‘Yes, and that does not make me love him any the better, I can tell you.’
‘You don’t like Dr. Langstroth?’
‘Like him!’ echoed Otho, with brutal candour. ‘I hate him. A wild, vapouring, sentimental fellow, that the women all rave about—why, I can’t imagine, for his ways are cold enough to them, for all his handsome face. He sets up to know better than any one else. In fact, he’s a conceited prig, that’s what Michael Langstroth is. The place would be well rid of him, in my opinion, if he’d only have the goodness to leave it. His brother Gilbert is worth a thousand of him.’
‘In what way?’ asked Eleanor curtly.
‘In common sense, and knowledge of the world, and—everything that goes to make a man,’ said Otho, angrily.
Eleanor hearkened, but made no reply to his words. She had not yet been with him twenty-four hours, but she already had an intuitive feeling as to what subjects would and would not be congenial to him.
‘I see you’ve been hearing that old tale, have you?’ Otho went on, glancing at her. ‘Magdalen has been improving the shining hour, I perceive. But she does not usually slang Gilbert.’
‘She did not “slang” anybody, as you call it,’ said Eleanor, feeling ever a deeper repugnance as Otho more fully unfolded his views upon men and things, in language, too, of increasing nicety of expression.
‘There are always two sides to a question,’ he went on, ‘and some people seem to me to forget that, but for Gilbert, his father would have had no money to leave; so that he was entitled to a voice in the disposal of it, if ever man was. His brother treated him like a dog at that time. I’ve always hated him for it, and I like to flaunt Gilbert in his face when he comes to stay with me. And as for Magdalen jilting Michael Langstroth, as they call it—jilting him!’ Otho sneered—‘I don’t see why a woman is to be called a jilt because, when she has given a man full three years’ trial, and at the end of the time finds that he is as far off as ever from being able to keep her, and has chucked up the one chance there was of being provided for, she writes and tells him she thinks there had better be an end to it. And that’s about what did happen between them.’
Eleanor made no reply to this further explanation of Otho’s views. She felt disgusted—it was the only word for her condition. She felt as if she would like to make her opinion known to both Otho and Magdalen, upon this question of their conduct to Michael Langstroth. It was the first time in her life that she had been brought in contact with such doings as seemed to have been going on here. Long ago they had taken place, these ugly evil deeds of falsehood and injustice! Their effect upon the perpetrators did not seem to have been that of making them more urbane in manner, happy in disposition, or lofty in character. Poor Eleanor still felt very strong—felt as if she could cope with any fate that presented itself to her. But even now she did not feel so buoyant as before. The scenes she had that afternoon passed through struck deep root in her memory: Magdalen’s cold, unattractive beauty, her cynicism, and the fear, which she had not been able quite to conceal, lest she was going to lose her hold over Otho (what was that hold? Eleanor wondered); Otho, talking, self-assertive, abusive, and, as Eleanor felt, deep down in her heart—miserable; Michael Langstroth, with whom she had been struck on their first meeting, and who haunted her, now that she knew his history, with his dark face, grave and almost stern, his eyes, bent upon her and Magdalen with, it seemed to her, the same expression for both—one of cold, imperturbable politeness and perfect indifference; the little dressed-up doll, with her fifth-rate airs and graces;—the whole entertainment had repelled and disgusted her. She would not cultivate Magdalen’s acquaintance, if she were doomed not to have another friend in Bradstane. And as for Dr. Langstroth, was he Magdalen’s friend still? She had said so, but nothing in his manner or expression had confirmed it.