Chapter XIX

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

As the weeks went by, Mr. James Lindsay grew slowly more feeble. He was no longer able to go out of doors, and he seldom left his room. He became more querulous and more capricious; and this disposition blinded his friends to his real danger.

But Dr. Sheepshanks saw the truth. He saw, also, that his patient had no idea that he was drawing very near the end of his life. And when a chance remark made the doctor aware that the old man had not yet made his will, he thought it was his duty to tell Miss Lindsay what the state of things really was.

‘Danger!’ she exclaimed, startled and shocked by the doctor’s words; ‘it’s not possible!’

‘I am afraid there is no doubt of it, my dear madam.’

‘But he’s not an old man—not to say old. His father lived to ninety-three; and two of his uncles were past eighty.’

Dr. Sheepshanks only shook his head, with a grave professional smile.

‘I never thought there was muckle wrang wi’ him.’

‘It is my decided opinion,’ said the doctor, ‘that Mr. Lindsay is not likely to live long. I think he ought to be told so, and advised to put his affairs in order.’

And thereupon Dr. Sheepshanks took his leave.

Miss Lindsay sat perfectly still for some minutes. She reproached herself for making light of her cousin’s complaints; and felt that she was almost humiliated in being forced to bring to the invalid the unwelcome tidings. But it was clearly her duty. She rose suddenly, and went upstairs to his room.

‘How are ye, Jeems?’ she asked, sitting down by the bedside.

‘Vera frail, Jean; I doubt I’m no long for this world. Did the haddies come frae Dundee?’

‘Yes—but—the fact is, Jeems, I doubt ye’re waur than I thocht ye.’

The sick man closed his eyes with a contented sigh. It was satisfactory to find that his obdurate relative at last believed that he was really ill. Miss Lindsay wanted to make some apology for her former attitude, but apologies did not come readily to her tongue.

‘We ought a’ to be prepared for our hinner en’, Jeems,’ she said at last.

Mr. Lindsay opened his eyes suddenly, and stared at his cousin. Such words from her meant something.

‘What mak’s ye say that?’ he asked.

Aunt Jean moved uneasily in her seat and cleared her throat before replying.

‘Weel, ye’re no sae young as ye were, and life’s an uncertain thing, and ye’re vera far frae weel.’

The old man again closed his eyes, with a resigned expression of countenance. He had no idea of the truth. His cousin saw she must speak plainly.

‘And the doctor said I had better warn you.’

The old man opened his eyes with a start, and stared at his companion. A look of horror crept into his face. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.

‘Did the doctor say that?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘He did that,’ said the old lady. ‘I thocht it was no kindness to hide it from ye, Jeems.’

And after moving about restlessly for a few moments, she escaped from the room.

There was not a sound but the faint crackling of the coals in the grate, and the soft fall, now and then, of a cinder into the ashes.

He was to die. Few men can hear the sentence unmoved, and James Lindsay was at heart a coward. He trembled at the thought of facing the unseen world—trembled as a murderer when the long-expected hand is suddenly placed on his shoulder.

For more than an hour he lay still, and his thoughts wandered back to the time when he was a ragged urchin at a little village school. He remembered the school-house well—the great tree under which he used to play. He remembered cheating a schoolfellow once, and the thought of it troubled him. He wished he had confessed it and made restitution. It was impossible to make restitution now.

Then he saw himself a lad working for weekly wages. He recollected the happy accident which had given him the opportunity of making a fortune. He had been bold and energetic, and he had had his reward. Wealth, exceeding his wildest dreams, had been his. What good had it done to him? How few had been his pleasures! How empty his life! And now he must leave it, and go forth into the darkness alone.

He tried to remember his good deeds, his church-going, his subscriptions to this or that fund, but they seemed to be all parts of the ordinary round of his existence, things he would have been ashamed not to do. Once, on a wet day, he had given a shilling to a beggar-woman, and she had blessed him for it. He was glad to think of that—but oh! it was such a small thing!

He was startled by a knock at the door. It was Alec. The dying man looked at him with envy and something of bitterness. What would he not give for the lad’s health and strength, for the years he had yet to live?

‘Alec,’ said the old man suddenly, ‘I want you to write a letter for me. Don’t say anything about it: mind that. Write to Dr. Mackenzie, the Reverend Robert Mackenzie, D.D., the Free Gorbals Church, Glasgow, and tell him I want to see him instantly.’

The letter was soon written and despatched; and then James Lindsay felt somewhat easier.

It was Saturday afternoon when the letter reached Dr. Mackenzie’s hands; and it sorely perplexed the worthy minister. If he were to put off his journey till Monday morning, he could not reach London before Monday night, and the delay might offend the rich man mortally. But starting at once would force him to intrust his flock to a very inferior preacher, and would, besides, involve the sin of travelling on the Sabbath. No doubt, if Mr. Lindsay were ill, the case would come within the saving clause of ‘works of necessity or mercy.’ He would then be justified in beginning a long journey on Saturday night. But how was he to be sure of Mr. Lindsay’s state of health? He felt angry with the writer of the letter for not foreseeing the difficulty and giving more accurate information. Then he remembered that Mr. Lindsay had gone abroad for the sake of his health. What more likely than that he was very ill? Dr. Mackenzie finally determined that it was an exceptional case, and that it would be clearly a work of mercy to hasten at once to the rich man’s bedside.

He hunted up a minister who made a scanty living by filling the pulpits of his more fortunate brethren on emergencies like the present, and engaged him to preach twice at the Gorbals Free Church on the following day, and left Glasgow (not without some lingering doubts as to the legality of his proceedings) by the evening mail.

On Sunday forenoon he was standing by the bedside of his old acquaintance.

‘It’s very kind of ye to come, Doctor,’ said Mr. Lindsay, in a feeble voice; ‘but the Lord’ll reward ye.’

The minister thought that a mere earthly reward, at least to the extent of his travelling expenses, would likewise be desirable; but he merely answered:

‘I’m sorry to find you going down the hill, Mr. Lindsay.’

‘Ay, it’s a road we maun a’ travel, Doctor. They tell me I’m near the end o’t.’

‘And I trust you are at peace in your mind?’

‘Not as I would like—not as I would like to be, Dr. Mackenzie.’

‘Ye should rest on the promises, my friend,’ said the minister, and he repeated various texts of the Bible bearing upon the forgiveness of sins.

The old man listened almost impatiently.

‘I ken a’ that,’ he said, as the minister ended. ‘I havena been an elder of the Free Kirk thirty years for nothing. But how am I to ken they apply to me?’

‘They are for all men,’ answered the minister.

‘Just so; but all men are not saved.’

‘Because they do not believe.’

‘If I believe I’m saved, I am saved? That’s about it, it seems to me.’

‘I wouldn’t put it in that way. There is such a thing as false assurance.’

‘Then how am I to know that mine is not a false assurance?’ and the old man looked anxiously in the minister’s face.

‘You have only to accept forgiveness as a free gift, and it is yours,’ said the other, falling back on his formula.

‘But surely I must repent of my sins?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I don’t know that I do repent—that is, not as I should. And after all, Doctor, it’s not what I have done that troubles me, so much as what I have not done. You don’t remember any texts, now, bearing on that?’

Dr. Mackenzie frowned, and took a pinch of snuff.

‘I can’t just say that I do—not at this moment,’ he said at last. ‘But I don’t think you have any cause to reproach yourself on that score, Mr. Lindsay; you have always subscribed liberally to the Sustentation Fund, the Aged Ministers’ Scheme, and the Missionary Society. I don’t think you have any special cause for alarm.’

But the sick man looked dissatisfied.

‘I’ve been thinking, Doctor, what I should do wi’ my siller,’ he said. Dr. Mackenzie was all attention. ‘I’ve none nearer me than Lindsay o’ the Castle Farm; and he’s a man of nearly my own age. He doesna want a great heap o’ siller. If I leave him enough to free his land, and maybe buy back one o’ the auld farms, it will be plenty. Then there’s my nephews. What would be the use o’ making these young men rich all on a sudden? They would only waste the money. Better to let them work for it.’

‘I quite agree with you,’ said Dr. Mackenzie heartily.

‘I’m not so rich as folk say,’ went on Mr. Lindsay; ‘but after providing for my relations in a small way, I have a good deal left. Doctor, do you think it would mak’ up for things a bit, if I was to leave five hundred thousand to the Free Kirk?’

The minister was more than astonished. He started and drew a long breath.

‘What do you think?’ asked the old man anxiously.

‘I cannot just say it would mak’ up for things. We have no merits of our own, ye ken. They are all but filthy rags. But it’s a grand idea, and well worth tryin’!’

This was not the solid encouragement for which Mr. Lindsay had hoped.

‘It will doubtless redound to your credit, and win ye an increase of glory,’ said the minister again, noticing his penitent’s disappointed look.

The sick man sighed. He would have been satisfied at that moment if he could have felt certain of a very moderate share of glory.

‘You think so?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I am certain of it.’

‘Then I’ll do it!’ exclaimed the old man, striking his fist on the bedclothes. ‘I’ll send for a lawyer the first thing in the morning. How do you think it should be left?’

‘I would vest it in trustees, for the general purposes of the Church, to be used at their discretion.’

‘Very well. Will you be one of the trustees?’

Dr. Mackenzie was prepared for this question, and he had already decided to decline the honour. He did not see how even the smallest pecuniary benefit would flow to him from accepting it.

‘I think I would rather not,’ he replied. ‘One should always appoint young men as trustees. But, if you have no objection, I would consent to be secretary to the trust. If you were to mention my name in the will, now, just recommending me to the trustees as their secretary, I would really be much obliged.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Mr. Lindsay. He quite understood the minister’s reasons for choosing the humbler post, and thought none the less of his friend for this display of prudence. ‘Of course you’ll stop here as long as you can; it will be a comfort to me. I’ll tell Miss Lindsay to get your room ready.’

Dr. Mackenzie said that he would, and reflected, as he went downstairs, that it would be a comfort to himself to stay till the will was duly executed.

In the library he found Alec, who often found his way to Claremont Gardens on a Sunday morning, partly because it was an excuse to himself for not going to church alone, partly because there was always a chance that he might be able to accompany Miss Lindsay and Laura to some place of worship. On this occasion he had been disappointed. No one had stirred out since the morning; and he was idly turning over the pages of the Saturday Review when the minister entered the room.

‘I believe you are Dr. Mackenzie,’ said Alec, getting up and holding out his hand.

‘Yes. I don’t remember to have had——’

‘Oh, it was I who wrote and asked you to come.’

‘Ah! just so. You have not gone to church to-day, Mr. Alexander.’

‘No,’ returned Alec shortly, returning to his seat.

‘Whom do you generally sit under in London? Dr. Bruce? or Mr. Martin?’

‘Neither. I sometimes go to St. Paul’s, oftener to Westminster Abbey.’

Dr. Mackenzie frowned heavily.

‘Is the Gospel preached there, Mr. Alexander?’ he said in a tone that was meant to be one of deep solemnity.

‘I really can’t say. I suppose so.’

‘You go chiefly for the music, perhaps.’

‘Partly, no doubt.’

‘For the gratification of a sensuous taste! the indulgence of a carnal delight! There is no spiritual worship in such places—none! It is turning the house of God into a concert-room; nothing less! Ah! this country was never properly reformed. It was done in a very half-hearted way. We want a new Reformation, that shall sweep away the remnants of idolatrous practices that yet defile what is nominally Protestant worship.’

The minister walked up and down the little room in his excitement, gesticulating as he went, to the manifest peril of a statuette on a bracket.

Alec rose, and gravely removed the ornament to a place of safety.

‘No great harm if the heathen image had been knocked down,’ said Dr. Mackenzie grimly. ‘And let me tell you, young gentleman, that the best of Scotland’s sons have been those who were loyal to her reformed and Scriptural form of church government and public worship.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Alec, seeing that he was expected to say something. ‘I know a good many, however, who have not done so.’

‘You know a good many young Scotchmen in London, perhaps?’

‘A good many.’

‘And are not those who are faithful to their early training Sabbath-keepers, church-goers—I don’t mean church-concert-goers—are they not respected and prosperous, and successful in their business?’

‘They are,’ said Alec, ‘and not one of them now believes what he was brought up to believe.’

‘What? What do you say? How can you decide on a point that must lie between each man and his Maker?’

‘Because I have asked them,’ answered Alec. ‘Each chooses his own road. Some differ from the orthodox Presbyterian belief on one point, some on another, but none hold it in its entirety.’

‘There are many non-essential points,’ began the minister; but he was not sorry that at this point the door opened, and Miss Lindsay, followed by Laura, entered the room.

Presently luncheon was announced, and Semple, who was just then paying one of his frequent visits from Glasgow, joined the others on their way to the dining-room.

The minister’s ‘blessing’ was of a kind more usual in Scotland forty years ago than it is now. He prayed for the master of the house, and for all his necessities, and for various spiritual and temporal blessings for each member of the household. Suddenly he seemed to remember the object with which he had started, and came to an abrupt conclusion with an adaptation of the usual formula.

Various subjects of conversation were begun in a languid way, but Dr. Mackenzie ingeniously and successfully turned them all into a religious channel in a very short space of time. He did not approve, upon principle, of any conversation on Sunday upon matters of a more profane nature than the merits of popular preachers, the existence or non-existence of Sunday-schools and Bible-classes in various places, the spread of Presbyterianism in England, and similar topics. As soon as anyone wandered away to secular subjects, Dr. Mackenzie went out, and headed him, so to speak, and drove him back.

The meal proved, in consequence, a dull one, and matters did not improve when it was over and the little party returned to the library.

‘Folk don’t keep the Sabbath as they used to do in my young days,’ said Miss Lindsay, with a weak attempt to propitiate the minister.

‘So much the worse for them, ma’am,’ said Dr. Mackenzie.

‘When I was a young woman, everybody attended both diets of worship. Walking for pleasure on the Sabbath, reading story-books, and the like, was never heard of.’

‘Of course not; but the old godly ways are deserted now. Do you think it is a right thing to read such a paper as that on this holy day?’ he continued, speaking to Alec, who had thoughtlessly picked up the Saturday Review.

‘I see no harm in it,’ returned Alec shortly.

He looked up and saw Semple, who (fortunately for him) was out of Dr. Mackenzie’s range of vision, lay down one of Ouida’s novels, making a grimace at Laura as he did so.

‘You defy the law of God, then, and choose the portion of the Sabbath-breaker. You——’

‘Dr. Mackenzie,’ said Alec quietly, ‘have I presumed to pass judgment on your actions, and condemn them?’

The minister only stared.

‘You do not pretend to any sacerdotal authority, I believe?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Then by what power or authority, I may ask, do you claim to interfere with me?’

And having said this, Alec tossed the newspaper aside and left the room, with the words ‘law of God,’ ‘Fourth Commandment,’ ‘judgment,’ ringing in his ears.

After ascertaining that his uncle had fallen asleep, Alec went off to his own lodgings in no very Christian frame of mind. And Dr. Mackenzie neither forgot nor forgave the way in which the reprobate (as he considered him) had received his timely reproof.