CHAPTER XXXIVHOW CRACKPOT WAS SCRATCHED
They left the dogcart outside the station, and Michael went in with Roger to see him off. As he stood beside the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, Roger, leaning out, said to him in a low voice—
‘I haven’t forgotten what you said to me, Michael, though it looks as if I had—what you said in your letter about a certain lady.’
‘I did not suppose you had forgotten,’ replied Michael, gravely and simply; ‘but I think you had better do so. Consider that I wrote it in a fit of momentary weakness of mind. Indeed, if I could have borne to write the last part of the letter over again, I would not have sent the first, when it came to the point.’
‘It is safe enough with me; but I can’t quite see why you should call it weakness. Look here, Michael, we both know how that lady is situated, and you say you wish she had not got twelve hundred a year of her own. Take my word for it, if she knew that, she would curse her money. Don’t go to suppose that I have not eyes in my head, and ears to hear with.’
They had clasped hands, and the train had begun very slowly to move. Roger went on rapidly—
‘I hoped at first that you never would care for her,when I began to see that she attracted you. Now I believe she is the woman to make you happy, as you are the man to do the same thing by her. Go in, and win, Michael, and never heed what the black things about her may say. Good-bye, old friend, and luck go with you.’
There was a hard pressure of the two hands, which then had to be unclasped. The train glided out. Michael was left upon the platform, looking after it. When it had disappeared, he went outside again, found his dogcart, gave a coin to the boy who had held the horse—for he had brought no servant, wishing to have Roger to himself on the drive; and now he set off on his return journey.
When he drove out of Darlington it was after eleven o’clock; there was a radiant full moon hanging in the sky, and the whole land was flooded with its beauty and its brilliance. The roads, after he had got out of the town, were solitary and silent, as country roads, late on a Sunday night, are wont to be. He had all the beauty, all the glamour of the night to himself, and it sank into his soul, and the words which Roger had uttered resounded in his mind, like a refrain. He did not drive very fast. He was in no mood to tear along, but was rather disposed to taste to the full the cup of beauty and graciousness that was offered to him. One by one, he drove through the chain of exquisite villages which make that road one of the most beautiful in all England,—Coniscliffe, Piercebridge, Gainford, and Winston, arrived at which place, for the sheer pleasure of the farther drive, and the enjoyment of the pure night air, and the magic of the scene and the hour, he turned off, instead of pursuing his way straight, to one side, and took theroundabout and surpassingly beautiful road which leads through Ovington, and past Wycliffe Hall and wood, and its ancient little church of solemn beauty, and so across Whorlton Bridge to Bradstane. Every inch of the way was beautiful. And that which lent the greatest charm to it was the river, which, ever as he drove, he had near him. Now he lost it; again it gleamed suddenly on his sight, emerging unexpectedly into the open, from some deep wood, or rushing in a sweeping curve into view; now sunk between marly banks, now making its way ‘o’er solid sheets of marble gray.’ Grand old Tees! thought Michael, paying it a parenthetical tribute, in the midst of the many other thoughts which just then crowded his mind, and made the long drive seem to him a short one; where was it to be matched for beauty and stateliness, and natural grandeur, and wild, unbounded variety? How different here, as it flowed on steady and strong, from what it was as it came, little more than a fierce, brawling mountain stream, tearing over the wild moors near its source! It had been his friend and companion through many a weary year, as he had gone his rounds, wide and long as the valley itself. Like all such friends, ungifted with the deceitful power of human language, it had always had the very voice that suited his mood. In his youth, no longings had been too high, and no hopes too feverish for it to encourage. And for ten years, since he had been a veritable man, it had been his constant guide and associate. In spring it rushed joyfully along, singing a song of encouragement; in summer its cool surface and the soothing murmur of its flow had many a time made tolerable the burden and heat of the day. He had heard its autumn roar, and in wilder moods had ridden races with it; and he knew its aspectin winter, gray and sullen, or even iron-bound almost all its length, from mouth to source; in its smoother expanses covered with skaters, or laden with blocks of ice, which, when the thaw wind began to blow, split and parted with reports like explosions, and then went sailing in beautiful glistening blocks towards the sea.
Just now, in this May moonlight, at the hour which was neither night nor day—for midnight was past—it fulfilled its spring vocation; and as he drove along, its murmur swelled out into the night, and held out promises—promises so brave and high that he mistrusted them almost. And yet, a voice in his heart told him, with an unerring whisper, that he might believe these promises; that if he went and asked Eleanor Askam to confirm their truth, she would do so. The knowledge thrilled him; it was pungent—half-bitter, half-sweet. It gave him a new sense of youth, a conquering confidence to which he had long been a stranger. He rejoiced in it, and rejoiced greatly all the while that he shook his head, and said within himself ‘impossible,’ and repeated that he wished she were not so rich—so much richer than he was. If anything should happen—some transitory misfortune, by which she might for one moment feel herself quite poor, and believe she had no resting-place for her head, and he the next moment might bid that dear head rest where it should ever be welcome—on his own heart—ah, Bradstane town and the cobble-stoned streets, the Red Gables and reality!
On the following day he heard that Ada Dixon had gone to stay with her father’s widowed sister, at some remote Devonshire village. The sister had been housekeeper to a great family in the neighbourhood; had married the butler, and was now living partly on thefruits of her own savings, partly on a pension from the said family.
‘Poor Roger!’ reflected Michael. ‘If the girl were something very wonderful, or very gifted, or marvellously attractive, one could forgive such connections. And there’s no harm in poor old Dixon; but as for the others—no, they are not suited for him.’
The little bit of gossip and talk caused by this second visit of Ada Dixon to friends at a distance, following so rapidly upon her return from a first absence, had had time to die away, and the middle of May had arrived, when Michael became aware that his new neighbour, Miss Askam, had returned from her sojourn amongst her friends. The Dower House showed signs of life; the windows were filled with pots of flowering plants, and one or other of the little Johnsons began to be frequently seen on the doorsteps, while the Thorsgarth landau came round every fine afternoon, and was driven into the country with Miss Askam and one or more either of these little Johnsons, or their hard-worked mamma, or Mrs. Parker; for the young lady seemed to have no pleasure in solitary state drives. Sometimes, on his rounds, Michael met her, and then there was a bow on his part, and a secret thrill of delight, and perhaps some of the power he felt showing in his eyes; and a gracious inclination, an irrepressible brightness overspreading her face, on her side. A week or ten days passed, by no means ungenially, in this way, till the Derby week arrived.
On the Monday morning Michael was amazed to receive a note from Eleanor.
‘My dear Mr. Langstroth,
I wonder if you would think it verytroublesome to come and tell me, if by any chance youshouldhear anything about my brother’s horse, on Wednesday. I am most anxious to know, and thought perhaps you might know people who will have telegrams about the race before Thursday’s paper comes. I shall not see that till the afternoon, you know.
‘Sincerely yours,‘E. Askam.’
‘Sincerely yours,‘E. Askam.’
‘Sincerely yours,‘E. Askam.’
‘Sincerely yours,
‘E. Askam.’
Michael, as she conjectured, had means of gaining information before Thursday’s London paper made its appearance. He wrote to the secretary of a certain club at Darlington, desiring him to telegraph to him any news of ‘Crackpot,’ at as early a date as possible. He was both astonished and disturbed to receive a telegram on the Tuesday night, and its contents were not too soothing to his feelings. Thinking it best to get the business over, he went straight to the Dower House, and was admitted to Miss Askam at once.
She looked astonished to see him, and he perceived that her brightness was gone. There was a look of worn and harassed anxiety, and of nervous restlessness, too, about her. Her hands trembled, and her eyes wavered.
‘Miss Askam,’ he was beginning, but she interrupted him.
‘You have got a telegram. Something has happened. I knew it. I had—I was certain of it. What is it,—because I know the race is not yet run? Is anything the matter with Otho?’
‘This telegram,’ he began again.
‘Please let me read it. I cannot wait.’
He handed it to her silently, and it fluttered in her hands as she perused it;—
‘Crackpot scratched. No end of a row.’
‘I do not know what that means,’ she said, tremulously. ‘Scratched—will you please explain.’
‘It means,’ said he, reluctantly, ‘that your brother has withdrawn his horse at the last moment from the race; and from the last part of the telegram, I am afraid there must be an impression that—that——’
‘That he has not dealt honourably,’ she said, quickly and breathlessly. ‘I want to know a little more, please, Mr. Langstroth. Is it not usual to withdraw a horse in this way?’
‘No. At least, it is a great pity when it has to be done. It is particularly a great pity that your brother should have had to do it the first time a horse of his was running. Some men do it pretty often; and then, you know, they get a bad name, and are not considered——’
‘Honourable. I understand. But will he have done it without any reason? Can you say, just at the last, “I have changed my mind, and my horse shall not run?”’
‘Most likely it is given out that Crackpot is ill, and unfit to run. Nay, it may be that he is so. Do not distress yourself about it,’ he added, eagerly. ‘I will find out all that I can about it, and let you know. Everything will be uncertain now, of course.’
She was still standing by the table, looking at him with haggard eyes, and as he spoke thus, she shook her head.
‘No, no!’ said she. ‘Just once, while I was in London, I happened to be at a regatta, with my friends, and Otho was there too. And I saw a disagreeable-looking man come up to him, who did not know I had anything to do with him. They talked together for a little while, and I did not hear what they said, tillsuddenly the man said, “But mind you, Askam, none of your tricks. You are a slippery customer at the best.” I felt so indignant that I turned round quite angrily; and then he saw that I knew Otho, and they laughed, and moved a little to one side.’
‘I don’t see that that incident has any necessary connection with this,’ said he, quietly. ‘You can do nothing, you know, Miss Askam. Do not distress yourself needlessly. To do that is to render yourself powerless when any real emergency arises.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said she, and paused. He looked at her, and saw that she looked worn and anxious.
‘Is there anything else I could do for you?’ he began. ‘Because I should be so glad——’
‘No, thank you, nothing, except to promise that should you hear anything more about the thing, you will let me know.’
‘That I certainly will,’ said he, and rose to take his leave. ‘You still remain amongst us, in Bradstane,’ he observed, gravely, but kindly, as he held out his hand.
‘Yes,’ said Eleanor, with a quick flush. ‘I do not wish to go away. I—I intend to stay here.’
‘Always?’
‘I think—always.’ She spoke steadily, but did not look at him.
‘I am very glad to hear that,’ replied Michael, quietly. ‘Now I know you are strong when you choose to be so. Will you promise not to fret foolishly over this thing—not to brood and mope over it; or else I shall be sorry I complied with your request?’
‘I promise to behave as well as in me lies,’ said Eleanor, smiling.
‘Then, good evening.’
He went away thoughtful. He knew perfectly well that she would have to hear more disagreeable things about Otho before very long, but he had succeeded in lulling her fears for the present, at any rate.