Borderland

A November morning, five years later. The sky gray and brooding, the trees still and leafless. Everything outside betokened the drear season of the year, and even the trimly kept lawns of Thorsgarth could not give brightness to this mood of Nature and the time o’ day.

Within, in a small room which he generally used for breakfasting, Otho Askam stood on the hearthrug, with his burly back turned towards a large fire. A letter was in his hand, to which he seemed to pay more attention than it was usually his habit to give to his correspondence, for he turned it about, and perused it often. What are the changes which five years may have wrought in his traits, or how many of them have become strengthened and accentuated during that time?

He would seem, outwardly considered, to have gained something, both in breadth and solidity, without having in any way weakened or deteriorated. The lines were as sturdy, as burly as before. The expression of his countenance was distinctly imperious, even more imperious than of yore. As he stood there, the letter in one hand, the other impatiently smoothing the hair on his upper lip—a dark line only, which seemed to accentuate the sullenness of his face, without hiding or softening a single harsh trait or feature—as he stood there his countenance was a dangerous-looking one; the expression or atmosphere which radiated from the man was not that of sincerity. In repose he had the old fierceness of appearance—whatever mental or moral change might have taken place, that old look remained; and when he raised his dark eyes and lifted his head, there was the same breathless, hunted, or hunting look about him, as in the days of his very young manhood there had been.

He was alone, and had just finished breakfast. At his feet sat a dignified Dandie Dinmont, somewhat advanced in years, and with the self-conscious aspect of a dog which has long been made much of by human beings, so that at last it has come to feel convinced that all their actions, words, and movements have some reference to it and its doings. It gazed up into Otho’s face and watched his gestures, and when he spoke to it, it seemed pleased. Animals, even if they have that keen discernment as to the virtue or vice of the beings by whom they are surrounded, with which some persons credit them, can conceal their likes and dislikes, for their own purposes, quite as cleverly as the men and women they live with—at least, sophisticated and humanised dogs, like this highly educated Pouncer, can.

Looking out of the window, one saw the drear season of the year plainly written upon the outward aspect of things. November, sad November, but the November of the country, and not of the town. In southern places, and more favoured spots, trees might still be covered with fiery autumn tints; but here every leaf had dropped, and upon the black and sodden-looking boughs and twigs hung a damp, clammy dew, and the grass was hoar and gray with the same. The sky was leaden; not a branch stirred. From here one could see where the ground sloped towards the river, but one could not see the stream itself. The room was warm; the house was quiet; the master was vexed—so much was plainly to be read on his face. And so much was audible from his lips too, as he ejaculated in a wrathful tone—

‘Beastly folly—and a beastly nuisance, too!’

And the cause of his vexation, the letter he held in his hand? It is easy to read over his shoulder, and follow the lines, as he peruses it a third time, with the result, apparently, of increasing his first exasperation.

Otho flung the letter upon the table with temper.

‘Why the d—l could not she marry the fellow?’ he muttered angrily, looking darkly at Pouncer, who slightly moved his tail and elevated his ears with a sigh, as if he too wondered why—why she could not have married the fellow.

‘What could she wish for more? A girl in her position ought to take the first opportunity that offers—good, of course—of settling herself in life. And I’m sure old Aunt Emily knew what she was about. No one keener on family and money in the world. If she wanted the match so badly, I’ll go bail it was a good one. Of course she must marry—girls like her always must marry—and of course she can’t go and marry a nobody. What a fool she must be! One would think she was not all there. Not that I should think the parson and I should have hit it off very well as brothers-in-law.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘A thundering mistake, that will,’ he went on within himself. ‘Such wills have no business to be made.’

This reflection referred to a clause in his father’s will, providing that Otho’s sister, so long as he and she both remained unmarried, was entitled to a home at Thorsgarth whenever she chose to inhabit it. In the event of his marriage, there remained for her the Dower House, which indeed was hers for her life if she did not marry—an old stone house in the square, not far from the Red Gables.

‘I can’t stop it, I suppose. It is a beastly nuisance, if ever there was one. As for going to fetch her, I shall do no such thing. Go nearly three hundred miles to fetch back some one I don’t want? Not I!... And what can I do with her when I get her here? Good Lord! why must women be so stupid? Such sentimental nonsense! Because I am her brother—bah! There’s that whey-faced Paul Stanley, her cousin, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth—she’s known him all her life, and he has been far more of a brother to her than I have.’

Otho felt vindictive, realising what a grievous thing it was that he should have to be anybody’s brother.

‘The goings on in this house won’t suit her at all,’ he reflected, getting more and more savage the longer he thought about it. ‘It has been a bachelor’s house all these years, and it has come to something if I’m to turn everything topsy-turvy for a chit of a girl like that. Dogs and horses and men, and tobacco and wine and cards—what will she do amidst it all? And what shall I do with her?’

He stopped muttering from sheer blankness of mind on the subject, still fiercely stroking his upper lip, till after a time a look of relief, though of very ill-tempered relief at the best, came over his face, as he thought—

‘I suppose I must go and tell Magdalen about it. She’ll be able to suggest something. I’ll go this morning, before I answer this confounded letter. Whew—w—w!’

He blew out a kind of ill-tempered sigh, and Pouncer wagged his tail in visible and exceeding satisfaction.

Then Otho picked up another letter—short and, as it would seem, sweet, to him at least, for his countenance relaxed visibly.

‘That’s well. It will be rather a relief to have him here if she comes. He knows what is the right thing to do when there are petticoats on the premises. I don’t.’

Then he rang the bell, ordered the breakfast-things to be taken away, and said he wanted his horse at eleven.

Soon after twelve Otho rode up to Balder Hall, was admitted to Miss Wynter’s boudoir, and proceeded to unfold his troubles to her.

She had received him with the tranquillity which had always been the chief characteristic of her demeanour, and which seemed neither to have increased nor diminished with years; heard all that he had to say; and finally, when he pulled Eleanor’s letter out of his pocket, and said, ‘See for yourself what she says,’ Magdalen took the letter, opened it deliberately, and as deliberately read it. She had never heard much about Otho’s sister; she was not a woman to talk to men about their feminine relatives, and Otho had always been glad to ignore his sister’s existence as much as possible. This suddenly announced coming of Miss Askam took Magdalen by surprise. She had no time to decide whether it would best suit her views that they should be friends or enemies, but the letter would possibly give her a valuable glimpse into the writer’s mind, perhaps even into her character, written as it was confidentially to an only brother. As to the question whether it was honourable or not to read such a letter, Miss Wynter was exactly the woman to say, if any one had raised such a scruple, ‘Why, Otho gave it me!’ Go to! she might have been credited with saying—the keeping one’s own integrity is enough work for any person, without telling others when they appear to be losing theirs.

‘Ah,’ said she, when she had finished the letter, ‘it is quite obvious why she wants to come. I did not know your sister was twenty-two, Otho. Indeed, I hardly realised that you had a sister.’

‘No more did I, till she went and did this,’ said Otho, resentfully.

‘And you would rather she did not come?’

‘Much rather. But it’s no use thinking of keeping her away. I’m not going to try. She has got the right to come, by my father’s will, and to stay as long as she likes, till one of us gets married. I can’t prevent it. The thing is, I don’t know what to do with her when I get her here.’

‘Well, if you make it very pleasant for her, of course she’ll want to stay.’

Otho nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘And if you upset all your habits, and make great changes on her account, then she will think you want her to stay, which would be quite a false impression.’

‘I never thought of that.’

‘Of course not; only it seems such a very obvious thing. Perhaps that is why it never occurred to you.’

‘Now, come, none of your chaff. What I thought of was, that it’s simply impossible for a girl like that to settle down in a house full of my ways. I must do something, and what to do I don’t know. I wanted your advice.’

‘And pray what right have you to my advice? Why should I interfere between you and your sister? I might tell you it is a just retribution on you for having alienated yourself systematically from all such ties. You demand my advice as if you were a highwayman requiring my watch and purse.’

Otho fidgeted and fumbled, h’mmed and ha’d.

‘I beg your pardon, Magdalen. I thought I had the right—of having asked before, and received—advice, you know. And you know I always do come to you when I am in trouble.’

‘Oh yes; I know you do.’

‘Would you please tell me what I had better do?’

‘Is she good-looking?’ asked Magdalen.

‘Oh no!’ said Otho, promptly. ‘She has red hair and freckles.’

Magdalen glanced at Otho’s own dark traits, and said, ‘Now, Otho!’

‘Upon my soul and honour she has; and one of those faces that flush up all over, without a minute’s warning. I never could see the sense of those faces. She goes into raptures, you know, and cries and laughs about things—at least, she did when I saw her. In fact, though she’s been at college somewhere, and is a complete blue—reads Homer, and all such bosh—I thought her a regular baby. She’s got rather a dashing figure,’ he added, musingly, ‘but I swear to you, Magdalen, she is not good-looking.’

‘But why, then, does this clergyman want to marry her? A man of wealth, family, and position? I know quite well who he is. They are very first-rate people down there.’

‘Bah! She has twelve hundred a year of her own, to do what she likes with. Whoever heard of a parson, rich or poor, that could rise above such a thing as that?’ said Otho, with brutality. ‘And then, all places are not like Bradstane. They may like blues and freckles down there.... As for his being a man of wealth, family, and position, you might say that of me;’ and he laughed cynically. ‘She’s as good as he is, any day.’

‘Yes,’ said Magdalen, gently. ‘She is your sister.’ She took up her work. ‘It seems to me that you are making a great fuss about nothing. Why make any difference at all for her? Thorsgarth is your house, not hers, though she has the right to live there, under present circumstances. It is large enough in all conscience. Half a dozen families might live there, and hardly ever meet in the passages. Give her a sitting-room for herself, and tell her you are sorry that your business doesn’t leave you time to see very much of her. It will not be long before she finds out what a dull place Bradstane is, and I do not think she will care to remain in it very long, especially with such a sympathetic brother.’

‘You are a gem!’ he said, admiringly.

‘And bring her up to see me as soon as you can, after she comes.’

‘The next afternoon, if it’s fine,’ he said, eagerly.

‘Yes, the next afternoon, if you like. It will make no difference to me.’

Then, as if she had had enough of the subject, she returned the letter to him, and asked, ‘Is there no meet to-day?’

‘No. We got word last night that there wouldn’t be. I’m going down to Bradstane just now, to the works. By the way, I had a letter from Gilbert, too, this morning. He’s coming down for Christmas, as usual.’

‘Oh, he never fails you.’

‘No; he never does. I must take care not to bring him up here while his brother is on the premises. When does he come, now?’

‘I know nothing about it. Sometimes at one hour, sometimes at another. And the surest way to bring about a collision is to take so much care to avoid one. As if there were not room for Gilbert and him in the house without dodging in that stupid way!’

‘That’s all very fine, but accidents will happen. Suppose they were to meet, after all, and have a shindy.’

‘A shindy! Really, Otho, you exasperate me. In the first place, though you might, and probably would, make a shindy under such circumstances, you ought to know that they would never make one under any circumstances. And if they wished to, ever so, would they dare, before me?’

‘Whew—w!’ murmured Otho, under his breath; and then aloud—

‘It seems as if all I said offended you this morning, Magdalen. However, I’ll be more good-natured than you, and say thank you for your advice, which I shall follow. I must be off now.’

He got up and stood before her, holding out his hand. Magdalen surveyed him in the same cold, direct manner, as before. It was her old calm, almost expressionless gaze, but the eyes which had once been soft and velvety were now hard. She said good morning to him in a very indifferent way, and rang the bell. Otho left the room and went downstairs.

His inventive genius was apparently not great. He carried out her advice or instructions, whichever it might have been, almost to the letter. Without waiting to go to the works, he first of all called in at Thorsgarth, and while his horse waited, sat down and wrote a short letter to his sister, saying that he would meet her at the station if she would let him know by what train to expect her; that he was sorry to say he was quite too much engaged to travel down to the New Forest to bring her to Thorsgarth. He was afraid she would find Bradstane insufferably dull after the social life to which she had been accustomed. With regard to the parson, he added, with characteristic want of finish in his style, he thought it a pity that she had not seen her way to taking him, as the match seemed in every way a good one, but he could hear all about that when they met, and so he was her affectionate brother, Otho Askam.

Then he rang the bell and desired to see the housekeeper; and when she arrived upon the scene, he gave his orders with the brevity and authority of a great general, and of course Mrs. Sparkes could not know that the said orders had originated with Magdalen Wynter. It was decided that some south rooms—‘the late Mrs. Askam’s suite,’ said Mrs. Sparkes—were to be prepared for Eleanor.

‘Yes,’ said Otho, with an uneasy feeling that, since he proposed to leave his sister considerably to her own society, it behoved him to look to her personal comfort as much as possible. ‘And see that they are made nice—aired, you know, and to look—a—bright, and all that.’

‘Oh, sir, the rooms will not need much doing to them. It’s not my system to be taken by surprise,’ said Mrs. Sparkes, with a lofty smile.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Otho, with a kind of brusque facetiousness which had its effect in making him popular with some of his dependants. ‘I wish I knew how you managed to avoid it. This affair—Miss Askam’s coming, has taken me very much by surprise.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean that exactly, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparkes, pleased at the confidence reposed in her. ‘There’s some things can’t be provided for, but I meant things in general.’

‘Ah! well, you’ll remember what I said,’ remarked Otho; and Mrs. Sparkes bowed herself out.

Then he called for his horse again, and set off for his long-delayed visit to the Townend Mills. It need hardly be said that these calls were wholly perfunctory. Gilbert, from his London office, gave the orders, and Roger Camm in his Bradstane one carried them out. Otho had a pleasure in calling and looking round now and then, because he knew how Michael and Sir Thomas Winthrop hated the Bradstane Jute Co., Limited, and that Roger Camm hated him, Otho, the man who had found the money for it. The conclusion to which he had come by the time that he halted in the mill-yard was that, having settled all things, he had now just one week of liberty before him, and, putting his sister from his mind, he resolved to think no more about her until her arrival should force him to do so.