QUARREL
It was two days before Christmas that this great event usually took
place,—an event spoken of by Mrs. Johnson as though it had been a
solemn feast, with an appointed date in the Church’s year; and it
formed almost the most trying of the many trying occasions which
chequered her earthly career. This season, thanks to the valuable
assistance of Miss Askam in the dreary business known as
‘decorating,’ Mrs. Johnson felt her difficulties much lightened, and
looked forward to the evening’s entertainment with a kind of
‘rest-and-be-thankful’ feeling, rare indeed in her experience.
Eleanor felt less comfort than Mrs. Johnson, in the anticipation of
the evening. She hardly knew how it was, or with whom the invitation
had originated, whether with Otho, herself, or Magdalen’s self—but
an invitation had certainly been given to the latter to dine at
Thorsgarth, and go with the party from there to the entertainment.
‘The party’ meant all of them!—Eleanor, Magdalen, Gilbert, and Otho.
Eleanor had been unaffectedly astonished when Otho had said he was
going. She had promised Mrs. Johnson to be there herself, and did
not intend to fail her; but she had expected to go alone, call for
the doctor’s sister, Mrs. Parker, on the way, and under the decent,
if not highly distinguished chaperonage of that lady, sit through
the concert, and derive from it what enjoyment she might. She had
resolved to know nothing about Gilbert and his arrangements, and to
ignore Magdalen, except by a bow, and a few words. This new scheme
had completely changed the aspect of things. She had had to send a
note to Mrs. Parker explaining that, so far from being alone, she
would have a party with her, and must remain with them. And then
there was the prospect of the concert itself, and of the company of
her brother and Gilbert Langstroth, and of Magdalen Wynter, who
would, of course, join them as soon as her part in the performance
should be over. It was a thoroughly painful prospect to her; not the
less so, in that there was absolutely no excuse for her shirking the
ceremony.
She returned to Thorsgarth from the Vicarage, in the afternoon, and
presently went upstairs to dress for the evening’s entertainment.
The most competent authorities had assured her that at these
concerts it was the custom for the ladies of the vicinity to go in
full dress, or, at any rate, in unmistakable evening dress, in order
to do honour to their town and townspeople, and to show that they
did not labour under the idea that ‘anything would do’ for a
Bradstane concert. Following out this tradition, Miss Askam had
caused her maid to array her in a quaint-looking but handsome gown
of velvet and brocade. She knew that dresses of this kind, more
splendid than airy, suited her, and wore them by preference to any
others.
She stood now before the toilet glass, while her Abigail put the
finishing touches to the dress, right glad to see some of the finery
worn once again. It appeared to her that her mistress’s beauty, of
which she was proud, and her accomplishments, of which she had heard
people speak, were utterly and entirely thrown away in a place like
this. Eleanor stood a little undecided what ornaments to wear, when
her maid was summoned away, and presently returned, bearing in her
hand a bouquet, with a card dangling from it.
‘If you please, ma’am, I was to give you this, with Mr. Langstroth’s
compliments.’
‘Mr. Langstroth!’ suddenly exclaimed Eleanor, a quick change coming
over her face; and then, taking the flowers, she lifted the card and
read: ‘With Mr. Gilbert Langstroth’s compliments;’ and just below,
‘Miss Askam wished for some double violets for this evening, which
G. L. hopes do not arrive too late to be of use.’
Eleanor had held her breath as she perused these words; she now
breathed again, quickly, and said, as she gave his flowers again
into her maid’s hand—
‘Put them down, and just twist these pearls through my hair. I shall
wear them, I think.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Louisa, and added as she surveyed the
flowers—‘They’re really lovely, ma’am. Could Mr. Langstroth have got
them in England?’
‘Of course he could. One can get anything by sending to Covent
Garden,’ replied her mistress hastily. ‘Pray be quick, Louisa, for I
hear that Miss Wynter has come, and is waiting for me.’
Louisa laid the flowers—exquisite double violets, both blue
and white, whose delicate perfume had already made itself felt
in the warm air of the room—upon a table and obeyed the
injunction in silence. Eleanor sat before the glass, with eyes
cast down, and feelings in which vague apprehension and
uncertainty were predominant. Gilbert Langstroth had been with
them a fortnight—surely not a very long time; but in that
fortnight he had succeeded in making her feel that he was a
power, and a great one, in everything that concerned her
brother’s affairs; that if she wished to have any permanent
hold upon Otho, she must take Otho’s friend, and that friend’s
will and pleasure into account; that only by cutting herself
entirely adrift from Otho could she act or plan without
reference to Gilbert. That was surely matter enough for
consideration; and, in addition to that, she had begun to feel
during the last week, that Gilbert had some idea of being a
power in her affairs too. She rebelled against this; she
revolted against it, but she trembled, and she literally did
not know what course to take. The appearance of the violets
now only added to her embarrassment.
She was roused by Louisa’s voice.
‘There, ma’am. These always suit you better than anything else, and
they go perfectly with this dress. And I think, if you would let me
put a small bunch of the violets here, in front of your dress,
instead of any more ornaments——’
‘No, certainly not,’ said Eleanor, hastily. ‘I will not wear them.’
Then, seeing a look of surprise at her vehemence, she added,
hesitatingly, ‘I will carry them in my hand. I—it would be a pity to
spoil the bouquet by taking any out of it; it is so beautifully
arranged. Am I ready now? I will go down.’
She went into the drawing-room, framing in her mind some kind of
apology for being so late. But on entering the room she found that
Magdalen was not alone. Otho was there with her. He was standing on
the hearthrug, ready dressed for the evening, with his back against
the mantelpiece, and his hands clasped behind him. There was a smile
of anything but a genial nature upon his lips, and his eyes were
fixed upon Miss Wynter with an expression which struck Eleanor
instantly as being unusual, but which she could not quite fathom.
Magdalen was reposing in a low chair, with her fan closed in her
hands, which were lightly folded one over the other. She was
tranquil, calm, unmoved; her marble eyelids a little drooped, and
the faintest smile upon her lips. She was looking marvellously
handsome, in a black velvet gown, and with scarlet geraniums in her
breast and hair.
‘I am sorry to have been so long in coming, Miss Wynter. I really
was kept upstairs; but I see Otho has been with you, so you have not
been entirely alone.’
‘Perhaps it would have been better if I had,’ responded Magdalen
nonchalantly, as she rose to shake hands with Eleanor. ‘Otho and I
have been quarrelling, and when he quarrels no one can be more
nasty.’
Eleanor smiled slightly, taking it for a jest, and one in rather
doubtful taste; but she was enlightened when Otho, with a scowl
significant of anything but jesting, said with something like a
snarl in his voice—
‘You are right, Magdalen. “Nasty” is the word, and nasty you shall
find me, since this is the way you treat me.’
‘Really,’ said Magdalen, with a taunting little laugh, ‘how absurdly
you talk! Treat you in this way! You are too ridiculous!’
Eleanor stood looking from one to the other. Magdalen was still
standing, speaking lightly, in an attitude of careless grace, and
with a disdainful little smile upon her lips; but it seemed to
Eleanor that there was a strained look in her eyes.
‘Have you been really quarrelling?’ she asked, doubtfully. ‘Why, he
thinks so much of you.’
‘I did,’ said Otho; ‘but it’s d—d difficult to go on thinking so
much of a woman who carries on as she does. She’s in my house now,
and I hope I know what is due to my guests; but wait till we are out
of it, and on neutral ground, that’s all.’
‘Oh, Otho!’ began his sister, shocked. But he had walked sullenly to
the door, and opened it. Then he turned and looked towards them
again.
‘Remember, Magdalen, you shall pay me with interest for every bit of
this night’s work, and that before long.’
‘That will be as I choose,’ she retorted, but her lips had grown
thin. Otho was banging out of the room, when Gilbert Langstroth,
coming in, caught hold of his arm.
‘Now then, Otho, what is the matter?’
‘Don’t hold me!’ said Otho, looking wrathfully at him. ‘I’m in a bad
temper, and you had best let me alone.’
With which he left them, and Gilbert came forward, looking a little
seriously at both the young women.
‘Miss Wynter,’ exclaimed Eleanor, ‘what can have happened, and what
is to be done?’
‘Oh,’ said Magdalen, ‘pray don’t heed him. He will be all right
again before the evening is over.’
Eleanor felt great doubt as to the correctness of that theory, and
was annoyed, too, to hear Otho spoken of as if he had been a petted
child, who must be humoured, though indeed, as she had to admit to
herself, his behaviour gave only too good ground for such treatment.
And despite Magdalen’s lofty words, she seemed not able to cast off
the constraint left by the late disagreeable scene; but, picking up
the _Spectator_, opened it as wide as it would unfold, and seemed to
read it. Eleanor felt her eyes turn involuntarily towards Gilbert;
it was not that she wished to appeal to him, but she was intensely
conscious that he alone was capable of giving counsel (if counsel
were to be had) in such a situation, and she looked at him, just as
one would send for the nearest doctor, if one were attacked by some
strange and inexplicable illness. She found his eyes also fixed upon
hers, attentively, carefully, and admiringly. She felt with a cold
thrill of certainty that what she had suspected and feared was true,
and he was now thinking of her, and not of either Magdalen or Otho.
He handed her a chair, and seated himself beside her. His very first
words only heightened her uneasiness.
‘I hope you did not think me too officious in sending for the
violets,’ he said in a low voice.
Magdalen lowered her paper, and gave him a look, which he received
and returned; and, with a dark expression on her face, she resumed
her ostensible occupation. Perhaps Gilbert knew all about what had
passed, and was mocking her futile efforts to appear unconcerned.
Magdalen had always felt that Gilbert’s sin and hers had had such
very unequally meted rewards. He had been so successful after his
sin, and she had failed so wretchedly and so tantalisingly after
hers.
‘Officious—no. They are beautiful flowers,’ said Eleanor, uneasily.
‘It was very kind to take so much trouble; for, after all, it was
only a whim of mine.’
‘You have so few whims, that when one is vouchsafed a hint of one,
one is only too glad to gratify it.’
‘Oh, I hope I am not so exacting as to expect such
gratifications.... I—will Otho—what is Otho doing just now, do you
think?’ she added, in a still lower voice, unable to shake off the
disagreeable impression she had derived from his look and words.
‘Don’t trouble yourself about Otho,’ rejoined Gilbert, in the same
tone, but in a still lower voice. ‘Do not let any thought of him
disturb your enjoyment this evening.’
‘Enjoyment; do you suppose I am expecting enjoyment!’ Eleanor had
exclaimed almost before she knew what she was saying.
‘If you cannot have it, no one else deserves a grain of it,’ said
Gilbert, deliberately. ‘But, really, I wish you would calm your
fears. Just let us reason about it. What can Otho possibly do
to-night, that can cause you any uneasiness? We shall go straight to
the concert-room, and once there, he is safe.’
‘He may not go at all.’
‘Well, if he does not, you will; and why should you allow your mind
to be engaged in imagining him doing something disagreeable? Your
apprehensions are exaggerated, I assure you. Tell me what you are
afraid of.’
‘He said,’ replied Eleanor, almost in a whisper, so that Magdalen
could not possibly hear, ‘that he would make her repent, and that
before long. I thought he might, perhaps, if he went to-night, say
or do something rude—or at dinner—I do not know what he will do when
he looks so dangerous.’
Gilbert laughed a low laugh, speaking of amusement and enjoyment
too.
‘Otho has other methods of punishing her,’ he said. ‘Do not alarm
yourself; I will see to it. And’—he bent his head close to hers, and
her fingers tightened one over the other—‘please excuse the
question; but I always see two sides of a thing. Do you mean to tell
me that you would be very sorry for her to be punished, a little, if
it could be done unobtrusively?’
Gilbert certainly knew what he was about when he asked this
question. The eyes that were suddenly lifted towards his own held
confession in their glance. She shook her head silently; but the
very silence implied that he had guessed aright.
‘I thought you might have whims for other things, as well as double
violets,’ said Gilbert, with a slight smile, which made her feel
that he was very much stronger than she was, and very much better
acquainted with human nature. She was silent; but Gilbert had got an
object to gain, and he said, ‘You owe me some little reward for
having guessed so correctly. Won’t you tell me what you have done
with those flowers?’
‘I—oh, I left them in my room.’
‘There to wither and die, I suppose? Poor things! I have a great
weakness for flowers—those flowers, especially. If you dislike them,
will you do me the cruel favour to return them? I mean it, really.’
‘But I do not dislike them. I—it—I thought I would carry them in my
hand to-night,’ she said, distracted at the extent of the
concessions he was wringing from her, but perfectly aware that when
he promised to see that Otho behaved himself, and then began
instantly to talk about violets, he conveyed a hint which she must
accept on pain of his displeasure.
‘You did! I could not possibly wish for more than that,’ he said,
and there was triumph, intense, if repressed, in his smile and his
tone.
Eleanor could only feel wretched, and wish she were a hundred miles
away from Bradstane; all the more fervently when, on looking up, she
found that Magdalen had laid the newspaper down, and was looking at
her with a mocking smile—the smile of one who, being in difficulties
herself, was not sorry to see some one else entangled.
Here the door opened. Otho came in, with Barlow behind him, to
announce dinner. The master of the house offered his arm to Miss
Wynter, who took it, treating him with what seemed a composed
cheerfulness. During the meal, Otho was portentously gentle and
polite to every one he addressed. There was no trace in voice or
manner of his late anger; only in the sullen glow which still lurked
in his eyes. Eleanor, who had acquired the sad habitude of noticing
such things, observed that he scarcely touched wine. In his whole
demeanour there was a most unusual softness and courtesy. She could
not shake off her constraint; the shock of the unbridled fury which
she had seen on his face when she had gone into the drawing-room was
not to be easily obliterated. Never before had she felt so strongly
his likeness, with all his goodly outward apparel of strength and a
kind of beauty, to some savage, wild creature—some beast of prey,
whose spirit sat in his heart, and looked out of the windows of his
eyes. With all the dread and foreboding that he had begun to inspire
in her, she always thought of him as ‘poor Otho.’