WORK AND WAGES
Three weeks of unmitigated, solid, hard work followed in Michael’s
life upon these two eventful afternoons—not work of a kind to make
him forget whatever transient gleam of a different world might have
crossed his path. It was not the art that can make poverty rich, and
turn prose into poetry; it was not the science which can possess and
absorb and fascinate a man, and charm him away from outside
influences, so as to be a formidable rival to even a well-loved
human being. It was none of that, but one continual, mechanical
grind amongst prosaic and often sordid surroundings, accomplished
without excitement or glamour, at the expense of considerable
physical wear and tear and weariness. After such a day’s work as
this, he would come in to his home and his friend. If he was not too
tired, there was always plenty to occupy his time in the shape of
reading, connected with his profession; very often more visits to
pay during the evening; very occasionally a dinner-party at some
house in the neighbourhood, where he met the same people he had been
meeting ever since he had begun to go to local dinner-parties, and
heard the same topics discussed that always were discussed in
Bradstane. His nearest approach to a social and domestic evening was
when he, being very tired, would indulge himself in the luxury of a
sofa and a pipe, and Roger, putting away his books, would sit down
to the piano and play, or sing, or improvise for an hour or two for
his benefit. During moments of frivolity and relaxation like these,
he often caught himself thinking of Eleanor Askam, as she thanked
him, in her sweet tired voice, for his escort, or stood before him
with steadfast gaze, saying, ‘I came looking for joy. I have found
sorrow.’ They were both situations in such sharp contrast with the
rest of his existence, that it can scarcely be matter for surprise
if he dwelt upon them rather often in recollection. He did not,
however, think of them as anything more than passing incidents, to
which it was pleasant to revert in memory; not as epochs or
turning-points in his mental or emotional condition. During these
weeks it happened that he never once met Eleanor, or perhaps his
eyes might have had the scales lifted from them. He heard of her
sometimes, as was natural. And one day, at a house where he was
lunching, some girls were discussing her and her claims to beauty.
They agreed that these claims were quite undeniable; they admired
her exceedingly. She was very original-looking, as well as
beautiful, and yet not in the least odd.
Expressing a smile, and exercising what measure he possessed of the
wisdom of the serpent, Michael opened his ears that they might, if
possible, gather in the reasons for this magnanimous and universal
admission. He presently learned that Miss Askam, though so handsome,
and not a bit dull or stupid, was rather quiet, went out very
little, and had said she did not think of visiting much during the
winter.
‘Then she won’t be at any of the balls?’ asked a practical spirit.
‘I suppose not, from that. But I don’t know, of course. She didn’t
say she had vowed never to go out at all. But it must be very trying
for her. _He_ won’t go anywhere, you know; and she is evidently not
the sort of young woman who goes in for society and amusement at any
price.’
‘No; and I must say I admire her for it. Mamma said she thought her
quite dignified and proper in her ideas—very good form in every way.
It’s very sad for her, having a brother like that, and no one to
take her out. I think we’re going to ask her to lunch, some day.’
‘Ah, yes!’ came in a chorus of satisfied assent.
Michael hereupon took his leave. The girls had forgotten his
presence, and, on his appearance amongst them, eagerly asked if he
knew Miss Askam.
‘I’ve met her casually, once or twice,’ said Michael, calmly. ‘So
far as I can judge, your verdict upon her is full of wisdom and
justice.’ And he bowed himself out.
‘Michael Langstroth does get more and more dull and unsatisfactory
as a companion every time one sees him,’ observed a young matron,
who had known him since they had both been children. ‘He’s a
disappointed man, that’s what he is,’ she added with decision. ‘He
will go on getting worse and worse in that way.’
Michael, riding away, thought also how fortunate it was for Miss
Askam that she was ‘dignified;’ though it certainly seemed as if the
dignity must bring with it a good deal of dulness, when practised in
a place like Bradstane.
But these thoughts of her, and talk of her, even such as that he had
just heard, were occasional, rare; while his work was daily, hourly,
and continual, and the pursuit of it carried him quickly through the
last days of November, and the first week or two of December, till
it did not want so very long to Christmas.
It was ‘an open winter,’ that year. At least, December was well
advanced, and there had been hardly a touch of frost. The roads were
soft, and the air was mild, so that it was not only Michael who was
to be seen riding up and down at this season. He met friends
occasionally, and exchanged greetings with them, at long distances
from their homes.
One morning, riding in a road some three or four miles from
Bradstane, he was walking his horse, and looking with curiosity at
some bushes in the hedge, on which were visible many buds. The trees
had mistaken the warmth of autumn for that of spring; no doubt they
would presently be rudely reminded of their error, blighted, and
turned into vegetable misanthropes, while the little unseasonable
black buds would die an untimely death.
Slowly turning a corner, he came full upon what seemed to him, at
first, quite a cavalcade of horsemen and horsewomen. A moment’s
glance, however, showed that the party consisted of four—two ladies,
and two men, with a couple of grooms in the background. The lane was
not wide, and they rode two and two.
Those in front, whom he saw and recognised first, were Magdalen and
Otho Askam. Magdalen was a little flushed; she looked even handsomer
than usual, and decidedly more animated. But, as she suddenly
recognised Michael, a change passed over her face—a rapid, subtle
look of unease, a trouble, a stirring of the depths below. It was
the look which she never could quite repress when she met him,
especially if Otho Askam were present, and it was a look which
always renewed to Michael the assurance that, in the combat between
them, it was he who had conquered her, not she him. Otho frowned as
they met; Magdalen averted her eyes as she bowed. It was their way
of acknowledging the wrong they had done him. It was wrung from them
every time they encountered him. They passed on, and then the next
riders came full into Michael’s view.
In an instant he felt chilled, disconcerted, and angered, too, with
an anger that hurt and pained him. His mind was filled at once with
wild, incoherent fears and ideas. It was Eleanor Askam whose gaze
first met his, looking very grave, and as it seemed to him very
sweet, and rather sad. The clear eyes dilated, and a quick flush
came into her face as she saw him. He saw that look, and knew it as
an acknowledgment of what had already passed between them. That
sight of her, and that look of hers could only have given him
pleasure. It was when he recognised her companion that his heart
sank so heavily. Gilbert’s gaze had not wavered as Magdalen’s did,
when he encountered that of Michael. He had grown into the sort of
man, outwardly considered, that he might have been expected to
develop into. He was not in the least handsome, but had an air of
distinction, an individuality in his whole appearance which went far
beyond good looks. He was perfectly dressed. He was a perfect
horseman—his city life had not broken him of that familiar habitude
of his youth and young manhood,—and he looked every inch like a
gentleman and a man of the world. When Michael took off his hat, so
did Gilbert, with unruffled composure. It was Michael’s turn to be
troubled and distressed beyond all reason. Long after they had
passed each other he rode on with his feelings in a state of the
utmost perturbation, a thousand wild thoughts tormenting his soul.
The chief one was that he himself had advised Eleanor, so to
speak, to make a friend of Gilbert—to confide her troubles to
him, and ask his advice. What had he been dreaming of? Had he
been fool enough to identify her feelings with his own, and be
confident that she would have no intercourse with Gilbert
beyond what was absolutely necessary? What earthly right or
reason had he had for assuming such a thing? A ludicrous
feeling of injured vanity came across him as, in a kind of
parenthesis, he recollected Gilbert’s appearance; the high
finish and perfection of every appointment, from his hat to
his boots, and then contrasted with it all his own rather
rough-and-ready accoutrements—the clothing and paraphernalia
of the poor country doctor who must be out at all hours and in
all weather, no matter what betide. A deep, dark flush crossed
Michael’s face. It was the first time such a contrast had ever
crossed his mind. Now he thought, ‘What does it matter how he
came by it all? She will not inquire into that, and he is the
sort of man she has been accustomed to. And we always like
what we are accustomed to, no matter how we may pretend to
relish a change.’ His poverty and want of power to make the
appearance of other young men, no better born nor bred than
himself, galled him, for the very first time, deep in his
heart of hearts.
Then other considerations came rushing into his mind. She had looked
grave, it was true; but what of that? Hers might be one of those
deep natures to which happiness gives a grave expression. And, grave
or not, she had been riding by Gilbert’s side; she had apparently
been conversing with him on friendly terms; there had been no
expression of displeasure or dislike upon her face.
And on what other terms could she possibly have been with him? he
asked himself. And what had she to do with his quarrels? ‘I must be
going off my head!’ said Michael to himself, lifting off his hat, to
let the air cool his forehead. After all, he realised, when he had
had a little time in which to let his ideas adjust themselves, the
fear which had seized upon his innermost soul and dismayed it was,
not lest Eleanor should be attracted by Gilbert, but lest Gilbert
should be attracted by Eleanor. That which caused him to be dismayed
by this prospect was the knowledge that if such a thing were to
happen—if Gilbert should love her, and be pleased to tell her so,
and to make any claim for her, he had a great deal of power. He
literally held her brother’s fortunes in the hollow of his hand. If
he could not altogether repair the ravages Otho had made in his
estate, he could finish the matter at his pleasure, and make a
complete ruin of what as yet was but a badly damaged property. If it
should ever come to pass that he wished to marry Eleanor, and she
should not wish to marry him, he could make her life miserable to
her, if he chose, through the injuries which he could inflict upon
her brother. And, then, supposing she should care for him! Michael
found himself breathing harder and riding faster as this possibility
entered his mind, but he forced himself to face it. Should she ever
‘care for’ Gilbert, there was nothing to prevent, but everything to
urge a marriage between them. And after all, why should she not care
for him? She had been far away, and all unwitting the circumstances,
when Gilbert’s sin had been committed; and if he had sinned basely
and blackly, once, he had by his sin got what he aimed at; he had
bought with it the means and the power to be honest for all the rest
of his life. Not every one, reflected Michael, could boast so much.
Thoughts like these did not form a soothing accompaniment to his
ride. He angrily asked himself what it was to him, supposing she and
Gilbert chose to be married next week? He had no answer to that, but
only the consciousness that it would be a great deal to him;
unhappiness which he preferred not to contemplate. Reason told him
that his thoughts were extravagant and exaggerated—that he had
imagined without a cause the extremest possibilities of a given
(imaginary) situation. Something else, though, importunately said
that though they might be extreme possibilities, yet that they
distinctly were possibilities.
He set his teeth, and told himself in effect, if not in so many
words, that he was not ‘going to be made a fool of again by that
set.’ And if, by some unaccountable means, Eleanor Askam had become
an object of so much importance in his mind, the best thing to do
now would be to be hard, and root her out at once;—hard to himself,
of course—not to her.
He had an opportunity that very evening of, so to speak, trying the
effect of a scourge upon his own flesh. Dr. Rowntree presented
himself after dinner for a chat. This, as a rule, meant that they
all three gossiped as hard, or harder than if they had been so many
spinsters of the same ages and standing. This evening, from the
nature of the subject, which soon became apparent, Roger and the old
doctor did the gossiping with avidity; and Michael seized the
opportunity, without taking them into his confidence, to use the
scourge upon himself. They sat in the library, and after a few
preliminary remarks, Dr. Rowntree uttered the words which he had
come for the express purpose of uttering—
‘I was at Johnson’s last night,’ said he.
‘Johnson’ was the vicar of Bradstane—a toil-worn man, with a very
exceeding numerous progeny.
‘Were you?’ said Michael; ‘and how are they going on? I haven’t been
there for ages.’
‘No, they said it was long since they had seen you. I think they are
all flourishing. Effie looks a great deal better. Your absence does
not seem to have damaged you in her estimation _yet_.’
‘_Yet_—why the extreme emphasis upon that word?’ asked Michael, in
surprise. ‘I don’t expect ever to be damaged in Effie’s estimation.
And I told Mrs. Johnson that the treatment would have to be
persevered in some time before any good effects could be expected,
so I thought my absence would be accounted for.’
‘Oh, I’m not meaning that,’ said the doctor mysteriously. ‘Mrs.
Johnson is not the woman to shirk a direction of that kind. You may
be sure that if you told her the treatment needed perseverance, it
would get it from her. It has had it, and with good results. Poor
little weakling! She may out-grow it all yet, though; and I will say
that I don’t know a kinder and a gentler family, parents and
children and all, than the Johnsons, anywhere.’
‘Yes, they are a very nice lot of children,’ said Michael, who was
tracing out the details of the Battle of Bull Run on a map, and who
spoke absently. ‘Very nice children, and I must go and see them
soon. But I have been so busy.’
‘You had better go, if you don’t want your nose putting out of
joint,’ said the doctor. ‘They are in a state of excitement at
having found a new friend—a formidable rival to you, I can tell you,
my lad.’
‘Whoever it may be,’ said Michael, his finger on the line of the
Shenandoah Valley railroad, ‘I will stake all I am worth on Effie’s
fidelity.’
‘Well, Effie—of course she’s infatuated about you. Perhaps the camp
might even divide,—Effie and the rest of the girls on your side, and
the boys on that of the new person. Guess who it is.’
Michael, who had given his undivided attention to this last remark,
knew in an instant. He had no need to guess. Not feeling inclined to
rouse the curiosity of the other two, however, he merely shook his
head, and apparently returned to the study of his map. It was at
this juncture that the scourge came into requisition. He was silent,
he knew he should not take much part in the rest of the
conversation. Roger, who was also, to some extent, a friend of the
little Johnsons, now inquired with interest who the ‘new person’
was.
‘Well, you’d never guess, if you tried for a week,’ said the
innocent old gentleman, beaming triumphantly upon them through his
spectacles; ‘so I may as well tell you. It is Miss Askam of
Thorsgarth—Otho’s sister.’
‘Of course it was,’ thought Michael; and he was conscious that Roger
in expressing his own astonishment, shot a quick glance at him,
Michael. He managed to conjure up a look which, accompanied by
raised eyebrows, and a murmured ‘dear me!’ formed a very fair
imitation of surprise. He envied Roger’s unaffected interest and
astonishment.
‘I have such a thorough contempt for all that lot,’ went on Dr.
Rowntree, ‘that if I had known Miss Askam was going to be there last
night, nothing would have induced me to go. I’ve had many lessons on
the folly of being prejudiced and pig-headed, but I believe I am
occasionally a little inclined that way—eh, what?’
He looked sharply at Roger, who merely laughed and said, ‘Go on.
When are you coming to Miss Askam?’
‘Well, at once. I turned in unexpectedly, about half-past seven,
last night. I wanted to see Mrs. Johnson about my Christmas-tree.
You know the children always have a Christmas-tree at my house. I
was shown into the sitting-room, and there I found them. Mrs.
Johnson was actually sitting by the fire, reading—would you believe
it?—reading a novel. And Miss Askam was at the table playing
“commerce” with _all_ of them. There wasn’t one left out. And they
had candies for a pool. I was so astounded that I hardly knew what
to make of it, and stood there looking quite foolish. However, I was
presented to the lady, and she invited me to join the game; but of
course I had come on other business.’
He paused. Roger did not vex Michael by looking at him. But he
instinctively understood that Michael did not wish to take any part
in this conversation. He therefore said, ‘Well?’
‘Well, Mrs. Johnson and I had a little conversation—about the
Christmas-tree, of course—in another room. Naturally, she mentioned
Miss Askam, and how they had become acquainted. She says Miss Askam
is an angel, and that she has done more than any one else to
reconcile her to her position here—of the poor lady struggling
amongst rich acquaintances, without a real friend in the lot.’
It was well known by Mrs. Johnson’s intimate friends, and by these
three men amongst them, that she had never felt happy or at home
with the well-born and wealthy sheep of her husband’s flock—those
sheep who stood in every worldly consideration so very high above
their shepherd. Her poverty, her many children, and her many cares
had always prevented her from visiting them on terms of anything
like equality; while her own upbringing as a gentlewoman, made their
patronage, however good-natured, very galling to her. And, perhaps,
none of them had ever been so careworn themselves or so troubled as
to be able to approach her as a friend. It was, at least,
whosesoever the fault might be, a certain thing that Mrs. Johnson
did not ‘get on’ with her richer neighbours, and that many of them
considered her unbending, unreasonable, and disagreeable. There was
probably ground for both opinions. Her brusqueness and utter
unwillingness to receive any kind of favours annoyed them, while to
have them step from their carriages into her shabby house, and
coldly behold the bareness of the domestic territory, exasperated
and humiliated her at the same time. Perhaps, as a matter of fact,
their hearts were better than their manners; certainly, this was the
case with Mrs. Johnson herself; but neither of them could see the
good in the other side.
‘Miss Askam didn’t patronise her, then?’ said Roger.
‘Well, no, or you may be sure she would not have been sitting in the
midst of them in that fashion. It seems Johnson insisted that his
wife should call upon Miss Askam soon after she came. He said Otho’s
goings on were nothing to them, and they had no right to assume that
Miss Askam would be anything but delighted to receive the wife of
her parish priest. So Mrs. Johnson put on her best gown and went,
sorely against her will, having made up her mind to find a female
edition of Otho. You may judge of her relief at what she did find.’
‘I don’t see how we can be expected to enter into the fulness of
Mrs. Johnson’s joy, seeing that we don’t know Miss Askam. And why
she should have assumed that——’
‘Botheration to you and your assumptions! Will you let me tell my
own tale in my own way, and don’t be a prig. Mrs. Johnson found, as
she said, a simple, unassuming young lady, as unpretentious as if
she had lived in a four-roomed cottage. She seemed downright glad to
see Mrs. Johnson, and made her have tea, and asked her about the
children; and, above all, she didn’t offer to send her home in the
carriage.’ (Roger gave vent to a short, sardonic laugh. He had a
powerful, insane objection to Ada’s being ‘sent home in the
carriage’ from Balder Hall.) ‘But she did put on her things and walk
half the way home with her. She asked if she might go and see the
children. Of course Mrs. Johnson gave a few particulars about their
establishment, which seems to me to have been highly unnecessary——’
‘Very,’ echoed Roger. ‘Why can’t people stand on their own legs,
_as_ their own legs, and not be always deprecating the fact that
they are not just the same shape as the legs of other people? Well!’
‘It was not long before Miss Askam presented herself, at an hour
when they were all in, and in five minutes she’d made friends with
every one of them, from the biggest to the least. So now she’s a
friend of the family, and her name a household word, like yours,
Mike.’
‘Isn’t it rather odd that she should chum so with the Johnsons?’
asked Roger, going fully into the question.
‘No, I don’t think so. I think she finds it congenial. She’s always
welcome, and she knows it. And there’s another thing,—she is a woman
of the right sort.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’ asked Roger, while Michael sat
silent.
‘Well, it would take a good while to explain all I mean by that. But
when you come across such a woman, you know her quickly for what she
is, or I’m sorry for you if you don’t; you ain’t up to much. The
right sort of woman, when she has griefs and sorrows of her own—and
that young thing has, unless her sad eyes are very misleading—does
not seek her distractions where the wrong sort of woman does. I
don’t mean that she shuts herself up like a nun—that’s no good; but
she does seem to fly to charity, by which I don’t mean carrying
round tracts and soup-tickets; she flies to charity, I say, as a
duck takes to water. I don’t know that she is always so anxious to
_forget_ her troubles—the right sort of woman. You can’t forget a
constant pain; you couldn’t forget chronic neuralgia if you had that
blessing given you; but she does find a right use for them—the use
they were intended for by Him who sent them to her,’ said the little
doctor, lowering his voice; ‘and she best alleviates her own griefs
by helping others out of theirs. I’m convinced that Miss Askam is
such a woman. She’s sad—very sad—she is, for all her riches and all
her beauty; and—Michael, what must you be rattling that blind down
for, just when I’m talking? It’s your own garden outside. You can’t
be overlooked, if that is what you are afraid of.’
‘I beg your pardon. Well, what next?’ said Michael, with an immense
effort, sitting down again, and trying to look tranquil. One would
almost have said that the worthy doctor’s eulogiums bored him.
‘I daresay you are right,’ said Roger. ‘Anyhow, if she finds a need
for friends of that sort, to whom she can be a help, I am glad she
has found out the Johnsons; for they can do with a few, “of the
right sort,” as you say.’
‘I can’t tell you how much I liked her,’ said Dr. Rowntree, beaming
contentedly. ‘There was only one thing that Mrs. Johnson said, that
went a little against the grain with me.’
‘While you were settling about the Christmas-tree, I suppose?’ said
Roger, politely.
‘That man from London, saving your presence, Michael, is staying at
Thorsgarth now. He called with her one morning when she came to the
Vicarage——’
‘Oh, come!’ said Roger, hastily, ‘Mrs. Johnson is well known to be a
match-maker.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor, a little abashed, ‘we’ll hope that that
idea is nothing but imagination, of course.’
‘It may be, or it may not be so,’ here observed Michael, joining in
the conversation for the first time, and using his scourge upon
himself out of sheer perversity of spirit. ‘But I should say if it
is, imagination has got a better handle to lay hold of than it
usually has, in Bradstane.’
‘Why—do you know anything? Have you heard anything?’ both the others
inquired, turning upon him with greedy eagerness.
‘Nothing in the world,’ said Michael, coldly, ‘except what my own
senses tell me. I met them all out riding this morning—Askam and
Magdalen; Miss Askam and Gilbert. I immediately thought of that
possibility, for some reason—and thought it a very likely one too.’
‘It is not likely she would favour him,’ said Dr. Rowntree, with an
angry sniff, ‘however he might like her.’
Michael shrugged his shoulders. For some reason, unknown to himself,
he felt impelled to combat the doctor—try to dispel the _couleur de
rose_ in which he saw all that he liked or loved.
‘No one can even hazard a guess on such a subject,’ said he; ‘but if
he “liked” her, as you express it, things might be made very
unpleasant for her, if she didn’t see her way to liking him in
return.’
‘Ah—ow!’ gasped Dr. Rowntree, as this possibility flashed across his
mind. ‘I knew she had her troubles,’ he concluded, darkly.
Roger burst out laughing. Michael said not another word. It
sometimes happened that he had occasion, as now, to mention
Gilbert’s name, in the course of conversation, when it always fell
from his lips as calmly and coldly as if it had been the name of
some one unknown.
‘I suppose,’ said Roger, ‘that she will be at _the_ concert?’
‘Oh yes. She has promised them to go to that. It was raining last
night when her carriage came for her, and she begged to set me down
at my house. So I went with her, and had a little conversation with
her. She insists upon joining at my Christmas-tree. She says she
knows of a lot of things the children want which their mother would
never tell me of—and I who thought she told me everything! And then
she said, “Fancy their faces, you know, when they every one find two
presents instead of only one. It will be worth anything, just to
look at them.” And she laughed at the idea. So she is to call upon
my sister to-morrow, and they will settle it all between them. But
you’ll be at my house at the party, of course, and then you can see
and judge for yourselves.’
Neither of the young men said anything to this, and Dr. Rowntree,
expressing an opinion that he had tarried long enough, got up from
his chair, and took his departure.
There was silence for a little while, and then Roger said, ‘What an
old enthusiast he is when he takes a fancy to any one.’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Michael, coldly, as he, too, rose. ‘I have to go
out again, so I had better lose no more time.’
‘Out again, Michael! Are you sure?’
‘I’m not very likely to make a mistake about it,’ said the young
man, smiling slightly, as he glanced over his list.
‘Well, I do call it too bad, after such a day as you have had.
Anybody is better off than a doctor,’ grumbled Roger.
Michael went out, merely remarking that it was all in the day’s
work.
It was late before he returned, and during his absence Roger had
time to reflect upon the matters they had been discussing earlier.
‘It touched up Michael in some disagreeable way—what the old man
said,’ he decided. ‘I wonder what it could be. Surely he has not got
a fancy for that girl! What a cursed complication that would be, to
be sure! But I’m sure he hasn’t, or if he had, he has will enough to
crush it out, quickly. He would never yield to it. What a voice that
was in which he spoke of meeting them!... Sometimes I wonder if he
ever has any self-reproach when he meets Gilbert on these auspicious
occasions. Not likely, I should think. Michael is a good man; and
when a good man—a really good man, like him—feels that he has a
right to be hard, by George! he does use it with a vengeance. I
don’t think it would ever occur to him that Gilbert could have
anything to say for himself. And I do fondly hope he has no
“feelings” on the subject of this astonishing Miss Askam. It would
be too horrible if anything like that were to happen.’