CHAPTER XXXIIFIRST ALARM
One day, very early in May, Michael Langstroth wrote from Bradstane to Roger Camm in Leeds:—
‘A strong sense of duty alone induces me to trouble you with a letter, for there is literally no news to tell you. When was there ever any in Bradstane? And just now we are duller than usual, for nearly every one is away. People (the few who are left here) talk now off and on about the Derby, and speculate whether Crackpot will win. He is not the favourite, as of course you know, but takes a good place. I daresay I hear more of that kind of thing than you do. The British Medical people meet in Leeds this year. Of course it won’t be till August, but I have every intention of going; and putting up with you; and I look forward to it as if it were some wild dissipation. It is, at any rate, too good a chance to be missed of hearing and seeing something, and getting one’s blood stirred up generally. I often wonder I do not turn into a mummy or a block of wood. On reading this you will probably leap to the rash conclusion that your account of two political meetings, and their consequent excitement, has roused my envy and upset my tranquillity, and that in future, you had perhaps better not supply me with such stimulating food! I beg youwill not cherish any such delusion. Your account of the meetings was most interesting and amusing; but as you know, I have a great contempt for all political parties in the abstract, and to see a vast body of men, swayed like reeds by the passion of the moment—groaning like demons when they hear one set of names, cheering like maniacs at another, falling like living storm waves upon any unfortunate wight who dares to express dissent from their views, and hustling him out—is to me a melancholy spectacle. You would doubtless say, that without such passions and prejudices to be worked upon, things might be at a standstill. I suppose they might: all I know is, I am very thankful that there are so many men in the world that my indifference makes no difference. You will wonder whence this sermon arises. I have been meditating a good deal lately o’ nights; having felt tired when I came in, and not having had your music to govern my meditations, as in days of old. And I was thinking, only last night, of a dispute we used to have in our younger days, about life and events. I always maintained (quite wrongly, I confess now) that you got no reallife, no movement, stimulus, animation, outside of a big city: you vowed that, on the contrary, it is the nature of the man that determines his life, and that dramas and tragedies as full of terror and pathos as Shakespeare’s own might be played out within even as narrow a compass as the township of Bradstane-on-Tees, provided the actors were there, and that they lived, not played their parts. You were right, and I suppose you hold the opinion still; but this is what I want to know—how often is it that one gets the chance to live? Most people would answer, once at least, in a lifetime; and there it is that I totally disagree with them. Mine is a small stagefrom which to preach, but I have seen as many people as some who live on a larger one, and I have observed them and their conditions carefully. And, because of my profession, the people I have seen have been of all sorts and conditions, and the conclusion I have come to is, that most lives are filled with emptiness—with a dead, dull uneventfulness. Action is for the favoured few; culture for a great many more, if they choose to avail themselves of it, which usually they don’t; monotony for most.
‘That brings me back to my own life, and its monotony. Let me try to collect a little gossip for you, and free myself from the reproach of having sent an essay, unredeemed by a single touch of narrative.
‘Otho Askam is away. He has scarcely been at Thorsgarth since the new year. Just now he is busied, they say, about this precious horse which is to run this precious race. His sister’s house, too, is empty just now. She was persuaded, Mrs. Johnson tells me, to go and see her friends in London for a time; but is coming back before Whitsuntide, as, in the kindness of her heart she is going to feast some little ragged wretches out of Bridge Street, whom she has taken under her wing. But it is not Whitsuntide yet. It falls near the end of May this year. I feel in a communicative humour to-night, so I will tell you a secret. My life is monotonous to me, as I believe I have set forth already at some length; and I wish with all my heart that Eleanor Askam had not a fortune of twelve hundred a year; for if she had nothing at all, I would humbly ask her if she would condescend to relieve that monotony of my life. I should also have the feeling that I could in a measure pay her back in kind, by alleviating, as I would, some of the sorrow that darkens hers.
‘I believe I had something else to say to you. I am almost certain that I sat down with a distinct impression that I was going to write to you about something. Oh yes, here it is. I suppose you hear regularly from Miss Dixon, and so, of course, you will know that a little while ago, she returned from her long sojourn in Wensleydale. I heard she had gone there for the pure air and all that, and because her father’s relations wanted to have her, and because she did not feel very strong at the end of the winter. You know, I have always thought her a very delicate girl, but now—I do not think it right to conceal it from you—she looks very ill indeed. Her cheeks have fallen in; her face is pale; she is the shadow of what she was. I hate to write this; in fact, I was so unwilling to write it, that I scribbled all the rubbish which premises it, in the hope that, somehow, I might get out of this; but I cannot. It would be no friend’s part; and what blame would you not have the right to put upon me, if I let it pass by without telling you. She is very ill, I am certain. If I were on different terms with them, I should go to Mrs. Dixon, and tell her she ought to have advice for her. I keep wishing they would summon me, or Rowntree; for they surely must see themselves the change in her. I fancy she ought to go to a warmer climate, or rather, she ought never to have gone to Yorkshire. That part of Wensleydale where she was, is piercingly cold—worse than this. It is in a valley, but the valley itself is very much elevated. I do not want to make you more uneasy than is necessary. We must recollect that this is the “merry month” of east winds, bronchitis, and pleurisy, and many a delicate girl withers up during May and comes out blooming again in June. Let us hope this is such a case. Sleep takes possession of me; therefore, good night!’
This letter had veritably been written in the way described in it. Michael had beheld Ada, and the change in her; and as Roger never, in any of his pretty frequent letters, mentioned any rumour of the illness of his betrothed, his friend reluctantly came to the conclusion that he knew nothing about it, and that to leave him in such a state of ignorance was utterly impossible for him. All the first part of his letter he had written ramblingly, half his mind occupied with a wonder whether he could not absolve himself from the moral necessity which he felt upon him, of speaking about Ada. He could not, and the result was the composition above, which was written on a Wednesday night, and despatched on a Thursday morning. Michael did not expect any immediate answer to it, but went about his business, as usual.
On the said Thursday morning, near the Castle, he met Ada Dixon. There was, indeed, a piercing east wind blowing, and the girl wore a common-looking fur cloak, with which her father had presented her at Christmas, and of which she had been proud, in that in shape and fashion it bore a faint resemblance to the costly garments in which Miss Wynter and Miss Askam were in the habit of wrapping themselves on cold days. Perhaps the dead black of the cloak showed up her pallor still more strongly by contrast; but as Michael met her—he was on foot, going to see a patient who lived beside the river-bank; she ascending a little hill, slowly and wearily, and he going down it—with her face a little upturned, and the flickering light quivering upon it through the leaves—her white hat and her fair hair,—as he met her thus, her appearance was almost spectral in its whiteness and fragility.
She inclined her head to him, and would have passed on. But he stopped, and held out his hand to her.
‘Good morning, Miss Dixon. You must not think me meddlesome, but when Roger is not here, I consider you a little bit under my care; and my duty obliges me to tell you that you are not looking so robust as is desirable. Have you been catching cold?’
He was surprised at the effect of his words. Ada’s white face became in a moment angrily red; the colour rushing over it in a flood. Her eyes flashed, and in a voice that was sharp with irritation, she said—
‘Nothing ails me at all. I’m as well as I can be, and I think there’s no call for you to make such remarks, Dr. Langstroth.’
‘I am sure I beg your pardon if I have offended you. I assure you there is nothing I less wish to do. I am very glad if you do feel well. Only, I wish you looked stronger—that is all.’
‘What do looks matter, when one feels perfectly well?’ said Ada.
‘There is certainly a good deal in that. Good morning. I will not detain you.’
He raised his hat, and was moving on; indeed, he had walked a pace or two, when Ada’s voice, just behind him, caused him to turn again. She looked embarrassed, and half stammered, as she said—
‘Oh, please—do you know—have you any idea when Miss Askam is coming home?’
‘I have not,’ said he, gravely, and very much surprised. ‘At least, I know nothing of the exact day; but before Whitsuntide, Mrs. Johnson says. She would know, I daresay, if you like to call and ask her.’
‘Oh, thank you! I’ll see. It’s—it’s not of so muchimportance,’ said Ada. ‘Good morning, Dr. Langstroth.’
They parted. Michael went on his way, and as he went he shook his head.
‘It is not of the least use for her to tell me that she is perfectly well. She is very ill indeed, and something ought to be done for her.’
Many times during the day he thought of Ada, and of her changed looks, and wondered how Mrs. Dixon would take it if he spoke to her about her daughter.
About seven o’clock, just as he was sitting down to his solitary dinner, his dining-room door was opened, and Roger Camm walked in.
Michael uttered an ‘ah!’ of pleasure and relief when he saw the mighty figure lounge into the room.
‘You here, Roger?’ he said, jumping up and grasping his hand. ‘Was it my letter? Did you take the alarm?’
‘Ay! I could not rest another day without coming to see that child. She scarcely ever mentions her health; indeed, never; so it never occurred to me that there could be anything the matter with her.’
‘Then, my dear fellow, you must prepare yourself for a very disagreeable surprise, that’s all. But have some dinner now, and you can go down and see her afterwards.’
Another place was set for Roger, who made a praiseworthy effort to eat his dinner, and to talk as if nothing had happened. He could, however, scarcely sit out the meal, and the instant it was over he rose.
‘I’ve come to you feeling sure you would put me up, Michael. I’ve got what they call in Leeds “the week-end,” and must go off again by the late train from Darlington on Sunday night.’
‘Of course you will put up here, and I’ll drive you into Darlington on Sunday. I suppose you’ll go out now?’
‘Yes. Don’t expect me back till you see me,’ said Roger, going away; and directly afterwards, Michael heard the door shut after him.