FIRST ALARM
One day, very early in May, Michael Langstroth wrote from Bradstane
to Roger Camm in Leeds:—
‘A strong sense of duty alone induces me to trouble you with a
letter, for there is literally no news to tell you. When was there
ever any in Bradstane? And just now we are duller than usual, for
nearly every one is away. People (the few who are left here) talk
now off and on about the Derby, and speculate whether Crackpot
will win. He is not the favourite, as of course you know, but
takes a good place. I daresay I hear more of that kind of thing
than you do. The British Medical people meet in Leeds this year.
Of course it won’t be till August, but I have every intention of
going; and putting up with you; and I look forward to it as if it
were some wild dissipation. It is, at any rate, too good a chance
to be missed of hearing and seeing something, and getting one’s
blood stirred up generally. I often wonder I do not turn into a
mummy or a block of wood. On reading this you will probably leap
to the rash conclusion that your account of two political
meetings, and their consequent excitement, has roused my envy and
upset my tranquillity, and that in future, you had perhaps better
not supply me with such stimulating food! I beg you will not
cherish any such delusion. Your account of the meetings was most
interesting and amusing; but as you know, I have a great contempt
for all political parties in the abstract, and to see a vast body
of men, swayed like reeds by the passion of the moment—groaning
like demons when they hear one set of names, cheering like maniacs
at another, falling like living storm waves upon any unfortunate
wight who dares to express dissent from their views, and hustling
him out—is to me a melancholy spectacle. You would doubtless say,
that without such passions and prejudices to be worked upon,
things might be at a standstill. I suppose they might: all I know
is, I am very thankful that there are so many men in the world
that my indifference makes no difference. You will wonder whence
this sermon arises. I have been meditating a good deal lately o’
nights; having felt tired when I came in, and not having had your
music to govern my meditations, as in days of old. And I was
thinking, only last night, of a dispute we used to have in our
younger days, about life and events. I always maintained (quite
wrongly, I confess now) that you got no real _life_, no movement,
stimulus, animation, outside of a big city: you vowed that, on the
contrary, it is the nature of the man that determines his life,
and that dramas and tragedies as full of terror and pathos as
Shakespeare’s own might be played out within even as narrow a
compass as the township of Bradstane-on-Tees, provided the actors
were there, and that they lived, not played their parts. You were
right, and I suppose you hold the opinion still; but this is what
I want to know—how often is it that one gets the chance to live?
Most people would answer, once at least, in a lifetime; and there
it is that I totally disagree with them. Mine is a small stage
from which to preach, but I have seen as many people as some who
live on a larger one, and I have observed them and their
conditions carefully. And, because of my profession, the people I
have seen have been of all sorts and conditions, and the
conclusion I have come to is, that most lives are filled with
emptiness—with a dead, dull uneventfulness. Action is for the
favoured few; culture for a great many more, if they choose to
avail themselves of it, which usually they don’t; monotony for
most.
‘That brings me back to my own life, and its monotony. Let me try to
collect a little gossip for you, and free myself from the reproach
of having sent an essay, unredeemed by a single touch of narrative.
‘Otho Askam is away. He has scarcely been at Thorsgarth since the
new year. Just now he is busied, they say, about this precious horse
which is to run this precious race. His sister’s house, too, is
empty just now. She was persuaded, Mrs. Johnson tells me, to go and
see her friends in London for a time; but is coming back before
Whitsuntide, as, in the kindness of her heart she is going to feast
some little ragged wretches out of Bridge Street, whom she has taken
under her wing. But it is not Whitsuntide yet. It falls near the end
of May this year. I feel in a communicative humour to-night, so I
will tell you a secret. My life is monotonous to me, as I believe I
have set forth already at some length; and I wish with all my heart
that Eleanor Askam had not a fortune of twelve hundred a year; for
if she had nothing at all, I would humbly ask her if she would
condescend to relieve that monotony of my life. I should also have
the feeling that I could in a measure pay her back in kind, by
alleviating, as I would, some of the sorrow that darkens hers.
‘I believe I had something else to say to you. I am almost certain
that I sat down with a distinct impression that I was going to write
to you about something. Oh yes, here it is. I suppose you hear
regularly from Miss Dixon, and so, of course, you will know that a
little while ago, she returned from her long sojourn in Wensleydale.
I heard she had gone there for the pure air and all that, and
because her father’s relations wanted to have her, and because she
did not feel very strong at the end of the winter. You know, I have
always thought her a very delicate girl, but now—I do not think it
right to conceal it from you—she looks very ill indeed. Her cheeks
have fallen in; her face is pale; she is the shadow of what she was.
I hate to write this; in fact, I was so unwilling to write it, that
I scribbled all the rubbish which premises it, in the hope that,
somehow, I might get out of this; but I cannot. It would be no
friend’s part; and what blame would you not have the right to put
upon me, if I let it pass by without telling you. She is very ill, I
am certain. If I were on different terms with them, I should go to
Mrs. Dixon, and tell her she ought to have advice for her. I keep
wishing they would summon me, or Rowntree; for they surely must see
themselves the change in her. I fancy she ought to go to a warmer
climate, or rather, she ought never to have gone to Yorkshire. That
part of Wensleydale where she was, is piercingly cold—worse than
this. It is in a valley, but the valley itself is very much
elevated. I do not want to make you more uneasy than is necessary.
We must recollect that this is the “merry month” of east winds,
bronchitis, and pleurisy, and many a delicate girl withers up during
May and comes out blooming again in June. Let us hope this is such a
case. Sleep takes possession of me; therefore, good night!’
This letter had veritably been written in the way described in it.
Michael had beheld Ada, and the change in her; and as Roger never,
in any of his pretty frequent letters, mentioned any rumour of the
illness of his betrothed, his friend reluctantly came to the
conclusion that he knew nothing about it, and that to leave him in
such a state of ignorance was utterly impossible for him. All the
first part of his letter he had written ramblingly, half his mind
occupied with a wonder whether he could not absolve himself from the
moral necessity which he felt upon him, of speaking about Ada. He
could not, and the result was the composition above, which was
written on a Wednesday night, and despatched on a Thursday morning.
Michael did not expect any immediate answer to it, but went about
his business, as usual.
On the said Thursday morning, near the Castle, he met Ada Dixon.
There was, indeed, a piercing east wind blowing, and the girl wore a
common-looking fur cloak, with which her father had presented her at
Christmas, and of which she had been proud, in that in shape and
fashion it bore a faint resemblance to the costly garments in which
Miss Wynter and Miss Askam were in the habit of wrapping themselves
on cold days. Perhaps the dead black of the cloak showed up her
pallor still more strongly by contrast; but as Michael met her—he
was on foot, going to see a patient who lived beside the river-bank;
she ascending a little hill, slowly and wearily, and he going down
it—with her face a little upturned, and the flickering light
quivering upon it through the leaves—her white hat and her fair
hair,—as he met her thus, her appearance was almost spectral in its
whiteness and fragility.
She inclined her head to him, and would have passed on. But he
stopped, and held out his hand to her.
‘Good morning, Miss Dixon. You must not think me meddlesome, but
when Roger is not here, I consider you a little bit under my care;
and my duty obliges me to tell you that you are not looking so
robust as is desirable. Have you been catching cold?’
He was surprised at the effect of his words. Ada’s white face became
in a moment angrily red; the colour rushing over it in a flood. Her
eyes flashed, and in a voice that was sharp with irritation, she
said—
‘Nothing ails me at all. I’m as well as I can be, and I think
there’s no call for you to make such remarks, Dr. Langstroth.’
‘I am sure I beg your pardon if I have offended you. I assure you
there is nothing I less wish to do. I am very glad if you do feel
well. Only, I wish you looked stronger—that is all.’
‘What do looks matter, when one feels perfectly well?’ said Ada.
‘There is certainly a good deal in that. Good morning. I will not
detain you.’
He raised his hat, and was moving on; indeed, he had walked a pace
or two, when Ada’s voice, just behind him, caused him to turn again.
She looked embarrassed, and half stammered, as she said—
‘Oh, please—do you know—have you any idea when Miss Askam is coming
home?’
‘I have not,’ said he, gravely, and very much surprised. ‘At least,
I know nothing of the exact day; but before Whitsuntide, Mrs.
Johnson says. She would know, I daresay, if you like to call and ask
her.’
‘Oh, thank you! I’ll see. It’s—it’s not of so much importance,’ said
Ada. ‘Good morning, Dr. Langstroth.’
They parted. Michael went on his way, and as he went he shook his
head.
‘It is not of the least use for her to tell me that she is perfectly
well. She is very ill indeed, and something ought to be done for
her.’
Many times during the day he thought of Ada, and of her changed
looks, and wondered how Mrs. Dixon would take it if he spoke to her
about her daughter.
About seven o’clock, just as he was sitting down to his solitary
dinner, his dining-room door was opened, and Roger Camm walked in.
Michael uttered an ‘ah!’ of pleasure and relief when he saw the
mighty figure lounge into the room.
‘You here, Roger?’ he said, jumping up and grasping his hand. ‘Was
it my letter? Did you take the alarm?’
‘Ay! I could not rest another day without coming to see that child.
She scarcely ever mentions her health; indeed, never; so it never
occurred to me that there could be anything the matter with her.’
‘Then, my dear fellow, you must prepare yourself for a very
disagreeable surprise, that’s all. But have some dinner now, and you
can go down and see her afterwards.’
Another place was set for Roger, who made a praiseworthy effort to
eat his dinner, and to talk as if nothing had happened. He could,
however, scarcely sit out the meal, and the instant it was over he
rose.
‘I’ve come to you feeling sure you would put me up, Michael. I’ve
got what they call in Leeds “the week-end,” and must go off again by
the late train from Darlington on Sunday night.’
‘Of course you will put up here, and I’ll drive you into Darlington
on Sunday. I suppose you’ll go out now?’
‘Yes. Don’t expect me back till you see me,’ said Roger, going away;
and directly afterwards, Michael heard the door shut after him.