Borderland

Towards the end of every hunting season, those men in Bradstane and its vicinity who belonged to the institution known as the Tees Valley Hunt, were in the habit of meeting at the King’s Arms in Bradstane, and there partaking together of a luncheon, at which Sir Thomas Winthrop, the master, presided, and after which he read out the statistics of the past season, and laid before the assembled company any proposed new arrangements for the following year. Nothing was decided then; a regular meeting was called, to be held a week later, in which the affairs were discussed in earnest, and real business was done. It had come to pass with the lapse of years, that the gathering had become a very sociable one, dear to the hearts of those who partook in it; and they would not have given it up on any account.

This luncheon usually took place in the beginning of March, and was often a good deal talked about before it came off. It had been December when the meeting took place between Magdalen and Gilbert, during which each had silently given credit to the other for much keenness and acuteness of observation. It had been cold and inclement then, and a long bleak winter had followed, during which the interview had not been repeated—at least, no such interview as that. It may be that Gilbert had many a time ridden over the wild road leading from Bradstane to Middleton-in-Teesdale, for it was his habit daily to take a long walk or a long ride. He may have travelled over this road, solitary and sedate, as his wont and humour were, his lips moving now and then, when he felt himself to be quite alone on the silent roads, as if he whispered to himself endless calculations, but never too absorbed to recognise an acquaintance and acknowledge him if he met him—never too abstracted to know his own whereabouts amidst the moors and commons, or intricate cross country roads.

And it is more than probable that Magdalen, on her part, had many a dozen times paced that woodland path on which Gilbert had found her, trying, by the regular mechanical motion which, in her own mind, she compared with that of a treadmill, to grind down or pace out some of the suppressed savageness and discontent which gnawed her soul. This walking to and fro was almost her only mode of taking outdoor exercise. With all her veiled eagerness, her bitter sense of the consuming dulness of her life, she never left the Balder Hall grounds on foot, never sought any companionship with outside things or people. For her there were no long rambles, no casual, friendly greeting with farm or cottage folk whom she might see on the way.

This seclusion on her part was a subject on which she and Michael had occasional differences of opinion, which could hardly be called disputes, since Magdalen was in the habit of yielding the field at once to Michael in the matter of argument, merely telling him that no doubt he was quite right, and simply refusing to change her ways because she did not choose to do so.

‘It is too bad of you,’ said he, ‘when there is so much work crying out to be done. I could find you plenty of employment in Bridge Street, and one or two other slums.’

‘I haven’t a doubt of it. I feel not the slightest vocation for anything of the kind.’

‘It is bad to sit aloft in meaningless exclusiveness.’

‘I daresay it is. It is the only kind of thing I care for, here. I hate district visiting, and people who make themselves common, too.’

‘You could not make yourself common if you tried, and it would put more interest into your life.’

‘No, it would disgust me; that would be all. Every night I should think of all the horrid scenes and horrid people I had seen in the day. I should be always seeing you mixed up with them, and I should get to think you as horrid as they were—you need not look at me in that way. It’s my nature.... Oh, I daresay you are quite right, Michael—indeed, you always are—but I don’t take any interest in those things, and I don’t want to. I prefer to remain as I am.’

‘As I am,’ was exquisite enough in its refinement, hauteur, and beauty. Had any one else so spoken, Michael would clearly have discerned, and probably pointed out, an odious spirit of pride and exclusiveness. As it was Magdalen, he thought, certainly, that she was unreasonable, but he found the unreasonableness agreeable; he liked the shape which it took—that of fastidiousness—and was not disposed to quarrel with it. The rare and wonderful creature was his own; he had never even yet felt as if he fairly understood that fact, or could think enough of it. He suggested, with a smile lighting up the dark gravity of his face, that he should drive her round some day in his dog-cart, when he had not many places to call at. She slightly lifted her eyebrows, and drew out the silk with which she was embroidering.

‘No, sir. When you have a half holiday, and wish to devote it to me, I will drive you out, or ride with you. At other times—I know it is not intellectual, or humane, but it is so—I prefer the wood-walk in the park; I will remain at home.’

She did remain at home, and took her monotonous strolls along the woodland path, or might now and then be seen, alone, in an open carriage, pale and tranquil and indifferent-looking, enveloped in her dark furs and feathers, with a huge light gray fur rug filling up the rest of the carriage, and this even on days when the wind was keen and the frost biting. She was well aware that not one woman in twenty could have driven about Bradstane in winter, in an open carriage, without her countenance assuming rainbow hues. She could drive thus, and return home without a red nose or blue cheeks; and it gave her a negative, cynical pleasure to do it, and watch other people on foot, or sealed up in stuffy broughams with both windows shut.

The evening before the luncheon already spoken of, Michael was with her, and she asked him if he were going to be present at it.

‘No,’ said he; ‘I’m engaged at the time, but Gilbert is going.’

‘Gilbert! why, he surely does not generally go.’

‘No, but he seems to take more interest in sport since he became such a chum of Askam’s; and, of course, he will be there.’

‘Ah, of course,’ said Magdalen.

‘Of all the queer partnerships I ever knew, that one is the queerest,’ added Michael, reflectively.

‘Do you think so? It seems to me the most natural thing in the world. Would you have had Gilbert take up with a nobody?’

‘My dear Magdalen! I was going to say, a nobody would be better than Otho Askam; but as he’s a friend of yours, too, I suppose there are excellences in him which my baser vision can’t perceive. And I know what you mean by “nobody.” That’s poor Roger Camm. Well, I’ll leave you your friend, if you’ll leave me mine.’

‘I have not the slightest desire to know anything about Mr. Roger Camm—certainly not to interfere with him,’ replied Magdalen coldly. Michael merely smiled the sweet smile which Magdalen, in her heart of hearts, considered insipid, and the discussion ended.

At two o’clock on the following afternoon, some forty men, young and old, sat down at the long table, in the great room at the ‘King’s Arms.’ The so-called ‘lunch’ was, in fact, a very substantial dinner, as such luncheons are wont to be. Sir Thomas Winthrop sat at one end of the table, and at the other was a very young man, called Lord Charles Startforth, representing his father. Every family of standing in all the country-side had sent a representative, and every man present was more or less acquainted with every other member of the company.

At Sir Thomas’s right hand sat Otho Askam, with a cross look in his eyes, and a more sullen expression than usual on his brow and mouth. Sir Thomas was a very worthy, honourable gentleman, ready to take a paternal interest in any young man of promise; but he was not a student of character, nor acute in reading the silent language of expression, as seen on a human face. From Otho’s quietness, and his monosyllabic answers to the remarks made to him, Sir Thomas augured a milder mood than usual, and resolved that now or never was the time for him to say his say; for he had on his mind ‘a few words’ intended for Otho’s ear—words which he had succeeded in convincing himself it was his duty to say. On the opposite side, a little lower down, sat Gilbert Langstroth, and next to him was Byrom Winthrop.

As the wine went round, the talk grew faster and freer. Men saw each other to-day who had, perhaps, not met for some time past, and these meetings called up recollections, brought out questions, to which the expansiveness of the moment produced confidential answers.

At the end of the table over which Lord Charles Startforth presided, a discussion suddenly began about some of those who sat near Sir Thomas Winthrop.

‘What a lowering face that Askam has!’ was the observation which began the conversation.

‘His face can’t be more lowering than his temper,’ replied some one else.

‘Hah! I see there’s his inseparable chum, not so far off him.’

‘Gilbert Langstroth, do you mean? Oh yes! He’s never so far away from him. I have heard that that young man has a very long head, and would not object to going into partnership with Otho Askam—Askam to supply the money, and Langstroth the brains.’

The other laughed. ‘What, on Arthur Orton’s plan, do you mean? “Some people plenty money and no brains, and other people plenty brains and no——”’

‘Oh, come! That’s too bad. Langstroth is a gentleman.’

‘I never said he wasn’t, that I know of. Gentlemen have got to live, like other people, though these radicals’ (with a growl) ‘seem to grudge us our very existence.’

‘Oh, hang all radicals! You say Langstroth is a gentleman—Gilbert, I mean. His brother is, at any rate. I don’t know a better fellow anywhere.’

‘No, nor I.’ The assent was general. Then some one else said—

‘He doesn’t seem to get married.’

‘No; that engagement has been hanging on far too long.’

A slight pause, and then, leaning confidentially forward, the first speaker said—

‘Somebody else doesn’t seem to get married, either.’

A sort of smile went round. Then Lord Charles, with the rash candour of youth, made the remark aloud which every one else had been making in his own mind.

‘I wonder if Michael Langstroth knows that every one says Otho Askam is sweet upon his intended?’

One man shrugged his shoulders.

‘If he did know, what could he do, or say?’

‘I don’t know what he could say, I’m sure; but what he could do would be to get married to her at once.’

Here a rather timid-looking young man, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, joined in, with a slight stammer—

‘If he had to marry her like that, it would be all spoiled for him. He t-trusts her.’

‘Ah, yes; very beautiful of him,’ said a sceptical spirit; and then a feeling seemed to prevail that the talk had gone far enough in that direction. Indeed, the conversation at the other end of the table had become somewhat loud, and the speakers with whom we have been concerned began to look and listen what it was all about.

What had taken place was this. Sir Thomas Winthrop, good gentleman, feeling his heart warmed within him, took advantage of much loud talk around him to address a few words to Otho Askam.

‘I’m glad to see you with us to-day, Mr. Askam.’

‘Thank you,’ said Otho, with his wooden bow.

‘I hope you found the sport to your liking,’ added the baronet. ‘We consider it has been rather a good season, on the whole.’

‘It has been nothing to complain of,’ was the gracious reply.

Encouraged by this admission, Sir Thomas filled his glass, and said—

‘I hope this will not be the last time, by many, that we shall meet on an occasion like this.’

Again Otho bowed stiffly, drank his glass of wine, and gave ear to Sir Thomas, as he proceeded—

‘I’m glad to see you and Gilbert Langstroth so thick. He’s a very intelligent young man.’

‘Rather!’ observed Otho emphatically, with a nod, and what would have been a wink, only he remembered in time that such a testimony to Gilbert’s intelligence might be thought rather compromising than otherwise by his interlocutor. In his own mind, and speaking to Gilbert in his own language, Otho called Sir Thomas ‘a rum old party, and green as grass, you know,’ and this private opinion, which he held very strongly, rendered it a little difficult to him to meet the other now on equal terms.

Sir Thomas went on—

‘He has behaved in a very admirable way to his father, and I always like to see that in a youth. He has almost retrieved their affairs, which were in a deplorable condition.’

His voice took a confidentially funereal tone, and he shook his head.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Otho, vaguely, and at this juncture he caught Gilbert’s eye, and indulged in the luxury of the wink, which, in regard to Sir Thomas, he had had to suppress. Gilbert’s countenance did not alter a jot, but he became watchful.

‘Of course,’ resumed Sir Thomas, for whom the subject appeared to have a fatal fascination, ‘a young man, who has had to do battle with reverses, as he has, is apt to think his affairs are the centre of the universe, and that every one else is as much concerned in them as he is himself.’

To this Otho said nothing, but he regarded Sir Thomas with a curious, bull-dog expression.

‘I’m afraid he is just a little rash in some things,’ Sir Thomas went on. ‘For instance, there’s that property by the river—those Townend mills. I have heard that he is bent upon setting them to work again.’ And as Otho made no reply ‘Do you know if he has any project of that kind?’

In the fulness of his heart and head he had not moderated his tones sufficiently; and, as the loud conversation about them had somewhat lulled, this question was distinctly audible, not only to Otho, but to many others, even so far down as where Gilbert Langstroth and Byrom Winthrop sat. The former, though no names had been spoken, knew with unerring certainty, that it was himself to whom the baronet alluded; and Byrom Winthrop said within himself, ‘If only I were near enough to stop the governor! He’s perfectly infatuated about those factories of Gilbert Langstroth’s, and he’ll go and say something he ought not to.’

Otho’s answer came quite distinctly too, in bluff, curt tones.

‘I can’t inform you on that topic. All I know of it was told me in confidence.’

‘Quite right, quite right!’ said Sir Thomas, with the fatuity of an elderly gentleman, in whom a solid meal, judiciously mingled with sound wine, has developed the sense of benevolence to an abnormal degree. ‘That’s only just and honourable. But listen to me. Your father was a friend of mine; therefore, I may be allowed to say a word to you. Don’t be incautious, my young friend.’ Byrom Winthrop’s eyes were fixed in an agony of apprehension upon his father, as he marked the rubicund visage beaming with too much amiability, and saw the finger raised; the eye, earnest, but unobservant, fixed upon Otho; and heard these words—for the conversation around had almost ceased—‘Don’t let Gilbert Langstroth, or any one else, let you in for something you don’t know the end of. Take my word for it, Bradstane is not the site for a manufacturing town; and gentlemen had better keep clear of factories. The best thing to do with those mills would be to pull them down, and build cottages where they stand; and if you sink any money in the concern, stick to that, stick to that!’

He leaned back in his chair with a smile, a fatuous smile, upon his visage. It was perfectly evident to the meanest observer, that Sir Thomas Winthrop had become—cheerful, and that he had just said a very uncomfortable kind of thing; not that there might not be plenty of truth in the thing, but to have said it aloud was truly unfortunate.

Gilbert Langstroth had started up, his face pale, and was leaning forward, with compressed lips, apparently about to speak. Byrom Winthrop said in his ear—

‘Don’t make a row, Gilbert. You know the word “manufactures” always sets him off. It means nothing.’

Then a thing happened which no one was prepared for. Otho Askam, looking round, observed—

‘I see a lot of you have heard what Sir Thomas has been saying. All I can say is, I did not bring on the discussion; but now that it is on, I’d have every man here know that Gilbert Langstroth is my friend; and whoever says a word against him, says it against me. The business that Sir Thomas speaks of, has been mentioned between us. I wanted to help him with it, and he wouldn’t let me—if you call that ‘letting me in for something that I can’t see the end of.’ He said it was a risky thing for my money. I say, d—n the risk! He’s welcome to half of all that I’ve got, and if he does not choose to take it, why, I say he does not know what friendship is. Shake hands, Gilbert.’

Gilbert had been listening, white and breathless. Sir Thomas, in feeble despair, was protesting, in the futile way common to people who have stirred up a riot without having the least idea how to quell it, that really, it was most unfortunate. He never meant—he had no idea; and so forth.

Gilbert suddenly turned upon him, with his blue-gray eyes flashing from his pale face.

‘I do not know what ideas you may have had, sir, nor what you meant, but it is not the first time you have attacked me, and said ill things of me behind my back. You tried to set my own brother against me on this very subject. You will pardon my presumption in saying it, but upon my word I cannot see what our family affairs are to you. I have fought my father’s battle, and that for my brother and myself, without appealing to you for help. But,’ he added, with a sudden change of tone which went subtly home to his hearers, ‘you have done me a good turn to-day, when you would have done me an ill one. You have shown me who is my friend.’ He struck his hand into that of Otho, which was still held out, and looked him full in the face. ‘I hear what you say, Askam, and as long as I live I shall not forget that you have stood by me while my father’s friend and your father’s friend maligned me to you. I think I will say good afternoon,’ he added, as a stinging parting shaft to Sir Thomas. ‘It would be embarrassing for us both to remain, and it is fitter that I should leave than you.’

With which, and with a slight and perfectly self-possessed bow to Sir Thomas and the assembled company, he departed, and Otho Askam with him.

This scene, of course, made a great sensation, and that night was reported far and wide, throughout many miles of Yorkshire and Durham. Every man agreed in saying that Sir Thomas Winthrop was apt to become too expansive on these occasions, and that they hoped it would be a lesson to him. As to Gilbert and Otho, and their behaviour, opinions differed. Men spoke of their parts in the fray according to their own feelings and dispositions, some saying that it was a touching example of faith and friendship, others leaning on the opinion that Otho Askam, in to-morrow’s stingy fit, would repent him of his reckless generosity to-day; while one observer said—

‘I suppose there was something real in it. I’m sure there was on Askam’s side, at any rate; but that Gilbert Langstroth is a queer fellow. I’m certain, if you could see to the bottom of his heart, you would find gratitude to Sir Thomas for having given him such a chance. It was very telling, that slightly trembling voice, and that little side stroke about having fought their battles alone, and without asking Sir Thomas’s help. It made Sir Thomas look confoundedly foolish, and as if he had been doing a very mean thing.’

‘And don’t you think he had?’

‘Certainly not. He had been doing what he thought was the very best for everybody, and in the most disinterested way. Only, you know, he hates what he calls tradespeople like poison; and the idea of knocking Gilbert’s factories on the head was just too much for him.’

‘Well, I’m much mistaken if he has not given them a good push towards a fresh start.’

‘I quite agree with you.’ And there was a laugh at the expense of Sir Thomas.

The poor gentleman hid his diminished head that night, and it was not till the following morning that he had so far revived as to be able to take a tone of dignified bitterness, and grave satire on his own good-nature. ‘Selfishness,’ he informed Lady Winthrop, ‘was the only policy that paid, and never again would he commit the mistake of offering disinterested advice to young men, even though they might be the sons of his oldest friends.’

It never transpired what passed between Gilbert and Otho at any private interview after this scene, but it was not very long afterwards, that Gilbert, with a tranquil smile on his face, sat down to his desk and wrote the following letter:—

‘Dear Roger,

‘Do you remember, when you were staying with us, my taking you down to the end of the town, to look at those two factories? And I asked you if you would come and manage them, supposing I ever got them to work again. You said you would, if you were not tied down to something else, or in a much better position. Michael tells me you are still in the same place, and not too well satisfied with it. I am going to claim your promise. My friend, Otho Askam, has bought the mills; at least, an arrangement has been made by which they will most likely become his in time, unless they pay so well that we can afford to repay him his advances. He entrusts the whole direction of them to me, and I intend to spin jute in them, as I told you before. I should like to have your aid and counsel as soon as ever you can give them to me. I hope you have not changed your mind, and that you will not think the salary too small. We find that we cannot offer you more than £120 to begin with, but it would be advanced on the first possible opportunity; and with the increasing prosperity of the concern the manager would get more, and eventually have a share in the business, if it should turn out worth anything; and I intend that it shall so turn out. I need not say that we will guarantee that you lose nothing in a pecuniary point of view, if you are willing to help us to start a new thing. I cannot say fairer than that; and in the hope that I may very soon receive your assent to this proposition, to be followed by your speedy arrival, I remain,

The result of this letter was, that within six weeks of its having been written, there lounged into the library of the Red Gables one afternoon an immensely tall, broad-shouldered young man, with a great shock of loose black hair; a pale, rough-hewn, plain face, clever and attractive; and with a wonderfully delicate forehead—a young man who was in the habit of saying the roughest kind of things in the softest of voices. This was Roger Camm, the former friend and playfellow of the two Langstroths when they had all been boys together. According to his own account, he had turned himself into a working man in order to save his own self-respect, and because he had no affection for the Church, which had treated his father so scurvily. According to Michael Langstroth, he was the best and truest friend that ever a man had. And according to Gilbert, he was a shrewd, ‘levelheaded’ man of business, who was going to help him to start his factories, and, incidentally, set his, Gilbert’s, fortunes going in the right direction.

‘Here I am,’ was Roger Camm’s laconical greeting.

‘And not before you were wanted,’ replied Gilbert, rising to meet him with outstretched hand and his sweetest smile. ‘You are welcome as flowers in May.’

‘That shows my value to be high,’ said Roger. ‘There are not many to be found, then, in these latitudes. Where am I to put up till I find rooms?’

‘Why, here, of course. Everything is ready for you. But I believe Michael expects you to dine with him to-night.’

Thus Roger Camm was, as it were, inducted into his new position. He told himself that night, before he went to sleep, that it was odd that his life’s course should bring him back to Bradstane, the little country market-town which he despised; and that his lot, at a critical period, should again be cast in with these others whom he had known when young, but from whom he had believed himself to be, practically, finally severed when he had left his native place to begin work in a great city.