He took up Sycamore’s letter again.
“But why the devil did he shove in old Charlotte?” he exclaimed. “The man was no better than an idiot. And underhand at that.”
His eye went to a pile of still unopened letters. “Ah! here we are!” he said, selecting one in a bulky stone-grey envelope.
He opened it and extracted a number of sheets of stone-grey paper covered with a vast, loose handwriting, for which previous experience had given Oswald a strong distaste.
My dear Nephew, her letter began.
I suppose you have already heard the unhappy end of that Stubland marriage. I have always said that it was bound to end in a tragedy....
“Oh Lord!” said Oswald, and pitched the letter aside and fell into deep thought....
He became aware of Muir standing and staring down at him. One of the boys must have gone off to Muir and told him of Oswald’s emotion.
“Hullo,” said Muir. “All right?”
“I’ve been crying,” said Oswald drily. “I’ve had bad news. This fever leaves one rotten.”