Chapter XXVI

THE RICH MAN DIED, AND WAS BURIED.

On a gloomy winter morning the invisible hand was stretched forth, and James Lindsay was taken behind the veil. Then hired people came and went silently. The blinds were drawn, and the house was almost in darkness. The servants, knowing that little would be expected of them, gathered round their fire and told each other what steps they would take to gain new places. Miss Lindsay informed Mr. Hatchett of what had happened, that he might seal up the dead man’s desk and the drawers of his writing-table; and Mr. Hatchett sent a trusty old clerk named Drake, who had performed that service for scores of deceased clients, to do what was necessary. After Mr. Drake’s departure Miss Lindsay locked the doors of the library, and of the room where the dead man was lying, and betook herself to her own room on the third floor. Laura followed her example.

Early in the afternoon Semple, finding that existence at No. 21, Claremont Gardens was, under the circumstances, an insupportable burden, wandered off towards the City, leaving word that he would not be back to dinner.

About three in the afternoon Laura crept downstairs, and finding that the drawing-room fire was lighted, she sat down before it, and wondered for the hundredth time that day whether her guardian had left her anything in his will. She wished Semple had not gone out. She would have made him tell her. She wished Alec would come, that she might ask him—it would have been some relief, some breach in the monotony, even to see him for five minutes—but he did not come to the house all day. As it happened, he was confined to the house with influenza.

An hour passed, and Laura felt that she could not stand it any longer. She went to the library for a book, but the door was locked. Then she put her hand on the bell, meaning to send out one of the servants for a novel; but before ringing she withdrew her hand and went up to her own room. Very quietly she put on her hat and boots. She knew she was committing a breach of propriety, and that was in great part the attraction for her.

Slipping quietly, with an inward shudder, past the chamber where death held his court, she reached the hall, and in another minute she was in the open air. The fog was thick, but not too thick for her to find her way.

She knew that a few streets off there was a station on the District Railway. There, at least, she would find some distraction; there would be something to look at, something to listen to, instead of the dreadful stillness in which she had spent the day. Wrapping her cloak around her, she hurried on, enjoying the motion and the cold air, though the fog was stifling.

When she reached the station, she went to the book-stall, and, carefully selecting two novels which promised a fair share of mental excitement and a society paper, she bought them and slipped them under her cloak. Her errand was now accomplished, but she was unwilling yet to return to that great, dismal house, so she sauntered for a few minutes up and down the platform.

The place was chilly, draughty, and almost deserted, and she was thinking of returning home, when she heard the tinkle of an electric bell and the rattle of an approaching train. She stepped back into one of the arched recesses in the wall, to wait until the crowd of passengers, who were sure to alight, had gone by.

Ten seconds more, and the deserted platform was alive with people. First came the third-class passengers—message-boys, porters, work-girls, stout women with babies. Then a scattered group of business men in heavy overcoats. And among them was James Semple. Not caring to be seen by him, Laura stepped back as far as she could, but she was in no danger, as she was in the shadow, and her veil was down.

A man whom she did not recognise joined Semple. They seemed to have been travelling by the same train without knowing it. The two men passed her, walking slowly on account of the crowd, and conversing together as they went.

‘And Alec Lindsay is ill?’ she heard Semple say to his companion.

‘Yes; a bad cold, he says. I hope he won’t be able to leave the house for a week,’ was the reply.

‘Why?’

‘Ah! you don’t understand. You think we are in sight of land. Not yet. In fact——’

Laura could hear no more, for Semple and Beattie (who was his companion) had passed her. But her curiosity was excited. She mingled with the crowd, and managed to get a little nearer to the speaker. But Beattie had dropped his voice, and she could only catch the words—‘must not be there when the will is read, on any account,’ when the two men reached the door of exit, and passed beyond her hearing.

There was nothing Laura Mowbray loved so much as a secret. Here was one, she felt sure. Who was not to be present when the will was read? Alec Lindsay? They had been talking of his illness just before. Why should he not be present at the reading of the will? It could make no difference to anyone, surely, whether he was there or not. Who was this stranger who was interested in Mr. Lindsay’s will?

There was no solution, however, to these questions; and Laura, after waiting a few minutes to avoid any chance of meeting Semple in the street, made the best of her way home.

Semple, she found, had not arrived; nor did he return until late in the evening. Miss Lindsay, fortunately, was still upstairs. As the evening advanced, however, she came down, and ordered tea, in lieu of dinner, for Laura and herself. Then she went to the library and fetched two volumes of sermons, one of which she gave to Laura, while she sat down to study the other. One by one the slow hours went by, till nine o’clock struck, and then Laura went to bed, where she lay reading ‘The Mystery of the Manor House,’ till the cold compelled her to lay the book down.

Next day the dressmakers came with the half-finished mourning dresses, and that was a great relief; and so the time passed until the day of the funeral.

It was a small and a melancholy company. Mr. Hatchett was there, Mr. Beattie having told him that the estate was a large one, and it would be well that he should be on the spot. The physician was there; also Mr. Andrew Simpson and Mr. Nicol Carnegie, two old friends of Mr. James Lindsay’s whom he had named as his executors, and James Semple, of course. Alec Lindsay was not sufficiently recovered for the doctor to allow him to attend the funeral; and his father was deterred from making the long journey to London by a sharp attack of rheumatism. Dr. Mackenzie, however, had come from Scotland, as well as a Dr. George Adamson, who was one of the trustees for the Free Kirk.

The clergyman at the cemetery hurried over the last words of the prayers. Another funeral was due in ten minutes, and the curate was anxious to warm himself thoroughly at the fire in the clerk’s office before he began to read the service for the fourth time that day.

Soon the dismal task was ended. James Lindsay was laid in his native dust; and the mourners felt relieved as they mounted the steps of the mourning-coaches, to be driven back to the house.

When they had all taken their seats in the dining-room, which felt chilly in spite of a roaring fire, wine and cake were handed round, while Mr. Hatchett, who had brought the will in the pocket of his overcoat, made a formal search among James Lindsay’s papers for another testament. He was still busy in the library when Miss Lindsay and Laura entered the dining-room.

Miss Mowbray walked slowly, with downcast eyes. She knew that her mourning dress was very becoming to her, and she secretly determined to be often in mourning, or half-mourning, at least, in the future. Dr. Mackenzie met the two ladies, and conducted Laura to a seat; while Mr. Carnegie, an old acquaintance of Miss Lindsay’s, came forward and led her to a chair.

‘This is a very sad event, Miss Mowbray,’ said Dr. Mackenzie, seating himself.

‘It is indeed,’ answered the girl in a subdued tone, lifting her eyes for a moment to the minister’s face.

‘And it is one which may happen to any of us at any time. It is well to be prepared.’

‘Oh, I am sure Mr. Lindsay was prepared to die. He was so resigned, so peaceful towards the close.’

This was said in Laura’s sweetest tone, but it was not a satisfactory answer in the ears of the Scottish Doctor of Divinity.

‘There is a false peace as well as a true peace, Miss Mowbray,’ he said somewhat severely. ‘I believe Mr. Lindsay’s peace was well founded. He knew the way of salvation. But a mere general trust in the goodness of God is worthless—utterly worthless.’

This startled Laura, and, anxious to reassure the minister, and to prevent the conversation taking a more personal turn, she said:

‘I have been reading such beautiful sermons in a book Miss Lindsay gave me. I am sure you would like them. They are by a Mr. Robertson.’

‘You don’t mean Robertson of Brighton?’

Laura saw that she had made a mistake.

‘Ye—yes; I think so.’

‘Poison! Rank poison!’ cried the minister, unconsciously raising his voice. ‘I cannot understand Miss Lindsay putting such a book into your hands, or into the hands of any young person. I trust you did not agree with that writer. But he is most seductive, especially for the young. Did you read many of the sermons?’

‘No.’ (This was true enough. Laura had read about a page and a half of one of them.) ‘And I will not read any more of them, since you do not approve of them. Have you published any sermons, Dr. Mackenzie?’

‘I did—some time ago.’

‘I thought I had seen them somewhere,’ said Laura, knitting her brows as if she were making a great effort of memory. ‘I wish I knew where I could get a copy.’

‘I will send you a volume of them, if you like,’ said the minister.

‘Oh, thank you so much!’ replied Laura, with a look of gratitude.

‘How we misjudge people,’ said the minister to himself. ‘I had thought this young lady had been of a rather frivolous disposition;’ and he helped himself to another glass of port.

As he did so, Mr. Hatchett opened the door, and proceeding to the top of the long table, amid a universal silence, took his seat.

‘There seems to be no document of a testamentary character, ladies and gentlemen, among the papers of the deceased. This is a will which he executed a few weeks ago. It was drawn and engrossed at my office. With your permission I will read it to you.’

When the lawyer finished his preface, everybody assumed an attitude of polite indifference, listening intently all the while. Laura, who had not expected to understand much of it, found that it was quite intelligible. Her own name was among those of the legatees.

‘And I leave and bequeath to my ward, Laura Mowbray, the sum of two thousand pounds.’

‘Well, it is always something; with what I have I shall be independent, at any rate,’ said Laura to herself.

Then came one or two other small legacies, and then the lawyer proceeded:

‘And I leave and bequeath to the person who shall be the Moderator of the Free Church of Scotland at the time of my death, and to all the persons then surviving who shall have filled that office, and to every person who shall hereafter fill that office, the sum of five thousand pounds in trust——’

A hoarse, inarticulate cry had burst from Dr. Mackenzie’s lips.

The lawyer stopped and looked at him.

‘Read that again if you please, sir,’ said the minister, in a hard, stern voice.

Mr. Hatchett eyed him for a moment before he bent again over the paper.

‘And I leave and bequeath to the person who shall be the Moderator of the Free Church of Scotland at the time of my death, and to all the persons then surviving who shall have filled that office, and to every person who shall hereafter fill that office, the sum of five thousand pounds in trust for——’

‘There is some mistake here,’ said Dr. Mackenzie, rising and going up to the table.

The lawyer contemptuously pushed the paper under the minister’s eyes and pointed silently to the words. Yes; there they were plainly—five thousand pounds. Dr. Adamson came up behind, and having with trembling fingers put his spectacles on his nose, he peered into the paper, and satisfied himself that the words were ‘five thousand pounds’ beyond any possibility of doubt.

Dr. Mackenzie was trembling with anxiety and passion. It was not only that an annual sum which would have doubled his income was lost to him; nor was it only the injury done to his Church that moved him; he felt that both he and the cause which he had at heart had been shamefully defrauded.

He looked at the signatures of the witnesses. They were, or appeared to be, the same as when he had seen them affixed. The date was correct. There was no appearance of erasure, no possibility that the words had been tampered with.

While the minister had been examining the will there was a deep silence. He now laid it on the table, and leaning one hand upon it, said in a grave tone:

‘All I can say is that my deceased friend expressed his intention to me of leaving half a million of money to the Church of which I am a member. He consulted me on the subject. He showed me a draft of the will, in which that sum was so left——’

‘In figures, or in words, sir?’ asked the lawyer sharply.

‘I think it was both in words and in figures. But the draft can be sent for, and it will be found to bear me out. And more than that, I heard Mr. Lindsay’s nephew read the will to him before he signed it, and the sum he read was five hundred thousand pounds.

‘There I think you are mistaken, Dr. Mackenzie.’

It was James Semple who spoke. He had not risen. He was very pale. His left arm remained folded across his breast; with his right hand he was pulling his moustache. Laura gazed at him curiously.

‘What, sir!’ shouted Dr. Mackenzie.

‘I only say that you are mistaken in thinking that my cousin read what you say he did. As to my uncle’s intentions I know nothing.’

‘Do you think, sir, that I, knowing my friend’s intentions, would have heard a will contrary to those intentions read out to him before signature, without saying a word of protest, or asking any explanation?’ cried the minister.

‘And do you think I would have said nothing if such a monstrous bequest had been in the will?’ retorted Semple.

‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Hatchett, who had been listening carefully to all that had passed. ‘Mr. Alexander Lindsay doubtless read what was in the will; and the will is here to speak for itself. I think I had better finish reading it.’

He did so, and when he had finished, Dr. Mackenzie said excitedly:

‘We do not accept that document as a true exponent of the testator’s wishes. We protest—eh, Dr. Adamson?—we protest against it. We shall appeal to the law-courts.’

‘Very good, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Hatchett politely; ‘all shall be done in a correct and orderly manner. You will select your own solicitors, whom I shall be happy to meet. Meanwhile, Mr. Carnegie, and Mr.—er—Simpson, you accept the executorship and trusteeship, as I understand?’

The two gentlemen, who knew enough of the world to know what this meant, yielded a melancholy assent. Miss Lindsay, seeing that there was no need for her further presence, made a sign to Laura Mowbray; and the two ladies left the room together.

‘And I will apply for probate, I presume, in the usual way,’ remarked Mr. Hatchett, rubbing his hands gently, with much inward satisfaction.

‘I have one suggestion to make, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘before we separate. I believe the domestics who signed the will as witnesses are in the house. It would be well to summon them now, before they have been led to suppose that anything can depend on what they may have to say, and ask them in your presence whether they can swear that these are their signatures.’

The suggestion was received with a murmur of applause, and some one rang the bell. Meantime, Dr. Mackenzie asked a question.

‘If I remember aright,’ he said, ‘the other legacies bequeathed in the will are of comparatively small value, perhaps not more than twenty or thirty thousand pounds in all?’

Mr. Hatchett bowed.

‘Then who takes all the money?’

‘With regard to any property not specifically mentioned,’ said Mr. Hatchett, glancing once more at the document before him, ‘it goes to the residuary legatees.’

‘And they are?’

‘Mr. Alexander Lindsay is one of them,’ said the lawyer, while a grave look came into his face.

He was stopped by the entrance of the servants, and James Semple was glad, somehow, that Mr. Hatchett did not go on to recite his name. It would have weakened the effect of his contradiction of the minister’s recollection, although, of course, the whole world must soon know how the matter stood. But as the words ‘Mr. Alexander Lindsay is one of them’ fell from Mr. Hatchett’s lips, a certain thrill ran through the little company.

The servants declared without hesitation that the document before them was the one they had signed, that and no other; and then everybody rose up and prepared to go.

Miss Lindsay went up to Dr. Mackenzie as he passed into the hall, with the intention of offering him hospitality, but as she was on the point of speaking to him, Semple interrupted her, affecting not to see the minister, and speaking in a loud whisper:

‘My dear aunt, don’t you think that after what has happened to-day Dr. Mackenzie would be more comfortable at an hotel?’

The minister reddened and involuntarily clenched his fists.

To do James Semple justice, this piece of rudeness was not a mere wanton insult. William Beattie had carefully instructed him that Alec Lindsay and the justly infuriated minister were not to be allowed to meet; and Semple thought it quite possible that if Dr. Mackenzie were staying in the house he might get Alec’s address from his aunt and go to him at once.

The minister, holding his chin very high in the air, sent for a cab, and drove off with his friend, Dr. Adamson, in search of an hotel. As they jolted along one subject jostled with the great question of the will in the minister’s mind, sometimes altogether ousting it from his attention. Would it be fair, he was asking himself, for him to charge Dr. Adamson’s expenses as well as his own to the trust, if it should turn out to be five thousand pounds only, as he might unquestionably have done if the legacy had been one of half a million? And if not, seeing that he had asked Dr. Adamson to take what was really an unnecessary journey to London, and considering that his colleague’s family was twice as large as his own, would it not be incumbent upon him in equity to pay those expenses out of his, Dr. Mackenzie’s, own pocket? An Englishman would probably not have raised either point in the tribunal of his conscience. Dr. Mackenzie not only raised them, but argued them, and finally decided them against himself, consoling himself as he did so with that remarkably Scotch proverb, ‘It’s not lost that a friend gets.’

But the sum could ill be spared; and the loss of it did not tend to diminish his resentment against those defrauders of the temple, as Dr. Mackenzie considered them, James Lindsay’s nephews.

END OF VOL. II.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged. Dialect, obsolete, and misspelled words were not corrected.

Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed letters, were corrected.