AFTER THE TRIAL.
It was an embarrassing moment for Mr. Lindsay when he stepped up to
his son after the acquittal was pronounced. They were both glad that a
little crowd surrounded them, so that anything like conversation was
impossible. Once only was the matter referred to after that day.
‘I did you an injustice, Alec,’ said the old man gravely; ‘but the
facts were sadly against you at the time.’
‘No doubt they were, father,’ answered his son. And nothing more was
said.
It was pleasant for Alec to see the glad light in his sister’s eyes;
to feel the warm grasp of Blake’s hand, and Cameron’s grip on his
shoulder; to hear Sophy Meredith’s exclamation, ‘I knew all along it
was not your fault!’ And yet, somehow, these sights and sounds seemed
far away. It was almost as if he were walking in a dream, as if his
real self were absent, as if he were as much alone all the time as he
had been in his cell.
When the little group of friends reached the lobby of the court, they
found MacGowan waiting there. He came forward, and offered Alec his
hand with much affability.
‘We put the snecker on him that time, eh, Maister Lindsay?’ he asked,
with a proud smile.
‘You certainly did, MacGowan. But how was it that you did not turn up
before?’
For answer MacGowan began to relate his several interviews with
Beattie, which he described with great satisfaction.
‘He thocht he had me, when he bade me bring the ticket for the passage,
and let him see ’t. But I jist waited aboot the door o’ the shippin’
office till a big Irishman turned up, and he agreed to lend me his
ticket for ten minutes for the price of a bottle of whisky. He was
waitin’ roon’ the corner when I gaed up to Maister Beattie, and I said
I had cheinged my name for ma mither’s, at which he was vastly pleased.’
‘But I thought you said he saw you off,’ put in Cameron.
‘So he did. But I gied him the slip. I saw that before the steamer
could get awa’, she had to gang through the dock-gates, awa’ at the
tither side o’ the docks. So, as she was slippin’ through, I jist
whummled ower the side o’ the boat, an’ landed on the quay. It wasna
muckle o’ a jump; an’ as it was in the gloamin’, my freen Maister
Beattie never saw ’t. Then I awa’ to a sma’ public doon by there; an’
there I stoppit.’
‘And drank a deal more than was good for you, and ran through all your
money, and finally took ill,’ said Cameron, drawing the hero aside.
‘Something like it. I kent naething aboot the hole they had pitten
Maister Lindsay in, till I took up the paper the day, and saw that the
trial was expeckit to come on. Ye see that big man,’ he added suddenly,
pointing to an official with his stave of office. ‘It was fun to hear
him shoutin’ out, “Wull-i-am Beattie!” wi’ a’ his pith, when Wulliam
Beattie had gien them leg-bail a quarter o’ an ’oor before.’
‘How did you know that?’
MacGowan glanced round before he answered, and then put his hand to his
mouth, saying in a loud whisper:
‘I say him slippin’ awa’ as I came in.’
‘Why didn’t you ask the Judge to have him stopped?’
‘Man, did you no hear me say I owed him a heap o’ siller? He’ll never
fash me for that noo.’
‘I doubt you’re an ill stick, MacGowan,’ said Cameron gravely. ‘But
you’ve done my friend a good turn this day; and I wish I could do
something for ye. You just come wi’ me.’
So saying, Cameron took the little man by the arm and marched him off
to a neighbouring tavern, where a long and weighty consultation took
place. The result of it was that the ne’er-do-weel was persuaded to
emigrate, this time in earnest; and he was consigned to a second cousin
of Cameron’s, who had a farm in Manitoba. In his letters home MacGowan
always dwells with pride upon the circumstance that he ‘has been
teetotal’ for three or six months, as the case may be, forgetting to
add that as the nearest public-house is five-and-twenty miles away, it
is next to impossible for him to be anything else.
When Cameron had disappeared with MacGowan, Blake carried off his
friends, after giving Alec a hearty invitation to Highgate, and after
expressing a hope to Mr. Lindsay that they would see him and Miss
Lindsay there once more before they left town. But the old man was
anxious to get back to his farm; London had no attractions for him; and
he intimated his intention of going back to Scotland the next day.
As for Alec, his one desire was to find himself in his own
sitting-room, alone, and at peace. That was impossible, however, for
the present. He could not ignore his father and Margaret’s evident
expectation that he would spend the rest of the day with them. But
the reunion was not in any sense a joyful one. Mr. Lindsay remembered
always that he had refused to believe in his son’s innocence, and had
thus added to his trouble; and now it was but poor comfort to remind
himself that in holding Alec to be guilty, he had only followed the
dictates of his reason. Margaret, too, though she had been always
loving and affectionate to her brother, knew that she had doubted him,
and knew also that he had been aware of the fact. Alec tried his best
to pluck up a lively if not a festive spirit at the dinner-table that
evening, but he was not very successful in his efforts. His father took
the opportunity of saying grace to thank the Almighty publicly that his
son ‘had been delivered from the snare of the fowler,’ and Alec was
annoyed by this open allusion to what was still a very painful theme.
To his surprise, Alec found that his father and sister had seen nothing
of the sights of London during the weeks they had spent in town.
‘How could we go sight-seeing, Alec, when you were in prison, and in
danger?’ asked Margaret, almost reproachfully.
‘But you might at least have gone to Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s.
You really must stay another day and see the Abbey, father. It would be
almost a sin to go north again without paying it a visit.’
‘As a relic of past Popery and modern prelacy,’ said Mr. Lindsay, ‘I
think it might be well if the place were destroyed, even as the Fathers
of the Reformation pulled down the abbeys and cathedrals of the north;
but as a monument of antiquity the place is doubtless interesting. We
will visit it to-morrow.’
‘And the South Kensington Museum is also well worthy of a day’s study,’
said Alec.
‘I am too old to care for sight-seeing, my boy.’
‘If you don’t care for it, Margaret would enjoy it, I am sure. Suppose
you leave her behind with me, sir. She is not particularly wanted at
the farm.’
‘Oh, that is quite out of the question,’ said Mr. Lindsay.
Alec was disposed to protest against this summary way of settling the
matter, but Margaret entreated him by signs to be silent. In the course
of the evening, however, a note came from Miss Lindsay to her cousin
of the Castle Farm, saying that she meant to go north in two or three
weeks, and would be glad if Margaret would spend the intervening time
with her, and accompany her on her journey. And to this arrangement Mr.
Lindsay gave a somewhat reluctant consent.
Alec did not really feel free that day, till, about ten o’clock at
night, he took leave of his father and sister, and set out for his own
lodgings. The air of the street was sweet to him, heavy and polluted as
it was. How different the solitude of his own room from the solitude of
his cell!
He had telegraphed to his landlady, and knew that things would be
in readiness. He was prepared, therefore, for the cheery glow in the
window-panes; but as he opened the door he became sensible of certain
familiar odours. The air was dusky with tobacco-smoke; a steaming
tumbler stood on the table; and before the fire were stretched the
stalwart limbs of Duncan Cameron.
‘Don’t say you’re glad to see me, Alec, for I believe you are not,’
said the visitor. ‘I’ve been here for the last three hours. I might
have kenned that your friends would lay hold on ye, body and soul.’
‘You know very well I’m glad to see you, Duncan.’
‘I don’t believe you. You might have been pleased to see me three hours
ago. But there are times when a lee is more or less excusable. Such a
time is the present.’
‘Have you dined?’
‘Eight hours ago.’
‘Have you supped?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘We’ll have some supper at once, then; and you will stay for the night.’
This was settled; and after supper came pipes and tumblers, seasoned
with scraps of information about old College cronies--memories which,
though only a few years old, seemed to the two young men to lie already
far behind them--and a due proportion of metaphysics.
In the middle of the talk Cameron rose, and pulling a short instrument
from his pocket, begged Alec to unbutton his waistcoat.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Satisfy my curiosity.’
‘You don’t mean that there is anything the matter with me?’
‘That is what I want to find out.’
‘There is no actual disease,’ said Cameron, when his examination was
concluded. ‘The pulmonary organs are sound, but they are far from
strong. You must take care of yourself for some time. Those weeks in
confinement have injured you more than you think.’
Then Cameron lit his pipe for the fourth time, and smoked awhile in
silence.
‘Duncan, what is your religion now?’ asked Alec suddenly.
‘_Religio medici_; that is, none at all.’
‘I’m sorry to hear you say that,’ said Alec gravely. ‘But I don’t
believe you.’
‘I was thinking of definite faith, of dogmas,’ said Cameron. ‘Of course
I have religious instincts, emotions, and so on; but I can’t classify
them.’
‘“True religion consisteth in great part in the affections,” says
Jonathan Edwards. Perhaps you think dogmas are hindrances, not helps.’
‘True houses consist in great part of walls,’ retorted the Highlander;
‘is that to say they should have no foundations?’
‘But I thought you said you had no dogmas.’
‘Exactly; and therefore I don’t profess to have any religion. It
makes me sick,’ he continued, getting up and walking about the room,
‘to hear the way in which men prate about “the fetters of dogma” and
so on. I hate phrases that beg the question like that. Good heavens,
man!’ he went on, turning upon Alec with a frown, as if he had been
personally ill-used or insulted, ‘canna the moles see that it a’
depends on whether the dogma’s _true_ or no? If it’s not true, it
may be a “fetter,” no doubt. But if it’s true, what can it be but a
heaven-sent boon? You might as well talk o’ releasin’ the earth from
the fetter that binds it to the sun. That would be a fine result o’ the
freethinker’s theory carried out in practice.’
‘But I thought----’
‘Look at my own subject,’ continued Cameron, not heeding his companion.
‘Take anatomy. If you have false opinions on the subject printed and
promulgated, they will no doubt do harm. But if certain opinions are
indisputably true----’
‘That is just what is denied.’
‘Then what is the sense of begging the question by assuming that they
are false?’
‘Then you do believe in dogma in religion?’
‘No religion can exist without dogmas, be they many or few, any more
than a tub can exist without a bottom. But whether the dogmas of
Christianity are _true_ is more than I can say.’
‘But there must be a God?’
‘That’s just what I don’t feel sure about,’ said Cameron slowly. ‘Why
may not matter be eternal, and produce of itself all we know of?’
‘Because, for one thing, the chances against its being in a position to
produce anything at all were millions to one.’
‘That is true. But then, how can we tell that under other conditions
of temperature, and so forth, other results, totally different, but
equally wonderful, might not have followed?’
‘All to come out of so many metals and gases?’ asked Alec. ‘I think the
man who believes _that_ must be the most credulous of mortals.’
‘I didn’t say I believed it, did I?’
‘Then there’s the conscience, and the moral law within.’
‘Inherited instincts,’ murmured Cameron.
‘That won’t do; I tell you it won’t do,’ said Alec firmly. ‘There are
virtues that are highly prized nowadays which never could have come
into existence, much less have lived and flourished, if they had been
dependent on those principles alone. Take humility, the power of
self-sacrifice, kindness to the sick, to the aged, to dumb animals,
and so on. Self-sacrifice does not naturally tend to the survival of
the fittest, say what you like. Do stags become less fit to survive
because they butt a wounded deer out of the herd, or leave it to die of
starvation? Why should men who nurse the sick and tend the aged become
stronger than those who do not?’
‘There’s sense in what you say, Alec; and of course, if we find a fact
that natural principles won’t explain, and religious principles will
explain, that is a great matter. But I’m going to turn in. Good-night.’
‘Seems to me you have first of all got to explain how the natural
principles themselves came here,’ said Alec, as a parting shot at his
friend.
Cameron was forced to leave London on the following day, so that it was
impossible for him to accompany the party that was going to visit the
Abbey, as Alec wished him to do. His feeling was that Duncan would help
him to entertain his father. But Alec soon saw that his father needed
no entertaining. From the moment when the old man’s eyes fell on the
pile, standing like a heavenly temple reared by angel hands among the
haunts of men, he neither spoke nor listened to what was said to him.
All his faculties were absorbed in admiration. He walked slowly round
and round, now letting his eye wander at will in the maze of delicate,
lace-like tracery, now stepping back that he might the more fairly
grasp the proportions of the building.
It was with difficulty that Alec managed to draw him inside; and when
he raised his eyes to the forest of columns and arches, the glades of
open stonework, with lanes of light between, whose beauty spoke as
with silver chimes to the listening heart, the old man sank down upon
one of the benches, overpowered with wonder and delight. His son and
daughter left him there, and went to make a tour of the chapels. When
they returned he was still sitting where they had left him, rapt in
admiration.
‘Don’t you think it would be better without all those statues?’
whispered Margaret to her father.
‘You don’t need to look at them!’ said the old man, almost impatiently,
as he let his eyes once more travel slowly upwards to the dim recesses
of the roof.
‘Shall I remind father of what he said last night about the Fathers of
the Reformation and the Scotch abbeys?’ whispered Alec to his sister.
‘Oh, I entreat you not to speak of that! It would be a shame to throw
that in his teeth. He would most likely be very angry; and it would
spoil all his pleasure,’ said Margaret.
Mr. Lindsay was persuaded to make the round of the chapels, and to
visit Livingstone’s grave, and the coronation-stone. But even the
matchless beauties of the Lady Chapel could not detain him long from
the spot at which he could see aisle and nave, choir and transept,
unite to form one glorious whole.
Next day, Mr. Lindsay left London for his own home; and Margaret went
to stay with Miss Lindsay at Claremont Gardens. As a matter of course
Alec was there pretty often, for the short time that his sister was to
be in town.
On one occasion when he called only Laura was at home. It was the first
time they had been alone together since the day of the trial.
‘I have never thanked you yet, Laura,’ said Alec, ‘for what you did for
me at the court. Every day I have hoped for the chance of speaking to
you alone; but I have not had an opportunity until now.’
Laura blushed almost painfully. She was sitting on a low seat near the
fire, while Alec stood at the other end of the hearth-rug, with his
elbow on the mantelpiece, leaning his head on his hand, and looking,
not at his companion, but at the fire smouldering in the grate.
‘It was very brave of you, and very, very good of you.’ He stopped
suddenly. He could not remind her that the special merit of her giving
evidence was the fact that she had brought discredit on herself in
doing so.
‘It was only what I ought to have done; but I should have done it
sooner.’
‘I am very glad you did not,’ said Alec quickly. ‘It was fortunate for
me that you said nothing to the lawyers who were defending me. They
would probably have prevented you from speaking in court at all.’
‘I had hoped that I--that what I told might have done you some good,’
said Laura, almost bitterly. ‘It did no good at all.’
‘Indeed, you are mistaken!’
‘It was the evidence of that queer Scotch clerk that set you free.’
‘No; it was yours. Or rather, you and he together secured the
acquittal. You added the missing link in the chain.’
‘Then I am well repaid.’
‘And I shall be grateful to you as long as I live.’
But Laura was not satisfied with this. If he would only turn and look
at her! But he stood there, gazing at the red embers without seeing
them.
‘Surely,’ thought Laura, ‘he has not ceased to love me? He is not one
who easily forgets.’
‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said gently. But he did not seem to hear her.
She was determined that he should speak.
‘Miss Lindsay is going north sooner than she intended,’ she said,
almost sharply.
‘Ah!’
‘Yes. I leave for Brighton the day after to-morrow.’
‘I am sorry you are going. You are to live with some relations of your
own, are you not?’
‘Yes; with some distant relations of my mother’s. I am sure I shall
dislike them.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? I don’t suppose you care very much what sort of life I lead.’
For answer, Alec turned and met her glance. There was a gentle reproach
in his look; but he said nothing.
‘It is too late,’ said Laura to herself. ‘He does not care for me now.’
‘I, at least, am glad to think that you will be rich,’ said she aloud.
‘I? I shall have about five thousand pounds, I believe.’
‘But I was told that the half-million would not go to the Free
Church--that it would be divided between you and your cousin.’
‘Surely you do not think I could take it?’
The girl stared at him without saying a word.
‘It does not belong to me. My uncle never meant that I should have it.
I have no more right to that money, morally, than you have.’
‘And you mean that you will give it up!’ ejaculated Laura.
‘What else could I do? If you said to me, “Give that sovereign to the
Archbishop of Canterbury, and keep that shilling for yourself.” And if
by mistake you gave me the shilling instead of the sovereign, and the
sovereign for the shilling, would I be entitled to keep the sovereign
and hand over the shilling? You can’t say you think so for a moment.’
‘I think you are mad to hand over such an enormous sum to those
Presbyterians; and any sensible person would say just the same.’
‘But you cannot understand. My uncle intended----’
‘I don’t care what your uncle intended. If he did, or meant to do, an
insane thing, that is no reason why you should do one too.’
‘Do you really think it would be honest to keep that money, when it
never was intended for me?’ asked Alec slowly.
‘It matters very little what I think, for I know very well you won’t
listen to me. But I suppose what the law gives you is your own, and
if you give it away, it will be your own act, and, to my mind, a very
foolish one.’
‘I have written to the executors of the will, saying that I would only
take my share of any residue there may be after the half-million is
deducted.’
‘Oh! Well, I suppose there is no more to be said.’
Alec was silent for a minute. Then he started up.
‘I am going now. I won’t wait for my aunt and Margaret.’
Laura rose and gave him her hand.
‘Don’t think I am angry with you,’ she said, with one of her old bright
smiles. ‘I have no business to be, in any case.’
‘I am sure, if you think it over, you will see that I could do nothing
else. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
There was so much he would have liked to say. It seemed so cold, so
ungrateful, to part with a conventional ‘Good-bye,’ without a word of
the past, without a word of the future. But the thoughts in his heart
could not be spoken. It was almost as if he had been watching for an
hour beside the grave of one whom he had loved.
And Laura was sitting in her old attitude over the fire, struggling
hard to keep back her tears.
‘I will not cry for him; I will not,’ she said to herself. ‘He is not
worth it. He is a perfect fool. To fling away all that money! And we
might have been so happy! I could not marry a man so poor as he is now;
but he might have asked me, all the same. Well,’ and here the poor girl
gave a long-drawn sigh, ‘I shall never like anyone else half so well.’