MICHAEL, ROGER, GILBERT
Talking with Michael one day, soon after his arrival, on the subject of
the factories, Roger discovered to his surprise that his friend strongly
disapproved of the enterprise.
‘I am not one of the company, you may be very sure,’ he said.
‘I wish I had known. I would have taken care to have nothing to do with
it,’ cried Roger, perturbed.
‘On the contrary, I am very glad you have something to do with it. I
have more confidence in it since you came. I daresay my reasons for
disliking it may sound quite absurd. I know they are not business-like.
I dislike Askam, and I think the friendship between him and Gilbert is
quite unnatural. The more I see of him the more convinced I am of this.
I know for a fact that Otho Askam took the thing up out of pure
speculativeness, for an adventure, partly to please Gilbert, who has got
a wonderful influence over him, but chiefly to vex Sir Thomas Winthrop,’
and Michael briefly recounted the scene which had taken place at the
‘King’s Arms.’ ‘After that, nothing would satisfy Otho but to get the
thing started at once. I don’t believe in the stability of an enterprise
built upon any such foundation, though I have no doubt Gilbert will push
it through, if it is to be done. He says he is quite satisfied with
things as they are. Let them be! I am glad you get anything good out of
it.’
Roger said nothing to this, but he watched Michael when he could do so
unobserved, and he became very thoughtful. He saw that his friend’s face
was thinner, and his smile less frequent than it had been. There was a
little fold between his eyebrows, telling of a mind not always at ease.
These changes had taken place in two years, though Michael had been, in
a small way, getting on in the world.
Six busy months passed, during which Roger had his work cut out for him,
and so much of it, that he could scarce compass each day’s task in its
allotted time. The labour was severe, the pay was not very large; the
enterprise was a risky one. But he was one of those organisations which
seem to thrive and feed on hard work and herculean exertions as others
do on meat and recreation; he enjoyed it all, and it seemed to put new
life into him. It really looked as if Gilbert’s little boast to Otho in
past days, that if he did not know how to manage mills, he did
understand how to manage men, were literally true, so perfectly was this
new-comer of his selection suited for the task offered to him. The
stiffer the work, the higher did his spirits rise. The employment was
varied, too. It was not as if he had entered upon a business which was
ready and in smooth working order. The whole concern wanted ‘floating,’
in a small way, and on him fell the burden of doing it. There was not
only the new machinery to see about—which Roger thoroughly understood,
and into the details of which he went with the zeal of an
enthusiast—there were also the repairs necessary to the buildings
themselves, after standing so many years empty and idle; to the boilers
and the engines, all of which it took time and money to set in order.
Then there was the getting together a sufficient number of hands,
chiefly women and girls, most of them out of Bridge Street, some from
one or two of the neighbouring villages; and again, some skilled
artisans from Barrow-in-Furness, to instruct the novices in their work;
and all this had to be done with the utmost economy possible. It was an
enormous task, which pleased Roger greatly; and while he was working at
it, he had no time to spare, even for Michael.
When he had come to Bradstane, there had been a question about where he
was to live. This was settled by Dr. Rowntree, who said—
‘Come to the barrack, and put up with Michael and me.’
Roger hesitated a little at first, but there was no mistaking the
sincerity of the doctor’s wish, and the young man was very willing to be
persuaded; for, to tell the truth, there was no one in the world in
whose proximity he loved so well to be as in that of Michael Langstroth.
He therefore soon allowed his scruples to be overcome, and so was formed
this odd triangular household of bachelors, old and young, and hard work
was the order of the day.
While Roger was full of business, and seeming to grow heartier and
stronger the more he had to do, Michael, he noticed, when he had time to
notice him, was a good deal quieter and staider than he once had been;
not with the dulness of discontent, it would seem, nor of depression,
but, so far as Roger could make out, just with the quietness which comes
to nearly all men, as life lays gradually increasing burdens upon them.
Roger sometimes wondered if his long engagement pressed upon Michael,
but at the sound of Magdalen’s name there always crossed his face that
expression which, the first time Roger had seen it, had wrung his heart,
because it had told him that a spell stronger than friendship had taken
possession of Michael’s being. They did not talk about such things, or
‘confide’ in each other—such is not the way of men’s friendships, nor,
perhaps, of any deep friendships; and then, Michael, with his outwardly
urbane and gracious manner, was deeply reserved on personal matters; and
Roger, for all his rough exterior, and oftentimes untutored tongue, had
what is called, and very generally miscalled, ‘the tact of a woman,’ in
regard to such topics.
But Michael had on one or two occasions, when something had stirred him
more than usual, let fall a few words as to his own inner experiences,
which Roger had treasured up, and rightly so, as evidences of more than
brotherly regard, and of an entire confidence in him on Michael’s part.
Speaking one day about an illness of old Miss Strangforth, which had
been serious, and in which both he and Dr. Rowntree had been attending
her, there was a shade on Michael’s brow, and a worried, worn look on
his face.
‘Is Miss Strangforth likely to die, Michael?’ asked Roger, roused to a
sudden interest in the matter.
‘Oh no! At least, I most sincerely trust not. No; we will pull her
through this time.’
‘Miss Wynter is helping to nurse her, of course?’
‘Yes, of course—like an angel.’
‘I should be afraid it was rather close work for her.’
‘They have a trained nurse to do the hardest part of it; and she is
strong. Magdalen is very strong,’ Michael repeated to himself in a
meditative kind of way. ‘And, of course, she does what I tell her about
air and exercise, and all that. I hope it won’t injure her.’
‘Well, she has the best of all possible safeguards in having you there,’
said Roger, with a smile, which was, perhaps, a little forced.
He had intended his remark to be a cheering one, but, to his surprise,
Michael’s answer was a deep sigh. This was enough to rouse Roger’s
uneasiness. Holding his pipe suspended, he asked, anxiously, ‘Michael,
what’s up? Are you in trouble?’
‘It’s only that what you say reminds me that I am no safeguard at all
for her,’ he said, dejectedly. ‘I sometimes think what a selfish brute I
was, ever to speak to her. If I had held my tongue and kept out of the
way, she might have been married by now, to some man who could really
have been that protector, which I can only seem to be. After all, what
can I do for her? I cannot save her from experiences like this. I cannot
justly afford to marry, for several years to come. It would be gross
selfishness to take her away from Balder Hall to any such place as I
could give her. And yet, if Miss Strangforth were to die—she is so old,
and so feeble—if she were to die, there would be nothing else left.’
‘And a great deal too good for her,’ was the silent comment in Roger’s
bosom. He found Michael’s remarks very difficult to answer. He had an
idea, whether right or wrong, that Magdalen, whom he could not love, let
him strive never so loyally for his friend’s sake to do so, was not the
frail and timid creature that Michael seemed to imagine her. Roger felt
sure that the idea as to the impropriety of removing her from Balder
Hall to a humbler abode was hers, not Michael’s. He was certain she did
not stand in much need of guardianship, but was well able to fight her
own battles and take care of herself. He heard all the gossip about
Michael and Miss Wynter, which, of course, never penetrated to their
ears; heard, too, Gilbert’s frequent scathing strictures on his future
sister-in-law. He knew all about Otho Askam’s constant visits to Balder
Hall. So did Michael; but then, Roger knew what was said about those
visits.
He remarked at last, with the cowardice characteristic of us all in such
cases, and, perhaps, also with a shrewd inkling that it would not be of
much use to speak differently—
‘Of course, it is hard lines, Michael, having to wait so long. But even
if you were married to-morrow, you can’t forbid care and trouble to come
to either her or you. There are no lives without them. But Miss Wynter
is a brick, I know’ (this with great emphasis, as he felt anything but
sure of it); ‘she ought to be proud of waiting for you, and I expect she
is.’
‘Do you know,’ said Michael, with the air of a man who announces
something which will surprise his hearer, ‘I believe that if she were
not engaged to me, Otho Askam would propose to her to-morrow.’
Roger looked at him with parted lips. Michael evidently thought the news
would be as great a discovery to his friend as it had been to himself.
‘Well,’ observed Roger shortly, ‘you don’t mean to say you think that
would be to her advantage?’
‘Perhaps not, in some ways; but——’
‘Not in any one way,’ almost shouted Roger, bringing his fist on to the
table with a thump. ‘That would be Hyperion to a satyr, without the
shadow of a doubt.’
‘I know nothing about that,’ said Michael, still in the same dejected
tone, ‘but I do know that she is all the world to me, and I cannot give
her up; no, by Heaven, I cannot!’
He spoke with a flurry, an agitation, and a passion, most unlike his
usual even cheerfulness.
‘Give her up? Who wants you to?’
‘No one. It’s only my own conscience that sometimes suggests what I
ought to do.’
‘If your conscience suggests that, it is deceitful, and a blind guide.
But come, Michael, old fellow, you are morbid to talk in this way. The
idea of a man of six and twenty looking at things so darkly! Absurd! You
have your life before you.’
He went on talking in this strain till he saw the cloud gradually clear
from Michael’s brow, and heard him admit that he was sure he must be a
fool; and so, begin to look a little brisker.
But Roger was thoughtful as he went about his work.
‘Give her up!’ he said to himself. ‘He’ll never give her up till she
flings him off. Poor Michael! That is the only cure for him; and perhaps
it wouldn’t be one, after all. Should I be brute enough to wish it for
him?’
And then he thought about the change in Michael’s face, so altered from
its youthful pride and carelessness; but, as it seemed to Roger, more
beautiful now, with the graver, broader seal of manhood stamped upon
it—that seal which care never lets out of her fingers, and which she is
perpetually imprinting on every brow that carries on it a line worth
reading.
If Roger were concerned about the change in Michael, Michael, on his
part, was much struck—concerned, is hardly the word—by what seemed to
him a great alteration in Gilbert. It appeared as if hard work suited
Gilbert as well as it did Roger, for the more his business grew, the
livelier he became.
‘Lively?’ said Miss Wynter, to whom Michael had one evening been
speaking on the subject.
‘Yes, lively. It’s the only word I can find with which to describe the
change; and I don’t wonder that you exclaim at it, for “lively” is
hardly a word that fits Gilbert, is it?’
‘No, indeed! Pray, what shape does the liveliness take?’ asked Magdalen,
who appeared almost interested.
‘Oh, I can hardly tell you. A quickness and alertness—I can hardly
describe it. He makes jokes sometimes, and laughs at a mere
nothing—which is not Gilbert’s way, you know, as a rule. He talks a
great deal, too, which is also contrary to his usual habits. He takes my
arm if we meet, and altogether there is something odd and changed in his
manner.’
‘Perhaps he is in love,’ suggested Magdalen languidly.
Michael shrugged his shoulders, smiling slightly.
‘He may be, but I don’t think it.’ And so the topic dropped, till
Michael returned to the town, and during the evening related this
supposition of Magdalen’s.
‘I don’t know whether he’s in love or not,’ said the doctor, who, for
his part, was certainly not in love with Gilbert; ‘but he was in here
to-day to see you, when you were out; and he says your father intends to
make his will, and he wants you to know about it.’
‘To make his will? I should have thought he had made it long ago.’
‘So he did, for I was one of the witnesses; but it has to be altered,
with all these complications about factories and property to be sold,
and such-like.’
‘Oh! well, Gilbert will see to it; he has always managed that kind of
thing,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘I don’t see what I have to do with
it.’
‘I should say you had a good deal to do with it. You certainly ought to
look after it.’
‘Look after my father’s will! what for? He’s got no one to leave
anything to, except Gilbert and me. He’ll divide between us, I suppose.
I should not like to think that Gilbert got less than me, seeing how he
has slaved all these years in order that there may be anything to leave
at all.’
Dr. Rowntree looked impatient, and, Michael having left the room, the
doctor remarked to Roger, in homely phraseology, that he did not know
whether to call Michael a trump, or to tell him he was a born fool, when
he talked in such a way. To which Roger merely replied that he supposed
men were best left to decide such matters for themselves.
‘I mistrust that Gilbert; he is too sly for me,’ said the doctor.
‘He has a quiet way. I don’t think he is exactly sly,’ answered Roger,
and the subject of their conversation came in at the moment. Michael, he
was told, was in the study, and he went there and briefly told him again
what Mr. Langstroth thought of doing.
‘All right,’ said Michael, examining some substance under his microscope
with the intensest interest. ‘So that he leaves as much to you as to me,
I’m agreeable. I hope we shan’t have to read it for a long time to
come.’
Gilbert cast a look of anger, contempt, and wonder mixed, towards
Michael, who did not even see it. There was a short silence, till
Gilbert observed, in a constrained voice—
‘Well, remember, I am not answerable for anything he does.’
‘Does!’ echoed Michael, his attention at last thoroughly aroused; ‘when
you say “does” in that way, you mean “does” something wrong. What could
or should he do against his own sons? Have you any idea that he means to
do something unjust to us?’
‘No; oh no!’ A pause. ‘But it is an important thing. He told me he meant
to make this will, and I was determined he should not do it till I had
told you. Of course, he does not dream of leaving his property away from
us. Why should he, as you say?’
Michael, still peering into his microscope, was quite unaware that close
beside him a brother man stood, who had wrestled with spiritual
agencies, and had been defeated, during the last two minutes.
‘Our father has his faults, like most people,’ pursued Michael
reflectively; ‘but I never heard any one accuse him of injustice or
meanness. He wouldn’t be likely to leave his property to a charitable
institution, for instance?’
‘Of course not,’ said Gilbert, impatiently.
‘Well, then, I really don’t see that we need, or, indeed, can say
anything about it. In fact, I shall not,’ he added, looking up rather
suddenly at his brother, as if he had all at once seen the thing in a
new light, and arrived at a clear decision. ‘He is my father, and I
trust him. For Heaven’s sake, Gilbert, don’t get to distrusting people,
or you may make yourself miserable for ever. Take my advice, old fellow,
and let him alone.’
‘Yes,’ said Gilbert slowly. ‘I think that, as you say, it will be best
to leave him alone.’
He said scarcely anything more, and soon went away.
‘A pretty fool he is!’ he sneered to himself, when he was outside, as he
walked up and down the pavement in front of their house, smoking an
ante-prandial pipe. ‘Lord! what with “hearts,” and not distrusting any
one, and respecting the aged (who are usually fools), my brother Michael
is likely to lose the use of what little reason he has, it seems to me.
There never was an elephant with a denser head than he has. He has eyes
like a hawk’s, and mine are more like those of a boiled codfish; but I
think I know which pair can see farthest into a stone wall.’
The next morning Michael called at the Red Gables, and found his father
alone. He had been reflecting upon Gilbert’s words, it would seem, for
he presently said to Mr. Langstroth that he had heard he intended making
a new will. His father assented, and Michael observed, ‘If Gilbert had
not told me, sir, as if it had been a thing you rather wished me to
know, I should never have mentioned it, of course. But since he did, I
just want to say one thing. Whatever prosperity we have is due to
Gilbert. He, more than I, has been the eldest son. It is just due to
circumstances, I suppose, that it has been so; but I would not like it
to be forgotten.’
‘I do not forget what Gilbert has been, and is to me, nor the qualities
he has displayed,’ was Mr. Langstroth’s reply; and Michael went away
with his mind at ease, feeling that he had discharged his duty.
The day after that, Gilbert, who had not seen his brother in the
interim, ordered his horse early. Mr. Langstroth asked him fretfully
where he was going.
‘Only for a little ride,’ said Gilbert; ‘and, by the way, Coningsby is
coming at eleven. You told me to tell him, and I did.’
‘Shan’t you be here?’ asked his father, in a tone almost of dismay.
‘Well, no, I think not,’ replied Gilbert, with his sweetest smile. ‘It
would hardly do. But if you have not quite made up your mind, I could
send him word——’
‘Oh no, no! My mind is quite made up—quite. Let him come.’
‘I think it would be best,’ said the considerate son. ‘Good morning. I
hope it won’t tire you much.’ With which he went out.
The ‘little ride’ prolonged itself indefinitely, as it seemed. Far along
the hard, white moorland roads he went, past Middleton-in-Teesdale, a
road which seemed to have some peculiar fascination for him, since he
chose it oftener than any other. On he went, till he got to High Force
and its solitary wayside inn. Here he dismounted, to have his horse
watered; for himself, when they asked him what he would take, he said,
‘Nothing,’ and thanked them. To let his horse stand awhile, he strolled
down the dark, pine-shaded path, to the grand waterfall, and stood
beside the river, watching dreamily the thundering surf, snowy,
dazzling, brilliant in the brilliant sunshine. He stooped, took water in
the hollow of his hand, and drank it. This he did several times, but
without a change in the calm serenity of his expression; and then he
returned to the inn and again mounted his horse.
Riding on, he proceeded till nothing but pathless moors surrounded him,
stretching lonely and bewildering in all directions. He was on the
borders of Westmoreland, and now the westering sun and the lengthening
shadows told him that it was time to be returning. Tranquil and quiet as
ever, he did turn, and guided his tired horse towards Bradstane. It was
dark when he got in, and he trod softly, as if he imagined there might
be some one ill or dead in the house. He only laid his hat aside, but
did not put off his riding-coat, before he went, still in this quiet,
gentle way, into the library, where he found his father alone.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ Mr. Langstroth said fretfully. ‘Michael
has never been near all day, and there I was, left with Coningsby, to
give all my instructions alone.’
‘Mr. Coningsby would hardly have been likely to take his instructions
from me,’ said Gilbert, with his slight smile. ‘Then, you have got it
done?’
‘Yes, it is done. Rowntree and Ransom’ (his servant) ‘witnessed it. But
I want no more of such efforts. It has worn me out.... However, it is
some satisfaction to think that things are settled as they should be.’
During this speech, Gilbert had stood with his foot on the fender, and
his hand held up as if to shield his face from the glow of the fire. He
now observed softly—
‘I will go and change my things, and be with you in a few minutes.’
When he was alone in his bedroom, he took out his handkerchief and
passed it across his forehead.
‘Disgusting! How overheated one gets with a long ride!’ he muttered to
himself.
The hall bell sounded through the house. Self-possessed Gilbert gave a
great start, and became suddenly paler than usual.
‘Pshaw!’ he uttered aloud, the next moment; ‘he has his key, of course.’
But it seemed to take him some time to change his riding-clothes for the
garments he usually wore in an evening. Just before he went downstairs,
he seated himself on a chair at his bedside, and drew a long breath.
‘Well, it had to be,’ he whispered to himself. ‘There was nothing else
for it. And he is so dense—so dense. One must do the best. It was for
the best.’
Then, as if feeling himself guilty of some weakness, he drew himself
together with a little shake, composed his countenance, and went
downstairs. Nothing was said by father or son relative to either the
ride taken by the one, or the business accomplished by the other. Quite
late, Otho Askam called to smoke a pipe and have a chat about the mills
and other topics. And Gilbert slept quite soundly that night.
This was in May. During the summer Mr. Langstroth became somewhat
stronger, and things went on in their usual course until November.