HOW CRACKPOT WAS SCRATCHED
They left the dogcart outside the station, and Michael went in with
Roger to see him off. As he stood beside the carriage window,
waiting for the train to start, Roger, leaning out, said to him in a
low voice—
‘I haven’t forgotten what you said to me, Michael, though it looks
as if I had—what you said in your letter about a certain lady.’
‘I did not suppose you had forgotten,’ replied Michael, gravely and
simply; ‘but I think you had better do so. Consider that I wrote it
in a fit of momentary weakness of mind. Indeed, if I could have
borne to write the last part of the letter over again, I would not
have sent the first, when it came to the point.’
‘It is safe enough with me; but I can’t quite see why you should
call it weakness. Look here, Michael, we both know how that lady is
situated, and you say you wish she had not got twelve hundred a year
of her own. Take my word for it, if she knew that, she would curse
her money. Don’t go to suppose that I have not eyes in my head, and
ears to hear with.’
They had clasped hands, and the train had begun very slowly to move.
Roger went on rapidly—
‘I hoped at first that you never would care for her, when I began to
see that she attracted you. Now I believe she is the woman to make
you happy, as you are the man to do the same thing by her. Go in,
and win, Michael, and never heed what the black things about her may
say. Good-bye, old friend, and luck go with you.’
There was a hard pressure of the two hands, which then had to be
unclasped. The train glided out. Michael was left upon the platform,
looking after it. When it had disappeared, he went outside again,
found his dogcart, gave a coin to the boy who had held the horse—for
he had brought no servant, wishing to have Roger to himself on the
drive; and now he set off on his return journey.
When he drove out of Darlington it was after eleven o’clock; there
was a radiant full moon hanging in the sky, and the whole land was
flooded with its beauty and its brilliance. The roads, after he had
got out of the town, were solitary and silent, as country roads,
late on a Sunday night, are wont to be. He had all the beauty, all
the glamour of the night to himself, and it sank into his soul, and
the words which Roger had uttered resounded in his mind, like a
refrain. He did not drive very fast. He was in no mood to tear
along, but was rather disposed to taste to the full the cup of
beauty and graciousness that was offered to him. One by one, he
drove through the chain of exquisite villages which make that road
one of the most beautiful in all England,—Coniscliffe, Piercebridge,
Gainford, and Winston, arrived at which place, for the sheer
pleasure of the farther drive, and the enjoyment of the pure night
air, and the magic of the scene and the hour, he turned off, instead
of pursuing his way straight, to one side, and took the roundabout
and surpassingly beautiful road which leads through Ovington, and
past Wycliffe Hall and wood, and its ancient little church of solemn
beauty, and so across Whorlton Bridge to Bradstane. Every inch of
the way was beautiful. And that which lent the greatest charm to it
was the river, which, ever as he drove, he had near him. Now he lost
it; again it gleamed suddenly on his sight, emerging unexpectedly
into the open, from some deep wood, or rushing in a sweeping curve
into view; now sunk between marly banks, now making its way ‘o’er
solid sheets of marble gray.’ Grand old Tees! thought Michael,
paying it a parenthetical tribute, in the midst of the many other
thoughts which just then crowded his mind, and made the long drive
seem to him a short one; where was it to be matched for beauty and
stateliness, and natural grandeur, and wild, unbounded variety? How
different here, as it flowed on steady and strong, from what it was
as it came, little more than a fierce, brawling mountain stream,
tearing over the wild moors near its source! It had been his friend
and companion through many a weary year, as he had gone his rounds,
wide and long as the valley itself. Like all such friends, ungifted
with the deceitful power of human language, it had always had the
very voice that suited his mood. In his youth, no longings had been
too high, and no hopes too feverish for it to encourage. And for ten
years, since he had been a veritable man, it had been his constant
guide and associate. In spring it rushed joyfully along, singing a
song of encouragement; in summer its cool surface and the soothing
murmur of its flow had many a time made tolerable the burden and
heat of the day. He had heard its autumn roar, and in wilder moods
had ridden races with it; and he knew its aspect in winter, gray and
sullen, or even iron-bound almost all its length, from mouth to
source; in its smoother expanses covered with skaters, or laden with
blocks of ice, which, when the thaw wind began to blow, split and
parted with reports like explosions, and then went sailing in
beautiful glistening blocks towards the sea.
Just now, in this May moonlight, at the hour which was neither night
nor day—for midnight was past—it fulfilled its spring vocation; and
as he drove along, its murmur swelled out into the night, and held
out promises—promises so brave and high that he mistrusted them
almost. And yet, a voice in his heart told him, with an unerring
whisper, that he might believe these promises; that if he went and
asked Eleanor Askam to confirm their truth, she would do so. The
knowledge thrilled him; it was pungent—half-bitter, half-sweet. It
gave him a new sense of youth, a conquering confidence to which he
had long been a stranger. He rejoiced in it, and rejoiced greatly
all the while that he shook his head, and said within himself
‘impossible,’ and repeated that he wished she were not so rich—so
much richer than he was. If anything should happen—some transitory
misfortune, by which she might for one moment feel herself quite
poor, and believe she had no resting-place for her head, and he the
next moment might bid that dear head rest where it should ever be
welcome—on his own heart—ah, Bradstane town and the cobble-stoned
streets, the Red Gables and reality!
On the following day he heard that Ada Dixon had gone to stay with
her father’s widowed sister, at some remote Devonshire village. The
sister had been housekeeper to a great family in the neighbourhood;
had married the butler, and was now living partly on the fruits of
her own savings, partly on a pension from the said family.
‘Poor Roger!’ reflected Michael. ‘If the girl were something very
wonderful, or very gifted, or marvellously attractive, one could
forgive such connections. And there’s no harm in poor old Dixon; but
as for the others—no, they are not suited for him.’
The little bit of gossip and talk caused by this second visit of Ada
Dixon to friends at a distance, following so rapidly upon her return
from a first absence, had had time to die away, and the middle of
May had arrived, when Michael became aware that his new neighbour,
Miss Askam, had returned from her sojourn amongst her friends. The
Dower House showed signs of life; the windows were filled with pots
of flowering plants, and one or other of the little Johnsons began
to be frequently seen on the doorsteps, while the Thorsgarth landau
came round every fine afternoon, and was driven into the country
with Miss Askam and one or more either of these little Johnsons, or
their hard-worked mamma, or Mrs. Parker; for the young lady seemed
to have no pleasure in solitary state drives. Sometimes, on his
rounds, Michael met her, and then there was a bow on his part, and a
secret thrill of delight, and perhaps some of the power he felt
showing in his eyes; and a gracious inclination, an irrepressible
brightness overspreading her face, on her side. A week or ten days
passed, by no means ungenially, in this way, till the Derby week
arrived.
On the Monday morning Michael was amazed to receive a note from
Eleanor.
‘MY DEAR MR. LANGSTROTH,
I wonder if you would think it very troublesome to come
and tell me, if by any chance you _should_ hear anything about my
brother’s horse, on Wednesday. I am most anxious to know, and
thought perhaps you might know people who will have telegrams about
the race before Thursday’s paper comes. I shall not see that till
the afternoon, you know.
‘Sincerely yours,
‘E. ASKAM.’
Michael, as she conjectured, had means of gaining information before
Thursday’s London paper made its appearance. He wrote to the
secretary of a certain club at Darlington, desiring him to telegraph
to him any news of ‘Crackpot,’ at as early a date as possible. He
was both astonished and disturbed to receive a telegram on the
Tuesday night, and its contents were not too soothing to his
feelings. Thinking it best to get the business over, he went
straight to the Dower House, and was admitted to Miss Askam at once.
She looked astonished to see him, and he perceived that her
brightness was gone. There was a look of worn and harassed anxiety,
and of nervous restlessness, too, about her. Her hands trembled, and
her eyes wavered.
‘Miss Askam,’ he was beginning, but she interrupted him.
‘You have got a telegram. Something has happened. I knew it. I had—I
was certain of it. What is it,—because I know the race is not yet
run? Is anything the matter with Otho?’
‘This telegram,’ he began again.
‘Please let me read it. I cannot wait.’
He handed it to her silently, and it fluttered in her hands as she
perused it;—
‘_Crackpot scratched. No end of a row._’
‘I do not know what that means,’ she said, tremulously.
‘Scratched—will you please explain.’
‘It means,’ said he, reluctantly, ‘that your brother has withdrawn
his horse at the last moment from the race; and from the last part
of the telegram, I am afraid there must be an impression
that—that——’
‘That he has not dealt honourably,’ she said, quickly and
breathlessly. ‘I want to know a little more, please, Mr. Langstroth.
Is it not usual to withdraw a horse in this way?’
‘No. At least, it is a great pity when it has to be done. It is
particularly a great pity that your brother should have had to do it
the first time a horse of his was running. Some men do it pretty
often; and then, you know, they get a bad name, and are not
considered——’
‘Honourable. I understand. But will he have done it without any
reason? Can you say, just at the last, “I have changed my mind, and
my horse shall not run?”’
‘Most likely it is given out that Crackpot is ill, and unfit to run.
Nay, it may be that he is so. Do not distress yourself about it,’ he
added, eagerly. ‘I will find out all that I can about it, and let
you know. Everything will be uncertain now, of course.’
She was still standing by the table, looking at him with haggard
eyes, and as he spoke thus, she shook her head.
‘No, no!’ said she. ‘Just once, while I was in London, I happened to
be at a regatta, with my friends, and Otho was there too. And I saw
a disagreeable-looking man come up to him, who did not know I had
anything to do with him. They talked together for a little while,
and I did not hear what they said, till suddenly the man said, “But
mind you, Askam, none of your tricks. You are a slippery customer at
the best.” I felt so indignant that I turned round quite angrily;
and then he saw that I knew Otho, and they laughed, and moved a
little to one side.’
‘I don’t see that that incident has any necessary connection with
this,’ said he, quietly. ‘You can do nothing, you know, Miss Askam.
Do not distress yourself needlessly. To do that is to render
yourself powerless when any real emergency arises.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said she, and paused. He looked at her, and saw that
she looked worn and anxious.
‘Is there anything else I could do for you?’ he began. ‘Because I
should be so glad——’
‘No, thank you, nothing, except to promise that should you hear
anything more about the thing, you will let me know.’
‘That I certainly will,’ said he, and rose to take his leave. ‘You
still remain amongst us, in Bradstane,’ he observed, gravely, but
kindly, as he held out his hand.
‘Yes,’ said Eleanor, with a quick flush. ‘I do not wish to go away.
I—I intend to stay here.’
‘Always?’
‘I think—always.’ She spoke steadily, but did not look at him.
‘I am very glad to hear that,’ replied Michael, quietly. ‘Now I know
you are strong when you choose to be so. Will you promise not to
fret foolishly over this thing—not to brood and mope over it; or
else I shall be sorry I complied with your request?’
‘I promise to behave as well as in me lies,’ said Eleanor, smiling.
‘Then, good evening.’
He went away thoughtful. He knew perfectly well that she would have
to hear more disagreeable things about Otho before very long, but he
had succeeded in lulling her fears for the present, at any rate.