‘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.
CHAPTER XXXV
‘CARELESSE CONTENTE’
The withdrawal of Crackpot from the running, on the very day before the race, made a great sensation in the world of the turf. The affair was looked upon with suspicion, especially in connection with Otho Askam’s known character for slipperiness—a character which stuck to him, although no one could exactly say how he had first got it. But the sensation was very much confined to the circles immediately connected with the event. Otho had managed with sufficient skill to avoid having anything tangible brought up against him. The rumours that were current did not penetrate to his sister’s ears. The things that were written about the circumstance were published in sporting or ‘society’ papers, which she never saw, and in their own peculiar jargon. Michael, in his rounds, heard it all freely discussed, but was careful never to let her know what he heard. He wished her to forget it, and presently it seemed as if she did. At her age, and with her temperament, the heart, though it is peculiarly sensible to sorrow, and feels it with a keenness resembling resentment, is also very open to joy; and there were joyful influences at work in her life that summer. Michael did not even tell her of the rumours he had heard, that Otho had lost a great deal of money by withdrawing Crackpot from the race; for after all, they were rumours, and not substantiated facts, though Michael believed them to be true enough. Otho had what Michael considered the good taste not to come near Thorsgarth after his escapade, and for a season the land had rest from him and his presence.
It has been said that there were joyful influences at work in the life of Eleanor this summer; and that was true. Her nature loved sunshine, and just now it had it in plenty, both moral and material. From May—after the bad news about Otho—till August, sunlight prevailed. There was a long, hot, glorious summer, such as is not often vouchsafed to us nowadays. Hitherto she had known Bradstane literally only under its winter aspect. These months offered a variety of view and climate; and she, keenly and intensely sensitive to such influences, rejoiced with the rejoicing summer. Her life at the Dower House just then was a far from unpleasant one. She had gathered round her a little circle of friends, both young and old, and they gave freshness and variety to her life, as she helped to bring charm and poetry into theirs. She began for the first time really to understand what pleasure money can give—the possession of it, that is, and the power which that possession confers of affording pleasure and relief to others. She helped to make the summer golden to others beside herself. Amongst the pleasures of that season, there were none she enjoyed more than the out-of-door life which the unusual fineness and dryness of the summer rendered possible. There were day-long excursions, begun early in the morning, and only ended when the dew and the night were falling together—excursions into the deep woods, over the glorious moors, or beside the lovely streams which water and adorn that wild and beautiful tract of Borderland, called Teesdale. Sometimes she and her friends, the little Johnsons, would set off alone, swarming (the children) in and out of a pony chaise which never seemed too small, however many got into it; and which was yet never too large, even when there were not more than two or three to occupy it. As often as not the old doctor would be their guide and chaperon; and under his direction they explored the country for miles around. It was new to Eleanor; it was mostly new to her young companions, who had never before had a fairy with a pony chaise to take them about. This was very pleasant, with the lunches eaten ‘by shallow rivers,’ or under leafy trees; when the children splashed and waded to their heart’s content, and the days, long though they were, never seemed long enough.
But there were also other and larger affairs, more important in every sense of the word,—proper picnics, at which several parties joined,—the Johnsons, Dr. Rowntree and his sister, Mrs. Parker, Eleanor; and on one or two occasions, even Michael had managed to snatch a day and join them, leaving his work to his assistant. On one of these days when he was present, they explored Deepdale; on another they managed to climb ‘Catcastle Crag.’ On both of these occasions it was noticed that Michael’s behaviour was marked by an unaccountable levity, and Miss Askam’s by a kind of laughing apprehension. She, too, seemed to see jokes where no one else could detect them. Michael, indeed, went so far as to tell the children that this was not the first time that Miss Askam had been to Catcastle, and having by means of sundry mysterious hints roused their curiosity to fever pitch, and set them to attack her with every kind of question they could think of, he fell into the rear, and conversed with Mrs. Parker, leaving Eleanor to baffle them as best she could.
They happened to be alone for a few moments on the occasion of the Deepdale expedition, and he seized the opportunity to say—
‘I notice that you still retain that ingenuous youth, William, for your special body-servant; I suppose it is his complete incapacity which recommends him to you? You do not like to dismiss him, because you are quite sure no one else would take him on; and you think it is better that he should have the semblance of an occupation than that you should have to support him by charity.’
‘You wrong poor William, Mr. Langstroth. He is a very good servant, and a most faithful creature.’