OTHO’S REVENGE
When Michael Langstroth went into the concert-room that night,
rather late, he found the place crowded with an audience, watchful
and attentive as only country audiences can be, all in their
war-paint and feathers, as Roger remarked, and the choir, in a row
on the platform, lustily singing of how
‘The oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree,
They grow the best at home, in the north countrie.’
Going up the room, he found himself near the top of it without
having found a seat, and he stood looking about him, when a
demonstration a little to one side caused him to turn, and he saw a
small, lean hand beckoning to him, and a thin, eager-looking face,
brimming over with pleasure, asking him, as loudly as silent
expressiveness can ask, to come and sit beside her, and, what was
more to the purpose, pointing out a space close to her for his
accommodation. It was his little patient, Effie Johnson, radiant in
the proud consciousness of a new frock, and an unheard-of treat—that
of being the only one of her brethren and sisters privileged to be
present at the concert. He nodded and smiled, and gradually made his
way to her, receiving many a greeting on his way from ‘all sorts and
conditions’ of men and women. Effie was on a side-bench, he found,
and his place was beside her; but it was a side-bench at the end
nearest the platform. Her mother sat at one side of her, and greeted
Michael with a nod, and an unusually serene smile. When he was
seated, Michael found that amongst his near neighbours were Eleanor
Askam, who had found a seat beside Mrs. Parker, after all; and
beside Miss Askam, his brother Gilbert. He did not see either Otho
or Miss Wynter, and was a little puzzled; for Dr. Rowntree had told
him of Eleanor’s note to his sister, explaining why she could not go
with her.
If he did not see Magdalen or Otho, he did see very distinctly upon
Eleanor’s face an expression of gravity and even anxiety, impossible
to be mistaken; a very different expression from the one of hope and
strength and light-heartedness which she had worn when he had first
seen her. Gilbert’s countenance wore an expression of composure and
even contentment.
Michael sat still, and the crowded, lighted room, and loud voices of
the singers seemed to disappear. He was alone with his brother. In
all the years that had passed since his breaking with Gilbert, in
all the occasions on which Gilbert had been in Bradstane since then,
they had never met thus closely, and, as it were, side by side. A
deep oppression came over Michael’s heart. What was this thing that
he felt? He scarcely seemed to himself the same man he had been,
even five minutes ago. Gilbert and Eleanor, sitting side by side,
and, as it were, alone; that was all of which he was really
conscious.
‘Where have you been for such a long time, Dr. Langstroth?’
whispered Effie, as she nestled up to his side with the confidence
of childhood—that confidence which is seldom at fault.
‘I have been very busy, Effie, and I have neglected you. I am going
to amend my conduct very soon.’
‘But you never forget us, do you?’ said Effie.
‘No, I never forget you, my child; I will come and see you soon.’
Contented, she was silent, and observed the scene with her bright,
keen childish eyes looking from her little thin face.
Michael was uneasy and unhappy. At last, unable to endure his
suspense any longer, he leaned over to Mrs. Johnson, and asked, in a
cautious undertone—
‘Have not Otho Askam and Miss Wynter come?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, in the same tone, and with a significant look.
‘They have both gone into the room where the performers wait. Some
people think he is going to volunteer a song.’
Michael nodded, as if satisfied with the explanation. He could not
help giving a glance towards Eleanor, and he saw that the look of
unease on her countenance had deepened. She looked constrained and
uneasy. Just at that moment, Gilbert bent over her and said
something to her, with a smile, and as he spoke to her, he raised
his eyes, and encountered those of Michael. Michael felt, he knew
not what, as he met that glance. Was it anger, or grief, or pain
that clutched him? It was a hot and burning feeling, which seemed to
surge up within him. He did not know—yet—what it was, but he felt as
if he must at all risks avoid meeting Gilbert’s eyes again. He had
never experienced pain like this in any meeting with Magdalen, after
their separation. He had thought that he had put Gilbert away from
him altogether; that he had become no more to him than Magdalen, or
than the merest stranger on the road. This terrible emotional
disturbance showed him that he had been wrong. But how? What did it
import?
The next thing he saw, just as the closing notes of the glee were
sounding, was Roger Camm, who walked quickly up the room, and went
into the waiting-room, spoken of by Mrs. Johnson. Then the music
ceased; the singers received their meed of applause and left the
stage, and then there was a little pause, which was, of course,
employed as such pauses usually are, in a general uprising, talking,
questioning, and laughing. It was wearisome to Michael, who, while
anxious above all things to avoid looking at Gilbert again, could
still not prevent his eyes from being drawn in Eleanor’s direction.
She recognised and greeted him gravely, but, as he keenly felt, not
indifferently. She was still, as he could not but see, practically
alone with Gilbert, as neither Otho nor Magdalen made their
appearance, and Mrs. Parker strayed away to converse with her
friends. Then he saw some neighbours—some of those ‘charity blanket
Blundell girls,’ as Otho gracefully called them, and poor Sir Thomas
Winthrop (glaring distrustfully at Gilbert, who stood erect and
half-smiling, all the while), come and talk to her, and Michael did
not move from his place, but sat still, listening vaguely to Effie’s
prattle, and feeling again and again the same strange, strong and
painful feeling shake him from head to foot. Then people began to go
back to their places. The noise and bustle settled down, the pause
was over. The next thing was a round of applause, and Michael,
looking up, saw that Roger Camm had appeared upon the platform, and
was going to the piano with some music in his hand. It was Michael’s
turn to begin to feel uneasy, when he saw Roger’s face. There was a
savage scowl upon it; no holiday expression, but one of the darkest
anger and displeasure. He looked neither right nor left, but marched
straight to the piano, seated himself, and struck some chords, as if
to try the instrument; then sat and waited. Michael consulted his
programme, and found that the piece was a duet for soprano and
contralto, and that the singers were Miss Wynter and Miss Ada Dixon.
For the first time he began to connect Eleanor’s anxious look, and
Roger’s angry expression with the words Mrs. Johnson had spoken
about Otho and Magdalen having gone together into the little room
where the performers waited.
At that moment there was more clapping, and then appeared what
seemed to Michael the key to both the black frown and the anxious
looks which he had seen. From the room which opened on to the
platform, and where they had been waiting, emerged three persons.
First came Ada Dixon, who, as soprano, took precedence, and leading
her by the hand in the most approved fashion, and with every
manifestation of devotion, admiration, and respect, Otho Askam, who,
all the time that he led the girl forward, was stooping towards her,
and saying something that caused her to simper, and mince her steps
in a manner at once gratified, nervous, and self-important. The
nervousness was quite visible, but the gratification and
self-importance outweighed it. Ada evidently felt herself a star of
the first magnitude—the personage of the evening, and was swelling
with conscious pride in thus being singled out for honourable
distinction. Michael at first only saw the broadly farcical side of
the affair, and was inclined to burst into a shout of laughter; but,
as these two first figures advanced to the front, and the other
became fully visible, he at once began to realise that there was a
very different side to the picture, and that it might prove anything
but a laughing matter to those concerned.
Magdalen was perfectly alone, perfectly dignified and composed in
her demeanour. With marvellous dexterity she contrived to throw
something into her manner which placed an immeasurable distance
between herself and the two buffoons on whose steps circumstances
caused her to follow. The audience might stare and gape, laugh and
point the finger at them; it was impossible to do so at her. She
walked straight to her place, and stood there, facing the audience,
unmoved, and apparently immovable, while Otho, with a final flourish
of his hand, presented Miss Dixon with her music, and retired to a
chair at the back of the platform, apparently to be ready to hand
her back again when the performance was over. Ada turned, laid her
handkerchief upon the piano, after the most approved manner of
distinguished artistes, and—climax of impudence, thought Michael,
who was now watching every movement of the actors in this
tragic-comedy with the intensest interest—nodded to Roger to begin.
He looked at her with his deep-set eyes from his white face—for it
was quite white, and Michael knew the storm that was raging beneath
the impassive expression—looked at her thus, and began.
During the playing of the symphony Ada looked at Miss Wynter, and
tried to catch her eye—in vain. The distinguished soprano fumbled
with her gloves and her music, and looked ill at ease, despite the
great glory which had so unexpectedly (to the spectators, at any
rate) descended upon her. Miss Wynter, heeding her no more than if
she had been a spider on the wall, stood in calm and motionless
dignity, her hands lightly folded in front of her; her eyes, cool
and calm and unembarrassed, moving deliberately from one face to the
other of the audience—perfectly able to stand alone before them all,
even under an open slight, even while a man who was spoken of, far
and wide, as her particular friend, flouted her, in the faces of the
assembled county, in favour of a chit like Ada Dixon. In a negative,
analytical way, Michael could not but respect her—respect, at any
rate, the undaunted fortitude of the front she presented. And when
her eyes met his, and her set lips quivered for a second, he
rendered homage to her bravery, by a grave and respectful bow.
The duet began; it seemed hours before it was over, but it was
finished at last; and then the same grotesque performance was
gone through, as had taken place before, but that this time
Magdalen, calmly sweeping past Otho and Ada, left them behind,
and walked first into the waiting-room behind the scenes. Then
Otho and Ada disappeared, hand in hand, as before; and as
before, Michael felt a wild inclination to burst into peal after
peal of laughter—inextinguishable laughter, which inclination
was once more checked by the sight of Roger’s white and wrathful
face, as he picked up some sheets of music, and disappeared in
his turn.
All this had taken place in so public a manner that no one present
could fail to be cognisant of it all, and it had been watched with
breathless interest and suspense by the whole audience, who, when
the actors in the scene had disappeared, seemed as it were to draw a
long breath; and then there burst forth a perfect storm of talk,
comments, and laughter. This laughter jarred upon Michael’s every
nerve. Though he knew what a vulgar farce it all was, and had seen
its ludicrous side easily enough, yet he could not bear that others
should make merry over it, and he could imagine only too well what
it must be as it beat upon Eleanor’s brain. He refrained at first
from even looking at her; but at last his fascinated mind drew his
eyes in her direction, and he saw that she had made a movement as if
to rise and go. She was younger than Magdalen, he reflected, and not
so hardened to the standing boldly in a false position. She wanted
to get away from this, naturally, and she intended to go; he saw it
in her look, and saw, too, how Mrs. Parker’s hurried expostulation
was of no avail. Then he saw Gilbert for a moment lay his hand upon
her wrist, and say something in a low voice—only a few words, but
they had the effect of making her sit down again, with a look of
indignant resignation on her face.
Michael never knew how the performance came to an end. The things he
had seen had set him in a state of great agitation. What he saw
afterwards only made him feel more bewildered and more anxious.
After the first part of the concert, Otho reappeared, and Magdalen
with him. She was walking alone, and had nothing to say to him. She
took a seat beside Eleanor, who appeared to exert herself to talk to
her. Of course, Michael reflected, it was out of the question that
Miss Askam should even appear to countenance her brother’s
behaviour; and Magdalen, being the insulted person, had to be
treated with courtesy and apparent cordiality. He could imagine with
what an effort this courtesy would be displayed, and he thought she
played her part very well.
Otho was seated at the other side of Magdalen, and he occasionally
addressed her. She answered him gravely, but with a cold politeness.
Michael could not understand it.
He was an involuntary witness of one other scene in the drama. In
the throng, going out, he found himself near the Thorsgarth party;
saw Gilbert fold Eleanor’s cloak about her, and overheard what was
said amongst them.
‘Miss Wynter,’ inquired Eleanor, ‘how are you going to get home?’
‘The brougham will be there for me, thank you.’
‘Oh, that is all right, then. Because we could have driven you
round, if——’
‘My dear Miss Askam! Five miles round, on such a night! They say it
is snowing.’
Here Michael saw that Otho fixed his eyes upon Magdalen’s face, and
without speaking, offered her his arm. Michael watched, with a
neutral but strong interest, to see what she would do. She took the
offered arm, without any smile, certainly, but without any
appearance of being angry or offended. Neither of them spoke. They
dropped behind Gilbert and Eleanor, who were also arm in arm.
Then when they stood outside, Michael, pausing to see if Roger would
join him again, heard Miss Askam’s voice—
‘There is our carriage. We had better let it go round again, and
wait till Miss Wynter has got off, as she is alone.’
‘No,’ said Otho, signing to the Thorsgarth coachman to stop. ‘You
get in, Eleanor; Langstroth will look after you. I’m going to see
Magdalen home.’
‘_Otho!_’ exclaimed his sister, in a vehement whisper, ‘how _can_
you behave in this manner?’
But Magdalen appeared to accept the announcement with the utmost
calm, saying—
‘Well, there is the carriage, Otho, coming after yours.’
Then Michael saw how Gilbert led Eleanor, who looked like a person
in a dream, to her carriage; handed her in, followed her, and they
were driven away. Michael, before stepping forth himself, gave a
glance at the figures of the other two; saw Otho say something with
a laugh to Magdalen. Then the Balder Hall brougham drove up. Michael
waited no longer. It was evident that Roger must have gone when Ada
did. It was useless to wait for him, and he took his way home.