“That is very satisfactory for us Tories, my dear,” said Mary, “and I am obliged to you for your magnanimity; but what is it then, my pretty Vi, that you have upon your mind?”
The girl paused and let fall a few sudden tears. “Mary,” she said (for there was a Scotch tie of kinship between them also which made this familiarity admissible), “I am so frightened—and I don’t know what I am frightened at. I feel sure papa means to do something more than any one knows of, against Val.”
“Against Val! He means to oppose his election, no doubt, and give Lord Eskside and our side all the trouble possible: we know that,” cried Mary, who was a politician of the old school. “These are always the tactics of the party—to give as much trouble, and sow as many heart-burnings as possible; though they know they have not a chance of success.”
“I suppose it is just what the Tories would do if they were in the same position,” said Violet, naturally on the defensive. “But all that is nothing to me,” she cried; “if people like to fight, let them: I don’t mind it myself—the excitement is pleasant. But, of course, you know better than I do—are you sure there is nothing more than fair fighting that papa could do to Val?”
“I am sure your papa is not a man to do anything inconsistent with fair fighting,” said Mary, evasively, her curiosity strongly roused.
This stopped Violet once more. She gave a heavy sigh. “I hear them say that everything is fair in an election contest, as everything is fair in war.”
“Or love.”
“I don’t understand such an opinion,” said Violet, rising to her feet and striking her pretty hands together in impatience. “If a thing is wrong once, it is wrong always. Love! they call that love which can be pushed on by tricks and lies; and people like you, Mary—people who ought to know better—say so too. Of course, one knows you cannot think it,” the girl cried, with a quick-drawn breath, half sob, half sigh.
“Well, dear, I suppose we all give in to the saying of things which we don’t think,” said Miss Percival, deprecatingly; “but, Vi, you have made me curious. What is it your father means to do?”
“I wanted to ask you that; what can he do? Can he do anything?” said Violet. Mary looked at the impulsive girl, not knowing what to answer. Vi was true as truth itself in her generous young indignation against all unworthy strategy—and she was “fond of” and “friends with” Val, according to the childish phraseology which, in this respect at least, she chose to retain. But still, even Violet’s innocence was a reason for not trusting her with any admission that Valentine was open to special attack. She might assail her father with injudicious partisanship, entreating him to withhold from assaults which he had never thought of making; so that, on the whole, Mary judged it was judicious to say nothing as to any special flaw in the young candidate’s armour. She shook her head.