THE LINDSAYS
A Romance of Scottish Life
BY
JOHN K. LEYS
[Illustration: colophon]
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1888
[_The right of translation is reserved_]
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER PAGE
XXVII. TWO CONVERSATIONS 1
XXVIII. TROUBLE DRAWS NEAR 23
XXIX. AT THE POLICE COURT 39
XXX. ALEC’S FRIENDS VISIT HIM 61
XXXI. MISGIVINGS 77
XXXII. BEFORE THE TRIAL 93
XXXIII. THE TRIAL 107
XXXIV. AFTER THE TRIAL 150
XXXV. MISS MEREDITH INSISTS ON BEING OBEYED 176
XXXVI. SICK UNTO DEATH 192
XXXVII. THE FUGITIVE’S RETURN 211
XXXVIII. TWO YEARS AFTER 229
THE LINDSAYS.
CHAPTER XXVII.
TWO CONVERSATIONS.
Mr. Hatchett drove back to his office in a brown study. When he arrived
there he sent for Mr. Beattie, who speedily made his appearance.
‘Mr. Lindsay is not here, is he?’ were the solicitor’s first words.
‘No, sir. He has been confined to the house with a bad cold for more
than a week.’
‘Just fetch me the draft of his uncle’s will, if you please.’
Mr. Beattie left the room and came back after a few minutes, saying
that he could not find it. This was not surprising, seeing that the
document was at that moment reposing in a drawer of Mr. Beattie’s
writing-table, at his own lodgings.
‘You can’t find it!’ exclaimed Mr. Hatchett, his face becoming more
grave.
‘No. It is not among the other drafts, nor in any of the drawers of Mr.
Lindsay’s table. One of them is locked, however, and he has the key.
Very probably he has put it there for safety.’
‘Likely enough. Did you see the draft before it was sent out?’
‘I don’t think I did,’ said Mr. Beattie, after considering a moment.
‘No; I am almost sure I did not. I was very busy at the time; but I
remember telling Mr. Lindsay to lay the draft on my table, and I would
revise it.’
‘Did he do so?’
‘I can’t say; but I never saw it there, and so the thing escaped my
memory.’
‘You ought not to have allowed an important draft like that to leave
the office, without either settling it yourself or sending it to
counsel,’ said Mr. Hatchett severely.
‘You are quite right, sir. But I was kept in the Master’s room till
late in the afternoon on the day the will was drawn; and when I came
back the draft had gone.’
‘Then you should have taken care to go over it the next morning, when
it came back.’
‘If I had not been so very much occupied, no doubt it would have
occurred to me. But the letter Mr. Lindsay wrote to us, particularly
desiring that his nephew should prepare his will----’
‘I don’t forget the letter; but it does not release us from all
responsibility,’ interrupted the solicitor.
‘Has anything happened?’ asked the other.
‘Well, I should not be surprised if something does happen. It seems
that the old gentleman altered an intention he had of leaving an
enormous sum of money to the Scotch Presbyterians, and left them only
five thousand pounds instead.’
‘Rather a sensible thing to do, I should say,’ observed Mr. Beattie,
with a smile.
‘Yes; but the odd thing is that one of the Presbyterian parsons, a
Scotchman called Mackenzie, I think, says that he saw the draft’ (Mr.
Beattie gave a hardly perceptible start), ‘and that in it the bequest
was five hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Then the old gentleman changed his mind later in the day, I suppose,’
put in the clerk.
‘And stranger still,’ pursued the solicitor, ‘this man says that he
was present when the will was signed, that young Lindsay read it aloud
before it was signed, and that he read the bequest “five hundred
thousand.”’
‘Really! That is very odd!’
‘Very odd indeed.’
‘Was anyone else present?’
‘Yes, another nephew. And _he_ says that Lindsay read “five thousand
pounds” only.’
‘It is impossible that Lindsay should have committed a fraud. I won’t
believe it of him for a moment!’ exclaimed the managing clerk warmly.
‘This nephew’s evidence is not disinterested, however,’ pursued Mr.
Hatchett. ‘He shares the residue with young Lindsay; and it must be a
very large sum, about half a million, I suppose.’
‘Had the minister any interest in it, one way or the other?’ asked
Beattie.
‘No; of course not. His name was in the will, though, as secretary to
the trust, or something. Here it is,’ he added, unfolding the will as
he spoke--‘at such a remuneration as the trustees in their discretion
may decide.’
‘Then the minister’s evidence is _not_ quite disinterested, any more
than that of the other nephew?’ remarked Beattie.
‘No; but of course there is a vast difference between a few hundreds
a year and a quarter of a million. And it seems odd that there should
be all these elaborate directions about a secretary, and so on, if the
bequest was meant to be only five thousand pounds.’
‘Perhaps the direction to change the amount came after the will was
drawn, and young Lindsay allowed all the rest of it to remain,’
suggested Beattie. ‘I should think it quite possible,’ continued he,
‘that the old man was under this minister’s influence, afraid of
him, in fact, and that he privately told his nephew to make the sum
only five thousand, but to read the will as if it were five hundred
thousand, to save himself from having a scene with the minister.’
‘Rather a far-fetched explanation,’ said Mr. Hatchett, with a smile.
‘Besides, the other nephew, Semple, says that his cousin read “five
thousand.”’
‘One of the two is clearly mistaken,’ said Beattie.
‘Or lying,’ said the lawyer. ‘Of course the case on the other side is
that the two nephews made up a plan to get this money for themselves.
Young Lindsay was to get his uncle to intrust the drawing of the will
to him, alter the draft by striking out the word “hundred,” and deceive
the old gentleman by reading the will as if it had been left in, while
the other cousin swears that he read it quite correctly. The minister
means mischief; I could see that. Well; we can’t say anything about it
till Lindsay is convalescent. When do you think I could see him?’
‘I expect he will be here to-morrow morning. There was a note from him
a day or two ago to that effect.’
‘Very good; tell me as soon as he comes.’
And here the conversation ended.
As soon as Mr. Beattie was released from the office that evening he
went to Alec’s rooms. The invalid was sitting alone, with a large fire
to keep him company.
‘Well, Lindsay, I congratulate you.’
‘On being indoors this dismal weather? I meant to have gone to my
uncle’s funeral to-day, but the doctor bullied me into giving up the
idea.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to come in for half your uncle’s
money?’
‘Because I have done nothing of the kind.’
‘But you have; and I congratulate you with all my heart.’
‘Nonsense. I get five thousand pounds. So does Semple. The bulk of it
goes to the Free Church.’
‘That was your uncle’s original idea, I know; I took his instructions
myself to that effect. But you must know very well that he changed
his mind, and told you to make his legacy to the Free Kirk five
thousand--and quite enough too.’
‘I never----’ began Alec, bewildered by what he heard.
‘Stop a minute, man, and let me speak. I have just seen Mr. Hatchett.
He read the will to them all after the funeral, and it seems there was
a fine row. As it stands, the legacy to the Kirk is only five thousand
pounds.’
‘Five _hundred_ thousand, you mean.’
‘Five _thousand_ only, I tell you. I saw the will myself in Mr.
Hatchett’s hands, when he came back to the office.’
‘But this is incredible. I----’
‘But I tell you I saw it. And you can see it for yourself, as soon
as you are well enough to drive down to the office. Your uncle must
have changed his mind, and told you to make it five thousand, and your
illness has made you forget it--though I warn you, old man, you had
better not say you had forgotten such a thing as that. No one would
believe you.’
‘There’s no forgetting in the matter,’ cried Alec, striking the elbow
of his chair with his fist. ‘My uncle never changed his mind. And what
I put in the will was five hundred thousand pounds to trustees for the
Free Church.’
‘Look here, Lindsay, I’ll forget what you have said just now. You did
not say it.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Because the time may come when--your memory may serve you better. You
_must_ remember the fresh instructions.’
‘How can I remember instructions that never were given?’
‘They were given, sure enough, and you have forgotten them.’
‘They were never given!’ shouted Alec, losing his temper.
‘You are very dense,’ said Beattie, with something like a sneer,
throwing himself back on his seat.
‘True; I don’t understand you,’ said Alec haughtily.
Beattie made no reply.
‘As you choose, Lindsay,’ he said at length. ‘But I may point out to
you, as a friend, that if your uncle did not tell you to alter the will
you are in a very unfortunate position.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you see? You are intrusted with the making of a will. (It would
have been better if you had refused point-blank to have anything to
do with it; but we can’t help that now.) And you leave out one little
word, the effect of which is that you add a quarter of a million
sterling to your own share. Who will believe that that was done by
inadvertence? Your uncle _must_ have told you himself to let the Free
Church bequest be five thousand pounds. Think, now.’
‘And to avoid the consequences of my blunder--if I did commit a
blunder--I am to invent and swear to a lie,’ said Alec, slowly rising
to his feet. ‘I ought to kick you downstairs; and I would, if I were
not as weak as a cat just now. Leave the room, sir.’
‘Lindsay, you mistake me altogether,’ said Beattie earnestly, also
rising to his feet. ‘I never meant that you should invent what never
happened.’
‘It sounded precious like it.’
‘If you are certain your uncle gave you no further instructions----’
‘I told you before, he never did,’ interrupted Alec.
‘Then you have made a very nasty blunder, that’s all; and one that I am
afraid will cost you dear.’
‘I don’t believe I did. Wasn’t it five hundred thousand in the draft?’
‘I never saw the draft.’
‘Why, I left it on your table to be settled, as you told me to do.’
‘I dare say you did; but I have no remembrance of seeing it. Let me
think.--That afternoon I was in the Master’s chambers till very late,
and I was so fagged out that I went and had some dinner before I went
back to the office. So, very likely, you sent off the draft thinking I
had seen it, when I had not.’
‘But haven’t you looked for it since, this afternoon, to see what it
says?’
‘I did look for it, but I couldn’t find it.’
‘Couldn’t find it!’ exclaimed Alec, who was getting terribly excited.
‘Did you look in my drawers?’
‘I looked everywhere,’ said Beattie; ‘but one of your drawers was
locked. Perhaps you put it there.’
‘I may have done so, though I don’t remember it,’ said Alec.
‘Unfortunately MacGowan, who engrossed it, has gone. It was his
blunder, no doubt; but I ought to have noticed it, of course, for I
examined it with him.’
‘It is clear that it was in your mind that the legacy had been
reduced,’ said Beattie; ‘for when you read over the will to your uncle
you read it “five thousand pounds.”’
‘I did not!’ shouted Alec, starting to his feet a second time. ‘Who
says so?’
‘Your cousin, James Semple, says so.’
‘Then he says what is not true!’
‘That is very unlikely. But Dr. Mackenzie, who was in the room,
declares that you read it “five hundred thousand.”’
‘And he speaks the truth!’
‘Do take care what you say, my dear fellow,’ said Beattie, after a
pause. ‘This is sure to come into the courts in some shape or other.
Your cousin will swear to hearing you read “five thousand”--at least,
so Mr. Hatchett tells us. How dreadful for you to accuse him of
wilful and corrupt perjury! What I believe really happened was this:
MacGowan made a mistake in copying the will, and you unfortunately
allowed it to pass when you examined it. Then, when you read it, you
read mechanically what was before your eyes. You are often a little
absent-minded, you know, Lindsay,’ he added with a smile.
‘I suppose it must have been so,’ said Alec at length. ‘It is the only
way of accounting for it. But Dr. Mackenzie says I read it as if it ran
“five _hundred_ thousand.”’
‘Pooh, my dear Lindsay, he heard what he wished and expected to hear.
Listen to me. Do you think it likely that if your cousin had heard that
after being his uncle’s right-hand man all these years he was to have
only a share of the residue, worth about ten thousand pounds, he would
have submitted without saying a word?’
‘No; it is not likely,’ said Alec thoughtfully; ‘and yet I can’t help
thinking that it was “five hundred thousand” in the will, and that I
read it so.’
‘My dear fellow, I do want to impress this upon you--don’t be as frank
with everyone as you are with me. It might be your ruin.’
‘How? What do you mean?’
‘This Dr. Mackenzie--what sort of a man is he?’
‘He is an arrogant, narrow-minded old ass.’
‘Is he the sort of man who would prosecute anyone who had done him an
injury?’
‘The very man, I should say.’
‘Then I think you are in very considerable danger.’
‘Danger? Of what? Of course I won’t touch a penny of this money, for I
know my uncle meant the Free Church to have it.’
‘But your cousin doesn’t know it. He may not be so ready to give up so
large a sum.’
‘Does he say so? Have you seen him?’
‘Not I. I haven’t seen him for ever so long. But he may not be willing
to give up his legal rights; and if this Dr. Mackenzie and his friends
should make up their minds to prosecute you criminally----’
‘What!’
The shout silenced Beattie. The two men sat looking steadily at each
other.
‘Lindsay,’ said Beattie at length, ‘is it not better that you should
hear the truth from a friend’s lips, rather than from an enemy’s? Look
at the facts. You made an ugly blunder, by which you stand to make a
large profit. Giving up the money will only be taken as a confession of
guilt. It cannot save you.’
‘I know you are innocent of any wrong intention, my dear fellow,’ said
Beattie warmly, after a short pause. ‘Do you suppose I would take all
this trouble if I did not know it? But if you had been as long in the
profession as I have been, you would understand how the most innocent
man, if he has got into a hole (as you have done), may damage his cause
by admissions--that is, by speaking frankly to his enemies. They take
your words, and twist them into a confession of guilt. Don’t give them
the chance of doing that. When Mr. Hatchett questions you, as he is
sure to do, tell _him_ the truth frankly--say you made a blunder which
you cannot account for, that your uncle _may_ have changed his mind,
but he said nothing of it to you--you’re sure of that, by the way?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Well, say so frankly. And say you cannot remember reading the very
words, but you have no doubt you read the words that were before you
in the will. That is true enough, I suppose?’
‘Certainly. And yet I could have sworn it was “five hundred thousand.”’
‘Then you would have followed up one mistake by another, you see. That
is only your opinion. The will speaks for itself.’
‘I _cannot_ understand it.’
‘But if Dr. Mackenzie, or any stranger, comes to ask you questions, say
not one word--not one word, as you value your reputation. Refer them
to me, or to Mr. Hatchett. Say nothing to anybody, either of what you
thought were your uncle’s intentions, or anything else. It is your only
safe course. If the danger passes by, well and good. If it comes to
your door, I am ready to stand by you. Can I say more?’
‘No. You are very good, Beattie,’ said Alec half absently. ‘If I have
need of anyone to defend me, I am sure the case could not be in better
hands than yours.’
‘Thank you, Lindsay. Well, if I am to help you, I am entitled to ask
you to hold your tongue in presence of the enemy, am I not? It’s not
what you might say that I am afraid of. It’s the construction they
might put upon it.’
‘Yes; I will follow your advice, Beattie.’
‘That’s right. You won’t repent doing so, I am sure. It’s the only
sensible thing to do. And now, I see you are very tired and worried, so
I’ll say good-night.’
* * * * *
‘What a Quixotic fellow!’ said Beattie to himself, as he sat in his
own room half an hour later, and opened a certain drawer in his
writing-table. ‘To give up two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for a
mere freak! I suppose if his uncle’s will had said that the money was
to have been thrown into the sea he would have thought it his duty
to do it. That was practically what the old man wanted to do. If only
the young fool would have taken my hint, and said his uncle told him
he had changed his mind, and he was to make the Free Kirk bequest five
thousand only, we should have been perfectly safe, with, perhaps, the
help of a neat imitation of the old man’s initials on the alteration in
the draft.
‘But he wouldn’t rise to it. Some men are like that. Curious. Well; I
very much fear our friend may suffer for it. I’m very sorry; but, after
all, he has only his own obstinacy to thank for it.’
‘I may as well get rid of this,’ he continued, taking the draft in his
hands. ‘No use producing it in court altered, if the prisoner persists
that he never was told to alter it, and never did alter it. That seems
tolerably plain. If I thought he might change his mind----’
Beattie was holding one corner of the document with his left hand, and
the other with his right, and he paused an instant.
‘No; no chance of that, what he says he will stick to; I am certain of
it.’
And at this point in his soliloquy, Mr. Beattie tore the draft in two,
and quietly burned it to ashes.