CHAPTER XXIICROSS-PURPOSES
A few days after this, the subject of the above discussion, the ‘astonishing Miss Askam,’ the new friend of the Johnson family, and the object of Dr. Rowntree’s fervent admiration, returning from a morning visit to the Vicarage, and making her way home by way of the ‘Castle-walk,’ as it was called, found herself a little tired; and as it was a mild and sunshiny day, she seated herself upon a wooden bench which was situated just under the ruin of the great tower, and rested herself, while she watched the flow of Tees, turbid with the late rains, far below her feet.
While she sat there, some one, humming a tune, came round the corner, and Eleanor, glancing at her, beheld the showily dressed little figure of Ada Dixon. Ada had seen Eleanor, too, and she hesitated perceptibly in her walk, a look of expectation and curiosity upon her face.
‘Good morning,’ said Eleanor cheerfully, and did not intend to say any more; but Ada stopped, now that she had a faint excuse for doing so. Eleanor then remembered what had seemed to her the rude treatment bestowed upon the young girl by Otho and Magdalen, on the occasion of her well-remembered visit to BalderHall, and she decided that a little courtesy might not be out of place here.
‘Good morning, Miss Askam,’ Ada replied, her eyes roving anxiously over all the details of the other’s costume. ‘How do you do? I hope you are very well,’ she added, deciding within her own mind that Miss Askam ‘dressed very plain and dark, and all one colour—just a plain, dark brown. I do like a little brightness.’
‘I am very well, thank you,’ said Eleanor, utterly unconscious of this scrutiny. ‘Have you been to Miss Wynter’s again lately?’
‘Yes, Miss Askam. I go there pretty often. Once or twice a week, at any rate. Miss Wynter and I are great friends.’
‘Oh. And how are your songs getting on? Those which you are preparing for the concert, I mean!’
‘Oh, thank you, very well. I’m almost perfect in them now.’
‘Perhaps you would like to sit down. I felt tired; it is such a mild morning,’ said Eleanor, making room on the bench.
Ada promptly sat down.
‘I was feeling a little tired,’ she replied, with an air of languor; ‘really, the weather is not at all seasonable.’
‘No; but do you like frost? I do; but you don’t look to me as if you could stand much of that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, I’m not particularly delicate, thank you—never very strong, but I always keep going, somehow,’ said Ada. ‘I haven’t seen you at Balder Hall, lately,’ she added, to Eleanor’s great astonishment.
‘That is not surprising, as I have not been there since the day I saw you,’ she answered, indifferently.‘Are you going to sing that same song at the concert?’ she added.
‘No, not that one. I take part in a duet with Miss Wynter.’
‘I see. Not so trying, quite, as having to stand up alone. I saw you were a little nervous that afternoon; but one soon gets over that when one has once started.’
‘Oh, thank you, there’s no call to pity me,’ said Ada, with a lofty smile. ‘I’m accustomed to singing before gentlemen.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that exactly,’ said Eleanor, astounded to find the construction put upon her words. ‘What a queer little self-sufficient, ill-bred thing it is!’ she reflected to herself. ‘How sad that Mr. Camm should be so blind!’ For she had heard a great deal about Roger Camm at the Vicarage, and from the doctor, whom she had seen once or twice in the last few days.
‘It did not matter in the least,’ went on Ada, anxious to vindicate herself from the charge of nervousness. ‘When one has to sing in public, it would never do to get nervous before one’s friends.’
‘Well, no,’ Eleanor admitted, secretly more and more surprised and amused. ‘Is she like this by nature, or has Miss Wynter petted her till she has got such ideas into her head?’ Meantime, Ada, secretly much elated, wished very much that some one would come by and see her seated side by side with Miss Askam, who, it was evident, was quite pleased to see her. She was accustomed to be treated very differently by Magdalen, who talked to her as if she had been a child, snubbed her, and sent her running to fetch and carry, while she encouraged her to come, and said she could not do without her. Magdalen, as Ada knew, valued her at no veryhigh figure; Miss Askam, she fancied, mistook her for a lady. For poor Ada, with all her vanity, was so keenly conscious of not being a lady, so well aware that something was wanting to make her into one—a really fashionable milliner, probably, or a course of visiting amongst stylish people. So she behaved now with a perkish flippancy, intended to show that she was as well aware of her own claims to distinction as any one else could be, which, indeed, was very emphatically the case.
Ada had a book in her hand, or rather a paper number of a newspaper or journal.
‘Were you reading as you took your walk?’ asked Eleanor.
‘Yes, I was,’ and she displayed the title-page of the periodical, with a sensational engraving on it, and the title,Genteel Journal.
‘Oh dear!’ Eleanor could not help saying; ‘are you fond of reading?’
‘Very, some sorts of reading. I like the stories in theGenteel Journal, and the poetry too. Have you read “The Earl’s Caprice”?’
‘No,’ said Eleanor, much interested, and wondering what further developments the conversation would take. ‘Is that a story?’
‘Yes, indeed, a most delightful one. It is running now in theJournal, and leaves off at such an exciting part. They always do.’
‘Who is the author?’
‘Miss Laura Loveday. Don’t you think her stories are very pretty?’
‘I’m afraid I am very ignorant, for I never heard of her before.’
‘You do surprise me. There’s lovely poetry in thispaper too. Augustus Sprout writes a good deal for it. You will know his poetry, I daresay.’
‘I must plead guilty to having never heard of either him or his poems.’
‘Dear me, how odd! TheGenteel Journalpublished a sketch of his life a little while ago. It was like a novel to read it.’
‘Since you are so fond of stories, of course you are acquainted with the classics amongst our novelists,—Thackeray, Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, and all the other great names?’
‘Classics!’ cried Ada, not answering the question. ‘Oh, I know what classics are. Roger—Mr. Camm, that is, you know—is always telling me I should read this and that and the other, because they are classics. I know I never tried a classic yet that wasn’t awfully dry—yes, awfully.’
‘Perhaps you haven’t ever really tried.’
‘Oh yes, I have. He does like such very dry books. I lent him one of Laura Loveday’s novels, one day—not the “Earl’s Caprice,” but another, “The Fate of the Falconers,” it was called. It is such a pretty story, all about how a very old family were saved from ruin by the eldest son’s clandestine marriage with quite a poor, obscure girl, but very beautiful, of course. Well, Roger brought it back very soon, and said it was worse than silly, it was nasty—fancy, accusing me of reading nasty things, Miss Askam! And he wondered how I could pollute my mind with such stuff.’
‘Well?’ said Eleanor, with deep interest.
‘And he wanted me to promise never to read any more of Laura Loveday’s novels. Just fancy!’
‘And I am sure you did promise,’ said Eleanor, gently.
‘Not I, indeed!’ retorted Ada, tossing her head; and then, seeing that Miss Askam’s eyes were fixed very gravely upon her, she reddened, and added, with some confusion—
‘Well, there, I did promise. He was so very urgent about it.’
‘I thought you would. I am sure Mr. Camm was quite right. And I am sure you will be all the better for not reading any more of Miss Loveday’s novels. Even if you read nothing else, it would be better not to read them.’
Ada fumbled for some little time with a massive silver watch-chain, and then said slowly—
‘Miss Askam, don’t you be shocked, but I have read some more of them—two of them. I did not tell Roger, because I knew he’d never ask me. He doesn’t really care about it, you know; it’s only that he hasn’t a head for stories, and that sort of thing; and he thinks every one else can care for the same dry things that he likes. I did try to read Macaulay’s “History,” but it was no use. What do I care for such things—things that happened hundreds and thousands of years ago——’ She saw a startled expression upon her auditor’s face, and went on: ‘There, I see I’m all wrong; but I did hate it so, that I can’t even remember what it was about, nor when it all happened. I can’t read such books, and that’s all about it; and yet, something I must have to read.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry that you did read those two other books!’ exclaimed Eleanor, earnestly.
And Ada Dixon thought how very odd she was, and not anything like as nice as Miss Wynter. Miss Wynter always encouraged her to talk about the novels of LauraLoveday, or about the poems of Augustus Sprout, or, indeed, about anything and everything that came into her head. Remembering this, and feeling that it was impossible for any one to know better about things than Miss Wynter, she took courage, and said—
‘Well, but, Miss Askam, I don’t see that Roger has a right to dictate things of that kind to me, especially when I’m not interested in the things that interest him. Miss Wynter always asks me all about the novels, and poetry, and things, and she says it amuses her immensely to hear about them.’
‘I daresay it does,’ said Eleanor, in a tone of such strong and unguarded displeasure, that Ada immediately thought, ‘She’s jealous of Miss Wynter for something. Ma said she was.’
‘But,’ Eleanor pursued, ‘you had not been dictated to. I understand that you promised Mr. Camm——’
‘Well, I did; but——’
‘But you should not have broken your promise. Please do excuse my saying it. I daresay I have no business to, but I feel so much interested in you and Mr. Camm. I have heard so much about him, and I think he must be so remarkably clever and interesting——’
‘Doyou!’you!’exclaimed Ada, in unaffected astonishment.‘Well, I never!’‘Well, I never!’
‘I feel perfectly certain that he is very clever, and that some day he will make a mark in the world. I’m sure there is no doubt about that. You should be very proud to have won the love of such a man, for I am sure that you will have reason to be proud to be his wife, some day.’
‘Eh, Miss Askam!’
Ada was, as she would have said herself, ‘taken aback’ by Miss Askam’s earnestness, and especially by the bold way in which she prophesied great things, and that, too, before the event. It had never occurred to her to look at it in that light before. Her father always said how steady and ‘decent’ Roger was; that meant, she knew, that he was expected always to have an income and a comfortable home for her, Ada. But her mother looked down upon him; and she herself, though she had been pleased and flattered with his attentions at first, and was aware that many another girl in Bradstane would have lent no unwilling ear to his courting, had lately begun to see the possibility of a future, far more highly coloured and richly gilded than any that Roger Camm had to offer her; a future more like the state of things depicted in ‘The Fate of the Falconers,’ in which the heir of an ancient and lordly house, handsome, picturesque, with the manners of a prince, and the sins of a Corsair upon his soul, became enslaved by the charms of a young girl, her own age, and, so far as she had gathered from the description, very much resembling herself in personal appearance. A secret marriage had followed; a little romantic adversity, in which lovers and flattery, and old castles and devoted retainers, of whom, she thought, old Barlow at Thorsgarth might stand as a very fair specimen, had never been missing. These romantic adjuncts had never been wanting in the story; and then came the gradual working-round, which in the end left the lovely Adela a countess, with crowds of servants, jewels, a box at the opera, and all London raving about her beauty. That—or something as near it as circumstances allowed—was the life for her, thought Ada. That was the sphere she had been born to grace;and the rapture of feeling that for her sake a man would give up his evil ways, was infinitely beyond any prosaic union with one who was not distinguished by having evil ways to give up. But here Miss Askam’s voice again disturbed her.
‘Yes, I am quite sure of it,’ she said, in the same straightforward, earnest way. ‘I think you ought to be very proud that he has chosen you; and as for giving up reading things which he disapproves of, you surely cannot hesitate about that. You must know that he is very clever, and has had a great deal more experience than you have.’
‘Oh yes.’ Ada was quite ready to own that. It was what she was quite sure of. The only thing was, she was not sure that cleverness and experience, like Roger’s, made their owners altogether more agreeable. At any rate, they became oppressive when frequently used to point out to her her shortcomings. That was not her idea of the functions of a lover; it was not the way in which the heroes in Laura Loveday’s novels behaved. Those gentlemen had eyes of fire and lips of flame; they always managed to appear suddenly by moonlight, and the scenery in which they moved always happened to be of a picturesque kind,—balconies and verandahs forming a great feature in every landscape. They never alluded to Macaulay’s ‘History;’ and while Roger had once told her how glad he was that she had discarded her chignon, which he went so far as to characterise as a ‘nasty lump,’ Miss Loveday’s heroes were in the habit of pushing back the tresses from their mistress’s brows, and murmuring words of adoration in her ears. Yet here was Miss Askam telling her she ought to be proud to be loved by this fault-finding man; perhaps she ought to be proudeven of being found fault with. She would ask; and she did.
‘But, Miss Askam, Roger is always picking holes in what I do. It isn’t in books alone, but about everything, and always—at least, very often. I suppose I ought to be proud of that, too, since he’s so very clever, you say.’
‘You say!’ Eleanor perceived from these words that she had wasted her breath, and privately felt that it served her right for ever entering into such a discussion. But Ada was looking at her with intense earnestness, and Eleanor asked, ‘Do you really wish me to give you my opinion on such a subject?’
‘Indeed, I wish you would.’
‘Well, in a way, I think you ought to be proud to be even found fault with by him. He would not do it if he did not care very much for you, and also feel sure that you had it in you to grow into something higher andbetter.’better.’
‘Well, I don’t know. Roger was satisfied enough when I said I would have him,’ said Ada, discontentedly.
‘But,’ said Eleanor, the slow, deep blush coming over her face, and hesitating as she spoke, ‘if you love him very much, as of course you do——?’
‘I—oh yes, I’m very fond of him, of course,’ said Ada, unwillingly.
‘Then you won’t be satisfied with yourself, I should think, but will want to rise higher and become better and better, so as to be more worthy of him.’
‘Worthy of him!’ echoed Ada, offended. ‘I’m as good as he is. He’s not the only one I could have had. No, and I needn’t be sitting in the dust to keep him. If it was all off to-morrow I could have another next week.’
‘Could you, indeed?’ said Eleanor, coldly. ‘I think we probably don’t agree upon the matter, and had better not say any more about it. You asked my opinion, or I certainly should not have spoken to you on such a subject.’
She rose, and seeing Ada’s flushed and discomfited look, could not continue vexed with her.
‘I am sorry if I have annoyed you,’ she said, frankly, and smiling her bright smile. She offered Ada her hand, adding, still with a smile, ‘You must forgive me, and don’t let Mr. Camm know that you have been getting lectures from some one else. I expect he prefers to keep a monopoly of them.’
Ada could not rise to the occasion. She shook hands rather sheepishly, muttered something about it ‘not mattering,’ and the two separated.
After lunch, late in the afternoon, and when it was growing dusk, Eleanor was sitting in the library. She had found that when she did this, Otho, especially now that he had a friend with him, would sometimes stroll in towards evening and sit for an hour. This afternoon he did so, followed by Gilbert. They had been shooting, said they were thirsty, and craved for tea, which she gave them.
If Eleanor looked grave in these days, the gravity was partly caused by the fact that she could not reconcile the Gilbert Langstroth of whom she had heard so much, and from so many persons, with the Gilbert Langstroth who was Otho’s guest, and her own frequent companion. She naturally abhorred what she had heard of him; she had received him with cold civility, and was in every way disposed to keep him at a distance and cherish exalted thoughts of his brother. But shehad found it impossible. Strongly biassed though she was against Gilbert, and for Michael, she could not succeed in finding Gilbert detestable. Reason as she would, she could not make herself find him personally disagreeable, or be bored, vexed, or harassed by his company. He had great power, she had had to confess—power to make himself welcome, looked for, agreeable, his opinion valuable, and his influence desired; while his marvellous command over Otho called forth her gratitude, and forced her into an attitude of half-cordial, half-reluctant civility to him and respect for him. It was the effort to reconcile this Gilbert Langstroth who had suddenly appeared in her life, with the Gilbert Langstroth of years ago, of whom and of whose treachery one uniform story was everywhere told, that helped to make her grave, and gave a shade of embarrassment to her manner towards him.