THRUST AND PARRY
‘Of course you are quite strange to Bradstane?’ began Magdalen.
‘Yes, quite—at least, practically so. I can’t recall much about
it. In fact, I’m strange to the north altogether, except
Scotland—staying at hotels or shooting-boxes, you know.’
‘Ah, yes. Those are luxuries for the rich,’ said Magdalen, whose
whole person, attire, and surroundings breathed an atmosphere of
more than riches, of extravagance. ‘I may say I have never been in
the south, for I haven’t, except to Bournemouth, with my aunt. Well,
I wonder how you will “like,” as they say here. The society of
Bradstane is a little peculiar. It is not intellectual—Eleanor felt
a little surprise at this; Magdalen herself had not struck her as
looking intellectual—‘and it is not by any means lively. And I
suppose you have been accustomed to a good deal of variety in your
life?’
‘Not lately. Six months ago, my aunt, Mrs. Stanley, who has been my
second mother, died very suddenly. We have had a very quiet and a
very sad house ever since, and if Bradstane were ever so gay, I
should not be going out much now.’
‘Ah, yes, very sad—Otho mentioned your loss,’ murmured Magdalen,
who, with the self-absorption of her kind, had forgotten Eleanor’s
account of her uncle’s condition.
‘And then,’ added Eleanor, feeling her heart beating just a little
faster, but marching straight into the fray, ‘I have Otho. I hope to
see something of him now. He is my only brother, and I have been
much separated from him.’
‘Ah, your brother,’ said Magdalen, all at once discarding her
purring tone, and taking up her knitting, with the expression of one
who has just come to some mental decision. ‘He was the attraction,
was he?’
‘Hateful woman!’ said Eleanor within herself. ‘She thinks he is her
property, and that I am come to dispute him with her. So I have, and
so I will.’ Then aloud, ‘Certainly, he was an attraction, if it
needed a great attraction to make me wish to visit my own home,
after so many years. Besides, who knows how long I may have the
chance to be with him, and get to know him? I am astonished that he
has not married before now.’
A slight pause. Eleanor herself was surprised to find in what style
she was talking; but something in the very presence of the other
woman seemed to arouse her pugnacity, and to place her in an almost
aggressive attitude.
‘At any rate, while I have the field to myself, I mean to let Otho
know that he has a sister,’ she pursued, with a slight laugh.
‘Highly commendable,’ said Magdalen, either with constraint or a
slight sneer; it would have been difficult to say which.
‘He is a great friend of yours, I find,’ continued Eleanor, looking
directly at Magdalen, who made no reply to the words. Eleanor paused
a moment, and then took her course. She was really anxious to learn,
if she could, the extent of this woman’s influence over her brother;
but more than that, to get to know whether she were a sincere woman,
or a false one. She would feign a tender interest in Otho’s affairs,
and a sisterly solicitude for his welfare. As a matter of fact, she
knew nothing of the said affairs, nor whether well or ill might be
the word to apply to his spiritual condition. She would try to
discover. It was a hardy resolution, with such a woman as Magdalen
for her opponent, but want of courage was not one of Eleanor’s
defects.
‘It seems so strange,’ she presently went on, in a musing tone,
‘that you, living in the same place and being his friend, must have
seen him often, and know him quite well, while I, his own sister,
scarcely know anything about him.’
‘You think that is a great loss, I suppose?’
‘Well, yes, I do. I think I ought to know about him—good or bad. It
seems to me unnatural that I should not. I wish you would tell me
something about him, Miss Wynter. It really seems as though he had
left us on purpose that we might discuss him.’
‘Why discuss him at all?’
‘Well,’ said Eleanor with a smile, ‘I don’t think you and I can have
many objects of mutual interest to talk about. Otho is one,
obviously—my brother and your friend. I think it is most natural to
talk about him. From what he said of you, I am sure you must know a
great deal of his character and disposition. He is very reserved, I
think. I want to get on with him, of course. Can’t you tell me
something of his tastes and habits?’
Miss Wynter’s white eyelids drooped, but quivered not. Her fingers
flew in and out of the scarlet wool, and the ivory needles made a
pleasant, dull clicking. What she thought with cold annoyance was,
that Eleanor was impertinent and inquisitive, devoid of tact and
_savoir faire_. (No one knew better than Eleanor herself that her
present conduct was scarcely conventional, but she felt that she did
not much care what it was, so long as she rode away from Balder Hall
possessed of definite views as to Magdalen’s goodness or badness,
and she rather hoped the conversation would disclose badness.) If
the young woman were put down at once and promptly, Magdalen argued,
she might perhaps profit by the lesson; if not, if encouraged in the
least, she was almost certain to become very troublesome. So she
said—
‘My dear child, you surely do not suppose that because a man comes
once or twice a week and chats with one for an hour or two, or even
spends a whole afternoon in one’s society, that he necessarily
reveals to one anything of his real habits or character?’
‘It depends on what his habits may be, of course,’ said Eleanor with
gravity; and, in spite of telling herself that she was acting a
part, she felt a vague uneasiness, which vexed her like a coming
trouble whenever any question arose of Otho and his doings. It was
not the first time she had felt it. Dim reports of his fastness and
strange habits had penetrated even to her well-sheltered home with
the Stanleys; and more than once her uncle had said to her, ‘My
dear, I’m afraid your brother spends a good deal of money in a very
reckless way.’
‘It depends on what his habits may be,’ she repeated; ‘but he could
not come so often as that and not show something of his character—or
disposition, perhaps I should say.’
‘Well, you will see him daily, now that you have come to live with
him—possibly for many hours in each day. I see him, at the most,
once or twice a week, for an hour, or perhaps two hours. It is
obvious that your opportunities will be incomparably greater than
mine have been. Don’t you think you had better study his character
at first hand—if you are interested in it, that is?’
‘If I am interested—in my own brother?’
‘I see you have very enthusiastic ideas, and quite orthodox ones,
about brothers and sisters loving each other, however dissimilar in
character and disposition they may be’ (Eleanor repressed a smile.
She had not expressed any such views), ‘just because they are
brothers and sisters. But, you know, it is not wise to take your
impressions of any one in whom you are interested from a third
person. How can you know what feelings and what motives might
influence me in speaking to you of him——’
‘Oh, Miss Wynter, would Otho have brought me here if you had had a
bad influence over him? He thinks so much of you,’ said Eleanor,
seeing that Magdalen had accepted her (Eleanor’s) presentation of
herself, and feeling that her _rôle_ was now an easy one to play.
‘No,’ pursued Miss Wynter, apparently unheeding Eleanor’s last
remark; ‘study him and his character at your ease, by yourself, and
don’t worry yourself about it. As for his habits—now, this advice
really comes from my heart, Miss Askam,’ and Magdalen laid down her
work and looked with cold earnestness at her companion—‘if he were
younger than you, or in any way in your keeping or under your
control, it would clearly be your duty to become acquainted with his
incomings and outgoings, and to supervise his proceedings. But just
the reverse is the case. He is older than you by several years; he
is his own master, and has been so for many years, accustomed to
consult himself alone—you little know how much himself alone—in the
management of his own affairs. He knows his own aims and wishes, if
he has any. Let me advise you, if you wish to have a shadow of
influence over him, never to interfere, by word, look, or deed, with
anything that he may choose to do. I do not say that by this course
you will gain an influence over him, but I say that if you do not
observe it, you will lose every chance of ever gaining one. He will
not brook the least appearance of meddling——’
‘But, indeed, I do not want——’ began Eleanor, astounded at the
revelation her ruse had called forth—amazed at the depths of angry
feeling which she saw quickly enough were surging under that
composed exterior called Magdalen Wynter. But Magdalen had begun her
exhortation, and was not to be easily stopped. In the same cold but
energetic style she went on—
‘If you once let him see that you think his affairs are anything to
you, your chance is gone.’
‘My chance—of what?’ thought Eleanor, looking, as she now felt, very
grave.
Magdalen saw this gravity. Her thought was, ‘Silly, sentimental
creature! The idea of coming rushing in with a mission or a vocation
to improve her brother! Some women never will learn.’ Then, after a
moment’s pause, she continued—
‘Men are odd, you know. If they do wrong, yes, even if they wrong
you—if they do something flagrantly unjust, and you reproach them,
or scold them, or try to make them see how bad they have been, what
good does it do? It does not make them sorry or ashamed, but it
makes them think you very disagreeable; it makes them angry with you
for dictating to them; it makes them cease to have any wish to
please you, or any regard for you. Let him alone, unless you wish to
make mischief. You understand me, I daresay?’
‘I’m afraid I understand that my brother’s habits are not what they
should be.’
‘That is a very hasty conclusion, and shows that you certainly have
not understood me. If I must speak so very plainly——’
‘I do not wish to interfere with him,’ said Eleanor, with a shade of
hauteur; but she was uneasy, and an anxious colour had begun to burn
on either cheek. She had come hither against her will. She had
disliked Magdalen from Otho’s talk of her, had disliked her more on
seeing and conversing with her, and had descended to subterfuge, to
find out her thoughts about her brother. She was pure of any wish to
be a missionary to Otho, which was evidently what Magdalen had
gathered to be her object; but she had unwittingly called forth an
indirect characterisation of her brother—and that from one who
evidently knew him well, and was tenacious of her hold on him—which
roused her deepest uneasiness. After the last words there was a
pause, and then Eleanor said slowly, and wishing the while that she
had not begun the conversation—
‘And I have no doubt that you know far more about him than I do.’
‘You credit me with a great deal of very important knowledge,’ said
Magdalen, coldly and sweetly. ‘All I can say is, that if I possessed
that knowledge to the full, I should not think of imparting it to
you—not for a moment. And let me remind you that, whether he be good
or bad, I am not your brother’s keeper. I think he is quite
competent to take care of himself.’
‘I was not dreaming of assuming any such office,’ Eleanor said,
fully convinced from Magdalen’s tone that she did feel herself to be
Otho’s keeper, in a sense; that she liked the proprietorship, and
meant to fight for her possession of it, if it were disputed. The
idea of entering the lists with her filled Eleanor with disgust. Her
impressions, could she have reduced them to their simplest form,
were that Otho was not what he ought to be in the matter of conduct,
and that Magdalen knew a good deal more about him than she chose to
tell. Miss Wynter, however, seemed to consider the subject at an
end, and to assume that Eleanor had found out her mistake. She
herself began with a new subject.
‘How came you to know Michael Langstroth?’ she inquired, with her
sweetest smile.
‘Oh, I don’t consider that I know him. Did you not hear what I said
to Otho? He got into the carriage I was in, at a station near Tebay.
He seemed in a great hurry, and jumped in as the train was setting
off——’
‘Just like him!’
‘A porter at Tebay had told me that the station after this one at
which Mr. Langstroth got in would be Bradstane, so I was collecting
my things, and I suppose he saw from that label on my bag where I
was really going; for he said, “Are you getting out at Cotherstone?”
Then, of course, I explained, and he explained, and it was all
right. He got out at Cotherstone, and I came on to Bradstane.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Magdalen, who had listened attentively, and watched
no less attentively the manner and gestures of the speaker. ‘He has
such long distances to go in a country place like this.’
‘Do they call him “Doctor” Langstroth here?’
‘Yes, they all do. It is a country habit. He “doctors” them, so he
is “the doctor;” but he practises as a surgeon.’
‘Is he a friend of yours, then?’
‘I have known him intimately for many years.’
‘Otho says that some one whom he called “Gilbert Langstroth” is his
greatest friend. Is he any relation of this Mr. Langstroth?’
‘Brother.’
‘Indeed! But Otho seemed not to know Dr. Langstroth very well.’
‘They are not devoted to each other.’
‘Have they quarrelled?’
It could hardly be that these questions of Eleanor’s, put in all
innocence and good faith, were agreeable to Magdalen. Perhaps, when
she asked Otho to bring his sister soon, she had foreseen some such
catechism. Perhaps she had reflected that the old facts of her
engagement to Michael and its rupture, and the reasons assigned for
it, must surely, sooner or later, come to Eleanor Askam’s ears,
since they were public property, and it was not the fashion in
Bradstane to hide any treasure, however minute, of fact or fiction,
gossip or scandal, which had once gained credence in the public
mind. Why not, she may have reflected, let Eleanor hear the story
from herself, and so at any rate gain that first hearing which is
supposed to go such a long way towards deciding the final verdict?
She knew quite well that, along with the simple account of her own
engagement to Michael, and of its having been broken off, Eleanor
would likewise hear that she, Magdalen, had jilted Michael, hoping
to be married by Otho Askam. That, whether true or not, was what was
said, and Magdalen knew it as well as if she had heard it herself.
She knew, too, that women had laughed at her, and did laugh at her
yet, because she had thrown Michael over, they said, and not secured
Otho. People did not say those things to her, of course, but she
knew that they were said, and that they would be said to Eleanor.
Grievous though the questions of the latter might appear to her,
therefore, it might have been still more grievous to know that
Eleanor was seated in other drawing-rooms, hearing other versions of
the story.
‘Oh, it is a long tale, rather,’ said she; and she related correctly
enough the history of the two brothers, not mentioning her own
relations to Michael, but watching Eleanor with interest. She saw
how the girl’s eyes gradually kindled, and her lips parted, as she
heard, and seemed almost to foresee the end of the tale. She leaned
forward eagerly as Magdalen wound up with the story of the will and
its directions, and how Michael had received the blow.
‘Yes?’ said Eleanor.
‘When he found that his father’s house was all that belonged to him,
the first thing he did was to turn Gilbert out of it, calling him
traitor, and saying he had lost his brother. He drove him out that
instant, you know, on the spot.’
‘He was right,’ exclaimed Eleanor, in a deep voice, which showed how
great had been her interest and her suspense; and as she spoke, she
struck her riding whip emphatically across her left hand, and looked
up with a frown. ‘I would have done the same. Cowardly, snakelike
traitor!’ The instinct of the fighting animal was strong in Eleanor,
as it is in most healthy creatures.
‘You think so? A great many other persons thought the same; and a
great lawyer, a friend of Michael’s, wanted him to dispute the
will.’
‘And did he?’
‘Michael dispute it! My dear Miss Askam, he is far too haughty and
high-flown to descend to any such mundane method of settling the
matter. He said he washed his hands of it, and left his brother
Gilbert to his conscience. He refused to touch any of the sum which
was left him—or rather, to Gilbert, to manage for him. He said he
had a profession which would keep him from starvation, and a roof to
cover him—he would have no more.’
‘I agree with him,’ said Eleanor, still very emphatically; and she
lifted her eyes, filled with the feeling that was in her, and her
whole countenance brightened with an ennobling light, the result of
inner exaltation, and as Magdalen met this gaze, her own eyes
dilated, a look of something like affright crossed her face; she
said quickly and coldly—
‘It sounds very well—very grand, does it not? Quite heroic, in
fact.’
‘I think it was very fine—very high.’
‘It sounds so, and it was so, in a way. But when one comes down to
the dull regions of common sense, as one always has to do in the
end, it does not work very well. For instance, that high resolution
that you admire so much was the rock that Michael and I split upon.’
‘Michael—and you,’ repeated Eleanor mechanically, looking at
Magdalen with a new expression, and with all the glow fading from
her eyes.
‘Yes, exactly. When Mr. Langstroth died, his son and I had been
engaged three years. We had always looked forward to being
married—at least, I had—when our prospects improved. But when all
this came out, and it was evident that Michael would have no
assistance, and even refused what he might have had, there was an
end to all that, of course. He was not well off. He never will be.
He has not the spirit of—I won’t say money-making, but of the most
ordinary providence for the future. When he refused the provision
that had been made for him, I knew that meant that I must give him
up, and I did so. We have only been friends ever since, and——’
‘You gave him up, then—oh, Miss Wynter, how could you?’ Eleanor had
exclaimed, before she knew what she was saying. The next moment she
felt that she had committed an indiscretion, but she scarcely
improved the situation by hastily exclaiming, ‘Oh, I beg your
pardon!’
‘There is no need,’ said Magdalen, quite composedly. ‘One cannot
enter into the details of such things with strangers. I acted, as I
thought, for the best. Poor Michael! He is such a fine fellow in
some ways, but so utterly, so hopelessly unpractical. He is not fit
for his position, or for the present age; and yet he is so loyal, so
true. I do not believe he ever cared, or ever will care, for any
woman but me,’ she added, looking pensively at Eleanor as she spoke.
‘That sounds rather a self-confident thing to say, does it not? but
I have known him so long—I have good grounds for thinking that I am
right. He is not like those men who love here a day, and there a
day, and another day somewhere else.... Poor Michael!’
While she spoke, Eleanor felt her heart as heavy as lead within her.
If Magdalen Wynter and Gilbert Langstroth were Otho’s friends, and
beloved of him, and this other man was shut out and disliked—yes,
her idea that Magdalen knew more about Otho than she would say must
be correct, and it seemed as if the whole thing were painful and
discordant. But she supposed Miss Wynter must possess unusual powers
of fascination, since Michael, after being treated by her in a
manner which even her representations could not make to appear
creditable, remained her friend. Had he not been seated there when
they arrived?
Pondering painfully on this problem, she was roused by the opening
of the parlour door, and looked up quickly, in the hope that it
might be Otho, and that they would soon escape from this room, which
had become a place that oppressed her.