OTHO’S LETTER-BAG
A November morning, five years later. The sky gray and brooding, the
trees still and leafless. Everything outside betokened the drear
season of the year, and even the trimly kept lawns of Thorsgarth
could not give brightness to this mood of Nature and the time o’
day.
Within, in a small room which he generally used for breakfasting,
Otho Askam stood on the hearthrug, with his burly back turned
towards a large fire. A letter was in his hand, to which he seemed
to pay more attention than it was usually his habit to give to his
correspondence, for he turned it about, and perused it often. What
are the changes which five years may have wrought in his traits, or
how many of them have become strengthened and accentuated during
that time?
He would seem, outwardly considered, to have gained something, both
in breadth and solidity, without having in any way weakened or
deteriorated. The lines were as sturdy, as burly as before. The
expression of his countenance was distinctly imperious, even more
imperious than of yore. As he stood there, the letter in one hand,
the other impatiently smoothing the hair on his upper lip—a dark
line only, which seemed to accentuate the sullenness of his face,
without hiding or softening a single harsh trait or feature—as he
stood there his countenance was a dangerous-looking one; the
expression or atmosphere which radiated from the man was not
that of sincerity. In repose he had the old fierceness of
appearance—whatever mental or moral change might have taken place,
that old look remained; and when he raised his dark eyes and lifted
his head, there was the same breathless, hunted, or hunting look
about him, as in the days of his very young manhood there had been.
He was alone, and had just finished breakfast. At his feet sat a
dignified Dandie Dinmont, somewhat advanced in years, and with the
self-conscious aspect of a dog which has long been made much of by
human beings, so that at last it has come to feel convinced that all
their actions, words, and movements have some reference to it and
its doings. It gazed up into Otho’s face and watched his gestures,
and when he spoke to it, it seemed pleased. Animals, even if they
have that keen discernment as to the virtue or vice of the beings by
whom they are surrounded, with which some persons credit them, can
conceal their likes and dislikes, for their own purposes, quite as
cleverly as the men and women they live with—at least, sophisticated
and humanised dogs, like this highly educated Pouncer, can.
Looking out of the window, one saw the drear season of the year
plainly written upon the outward aspect of things. November, sad
November, but the November of the country, and not of the town. In
southern places, and more favoured spots, trees might still be
covered with fiery autumn tints; but here every leaf had dropped,
and upon the black and sodden-looking boughs and twigs hung a damp,
clammy dew, and the grass was hoar and gray with the same. The sky
was leaden; not a branch stirred. From here one could see where the
ground sloped towards the river, but one could not see the stream
itself. The room was warm; the house was quiet; the master was
vexed—so much was plainly to be read on his face. And so much was
audible from his lips too, as he ejaculated in a wrathful tone—
‘Beastly folly—and a beastly nuisance, too!’
And the cause of his vexation, the letter he held in his hand? It is
easy to read over his shoulder, and follow the lines, as he peruses
it a third time, with the result, apparently, of increasing his
first exasperation.
‘BRINSWELL, L——
’DEAR OTHO,
‘It is a very long time since you wrote to me,—longer than
usual. As for your ever coming to see me, I have long ago given up
that expectation as a wild delusion. Are you “busy”? Country
gentlemen usually are, from what I hear; and from what I’ve seen I
should say they work very hard to make believe they have more to
do than they know how to manage.
‘I wonder if you have realised that I was twenty-two on my last
birthday? I don’t suppose you have ever given a thought to the
subject. At least, I missed your usual kind remembrance of me, on
the occasion.’ [‘What the dickens does she mean? I’ve never been
in the habit of sending her birthday presents!’]
‘Well, it is of no use wasting words over things. I wish to
explain my situation and intentions to you. Since Aunt Emily’s
death, six months ago, Uncle Robert has been quite broken up, and
he doesn’t seem to get any better. It is a fearful loss to him. No
one knew—of the world at large, I mean—how much they were bound up
in each other, and how fearfully he misses her. After trying
everything in the way of staying at home and keeping quiet, the
doctors have advised a long voyage and a complete change. It has
been decided to close Brinswell for a year at least, and he and
Paul will set out on their travels in a week or two. I think they
will visit Australia first, as they seem to think the long voyage
will do him good, and they talk about India and America before
they return—medicine for a troubled mind. Poor Uncle Robert! He
agrees to all, and says he knows he is morbid. It seems to be
thought very morbid nowadays if you have a grief that’s past the
healing for six months, even though it be your dearest in the
whole world that has gone from you.
‘I am not going with Uncle Robert and Paul. If it had been a
shorter journey, I might have done so. I should have liked
immensely to go to America, for instance. But this is different.
Paul, of course, goes with him, because it would be outrageous to
think of his going alone; but the doctor, and Paul too, say he
should not be surrounded by too many of his own family, as the
object is entire change. They both think it better for me not to
go; and I shall do as they think fit. It is very sad every way.
‘Very sad, it is—so sad that I feel myself a little heartless,
because I can’t help being rather glad that I shall leave here,
and at last make acquaintance with my own home and my own brother.
You do not know how often I have wished to do so. I am glad I
shall see my birthplace and my north-country home; very glad I
shall see you. And will not you say you will be glad to see me,
dear Otho? It is years since I have seen you, and it seems
unnatural that it should be so. Will you come down and fetch me,
or are you too busy? I propose to leave here a week from to-day.
Let me know about it.
‘There is one other thing that I feel I must mention to you, which
makes me very glad to be leaving here. About six months ago, Mr.
Mowbray—you know, he is the rector of the next parish; the Hon.
and Rev. Percy Mowbray—proposed to me. Poor Aunt Emily was very
anxious for me to marry him, but it was a sheer, utter
impossibility. Poor Aunt E——! Mr. Mowbray is rich, I believe, and
of very good family, but I have never liked him, and I could not
think of it for a moment. It was very painful to me to find how
annoyed she was with me, even to the last. And of course Mr.
Mowbray ceased to visit here, though I had to meet him sometimes.
Altogether, it will be a great relief to me in every way, to get
to Bradstane for a time. Now you are acquainted with all my
reasons for wishing to come to you, and with my plans too, for the
present. Send me a line soon, and believe me,
‘Your affectionate sister,
‘ELEANOR ASKAM.’
Otho flung the letter upon the table with temper.
‘Why the d—l could not she marry the fellow?’ he muttered angrily,
looking darkly at Pouncer, who slightly moved his tail and elevated
his ears with a sigh, as if he too wondered why—why she could not
have married the fellow.
‘What could she wish for more? A girl in her position ought to take
the first opportunity that offers—good, of course—of settling
herself in life. And I’m sure old Aunt Emily knew what she was
about. No one keener on family and money in the world. If she wanted
the match so badly, I’ll go bail it was a good one. Of course she
must marry—girls like her always must marry—and of course she can’t
go and marry a nobody. What a fool she must be! One would think she
was not all there. Not that I should think the parson and I should
have hit it off very well as brothers-in-law.’ He gave a short
laugh. ‘A thundering mistake, that will,’ he went on within himself.
‘Such wills have no business to be made.’
This reflection referred to a clause in his father’s will, providing
that Otho’s sister, so long as he and she both remained unmarried,
was entitled to a home at Thorsgarth whenever she chose to inhabit
it. In the event of his marriage, there remained for her the Dower
House, which indeed was hers for her life if she did not marry—an
old stone house in the square, not far from the Red Gables.
‘I can’t stop it, I suppose. It is a beastly nuisance, if ever there
was one. As for going to fetch her, I shall do no such thing. Go
nearly three hundred miles to fetch back some one I don’t want? Not
I!... And what can I do with her when I get her here? Good Lord! why
must women be so stupid? Such sentimental nonsense! Because I am her
brother—bah! There’s that whey-faced Paul Stanley, her cousin,
looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth—she’s known him all
her life, and he has been far more of a brother to her than I have.’
Otho felt vindictive, realising what a grievous thing it was that he
should have to be anybody’s brother.
‘The goings on in this house won’t suit her at all,’ he reflected,
getting more and more savage the longer he thought about it. ‘It has
been a bachelor’s house all these years, and it has come to
something if I’m to turn everything topsy-turvy for a chit of a girl
like that. Dogs and horses and men, and tobacco and wine and
cards—what will she do amidst it all? And what shall I do with her?’
He stopped muttering from sheer blankness of mind on the subject,
still fiercely stroking his upper lip, till after a time a look of
relief, though of very ill-tempered relief at the best, came over
his face, as he thought—
‘I suppose I must go and tell Magdalen about it. She’ll be able to
suggest something. I’ll go this morning, before I answer this
confounded letter. Whew—w—w!’
He blew out a kind of ill-tempered sigh, and Pouncer wagged his tail
in visible and exceeding satisfaction.
Then Otho picked up another letter—short and, as it would seem,
sweet, to him at least, for his countenance relaxed visibly.
‘That’s well. It will be rather a relief to have him here if she
comes. He knows what is the right thing to do when there are
petticoats on the premises. I don’t.’
Then he rang the bell, ordered the breakfast-things to be taken
away, and said he wanted his horse at eleven.
* * * * *
Soon after twelve Otho rode up to Balder Hall, was admitted to Miss
Wynter’s boudoir, and proceeded to unfold his troubles to her.
She had received him with the tranquillity which had always been the
chief characteristic of her demeanour, and which seemed neither to
have increased nor diminished with years; heard all that he had to
say; and finally, when he pulled Eleanor’s letter out of his pocket,
and said, ‘See for yourself what she says,’ Magdalen took the
letter, opened it deliberately, and as deliberately read it. She had
never heard much about Otho’s sister; she was not a woman to talk to
men about their feminine relatives, and Otho had always been glad to
ignore his sister’s existence as much as possible. This suddenly
announced coming of Miss Askam took Magdalen by surprise. She had no
time to decide whether it would best suit her views that they should
be friends or enemies, but the letter would possibly give her a
valuable glimpse into the writer’s mind, perhaps even into her
character, written as it was confidentially to an only brother. As
to the question whether it was honourable or not to read such a
letter, Miss Wynter was exactly the woman to say, if any one had
raised such a scruple, ‘Why, Otho gave it me!’ Go to! she might have
been credited with saying—the keeping one’s own integrity is enough
work for any person, without telling others when they appear to be
losing theirs.
‘Ah,’ said she, when she had finished the letter, ‘it is quite
obvious why she wants to come. I did not know your sister was
twenty-two, Otho. Indeed, I hardly realised that you had a sister.’
‘No more did I, till she went and did this,’ said Otho, resentfully.
‘And you would rather she did not come?’
‘Much rather. But it’s no use thinking of keeping her away. I’m not
going to try. She has got the right to come, by my father’s will,
and to stay as long as she likes, till one of us gets married. I
can’t prevent it. The thing is, I don’t know what to do with her
when I get her here.’
‘Well, if you make it very pleasant for her, of course she’ll want
to stay.’
Otho nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘And if you upset all your habits, and make great changes on her
account, then she will think you want her to stay, which would be
quite a false impression.’
‘I never thought of that.’
‘Of course not; only it seems such a very obvious thing. Perhaps
that is why it never occurred to you.’
‘Now, come, none of your chaff. What I thought of was, that it’s
simply impossible for a girl like that to settle down in a house
full of my ways. I must do something, and what to do I don’t know. I
wanted your advice.’
‘And pray what right have you to my advice? Why should I interfere
between you and your sister? I might tell you it is a just
retribution on you for having alienated yourself systematically from
all such ties. You demand my advice as if you were a highwayman
requiring my watch and purse.’
Otho fidgeted and fumbled, h’mmed and ha’d.
‘I beg your pardon, Magdalen. I thought I had the right—of having
asked before, and received—advice, you know. And you know I always
do come to you when I am in trouble.’
‘Oh yes; I know you do.’
‘Would you please tell me what I had better do?’
‘Is she good-looking?’ asked Magdalen.
‘Oh no!’ said Otho, promptly. ‘She has red hair and freckles.’
Magdalen glanced at Otho’s own dark traits, and said, ‘Now, Otho!’
‘Upon my soul and honour she has; and one of those faces that flush
up all over, without a minute’s warning. I never could see the sense
of those faces. She goes into raptures, you know, and cries and
laughs about things—at least, she did when I saw her. In fact,
though she’s been at college somewhere, and is a complete blue—reads
Homer, and all such bosh—I thought her a regular baby. She’s got
rather a dashing figure,’ he added, musingly, ‘but I swear to you,
Magdalen, she is _not_ good-looking.’
‘But why, then, does this clergyman want to marry her? A man of
wealth, family, and position? I know quite well who he is. They are
very first-rate people down there.’
‘Bah! She has twelve hundred a year of her own, to do what she likes
with. Whoever heard of a parson, rich or poor, that could rise above
such a thing as that?’ said Otho, with brutality. ‘And then, all
places are not like Bradstane. They may like blues and freckles down
there.... As for his being a man of wealth, family, and position,
you might say that of me;’ and he laughed cynically. ‘She’s as good
as he is, any day.’
‘Yes,’ said Magdalen, gently. ‘She is your sister.’ She took up her
work. ‘It seems to me that you are making a great fuss about
nothing. Why make any difference at all for her? Thorsgarth is your
house, not hers, though she has the right to live there, under
present circumstances. It is large enough in all conscience. Half a
dozen families might live there, and hardly ever meet in the
passages. Give her a sitting-room for herself, and tell her you are
sorry that your business doesn’t leave you time to see very much of
her. It will not be long before she finds out what a dull place
Bradstane is, and I do not think she will care to remain in it very
long, especially with such a sympathetic brother.’
‘You are a gem!’ he said, admiringly.
‘And bring her up to see me as soon as you can, after she comes.’
‘The next afternoon, if it’s fine,’ he said, eagerly.
‘Yes, the next afternoon, if you like. It will make no difference to
me.’
Then, as if she had had enough of the subject, she returned the
letter to him, and asked, ‘Is there no meet to-day?’
‘No. We got word last night that there wouldn’t be. I’m going down
to Bradstane just now, to the works. By the way, I had a letter from
Gilbert, too, this morning. He’s coming down for Christmas, as
usual.’
‘Oh, he never fails you.’
‘No; he never does. I must take care not to bring him up here while
his brother is on the premises. When does he come, now?’
‘I know nothing about it. Sometimes at one hour, sometimes at
another. And the surest way to bring about a collision is to take so
much care to avoid one. As if there were not room for Gilbert and
him in the house without dodging in that stupid way!’
‘That’s all very fine, but accidents will happen. Suppose they were
to meet, after all, and have a shindy.’
‘A shindy! Really, Otho, you exasperate me. In the first place,
though you might, and probably would, make a shindy under such
circumstances, you ought to know that they would never make one
under any circumstances. And if they wished to, ever so, would they
dare, before me?’
‘Whew—w!’ murmured Otho, under his breath; and then aloud—
‘It seems as if all I said offended you this morning, Magdalen.
However, I’ll be more good-natured than you, and say thank you for
your advice, which I shall follow. I must be off now.’
He got up and stood before her, holding out his hand. Magdalen
surveyed him in the same cold, direct manner, as before. It was her
old calm, almost expressionless gaze, but the eyes which had once
been soft and velvety were now hard. She said good morning to him in
a very indifferent way, and rang the bell. Otho left the room and
went downstairs.
His inventive genius was apparently not great. He carried out her
advice or instructions, whichever it might have been, almost to the
letter. Without waiting to go to the works, he first of all called
in at Thorsgarth, and while his horse waited, sat down and wrote a
short letter to his sister, saying that he would meet her at the
station if she would let him know by what train to expect her; that
he was sorry to say he was quite too much engaged to travel down to
the New Forest to bring her to Thorsgarth. He was afraid she would
find Bradstane insufferably dull after the social life to which she
had been accustomed. With regard to the parson, he added, with
characteristic want of finish in his style, he thought it a pity
that she had not seen her way to taking him, as the match seemed in
every way a good one, but he could hear all about that when they
met, and so he was her affectionate brother, OTHO ASKAM.
Then he rang the bell and desired to see the housekeeper; and when
she arrived upon the scene, he gave his orders with the brevity and
authority of a great general, and of course Mrs. Sparkes could not
know that the said orders had originated with Magdalen Wynter. It
was decided that some south rooms—‘the late Mrs. Askam’s suite,’
said Mrs. Sparkes—were to be prepared for Eleanor.
‘Yes,’ said Otho, with an uneasy feeling that, since he proposed to
leave his sister considerably to her own society, it behoved him to
look to her personal comfort as much as possible. ‘And see that they
are made nice—aired, you know, and to look—a—bright, and all that.’
‘Oh, sir, the rooms will not need much doing to them. It’s not my
system to be taken by surprise,’ said Mrs. Sparkes, with a lofty
smile.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Otho, with a kind of brusque facetiousness which
had its effect in making him popular with some of his dependants. ‘I
wish I knew how you managed to avoid it. This affair—Miss Askam’s
coming, has taken me very much by surprise.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that exactly, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparkes, pleased at
the confidence reposed in her. ‘There’s some things can’t be
provided for, but _I_ meant things in general.’
‘Ah! well, you’ll remember what I said,’ remarked Otho; and Mrs.
Sparkes bowed herself out.
Then he called for his horse again, and set off for his long-delayed
visit to the Townend Mills. It need hardly be said that these calls
were wholly perfunctory. Gilbert, from his London office, gave the
orders, and Roger Camm in his Bradstane one carried them out. Otho
had a pleasure in calling and looking round now and then, because he
knew how Michael and Sir Thomas Winthrop hated the Bradstane Jute
Co., Limited, and that Roger Camm hated him, Otho, the man who had
found the money for it. The conclusion to which he had come by the
time that he halted in the mill-yard was that, having settled all
things, he had now just one week of liberty before him, and, putting
his sister from his mind, he resolved to think no more about her
until her arrival should force him to do so.