Borderland

by Jessie Fothergill

It was ‘an open winter,’ that year. At least, December was well advanced, and there had been hardly a touch of frost. The roads were soft, and the air was mild, so that it was not only Michael who was to be seen riding up and down at this season. He met friends occasionally, and exchanged greetings with them, at long distances from their homes.

One morning, riding in a road some three or four miles from Bradstane, he was walking his horse, and looking with curiosity at some bushes in the hedge, on which were visible many buds. The trees had mistaken the warmth of autumn for that of spring; no doubt they would presently be rudely reminded of their error, blighted, and turned into vegetable misanthropes, while the little unseasonable black buds would die an untimely death.

Slowly turning a corner, he came full upon what seemed to him, at first, quite a cavalcade of horsemen and horsewomen. A moment’s glance, however, showed that the party consisted of four—two ladies, and two men, with a couple of grooms in the background. The lane was not wide, and they rode two and two.

Those in front, whom he saw and recognised first, were Magdalen and Otho Askam. Magdalen was a little flushed; she looked even handsomer than usual, and decidedly more animated. But, as she suddenly recognised Michael, a change passed over her face—a rapid, subtle look of unease, a trouble, a stirring of the depths below. It was the look which she never could quite repress when she met him, especially if Otho Askam were present, and it was a look which always renewed to Michael the assurance that, in the combat between them, it was he who had conquered her, not she him. Otho frowned as they met; Magdalen averted her eyes as she bowed. It was their way of acknowledging the wrong they had done him. It was wrung from them every time they encountered him. They passed on, and then the next riders came full into Michael’s view.

In an instant he felt chilled, disconcerted, and angered, too, with an anger that hurt and pained him. His mind was filled at once with wild, incoherent fears and ideas. It was Eleanor Askam whose gaze first met his, looking very grave, and as it seemed to him very sweet, and rather sad. The clear eyes dilated, and a quick flush came into her face as she saw him. He saw that look, and knew it as an acknowledgment of what had already passed between them. That sight of her, and that look of hers could only have given him pleasure. It was when he recognised her companion that his heart sank so heavily. Gilbert’s gaze had not wavered as Magdalen’s did, when he encountered that of Michael. He had grown into the sort of man, outwardly considered, that he might have been expected to develop into. He was not in the least handsome, but had an air of distinction, an individuality in his whole appearance which went far beyond good looks. He was perfectly dressed. He was a perfect horseman—his city life had not broken him of that familiar habitude of his youth and young manhood,—and he looked every inch like a gentleman and a man of the world. When Michael took off his hat, so did Gilbert, with unruffled composure. It was Michael’s turn to be troubled and distressed beyond all reason. Long after they had passed each other he rode on with his feelings in a state of the utmost perturbation, a thousand wild thoughts tormenting his soul.

The chief one was that he himself had advised Eleanor, so to speak, to make a friend of Gilbert—to confide her troubles to him, and ask his advice. What had he been dreaming of? Had he been fool enough to identify her feelings with his own, and be confident that she would have no intercourse with Gilbert beyond what was absolutely necessary? What earthly right or reason had he had for assuming such a thing? A ludicrous feeling of injured vanity came across him as, in a kind of parenthesis, he recollected Gilbert’s appearance; the high finish and perfection of every appointment, from his hat to his boots, and then contrasted with it all his own rather rough-and-ready accoutrements—the clothing and paraphernalia of the poor country doctor who must be out at all hours and in all weather, no matter what betide. A deep, dark flush crossed Michael’s face. It was the first time such a contrast had ever crossed his mind. Now he thought, ‘What does it matter how he came by it all? She will not inquire into that, and he is the sort of man she has been accustomed to. And we always like what we are accustomed to, no matter how we may pretend to relish a change.’ His poverty and want of power to make the appearance of other young men, no better born nor bred than himself, galled him, for the very first time, deep in his heart of hearts.

Then other considerations came rushing into his mind. She had looked grave, it was true; but what of that? Hers might be one of those deep natures to which happiness gives a grave expression. And, grave or not, she had been riding by Gilbert’s side; she had apparently been conversing with him on friendly terms; there had been no expression of displeasure or dislike upon her face.

And on what other terms could she possibly have been with him? he asked himself. And what had she to do with his quarrels? ‘I must be going off my head!’ said Michael to himself, lifting off his hat, to let the air cool his forehead. After all, he realised, when he had had a little time in which to let his ideas adjust themselves, the fear which had seized upon his innermost soul and dismayed it was, not lest Eleanor should be attracted by Gilbert, but lest Gilbert should be attracted by Eleanor. That which caused him to be dismayed by this prospect was the knowledge that if such a thing were to happen—if Gilbert should love her, and be pleased to tell her so, and to make any claim for her, he had a great deal of power. He literally held her brother’s fortunes in the hollow of his hand. If he could not altogether repair the ravages Otho had made in his estate, he could finish the matter at his pleasure, and make a complete ruin of what as yet was but a badly damaged property. If it should ever come to pass that he wished to marry Eleanor, and she should not wish to marry him, he could make her life miserable to her, if he chose, through the injuries which he could inflict upon her brother. And, then, supposing she should care for him! Michael found himself breathing harder and riding faster as this possibility entered his mind, but he forced himself to face it. Should she ever ‘care for’ Gilbert, there was nothing to prevent, but everything to urge a marriage between them. And after all, why should she not care for him? She had been far away, and all unwitting the circumstances, when Gilbert’s sin had been committed; and if he had sinned basely and blackly, once, he had by his sin got what he aimed at; he had bought with it the means and the power to be honest for all the rest of his life. Not every one, reflected Michael, could boast so much.

Thoughts like these did not form a soothing accompaniment to his ride. He angrily asked himself what it was to him, supposing she and Gilbert chose to be married next week? He had no answer to that, but only the consciousness that it would be a great deal to him; unhappiness which he preferred not to contemplate. Reason told him that his thoughts were extravagant and exaggerated—that he had imagined without a cause the extremest possibilities of a given (imaginary) situation. Something else, though, importunately said that though they might be extreme possibilities, yet that they distinctly were possibilities.

He set his teeth, and told himself in effect, if not in so many words, that he was not ‘going to be made a fool of again by that set.’ And if, by some unaccountable means, Eleanor Askam had become an object of so much importance in his mind, the best thing to do now would be to be hard, and root her out at once;—hard to himself, of course—not to her.