CHAPTER XVTHREE WOMEN
‘Miss Dixon to see you, ma’am,’ said the servant. Eleanor looked on with some interest, as Magdalen greeted the young woman who entered—greeted her in a manner which, though cordial, was decidedly a patronising manner. Eleanor saw that the girl’s eyes fell almost instantly upon her, and dwelt upon her, surveying her with an eagerness and a curiosity which puzzled and somewhat annoyed her. Miss Askam saw, too, that the new-comer, though Magdalen spoke to her in a tone almost of intimacy, was not a lady, as the term is usually understood.
‘This is Miss Ada Dixon,’ observed Magdalen; ‘a friend of mine, who comes to sing with me sometimes. Ada, Miss Askam.’
Eleanor bowed to the young girl, who returned the movement with a somewhat affected contortion of the body, and said, ‘How do you do, Miss Askam?’ all in a certain manner which, while it could scarcely be called vulgar or awkward, was yet most distinctly not the manner of one accustomed to good society, or feeling at her ease in it. Eleanor looked at her with some curiosity. She saw an extremely pretty, slight girl, with a small face, of classical purity and correctness of outline, lighthazel eyes, a delicate complexion, a prettymignonnefigure, dressed in the mostoutréof would-be fashionable styles,—such second-rate, nay, third or fourth rate fashion as Bradstane milliners and dressmakers could supply, aggravated by an entire want in the wearer of any sense of harmony or fitness. She had piled upon her pretty little person many strange mixtures of material and structures of garments. A tightly fitting winter jacket, for example, of thick cloth, trimmed with fur, was a not unsuitable garment for the season; but, instead of the serviceable silk neckerchief one would have expected to see worn with it, Miss Dixon had on a large and conspicuous arrangement of white lace, muslin, and blue ribbon, inclined to puff up under her chin in an unmanageable way, but kept within bounds by a massive silver locket and chain. This was but one example of the innumerable errors of taste and style which characterised the girl’s toilette; and yet, so pretty was she, so fresh and charming in her prettiness, that one forgot to criticise very severely such minor matters as clashing colours and incongruous materials.
‘And how are you, Ada?’ asked Miss Wynter.
‘Very well, thank you, Miss Wynter. There’s nothing ails me, that I know of.’
‘You’ll have a cup of tea, I daresay. Have you walked from Bradstane?’
‘Yes, Miss Wynter, I have.’
‘And how are you going to get home?’
‘I’m to leave here at half-past six, if you can do with me so long, and then Mr. Camm will meet me at the gate, he said.’
‘Meet you at the gate? Did you not ask him to come in?’
‘I did say that you’d told me to bring him in, Miss Wynter; but he never will. It’s no use. He has no more manners than a cat, and so I often tell him. I’m sure I’ve said many a time how bad it looks for him to come just so far for me, and not any farther.’
‘Oh, I think Mr. Camm is not very fond of me.’
‘Oh, Miss Wynter, I assure you——’ began Ada, reddening vividly.
‘There, never mind. Young men will do their own way, I know. You must know, Miss Askam,’ she added, turning to Eleanor, ‘Miss Dixon has a stalwart protector in the shape of her betrothed, Mr. Roger Camm.’
‘Oh, indeed.’
‘He is Dr. Langstroth’s greatest friend, you know,’ pursued Magdalen. ‘They live in the same house, and are quite inseparable.’
‘Yes,’ said Eleanor, wondering within herself whether this Roger Camm formed, intellectually or socially, any connecting link between Michael Langstroth and Ada Dixon, for it appeared to her that there was a considerable distance between them in every way.
Ada had now finished her tea. Of course, she did not reveal to her hostess that Roger Camm had said nothing would induce him to set foot within the Balder Hall walls, but that he would walk the two miles from Bradstane to meet his sweetheart, rather than let her return alone in the dark, or be dependent upon Miss Wynter’s good nature for an escort or a carriage.
‘Would you mind giving us a song, Ada?’ said the latter. ‘I am sure Miss Askam would like it, and I want to hear how you have progressed since the last time I heard you.’
‘Oh, withpleasure,pleasure,’ said Ada, with an undeniablesimper, as she pulled off her gloves and went to the piano. She unrolled some music, sat down, and had just run her fingers over the keys, when the door was again opened, and this time it was Otho who walked in. He paused a moment, looked round, and then said—
‘Holloa, Ada; you here! How do?’ And he nodded to her.
‘How do you do, Mr. Askam?’ said the girl, colouring a little, as she rose from the music-stool and made a kind of bow.
‘Now, don’t let Mr. Askam prevent us from hearing your song, child,’ said Magdalen, as Otho seated himself near her, and began to talk in a low voice.
Eleanor had watched the scene with a sense of displeasure, ill-defined, but strong. She now perceived that Ada had become nervous—that she cleared her throat, and did not seem quite able to begin. Thinking it was too bad of Magdalen to treat the girl in this way, and insist upon her singing before two perfect strangers, when she had very likely expected no other audience than her hostess herself, Eleanor, with the instinct which never failed her in such cases, rose and went to the piano.
‘What is your song called, Miss Dixon?’ she asked, kindly. ‘I will turn over the leaves for you, if I may.’
‘Oh, thank you, Miss Askam!’ said Ada, evidently much relieved.
Eleanor casually wondered why she should insist upon saying the name of every person to whom she spoke every time she addressed them. Magdalen and Otho interrupted their conversation for a moment, to look and listen, then resumed it as if no one but themselves were present.
Ada began to sing, in a fresh, tuneful soprano voice, a simple unaffected ditty which Eleanor rightly conjectured had been chosen for, rather than by her. It was a bright, rather pathetic little song, all about faith and love and the rewards of constancy, and when it was over Eleanor was able conscientiously to say—
‘Thank you very much. It is a very pretty song.’
Otho also murmured something, intended perhaps for thanks; and then Eleanor, who felt jarred and vexed in every nerve, from the uncongenial conversation in which she had lately partaken, wished Magdalen good afternoon.
‘Oh, are you going?’ exclaimed the latter. ‘Why must you go so soon?’
‘It is dark, and I think I have been here a good while. Are you ready, Otho?’
Otho looked at his sister for a moment. Then he also took his leave, and very soon they were riding away, side by side, down the avenue of the Balder Hall drive.
Eleanor drew a long breath as they went out at the gates, and emerged upon the high-road. She was conscious of a feeling of weariness, of a wish for a little cold fresh air—something bracing—and of a hope that Otho would not ask her anything about Miss Wynter. In that she was disappointed, for he inquired almost immediately what she thought of her.
‘I do not like her much, Otho,’ she said, as gently as she could. ‘It may be prejudice on my part, and one cannot tell after seeing a person for the first time, but there is something—I can hardly define it—a tone about her that I do not like.’
‘Just like a girl,’ said Otho, in a surly tone. ‘Andscarcely any women do like Magdalen. They can’t forgive her for being so handsome.’
‘She is very handsome indeed. Perhaps I may like her better when—or if I learn to know more of her. I should be sorry to dislike a friend of yours. But I must own that I could not get to like her, this afternoon.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose your likes or dislikes are of much importance to her,’ he said, roughly.
‘Not of the very least, I should think. It is to me that they are important, especially if I see much of Miss Wynter. By the way, who was that girl who came in? I could not quite understand her.’
‘Oh, she’s aprotégéeof Magdalen’s—has been for years—a daughter of Dixon the stationer in the town. A queer little rat, isn’t she, who tries to ape the ways of fine ladies. She’s engaged to a very rough diamond of a man—anything but a fine gentleman; and I should have thought a counter-jumper or a commercial gent would have been more in her line. But no, she’s going to marry this fellow. Roger Camm is his name. He is the manager at the Townend Mills, which Gilbert Langstroth and I work together. I don’t like the fellow. He is so uppish, and yet he is so first-rate in his work, that if I sacked him I should not know where to put my hand on any one else like him.’
‘A friend of Dr. Langstroth’s, Miss Wynter said.’
‘Yes, and that does not make me love him any the better, I can tell you.’
‘You don’t like Dr. Langstroth?’
‘Like him!’ echoed Otho, with brutal candour. ‘I hate him. A wild, vapouring, sentimental fellow, that the women all rave about—why, I can’t imagine, for his ways are cold enough to them, for all his handsomeface. He sets up to know better than any one else. In fact, he’s a conceited prig, that’s what Michael Langstroth is. The place would be well rid of him, in my opinion, if he’d only have the goodness to leave it. His brother Gilbert is worth a thousand of him.’
‘In what way?’ asked Eleanor curtly.
‘In common sense, and knowledge of the world, and—everything that goes to make a man,’ said Otho, angrily.
Eleanor hearkened, but made no reply to his words. She had not yet been with him twenty-four hours, but she already had an intuitive feeling as to what subjects would and would not be congenial to him.
‘I see you’ve been hearing that old tale, have you?’ Otho went on, glancing at her. ‘Magdalen has been improving the shining hour, I perceive. But she does not usually slang Gilbert.’
‘She did not “slang” anybody, as you call it,’ said Eleanor, feeling ever a deeper repugnance as Otho more fully unfolded his views upon men and things, in language, too, of increasing nicety of expression.
‘There are always two sides to a question,’ he went on, ‘and some people seem to me to forget that, but for Gilbert, his father would have had no money to leave; so that he was entitled to a voice in the disposal of it, if ever man was. His brother treated him like a dog at that time. I’ve always hated him for it, and I like to flaunt Gilbert in his face when he comes to stay with me. And as for Magdalen jilting Michael Langstroth, as they call it—jiltinghim!’ Otho sneered—‘I don’t see why a woman is to be called a jilt because, when she has given a man full three years’ trial, and at the end of the time finds that he is as far off as ever from being able to keep her, and has chucked up the one chancethere was of being provided for, she writes and tells him she thinks there had better be an end to it. And that’s about what did happen between them.’
Eleanor made no reply to this further explanation of Otho’s views. She felt disgusted—it was the only word for her condition. She felt as if she would like to make her opinion known to both Otho and Magdalen, upon this question of their conduct to Michael Langstroth. It was the first time in her life that she had been brought in contact with such doings as seemed to have been going on here. Long ago they had taken place, these ugly evil deeds of falsehood and injustice! Their effect upon the perpetrators did not seem to have been that of making them more urbane in manner, happy in disposition, or lofty in character. Poor Eleanor still felt very strong—felt as if she could cope with any fate that presented itself to her. But even now she did not feel so buoyant as before. The scenes she had that afternoon passed through struck deep root in her memory: Magdalen’s cold, unattractive beauty, her cynicism, and the fear, which she had not been able quite to conceal, lest she was going to lose her hold over Otho (what was that hold? Eleanor wondered); Otho, talking, self-assertive, abusive, and, as Eleanor felt, deep down in her heart—miserable; Michael Langstroth, with whom she had been struck on their first meeting, and who haunted her, now that she knew his history, with his dark face, grave and almost stern, his eyes, bent upon her and Magdalen with, it seemed to her, the same expression for both—one of cold, imperturbable politeness and perfect indifference; the little dressed-up doll, with her fifth-rate airs and graces;—the whole entertainment had repelled and disgusted her. She would not cultivateMagdalen’s acquaintance, if she were doomed not to have another friend in Bradstane. And as for Dr. Langstroth, was he Magdalen’s friend still? She had said so, but nothing in his manner or expression had confirmed it.
‘I wish I knew,’ Eleanor said to herself, as they stopped at their own hall-door. ‘I wonder he ever condescended to speak to her again. It’s the only thing about him that seems inexplicable,’ was her further reflection, as Otho lifted her from her horse.