flashed upon him, he threw himself in his chair and covered his
face with his hands. In that case it would be murder, mere murder! it
would be as if he had killed the boy for the sake of his inheritance.
This startled him beyond anything I can say. Perhaps the profoundest
and most impassioned of all the prayers that were said that night for
Val’s recovery rose in a sudden anguish of remorse and surprised guilt
from the heart of Val’s enemy. He shook like a man struck with palsy;
his nerves contracted; the veins stood out on his forehead. He had never
meant to harm the boy--never, never, God knows!--except in some
momentary way, by a little shame, a little disappointment, which could
have made no real difference in so happy and prosperous a life. The pain
of this thought gripped him as with the crushing grasp of a giant. What
could he do, he said to himself, writhing in his chair--what could he do
to make amends? If he could but have believed in pilgrimages, how gladly
would he have set out bare-footed to any shrine, if that would have
brought back the young life that was in danger! Heaven help him! of all
the people concerned there was no one so entirely to be pitied as poor
Mr Pringle, lying there prostrate in his chair without any strength left
in him, bodily or mental, or any one to back him up, saying to himself
that perhaps it might be that he had murdered Val. He seemed to see
before his eyes the bold handsome boy, the fine young fellow all joyous
and triumphant in the glory of his youth; and was it his hand--a man
with children of his own whom he loved--that had stricken Valentine
down?
Next day--next “lawful day,” as we say in Scotland, for a Sunday
intervened--Mr Pringle broke down in his case before the courts, and
looked so distracted and miserable that the very Lords of Session took
notice of it. “Sandy Pringle is breaking up early,” Lord Birkhill said
to Lord Caldergrange; “he never had any constitution to speak of.”
“Perhaps it is family affection and anxiety about young Ross of
Eskside,” said Lord Caldergrange to Lord Birkhill; and these two learned
authorities, both old enough to have been Sandy Pringle’s father,
chuckled and took snuff together over his family affection and his early
breakdown. The news from the ‘Castleton Herald’ about Val’s illness was
copied that morning into all the Edinburgh papers. Mr Pringle himself,
being of the Liberal party, saw only the ‘Scotsman,’ where it was simply
repeated; but when he was leaving the Parliament House, his son Sandy
came to him with the ‘Courant,’ which, as everybody knows, is the
Conservative paper,--the one in which a _communiqué_ from the Eskside
party would naturally appear. “Have you seen this, sir?” said Sandy,
not, his father thought, without a glimmer of vindictive satisfaction.
They were all against him, wife and children, friends and circumstances.
But the paragraph in the ‘Courant’ was one of a very startling
description, and had already woke up the half of Edinburgh--everybody
who knew or professed to know anything of the Eskside family--to wonder
and interest. The ‘Courant’ gave first the paragraph from the ‘Herald,’
then added another of its own. “We are glad to be able to add that more
favourable news has been received this morning of Mr Ross’s condition.
The crisis of the fever is now past, and all the symptoms, we
understand, are hopeful.” Then came the further information, which took
away everybody’s breath. “We are authorised to state,” said the
‘Courant,’ “that Mr Ross, whose severe illness at such an interesting
juncture of his life has called forth so much public interest and
sympathy, was fortunately at the house of his mother, the Hon. Mrs
Richard Ross, in Oxford, when the first symptoms of fever made their
appearance, and accordingly had from the first every medical attention,
as well as the most devoted nursing which affection could give.”
The paper fell out of Mr Pringle’s hand when he had read this. Sandy
grasped him by the arm, thinking he would have fallen too. “For heaven’s
sake,” cried Sandy, in a fierce whisper, “don’t make an exhibition of
yourself _here_!” Mr Pringle did not answer a word, not even to the
apologies with which, when they were safe out of the crowded precincts
of the Parliament House, his son followed these hasty unfilial words. He
went home to Moray Place in a condition of mind impossible to describe,
feeling himself like a man caught in a snare. The Hon. Mrs Richard Ross,
his mother! Had he really read those words in black and white? Were they
no fiction, but true? His heart was relieved a little, for Val was
better; but how could he ever extricate himself from the labyrinth he
had got into? He had defied the Rosses to produce this mother, and her
appearance seemed to Mr Pringle to close up every place of repentance
for him, and to put him so terribly in the wrong that he could never
face his friends again, or the public which knew him to be the author of
that fatal letter to the electors of Eskshire. Surely no sin ever had
such condign and instantaneous punishment. He was not a murderer, that
was a thing to be thankful for; but he could be proved a liar--a maker
of cruel, unfounded statements--a reporter of scandals! He shut himself
up in his library, making some pretence of work to be done. As for
Sandy, he did not go in at all, being angry and unhappy about the whole
business. That Valentine’s mother should be found, and his rights, which
Sandy had never doubted, fully established, he was heartily glad of. Mrs
Pringle’s wise training had saved Sandy from even a shadow of that folly
of expectation which had so painfully affected his father; but Sandy was
indignant beyond description, hurt in his pride, and mortified to the
heart, that his father should have put himself in such a mean position.
I do not think there was any tingling recollection in him of the blow
Val had given him. If he had borne malice, it would have vanished
utterly at the first mention of Val’s illness; but he did not bear any
malice. He bore another burden, however, more heavy--the burden of shame
for his father’s unwarrantable assault, which, out of respect for his
father, he could not openly disown, but must share the disgrace of,
though he loathed the offence. I think Sandy may be excused if he felt
himself too cross, too wretched in his false position, to face the rest
of the household, and convey to them this startling news.
They had, however, their news too, scarcely less startling. It was the
Monday after the Saturday on which Val had passed the crisis of his
fever, and Sunday had been very trying to these two women in its entire
cessation of news, as Sunday so often is in cases of anxiety. When
Dick’s letter at last came, there was something in it which they
scarcely noticed in their first agitation of joy, but which, by dint of
much reading, came out very strongly at last to their puzzled
perceptions. There was an indescribable indefinite change in their
correspondent’s style. But the reader shall judge for himself what this
was.
“DEAR MADAM,--I am happy to be able to tell you that the crisis is
over, and Valentine is decidedly better. Perhaps you are aware that
all the family are here. He has recognised us all, and, though
weak, will soon regain his strength, the doctor thinks. Other
things have happened, of a very wonderful kind, which I can
scarcely write about; but I hope it may now be possible that I may
one day see you, and explain everything to Miss Violet which she
may wish to know. I do not like to run the risk of agitating
Valentine by telling him that I am writing, but, if you will
permit me, I will write again; and I hope you will always be so
very kind as to think of me, whatever may be the change in
circumstances, as yours and Miss Violet’s obedient servant,
“RICHARD.”
“What does it mean?” said Mrs Pringle. “I am afraid the young man is
taking too much upon himself. To sign himself just ‘Richard’ to you and
me, is a piece of presumption, Vi; and to call Lord Eskside’s grandson
‘Valentine!’ I am not bigoted about rank, as you know; but this is too
much.”
Violet was confounded too. “Perhaps in nursing he has got familiar
without knowing it,” she said. “Oh, mamma, you could not think he was
presumptuous if you had seen Mr Brown.”
“That is all very well, my dear,” said Mrs Pringle. “I believe he is a
good young man; but perhaps it was a little rash to take him into your
confidence. I think I heard your papa come in. Go and see if he is in
the library. It might be a comfort to him to know that Val is better.
Go; and if you see an opportunity, tell him. Say I have had a
letter;--that is all that it is needful to say.”
Violet, though reluctant, obeyed; and Mrs Pringle read Dick’s letter
again, not knowing what to make of it. What did he mean by signing
himself “Richard”? and calling Val by his Christian name? Her conclusion
was, that this boatman, in whom Violet had so rashly put confidence, was
presuming upon the girl’s openness and innocence. Mrs Pringle thanked
heaven that her child “had the sense” to ask him to write to her mother,
who was quite safe, and quite able to manage any presuming person. She
could not make up her mind about this, feeling an uneasy consciousness
in the letter of something unexplained, something more than met the eye,
to which, however, she had no clue; but she resolved, at least, that
this young man should have no further encouragement; that she would
herself write to him, thanking him for his communication, and politely
dropping him, as a woman of Mrs Pringle’s age and condition knows how to
do. Perhaps it had been imprudent of Violet to refer to him at all; but
happily it was an imprudence of which no further harm need come.
Meanwhile Violet went down-stairs to the library, somewhat tremulous,
and half afraid of the morose tones and look into which of late her
father had fallen. When she went in, he snatched up some of his papers,
and pretended to be studying them very closely; the ‘Courant’ lay at his
side upon the writing-table; but it was the law-papers, and not the
‘Courant,’ which Mr Pringle pretended to read. Violet made a shy circle
round the table, not knowing if she might venture to speak. Her courage
failed her, until she suddenly remarked, underneath the shadow of the
hand which supported his head, that her father was watching her, and
that his face was very grey and pallid in the noonday light. This gave
her resolution enough to conquer her timidity. She went up to him, and
put her hand softly on his shoulder.
“Papa,” she said, “I came to tell you that Valentine is better to-day.
Mamma has just had a letter----”
“I know he is better,” said Mr Pringle, with a sigh; and then he pointed
out to her the notice in the paper. “He is better; but there is more
behind--more than we know.”
Vi read the paragraph wondering. It did not affect her except with
surprise. “His mother?” she said; “I never knew----” and then she
bethought herself suddenly of all that had passed, and of that fatal
attack upon Valentine which had (no doubt) brought on his fever, and
which threatened to separate him from her for ever. “Oh, papa!” she
cried suddenly, with a flash from her eyes which seemed to scorch the
culprit like a gleam of angry yet harmless lightning; then she added,
looking at him fixedly, with indignant firmness: “But you are glad of
this? glad he is better? glad his mother is found, and that everything
will go well?”
Mr Pringle paused a moment looking at her. He was afraid to contradict
her. He answered hurriedly, half servilely: “Yes, yes--I’m glad;” then,
with a groan--“Vi, I am made a fool of. I am proved a poor, mean, paltry
liar; that was never what I meant to be. Perhaps I said more than was
right; but it was for justice, Vi--yes, it was for justice, though you
may not believe what I say.”
If you consider all that Violet had suffered, you will perceive how hard
it was for her all at once to look upon this question impartially, to
believe what her father said. She turned away her head from him in
natural resentment. Then her tender heart was touched by the tones of
wretchedness in his voice.
“Yes,” he said, getting up from his chair, “you may think it was all ill
feeling--and so many think; but it was for justice too. And now,
apparently, things are turning out as I never expected. I did not
believe in this woman, and God knows whether it may not be a cheat
still. But if this is true that they are bold enough to put in the
newspaper, then,” said Mr Pringle, with a groan, “I’m in the wrong, my
dear--I am in the wrong, and I don’t know what to do.”
He sank down again, leaning his head on the table, and hiding his face
in his hands. Vi’s heart melted altogether. She put her soft arm round
his neck, and bent down her head upon his. She did not feel the
bitterness of being in the wrong. It seemed to her innocent soul that
there was so easy a way to shake off that burden. She clasped her father
round the neck and whispered consolation. “Papa, dear! you have nothing
to do but to say this to them. Oh, what makes you think you don’t know
what to do? Say you were wrong, and that you are sorry! One is so
certain that this must be the right thing.”
He shook her away not unkindly but with a little impatience. “You don’t
know--you are too young to know,” he said.
“Papa, can there be any doubt?” said Violet, in the majesty of her
innocence. “When one has done wrong, one undoes it, one confesses that
it was wicked. What else? Is it not the first lesson one learns in
life?” said the girl, serene in perfect certainty, and sadly superior to
her age, in what she considered her experience of that existence of
which she already knew the sorrows. She stood over him as grave and
sweet as an angel, and spoke with entire and childlike confidence in her
abstract code. “We all may be wrong,” said Violet, “the best of us; but
when we find it out we must say so, and ask pardon of God and of those
whom we have wronged, papa. Is there any other way?”