THREE 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, light hazel eyes, a delicate complexion, a
pretty _mignonne_ figure, dressed in the most _outré_ of 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, with pleasure,’ said Ada, with an undeniable simper, 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. ‘And scarcely 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 a _protégée_ of 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
handsome face. 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—_jilting_ him!’
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 chance there 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 cultivate Magdalen’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.