Borderland

When Michael Langstroth went into the concert-room that night, rather late, he found the place crowded with an audience, watchful and attentive as only country audiences can be, all in their war-paint and feathers, as Roger remarked, and the choir, in a row on the platform, lustily singing of how

Going up the room, he found himself near the top of it without having found a seat, and he stood looking about him, when a demonstration a little to one side caused him to turn, and he saw a small, lean hand beckoning to him, and a thin, eager-looking face, brimming over with pleasure, asking him, as loudly as silent expressiveness can ask, to come and sit beside her, and, what was more to the purpose, pointing out a space close to her for his accommodation. It was his little patient, Effie Johnson, radiant in the proud consciousness of a new frock, and an unheard-of treat—that of being the only one of her brethren and sisters privileged to be present at the concert. He nodded and smiled, and gradually made his way to her, receiving many a greeting on his way from ‘all sorts and conditions’ of men and women. Effie was on a side-bench, he found, and his place was beside her; but it was a side-bench at the end nearest the platform. Her mother sat at one side of her, and greeted Michael with a nod, and an unusually serene smile. When he was seated, Michael found that amongst his near neighbours were Eleanor Askam, who had found a seat beside Mrs. Parker, after all; and beside Miss Askam, his brother Gilbert. He did not see either Otho or Miss Wynter, and was a little puzzled; for Dr. Rowntree had told him of Eleanor’s note to his sister, explaining why she could not go with her.

If he did not see Magdalen or Otho, he did see very distinctly upon Eleanor’s face an expression of gravity and even anxiety, impossible to be mistaken; a very different expression from the one of hope and strength and light-heartedness which she had worn when he had first seen her. Gilbert’s countenance wore an expression of composure and even contentment.

Michael sat still, and the crowded, lighted room, and loud voices of the singers seemed to disappear. He was alone with his brother. In all the years that had passed since his breaking with Gilbert, in all the occasions on which Gilbert had been in Bradstane since then, they had never met thus closely, and, as it were, side by side. A deep oppression came over Michael’s heart. What was this thing that he felt? He scarcely seemed to himself the same man he had been, even five minutes ago. Gilbert and Eleanor, sitting side by side, and, as it were, alone; that was all of which he was really conscious.

‘Where have you been for such a long time, Dr. Langstroth?’ whispered Effie, as she nestled up to his side with the confidence of childhood—that confidence which is seldom at fault.

‘I have been very busy, Effie, and I have neglected you. I am going to amend my conduct very soon.’

‘But you never forget us, do you?’ said Effie.

‘No, I never forget you, my child; I will come and see you soon.’

Contented, she was silent, and observed the scene with her bright, keen childish eyes looking from her little thin face.

Michael was uneasy and unhappy. At last, unable to endure his suspense any longer, he leaned over to Mrs. Johnson, and asked, in a cautious undertone—

‘Have not Otho Askam and Miss Wynter come?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, in the same tone, and with a significant look. ‘They have both gone into the room where the performers wait. Some people think he is going to volunteer a song.’

Michael nodded, as if satisfied with the explanation. He could not help giving a glance towards Eleanor, and he saw that the look of unease on her countenance had deepened. She looked constrained and uneasy. Just at that moment, Gilbert bent over her and said something to her, with a smile, and as he spoke to her, he raised his eyes, and encountered those of Michael. Michael felt, he knew not what, as he met that glance. Was it anger, or grief, or pain that clutched him? It was a hot and burning feeling, which seemed to surge up within him. He did not know—yet—what it was, but he felt as if he must at all risks avoid meeting Gilbert’s eyes again. He had never experienced pain like this in any meeting with Magdalen, after their separation. He had thought that he had put Gilbert away from him altogether; that he had become no more to him than Magdalen, or than the merest stranger on the road. This terrible emotional disturbance showed him that he had been wrong. But how? What did it import?

The next thing he saw, just as the closing notes of the glee were sounding, was Roger Camm, who walked quickly up the room, and went into the waiting-room, spoken of by Mrs. Johnson. Then the music ceased; the singers received their meed of applause and left the stage, and then there was a little pause, which was, of course, employed as such pauses usually are, in a general uprising, talking, questioning, and laughing. It was wearisome to Michael, who, while anxious above all things to avoid looking at Gilbert again, could still not prevent his eyes from being drawn in Eleanor’s direction. She recognised and greeted him gravely, but, as he keenly felt, not indifferently. She was still, as he could not but see, practically alone with Gilbert, as neither Otho nor Magdalen made their appearance, and Mrs. Parker strayed away to converse with her friends. Then he saw some neighbours—some of those ‘charity blanket Blundell girls,’ as Otho gracefully called them, and poor Sir Thomas Winthrop (glaring distrustfully at Gilbert, who stood erect and half-smiling, all the while), come and talk to her, and Michael did not move from his place, but sat still, listening vaguely to Effie’s prattle, and feeling again and again the same strange, strong and painful feeling shake him from head to foot. Then people began to go back to their places. The noise and bustle settled down, the pause was over. The next thing was a round of applause, and Michael, looking up, saw that Roger Camm had appeared upon the platform, and was going to the piano with some music in his hand. It was Michael’s turn to begin to feel uneasy, when he saw Roger’s face. There was a savage scowl upon it; no holiday expression, but one of the darkest anger and displeasure. He looked neither right nor left, but marched straight to the piano, seated himself, and struck some chords, as if to try the instrument; then sat and waited. Michael consulted his programme, and found that the piece was a duet for soprano and contralto, and that the singers were Miss Wynter and Miss Ada Dixon. For the first time he began to connect Eleanor’s anxious look, and Roger’s angry expression with the words Mrs. Johnson had spoken about Otho and Magdalen having gone together into the little room where the performers waited.

At that moment there was more clapping, and then appeared what seemed to Michael the key to both the black frown and the anxious looks which he had seen. From the room which opened on to the platform, and where they had been waiting, emerged three persons. First came Ada Dixon, who, as soprano, took precedence, and leading her by the hand in the most approved fashion, and with every manifestation of devotion, admiration, and respect, Otho Askam, who, all the time that he led the girl forward, was stooping towards her, and saying something that caused her to simper, and mince her steps in a manner at once gratified, nervous, and self-important. The nervousness was quite visible, but the gratification and self-importance outweighed it. Ada evidently felt herself a star of the first magnitude—the personage of the evening, and was swelling with conscious pride in thus being singled out for honourable distinction. Michael at first only saw the broadly farcical side of the affair, and was inclined to burst into a shout of laughter; but, as these two first figures advanced to the front, and the other became fully visible, he at once began to realise that there was a very different side to the picture, and that it might prove anything but a laughing matter to those concerned.

Magdalen was perfectly alone, perfectly dignified and composed in her demeanour. With marvellous dexterity she contrived to throw something into her manner which placed an immeasurable distance between herself and the two buffoons on whose steps circumstances caused her to follow. The audience might stare and gape, laugh and point the finger at them; it was impossible to do so at her. She walked straight to her place, and stood there, facing the audience, unmoved, and apparently immovable, while Otho, with a final flourish of his hand, presented Miss Dixon with her music, and retired to a chair at the back of the platform, apparently to be ready to hand her back again when the performance was over. Ada turned, laid her handkerchief upon the piano, after the most approved manner of distinguished artistes, and—climax of impudence, thought Michael, who was now watching every movement of the actors in this tragic-comedy with the intensest interest—nodded to Roger to begin. He looked at her with his deep-set eyes from his white face—for it was quite white, and Michael knew the storm that was raging beneath the impassive expression—looked at her thus, and began.

During the playing of the symphony Ada looked at Miss Wynter, and tried to catch her eye—in vain. The distinguished soprano fumbled with her gloves and her music, and looked ill at ease, despite the great glory which had so unexpectedly (to the spectators, at any rate) descended upon her. Miss Wynter, heeding her no more than if she had been a spider on the wall, stood in calm and motionless dignity, her hands lightly folded in front of her; her eyes, cool and calm and unembarrassed, moving deliberately from one face to the other of the audience—perfectly able to stand alone before them all, even under an open slight, even while a man who was spoken of, far and wide, as her particular friend, flouted her, in the faces of the assembled county, in favour of a chit like Ada Dixon. In a negative, analytical way, Michael could not but respect her—respect, at any rate, the undaunted fortitude of the front she presented. And when her eyes met his, and her set lips quivered for a second, he rendered homage to her bravery, by a grave and respectful bow.

The duet began; it seemed hours before it was over, but it was finished at last; and then the same grotesque performance was gone through, as had taken place before, but that this time Magdalen, calmly sweeping past Otho and Ada, left them behind, and walked first into the waiting-room behind the scenes. Then Otho and Ada disappeared, hand in hand, as before; and as before, Michael felt a wild inclination to burst into peal after peal of laughter—inextinguishable laughter, which inclination was once more checked by the sight of Roger’s white and wrathful face, as he picked up some sheets of music, and disappeared in his turn.

All this had taken place in so public a manner that no one present could fail to be cognisant of it all, and it had been watched with breathless interest and suspense by the whole audience, who, when the actors in the scene had disappeared, seemed as it were to draw a long breath; and then there burst forth a perfect storm of talk, comments, and laughter. This laughter jarred upon Michael’s every nerve. Though he knew what a vulgar farce it all was, and had seen its ludicrous side easily enough, yet he could not bear that others should make merry over it, and he could imagine only too well what it must be as it beat upon Eleanor’s brain. He refrained at first from even looking at her; but at last his fascinated mind drew his eyes in her direction, and he saw that she had made a movement as if to rise and go. She was younger than Magdalen, he reflected, and not so hardened to the standing boldly in a false position. She wanted to get away from this, naturally, and she intended to go; he saw it in her look, and saw, too, how Mrs. Parker’s hurried expostulation was of no avail. Then he saw Gilbert for a moment lay his hand upon her wrist, and say something in a low voice—only a few words, but they had the effect of making her sit down again, with a look of indignant resignation on her face.

Michael never knew how the performance came to an end. The things he had seen had set him in a state of great agitation. What he saw afterwards only made him feel more bewildered and more anxious. After the first part of the concert, Otho reappeared, and Magdalen with him. She was walking alone, and had nothing to say to him. She took a seat beside Eleanor, who appeared to exert herself to talk to her. Of course, Michael reflected, it was out of the question that Miss Askam should even appear to countenance her brother’s behaviour; and Magdalen, being the insulted person, had to be treated with courtesy and apparent cordiality. He could imagine with what an effort this courtesy would be displayed, and he thought she played her part very well.

Otho was seated at the other side of Magdalen, and he occasionally addressed her. She answered him gravely, but with a cold politeness. Michael could not understand it.

He was an involuntary witness of one other scene in the drama. In the throng, going out, he found himself near the Thorsgarth party; saw Gilbert fold Eleanor’s cloak about her, and overheard what was said amongst them.

‘Miss Wynter,’ inquired Eleanor, ‘how are you going to get home?’

‘The brougham will be there for me, thank you.’

‘Oh, that is all right, then. Because we could have driven you round, if——’

‘My dear Miss Askam! Five miles round, on such a night! They say it is snowing.’

Here Michael saw that Otho fixed his eyes upon Magdalen’s face, and without speaking, offered her his arm. Michael watched, with a neutral but strong interest, to see what she would do. She took the offered arm, without any smile, certainly, but without any appearance of being angry or offended. Neither of them spoke. They dropped behind Gilbert and Eleanor, who were also arm in arm.

Then when they stood outside, Michael, pausing to see if Roger would join him again, heard Miss Askam’s voice—

‘There is our carriage. We had better let it go round again, and wait till Miss Wynter has got off, as she is alone.’

‘No,’ said Otho, signing to the Thorsgarth coachman to stop. ‘You get in, Eleanor; Langstroth will look after you. I’m going to see Magdalen home.’

‘Otho!’ exclaimed his sister, in a vehement whisper, ‘how can you behave in this manner?’

But Magdalen appeared to accept the announcement with the utmost calm, saying—

‘Well, there is the carriage, Otho, coming after yours.’

Then Michael saw how Gilbert led Eleanor, who looked like a person in a dream, to her carriage; handed her in, followed her, and they were driven away. Michael, before stepping forth himself, gave a glance at the figures of the other two; saw Otho say something with a laugh to Magdalen. Then the Balder Hall brougham drove up. Michael waited no longer. It was evident that Roger must have gone when Ada did. It was useless to wait for him, and he took his way home.