CROSS-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 Balder Hall, 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 very high 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 the _Genteel
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 the
_Journal_, 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 this paper 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! The _Genteel Journal_ published 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 Laura Loveday, 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——’
‘Do you!’ exclaimed Ada, in unaffected astonishment. ‘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 proud even 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 and 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 she had 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.