THE SEALED LETTER.
Casterwell is an aggressively antique village, the delight of
landscape painters and enthusiasts of the hand camera. It has been
painted and photographed times without number, and its two crooked
streets, its market cross, its mediæval church and ruined castle are
all of them familiar enough to the frequenters of London art
galleries. Bicycles converge to it from the four quarters of England,
transatlantic tourists twang the melodious American tongue under the
gabled roof of its principal inn, the omnivorous kodaker clicks his
shutter at donjon, battlement, and ivy-covered tower, and unscrupulous
authors thieve its local legends for the harrowing of the public in
Christmas numbers and magazines. The name is obviously of Latin
origin, and from the Castraville of the middle ages we have the
Casterwell of to-day. On the brow of an adjoining hill the
circumvallations of the ubiquitous Romans show that the village
originally received its name from a military post of the days of
Caractacus and Boadicea. But the Imperial legions have marched into
the outer darkness, the baron of the castle is a handful of dust, the
founders of the church lie mouldering in their ornate tombs, and
Casterwell survives them all: a quaint, pretty, peaceful spot,
beautiful even in its decay.
The village lies in a dip of the ground--hardly to be called a
valley--between two wooded hills swelling gently from the surrounding
plain. On one of these rises a square palace of white free-stone
ornate, and conspicuous by force of its many windows and lofty
tower--this latter well-nigh offensively incongruous with the general
architectural design. This grandiose barrack is "Kingsholme," the
country seat of Lord Aldean. In it he lives like a mouse in a
haystack. It is many times too large for a single young orphan, and it
takes much more of the orphan's income to keep up than he likes.
Thither Aldean and his friend spun as fast as a quick-trotting mare
could take them. As they turned into the park Mallow cast a wistful
look towards the other hill, where, surrounded by its ancient woods,
lay embosomed the dwelling of Miss Olive Bellairs--the lady of
Casterwell Manor. The soul of this hapless lover was full of regret in
that he was not the occupant of Mr. Dimbal's fly, and he sighed as he
mastered his feelings, in subservience to the exigencies of social
intercourse--a necessity for the moment, but one by no means to his
taste.
Meanwhile the fly--the tortoise to the Aldean hare--crawled doggedly
along the dusty road. Mr. Dimbal, with a complacent smile on his rosy
face, and his black bag established safely on his knees, glanced
absently out of the window. Through incessant clouds of dust he caught
glimpses of the flowering hedges, and now and again behind them of the
corn waving in the hot wind. Then a cottage or so with its thatched
roof and tiny garden marked the proximity to the village, and soon he
was rumbling through Casterwell High Street. At last the avenue
leading to the Manor House came in sight, and, as his eye rested on
the mansion, Mr. Dimbal heaved a sigh of relief to think that he was
at his journey's end. Three hours of continuous travelling on a hot
midsummer day are not exactly the height of bliss to a comfortable
elderly gentleman.
The house was typical of its kind. Here were diamond-paned casements,
tall oriel windows, lofty-tiled roofs surmounted by stacks of twisting
chimneys, terraces of grey stone with urns and statues--in fact, all
and everything which we are accustomed to associate with the
conventional old English manor-house.
The whole place was radiant with roses. The walls of the house were
draped with them; they clambered over the balustrades of the terraces;
they flamed in the wide-mouthed urns; they clothed the antique
statues, and rioted round the lawn in prodigal profusion, dazzling the
eye with their glorious tints, and filling the air with their perfume.
"A dwelling fit for Flora, truly"--it was an unusual flight of fancy
for Dimbal, but he gave way to it even as he stepped from out his
dusty old fly. He raised his eyes, and lo! the "lady of flowers" was
waiting to greet him. In truth she was comely enough, this young
woman, for the most beautiful of goddesses. Not an ideal Venus
perhaps, or an imperial Juno, but an eminently healthy and withal
dainty goddess of spring was Olive Bellairs--a trifle reminiscent
maybe of Hebe, the girlish and ever young.
Neither divinely tall nor unduly slender, her figure was neatness
exemplified. Her hair was brown, so were her eyes; while, did you
seek to compare her complexion, you must perforce fall back upon the
well-worn simile of the rose-leaf.
She was dressed in pure white. "And how are you, Mr. Dimbal?" she
said. "For a whole hour have I been watching for you."
"If', like the Lord Chancellor in 'Iolanthe,' I were possessed of
wings, my dear, you would not have had to wait at all."
"Well, now you are here, I'm sure you're very hungry. Lunch is quite
ready; come along!"
"Yes, my dear, and I am quite ready, too; but I should not eat my
luncheon in peace did I not first discharge, at least, the more
important part of my mission."
"Oh dear," pouted Olive, "won't the horrid thing keep for an hour?"
"My dear," said Dimbal, taking the girl's hand in his own, "let me
make myself quite clear. I am here to impress upon you the terms of
your father's will, which, as you know, has been in my possession
since you were a baby, and to hand to you a sealed letter which he
left for you. Until this is done, I cannot eat my meal in comfort."
"A sealed letter?" queried Olive, leading the way into the
drawing-room; "why was it not given to me before?"
"Because your father's instructions were that you were not to have
possession of this letter until after the arrival of Mr. Carson in
England. Well, Mr. Carson has arrived. He was in my office yesterday;
so, you see, I have lost no time."
Olive sat down and took off her sun-bonnet. She looked put out. "I
know that Mr. Carson is in England," she said; "I got a letter from
him three or four days ago, in which he says he is coming down here at
the end of the week."
"Oh, well, I hope you are pleased," said Dimbal, looking dubiously at
her. The kind-hearted little lawyer feared, from her expression that
she was not.
"No, Mr. Dimbal," replied the girl, decidedly. "I cannot pretend that
I am. You must remember I have never seen the man. Indeed, I do not
want to see him, and I am very sure I do not want to marry him."
"But you must marry him, Olive."
"I don't see that I must marry anybody I don't like. I am sure I shall
hate him!"
"My dear, you really must not talk like that. Remember you lose a
large sum of money if you do not fulfil the conditions of the will."
"I would rather lose anything than marry him," said Olive, recklessly.
"I don't love the man; why, I have never seen him; how can you--how
could papa expect me to marry him? He may be horrid--indeed, I am sure
he is horrid."
"Mr. Carson is a very charming and handsome young man," was Dimbal's
reply, as he opened his bag. "You will find that he is everything your
heart can desire."
"My heart does not desire him at all. I object to being married
without being consulted."
"But Olive--dear child, remember, you loved your father!"
"Yes"--the girl's face grew very tender, "my father was the dearest
and best of men. I loved him very dearly--better than any one else in
the world. You know I love his memory still."
"Then you will surely obey his last expressed wish?" said Dimbal,
persuasively. "In that way alone can you show your love and affection
for him."
"Mr. Bellairs's heart was set upon your marrying the son of his oldest
and best friend."
"Where is this letter, Mr. Dimbal?" asked Olive, irrelevantly.
"All in good time, my dear. Let me first explain the will to you."
"Do you wish Miss Slarge to be present?" said Olive, as the lawyer
spread out the formidable parchment.
"Oh, that is not necessary. I suppose she is busy?"
Olive shrugged her pretty shoulders. "She is hunting, I believe,
through Layard's Nineveh in search of Nimrod," she answered. "Lucky
Aunt Rubina, she hasn't got to marry a man she doesn't care two pins
about."
"I don't suppose Miss Slarge would marry any one, my dear. She has
always been the consistent advocate of celibacy."
"I only wish my father had been the same."
"Would that really please you?" said Dimbal; he knew a good deal more
about Miss Olive's likes, if not about her dislikes, than she had any
idea of. "I met Mr. Mallow at Reading Station," the artful lawyer
continued, significantly.
"Oh!" said Olive, the colour mounting to her face.
"Yes; he has come down to stop for a week or two with Lord Aldean."
"I--I--well, I really don't care. Why do you look at me like that, Mr.
Dimbal? Don't, please! Mr. Mallow is really nothing to me."
"Or you to Hecuba. Well, if you don't know, Olive, I'm sure I don't.
Let us get to business. By this, my dear," he said, smoothing out the
parchment, "you inherit all the real estate of your father, consisting
of the house, lands, farms, tenements, etc., etc.--all of which
combine to bring you in an income of some three thousand pounds per
annum. Into possession of this you will enter upon your twenty-first
birthday."
"That is next month," said Olive, nodding.
"Quite so. On August 24th you attain your majority. You will then
receive your rents, and become absolute mistress of the estate."
"Without conditions?"
"Certainly--without conditions. Those of which I am about to speak
apply only to the personal estate. This consists of some fifty
thousand pounds, excellently well invested in railway stock and shares
for the most part, though some small portion of it is in the
Government funds. If within a month of your majority you become the
wife of Angus Carson this money passes to your husband, and he is to
use it for the benefit of you both."
"Oh, indeed and I have no say in the matter, I suppose?"
"Well, not legally speaking. Although Mr. Carson can only obtain this
money by marrying you; that done, he has full legal possession of it;
and, although there is no absolute charge upon the capital providing
for it, there is a strong wish expressed by your father--so strong as
to amount to an absolute obligation in the mind of any right-thinking
man--that the sum of a thousand pounds per annum shall be set apart
from out of the interest of this money by your husband for your own
separate use. But of the principal, you understand, he has absolute
control."
"But suppose Mr. Carson is a scamp and a spendthrift?"
"We will not suppose any such thing, my dear. I admit," added Dimbal,
looking at the document--"I admit that the powers given to Mr. Carson
are very great, and should perhaps have been controlled, if not
restricted, in some measure--indeed, I suggested something of the sort
to your father; but he contended you were amply provided for by the
real estate, and he had every hope that young Mr. Carson would prove
to be as good and as honourable a man as his father had been before
him."
"What is your opinion of him?" asked Olive, abruptly.
"My dear, I saw Mr. Carson but for half an hour, so I can scarcely be
expected to answer that question. He appeared to me to be an amiable
and pleasant young gentleman, and I have no doubt he will make you an
excellent husband."
"Oh, I dare say; that is, of course, provided I consent to marry him,"
said Miss Bellairs, tartly. "Well, Mr. Dimbal, thank you. I quite
understand all you have told me. When I marry Mr. Carson, he gets
fifty thousand pounds to do exactly as he likes with."
"Well, certainly that is one way of looking at it; but you must not
forget that he is to pay you quarterly the sum of two hundred and
fifty pounds," said Mr. Dimbal, hastily.
"Quite so. I get one thousand to his forty-nine!"
"No, no, my dear--not at all."
"Oh, well, in any case he has the best of it," said Olive, wilfully.
"If he chooses to make ducks and drakes of the capital there will be
but a small chance of my getting any income."
"That would be to argue Mr. Carson a thorough scamp, my dear. I do not
think he is that."
"How do you know--you say yourself you only saw him for thirty
minutes--you can't read a man's character in that time."
"Perhaps not; but Mr. Carson appears to me to be an exceptionally
well-conducted young gentleman; and, after all, Olive, supposing he
does waste this money, you have always three thousand a year of your
own which he cannot touch."
"And a husband I don't want," she replied bitterly. "Well, Mr. Dimbal,
suppose I refuse this arrangement?"
"Well, in that case, my dear, the whole of the money goes to the
Reverend Manners Brock, Rector of Casterwell."
"Yes, so I remember you told me before. Why, may I ask, does it go to
him?"
"Really, my dear, I can hardly say. Mr. Brock was the most intimate
friend of your father and Dr. Carson. Failing the fulfilment of his
primary wish, it is evident your father decided to pass on the money
to his best friend. That is how the will stands, though, as I have
said, it is not easy to approve of it in all respects."
"It is a hard and cruel will," said Olive, despondently. "I am sure I
don't wish to rob Mr. Carson or any one else of the money, but, on the
other hand, I have no wish to become the wife of a man who is a
complete stranger to me. My affections are not a regiment of soldiers,
to be ordered about in this way."
"Well," said Mr. Dimbal, fishing up a blue envelope with a red seal
from the depths of his black bag--"well, Olive, here is your father's
letter. It may perhaps explain his reason for making what, I allow, is
a most extraordinary disposition of his personalty."
Olive took the letter in silence, and, rising from her chair, opened
it at the window with her back to the lawyer. It contained a single
sheet of paper, on which were written eight lines in her father's
well-known hand. They were shaky and faint, as though they had been
penned--as indeed they were--by a dying man.
"My Darling Olive,
"When you read these lines you will know that it is my last wish and
command that you should marry Angus Carson, to whom you have been
engaged since your birth. Marry him, I implore you--not so much for
the money, as, because if you do not become his wife, evil, terrible
evil, will come of your refusal. If you ever loved me, if my memory is
dear to you, fulfil my dying wish, and marry Angus Carson within a
month of your twenty-first birthday. If you refuse, God help you!
"Your loving father,
"Mark Bellairs."
As white as ashes Olive let the paper flutter to the floor.
"What does it mean?" she murmured faintly. "My God, what can it mean?"