Borderland

The day after that unfortunate fracas at the mills was Christmas Day. It will easily be understood that to Roger it did not this year form the most cheerful occasion imaginable. He had seen Ada on the evening of the twenty-fourth, and some kind of a reconciliation had then been patched up between them, but one which set Roger thinking, and made him feel that many differences of opinion might be less disastrous than such a making up of a quarrel. It had not been spontaneous; it had been largely due to the intervention of Mr. Dixon, who was very indignant with his daughter for what he called ‘making such an exhibition of herself.’ He condemned Otho Askam in no measured terms, but his blame of Ada and her ‘want of sense’ was almost as strong. He wanted to know where she meant to draw the line in her folly. He added that she was doing her character no good by such ‘carryings on,’ and uttered a dark hint as to the implacable nature of his wrath should she ever in the future disgrace, or as he expressed it, ‘lower herself’ in any way whatsoever.

During the paternal admonitions Mrs. Dixon maintained an ominous silence. As has been before said, she did not favour Roger’s pretensions, and had always looked to her daughter to marry well;—not what Mr. Dixon considered to be well, but what she, his consort, understood by the term. On returning from the concert, and finding that Ada had gone to her room, her mother had repaired thither, and had extracted from the girl an account of every word uttered throughout the evening, by herself, Otho, Miss Wynter, and Roger. She had not said much, save some strong expressions condemnatory of Roger’s behaviour, which she characterised as ‘tyrannical,’ ‘impudent,’ ‘masterful,’ and ‘odious,’ and expressed indignation that her daughter should be forced to do the bidding of such a man. But at the recital of Otho’s attentions there was an expression in her face which Ada did not interpret as one of displeasure.

By Mr. Dixon’s orders the young woman had received her betrothed with outward friendliness, though she declined with quiet, persistent obstinacy, to say she was sorry for what had happened. Reconciliations made to order are apt to carry about them a very strong flavour of their artificial nature and origin, and this particular reconciliation bore the stamp of unreality very plainly to be read.

On going in on Christmas Eve, Roger was, for once, not at all sorry to find that the Dixons had friends with them. Mr. Dixon received him heartily, Ada demurely, Mrs. Dixon coldly, scarcely speaking to him at all. There was a miserable constraint and unreality about everything. Roger felt it a relief to himself, and had a bitter conviction that it was also one to Ada, when he had to tell her that he had promised Mr. Johnson to take all the organist’s duty on the following day, in order that that official might take a holiday and visit some friends. His time would, therefore, be so much taken up that he would not be able to call and see her before service. She heard his excuse with indifference, and Roger went to bed that night, and arose also on the following morning, with a heavy problem agitating his mind. How was he to treat her? What was he to do with this wilful creature whom he loved so much, and who had succeeded in making their mutual relations so miserable and so embarrassed? For it was he who had been sinned against, as he very well knew, and though in his tenderness he was ready to condone that, and would have eagerly made an effort after any reconciliation that should have reality in it, yet the sense of duty and of the fitness of things stepped in, and told him that to let a condition of things be initiated in which the woman was to be humoured even when wrong, and the man was to beg forgiveness for all misunderstandings, whether caused by himself or not, was simple madness. Yet how he was to institute anything more reasonable, he did not see, unless Ada were brought to see that she had behaved badly, of which truth not the most glimmering consciousness seemed to have been afforded her.

With this trouble in his mind he went to church on Christmas morning, and tried, almost unconsciously, to find a solution to his difficulties in the language spoken to him by his music. To a certain extent he found what he wanted; he received soothing, and that alone was a help to counsel. It was not the first time that music had come to him with healing on her wings; most likely it would not be the last.

Seated up in the organ-loft, and looking into the mirror in front of him, he could see, not only the vicar and his curate, but a good many of the congregation too,—all diminished, reversed in position, moving up and down silently, rising and sitting down again like automata or dream-creatures. His sight was keen and long. He could identify a good many of those who came in, and amongst them he saw Ada and her father and mother. Ada, he perceived, was not so prostrate under the shock of their quarrel as to have neglected the claims of Christmas Day to be considered a fête day in matters of toilette. She was dressed gaily, and he saw a pretty face, looking prettier still in the framework of a smart and becoming new bonnet. It was a fresh, sweet face, seen thus in repose, and at a distance, and his heart yearned towards its owner, and he tried to put out of his mind the ugly recollection of the same face turned upwards towards Otho Askam, with a smile, and afterwards looking at him, cross, distorted, pouting.

Whether the music inspired him, or the sight of Ada, he knew not, but there flashed suddenly into his mind the recollection that he must most likely soon lose sight of her, for a considerable time at any rate, and with this recollection the conviction that that was the best thing that could possibly happen to them both. Separation for a season would, he argued, teach them both to look upon things with less prejudiced eyes. She would miss him, and want him, and he would learn to be less indignant at what had happened between them.

As he came to this conclusion, which he hugged as a conviction, because it presented to him a way out of his difficulty with regard to the most judicious course to take with Ada, he perceived Gilbert Langstroth walking up the aisle behind Eleanor Askam, and they went together to the great square pew belonging to Thorsgarth. Roger began to wonder if Michael was right in thinking there might be something between them. Then he saw the choir and parsons coming in, and he wound up his voluntary, and the service began. When it was over, he played the congregation out to the music of a quick movement from a sonata of Beethoven—a passage full of storm and stress; of pain, struggle, and striving. And as the wild and noble music pealed out, some of his pain and unrest passed away with it.

When he had left the church, and got into the churchyard, it was almost empty. One or two groups still lingered in conversation. Ada and her parents were not amongst them, but Roger was surprised to see Gilbert and Miss Askam still there. She looked very pale, he noticed, and grave, but also very beautiful in her dark brown velvet and furs. He raised his hat, and was passing on, but Gilbert stepped forward, and to Roger’s bewildered amazement, accosted him.

‘I have been waiting for you,’ said he. ‘I want a word with you, if you can spare a moment; and Miss Askam desires me to present you to her;’ and he turned from one to the other.

Again Roger’s hat came off, and he could not find it in his heart to look with anything but gentleness upon this sad young face, in which he, like Michael, had begun to perceive a nobility and firmness of expression beneath the mere beauty of outline, which expression attracted him whether he would or no. She only said a very few words to him, quietly and simply.

‘I wished to make your acquaintance. I have heard much about you from Dr. Rowntree, and from my friend, Mrs. Johnson.’

To which Roger gravely replied that he was highly honoured, and had heard also of Miss Askam from the same friends. He perfectly appreciated the spirit which dictated this advance from her.

‘She would repair the wrong, if she could. Poor thing! She might as well try to sweep back the ocean with a besom.’

Then Gilbert said to him, ‘I had no opportunity of speaking to you the other morning, but I want to do so particularly. I have business to discuss with you. Will you meet me to-morrow morning in the reading-room in the town—say at twelve, or earlier if you like?’

‘Certainly. Twelve will suit me perfectly. It will no doubt be better that we should have a little talk.’

‘Thank you. I shall be punctual,’ said Gilbert, with the air of a man who is much obliged.

They parted, and Roger took his way to Mr. Dixon’s, where he had been bidden some time ago, to dine and spend the day; not because he felt any sudden desire for their society, or they for his, but because it was Christmas, and it is the proper thing to go and make merry with your friends and relations at that season. He had to go out once more to play at the evening service, except for which interval he spent most of his time in the company of his betrothed and her parents, with what results may be imagined. Ada was no more gracious, no more penitent to-day, than she had been yesterday. Roger’s conviction that a temporary separation would be good for the spiritual welfare of both became stronger. He imparted his idea to Mr. Dixon, in a private conversation with him, stating his reasons, and Mr. Dixon entirely agreed with him. They both brought heavy broadsides of common sense to bear upon the question, and neither of them could do more; neither of them could have understood, if some scatter-brained person had stepped forward, and assured them that to settle a question of that kind it was most desirable that to common sense should be joined a little of the much rarer and more precious quality of imagination. They saw facts, and they grappled with them in the very best way in which they knew how; and they were at one in the opinion that Ada, if left to herself a little, might come to a better mind.

On the following day, at noon, punctual to his appointment, Roger repaired to the reading-room in the town. There was no one there; it was holiday time, and people were otherwise amusing themselves. As he waited for Gilbert he could not but reflect how it was they came to meet thus.

‘He knows I wouldn’t set my foot inside Thorsgarth, and he knows, too, that he need never again darken the door of his brother; so we have to sneak into a public room, where there is neutral ground. It is an odious state of things, and I shall be glad to be out of it.’

He had not long to wait. Gilbert arrived directly afterwards, and looked pleased to see him.

‘I am much obliged to you for coming,’ began Gilbert. ‘It gives me hopes that I shall be successful in my errand.’

‘I thought you would want to know how the books stand and so on, for the benefit of my successor, when he arrives.’

‘Of course that will be necessary, but it is not what I came about to-day. I won’t waste words in telling you how annoyed, and more than annoyed I have been—I may say mortified and disgusted, at what has just taken place. I know the value of your services, and that this is no fitting recompense for them.’

‘I don’t know about the value of my services, but I feel as if I had been rubbed the wrong way, and that by no means gently,’ said Roger.

‘Of course. And you will naturally be unwilling to remain without a situation longer than is necessary.’

‘Naturally. I have done nothing about it yet, because nobody wants to hear about such things at Christmas-time; but I thought of advertising, or perhaps writing to my former employers directly.’

‘Yes, of course you could do that. But I have it on my conscience that it was to oblige me and to do me a service that you left those former employers, and it must be my business not to let you suffer for that.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Roger, perfectly appreciating the unusual nature of this long memory. ‘Very kind, you are; but I don’t see how any one could hold you responsible for what has happened, or consider it your fault if a man whom I have had to do with is such a blackguard, and shows his blackguardism in such an offensive manner that I have to leave him. I’ve had my wages for more than six years, and——’

‘You have done a great deal more than that. You have stuck to the affair from the beginning, and worked it through good and bad, till from a doubtful venture you have made it into a profitable business. Any common foreman might have stayed in his place and taken his wages. You have been something different. But there is no need to beat about the bush. I have a proposal to make to you. I have had a fair measure of success in the business in which I am engaged. I think of finally settling accounts with Mr. Askam, who has never cared for business of that kind. I shall pay him the remainder of the capital and interest still owing to him, and continue to work the mills on my own account; and I thought that under those circumstances you might consent to remain, since you would have the entire management of the concern, and of course a share in the profits, and would have absolutely nothing further to do with Otho Askam. What do you say to it?’

The proposition took Roger by surprise, and embarrassed him at the same time, for it made his decision concerning the separation of Ada and himself seem less than before the only reasonable one to come to. But he was not a man who came to such decisions in a moment of carelessness or impatience, and, having once arrived at them he was hard to move. At first there was a strong feeling of temptation,—the sensation that Gilbert’s proposal put an end to all difficulties, and made his way clear before him. This, which was the natural feeling, he immediately began to distrust, chiefly because of his previous resolution to leave Bradstane, and after a few moments of rapid thought decided that to make things clear and right between him and Ada, he would make any sacrifice; and if this was the sacrifice required—the giving up of this opening—why, the more promptly and rapidly it was accomplished the better.

‘This is what I never expected,’ he at last said, slowly, ‘and it is very tempting.’

‘That means, that it does not tempt you, but the reverse; is it not so?’

‘No; it does tempt me very much. But there are private reasons—reasons which I can’t quite explain to you, which I am afraid will prevent it.’

‘If you say that, I suppose I must not press you. But I am very sorry, if you think you cannot do as I wish. There are several reasons why I wished it very much, apart from the one that you are far better suited to the post than any one else I could possibly find. One is, that if you had accepted, there would have been no further settlements required, since I know you so well;—no question of references, or recommendations from other persons.’

‘Yes, I understand that.’

‘But, if you do not come to me, but take another situation, you will have to refer to your former employer, who, in name at any rate, has been Mr. Askam.’

‘Well, and what can Mr. Askam say of me that is not creditable?’

‘Nothing—with truth. But you are aware that he is unscrupulous and extremely vindictive.’

‘But there is such a thing as an action for defamation of character, if people tell lies about you. I have not the slightest fear of any such thing. He may dislike me, but he is not quite mad, and he simply dare not do it.’

‘I fear you do not know him so well as I do. “Daring” has simply nothing to do with it. He is not a man who dares or dares not. He is a creature who yields to every impulse of anger or passion, as blindly and unquestioningly, almost, as when he was a child. He has got an intense hatred for you now, because you have thwarted and spoken plainly to him, and he is now capable of committing any folly in order to punish you. What I wished to say is this, that if you will allow me, I will do all in my power to see you placed as soon as possible in a situation at least as good as the one which, from no fault of yours, you are forced to leave. And if I am the first to hear of such an opening, I will at once communicate with you; if you are the first, all I ask of you is, that you will write to me, and not to Mr. Askam, for references. Then I shall be able to see that justice is done, and that no scandal takes place.’

Roger yielded to the honest impulse which arose in him, to lay aside all suspicion, and thank Gilbert heartily and unaffectedly.

‘I don’t pretend it is not a matter of importance to me,’ he said, ‘for it is; and I am thankful to be helped forward a bit. I feel very grateful to you.’

‘You won’t take a few days, then, to consider my proposal about the works here?’ said Gilbert, looking almost wistfully at him.

Roger shook his head slowly.

‘I think it is better not,’ said he. ‘I have considered my whole situation carefully since Friday night, and I am perfectly certain that I am best out of Bradstane for a time, both for my own sake, and for that of those most bound up with me. And when I settle down, it would be as well that it should not be here, but somewhere else.’

‘Very well. I shall not attempt to alter your decision now. We must see about another situation as speedily as possible.’

There was a little pause, during which Roger thought some rather puzzled thoughts. He could not understand Gilbert—that was very natural—and he owned that the character of the other man was a problem to which he had not the key. He felt the charm of manner which years of growth and cultivation had developed in Gilbert, and which is a thing not to be described in so many words. He understood also that Gilbert was acting the part now of a gentleman, an honourable man, and a friend. He gathered that Gilbert disliked and abhorred the conduct of Otho Askam, and his character. That was a group of characteristics which went harmoniously together. What he could not understand, in his simplicity and straightforwardness, was that this same man should still be the friend, adviser, visitor, companion of Askam, whose whole conduct was so indecent and brutal; and that in past days he should have descended to the very base intrigue which he had undoubtedly conducted, with regard to the disposal of his father’s property. That intrigue, when discovered, had alienated his brother from him for ever; and, reflected Roger, suddenly, whose money was it with which Gilbert proposed to carry on the working of the Townend Mills? There had never been a word said about the two thousand pounds which Michael had rejected, but which Gilbert had probably manipulated all these years. This wonder started up suddenly in his mind, and with all his disposition to think well of the man who was so readily and so ungrudgingly stepping to his aid, Roger could not stifle those other voices, which spoke of another phase in the said man’s character.

His thoughts on the subject, though this was the drift of them, were not thus orderly and formulated. They ran vaguely and ramblingly through his mind, in and out of one another, uncertain and shapeless.

Suddenly Gilbert observed—

‘I was present at the concert in the schoolroom the other night, and I saw what happened there.’

‘Ay; along with the rest of the world,’ said Roger, writhing under the recollection of it.

‘Yes; and you must excuse me for mentioning it. I feel it a duty, I may say. There is no harm in your leaving Bradstane under the present circumstances; but there might have been, but for something that has taken place since the concert. But for this, I should have told you plainly, as a friend, that you would do foolishly to go away, and leave your fiancée exposed to the possibility of receiving further attentions from Otho Askam. It would have been by no means an impossible contingency. Now, I am glad to say, there is no danger of it.’

‘Indeed; and pray to what fortunate circumstance am I indebted for such immunity?’

‘Just to this, that after the concert he saw Miss Wynter home, proposed to her, and was accepted. He had accomplished his purpose of frightening and subduing her, though it seems to me that in order to clinch his victory he had to go farther than he intended.’

‘She has got him at last, then,’ said Roger with contempt. ‘And now I think of it, that will be an advantage to me, for she can never have anything more to say to my little girl, and there will be an end to an intimacy which I have always detested.’

‘Yes, you are right to be glad of that. Hers is not a friendship I should desire for any woman in whom I was interested.’

‘The wicked always gain their ends,’ said Roger, unguardedly. ‘I did hope she would never succeed in catching him, so far as I hoped anything about it.’

‘She is not so fortunate, even from her point of view, as you suppose,’ said Gilbert, tranquilly. ‘She has certainly got what she aimed at, but sadly deteriorated from what it was when she first began to scheme for it, and with it she has got a lot of other things thrown in, which she could well have dispensed with. If she were any one else I should feel sorry for her.’

‘You say that what she schemed for is deteriorated; now, excuse my saying it, but how is it that you too cling to that man? That is a thing which I have been wondering ever since you came here this year.’

Gilbert’s face changed a little.

‘I suppose it must be unaccountable to many another, as well as to you,’ he said. ‘I can only say that it is because he was true to me, in his way, long ago, when I had other hopes and other ambitions than I have now. He was not afraid to declare that he was my friend, and that whoever spoke against me, insulted him. It would conduce greatly to my comfort and peace of mind, if I could forget that; but I cannot. So my relations to him are defined, not by my present opinion of him, but by his conduct towards me in former days. Other things happened at that time; I know it is useless to speak to you of it, but he stood my friend when no one else would have done. Otho Askam is my Old Man of the Sea. We all have one of some kind, and it seems to me that the best thing to do with them is to carry them quietly as long as one’s strength holds out.’

‘You say it is useless to speak to me of that past time. But, since we have got so far below the surface in our talk, there is one thing I would like to tell you, without any prejudice to my friendship with Michael. You sent a note to him one day.’

‘Yes.’

‘He gave it to me to read at the time.’

‘Yes?’

‘I urged him to take a day to consider the matter, and I have always felt that you were wronged by his refusing to do so. But his own wrongs at that time were so incomparably greater than yours, and his heart was so broken, that I have always condoned the fault, though I was sorry for it. Now you know all.’

‘I am glad you have told me. His heart was so broken, you say,’ said Gilbert, speaking with an evident effort. ‘I did not dare to think of anything connected with him, then. He—is he—do you think it would be a breach of confidence to let me know something of his circumstances?’

‘I am afraid he would think so. He does not even know I am meeting you.’

‘Ah! Say nothing then. But—his engagement with Miss Wynter. Surely he cannot regret now that it was broken off?’

‘I don’t suppose he does. That did not make the blow at the time less hard.’

‘No, no! I should have fancied somehow that he would have married some one else. But he has not.’

‘No, he has not.’

‘Do you think he has ever cared to?’

‘He never had, up to a little while ago.’

‘And now you think he does?’

‘No, I don’t. I think he has been so well disciplined by what he has gone through that it would take a great deal to make him really want to marry any one. He can’t help admiring beautiful things, but he won’t do anything so disastrous as to fall in love with the lady I am thinking of. And besides, I know nothing about his feelings, really. He does not wear his heart upon his sleeve—now.’

‘No. Of course I look upon all this as said in confidence; and I think that for the present we have settled all we had to do.’

‘Yes, quite, I think. And I assure you I am much obliged to you.’

‘Not at all. I am glad to have had the talk. You have my London address, I think.’

‘Yes. How long do you remain here?’

‘Only a few days more.’

They exchanged good mornings, and separated. Roger, going home, was very thoughtful. He knew he had taken a momentous step in refusing to remain in Bradstane. He believed it was the best step that was open to him, and he took it. It is what men have to do on their way through life. Steps of some kind we have to take, though each one may be fraught with consequences which we cannot foresee, and which we can only appreciate after we have lost all power in the matter. We can look on, in these after days, at the results of our actions; it is permitted to us to rejoice in the fruits of our conduct, or, as often as not, to repine over the same, or to beat our breasts and wish we had never been born,—but not to alter by so much as a hair’s-breadth, the direction of the road opened out long ago by our own deed.