‘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.