Elaine came next day, but not alone. The sister was more like Hugh;
had blue eyes and dark hair--a beautiful woman whose thirty-odd
years--I shall not be too exact--with their inevitable accumulation of
weight had merely rounded out a splendid figure and, in my judgment,
accentuated rather than diminished her attractiveness.
Hugh had no recollection of getting any letter from McFarlane notifying
him that the family was about to sail for Canada until I mentioned the
official-looking document with foreign stamps which he had put in a
side pocket of his coat while we were in the post office. A search was
made but it could not be found.
“Mac” as I mentally dubbed him--though in our frequent meetings during
the week before he sought me out for counsel I always addressed
him as Mr. McFarlane--“Mac” readily explained seemingly to his own
satisfaction though not to mine, that Elaine’s vision was but a dream,
a coincidence, “maybe a sort of thought transference,” as he put it.
By appointment made the day previous I met Mac in the library where, as
he expressed it, “we shall be oot o’ earshot o’ a’ the pryin’ silent
anes wha spring oot o’ the floor and harry the nerves o’ ane.”
The reunited family was at the village. The “wee bairnie,” a lusty
youngster, much taken with Fong, was out at the stables with the
Chinaman who seemed to have transferred his allegiance from Elaine to
the rosy-cheeked young Scot.
I must confess that for a whole week I had thought of little else than
that something portentous was impending which would disturb the promise
to me of an ideal life here at Craighead Hall. I had builded many a
castle but they were all of limestone and set into the side of a hill.
McFarlane’s manner was constrained. “Mr. Montrose, I hae deliberated
long, hae sounded Hugh as to his feelin’s toward ye, looked at the
situation from all angles and now, mon, I ask ye as a counsellor and
as a friend of all parties in interest for your best advice,” was the
opening.
“Trust me fully,” was my reply, the thought arising that some crime or
physical taint attaching to Hugh was about to be disclosed. It surely
could not involve Elaine?
Mac shifted his position from the use of a polished oak table as a rest
for his elbows to one in which he leaned back in the large chair,
placing his face in shadow.
“Montrose, are ye capable o’ carryin’ on here should Hugh be called
away?”
My worst imaginings almost confirmed, I asked anxiously, “What has Hugh
done?”
I could not see the expression on Mac’s face until he leaned forward;
then I read doubt as to whether or not I was the right person in whom
to confide.
“Dash it, Montrose, ye hae the wrong slant. I merely wish to know if ye
think yoursel’ capable o’ carryin’ on the farm’s management and keepin’
the pack o’ malefactors from killin’ ane anither durin’ Hugh’s absence.”
“Oh yes, I could do that if necessary, but why should Hugh give up his
work?”
“A’ in good time, my friend; I’ll tell ye a’; but do ye think ye could
do what Hugh is doin’, help more o’ the rascals to an easy berth?” he
came back.
“Yes, my practise is criminal law. I would like that work, but I am no
farmer.”
“Then ye could trust the farm management to a gude overseer such as
old Hallowed was when I took Hugh and Alix to Scotland,” Mac said,
adding, “That settled, I’ll proceed--but ye must hae patience and don’t
interrupt.”
I settled back, prepared to curb my impatience; it seemed the only
way. McFarlane at times lapsing into broad Scotch, continued, “Hugh
Craighead’s father, like Hugh, was a graduate of Edinburgh University.
There were two Craigheads, Alexander Junior and James, twins, and they,
as far as I can learn, were well-behaved lads, brought up i’ the fear
o’ God by old Alexander, a regular Covenanter who lived in Hill Head,
just across the Kelvin from Glasgow.
“The father was a stern parent, exacting, intolerant and unforgiving; a
bad combination as ye shall witness as I proceed, friend Montrose.
“Another lad about the same age lived with the boys in the same
dormitory, the object being to cut down expenses so that something of
the old man’s allowance would be left them.
“Alexander Senior was a close-fisted old Scotchman though he had
plenty and to spare. The three boys became close friends and graduated
together. Before separating, the Craigheads to return to Glasgow and
the other lad to England, they agreed to return to the university for a
post-graduate course.
“The Craigheads returned, but their friend met a young lady in London
and married. He took quarters in London and the boys received frequent
invitations to come there as his guest. He wished to have them meet his
wife of whose beauty of soul and body he filled his letters.
“Later the urge was stronger; a little girl had been born and pride in
paternity made him even more insistent. The Craigheads had never been
in London. They were boning down on a course in law; the old man would
not appreciate their natural desire to take even a week’s holiday. To
him it would have meant a useless waste of good money. No man needed
any friend other than Pounds Sterling was his theory, so the boys
having a few pounds saved up, hied themselves southwestward, failing to
let the old man know that they were not busy in Edinburgh.
“Their visit to the college chum was necessarily brief, but so pleasant
that when vacation season came and they were furnished with funds for
a continental trip as a part of their educational course, they spent
three days in Paris; the fourth found them with Mr. and Mrs. Blankleigh
in London.”
McFarlane at this point paused and with inquiry in his eyes glanced
keenly at me but as nothing he had recounted was startling I was all
impatient to learn where Hugh’s connection commenced.
Then he resumed: “London, with its fingerprints of history reaching
away back through centuries, its gay night life; and the affection
the twins felt for their host and hostess kept them in the old city
for over two months while the grim old man at Hill Head speculated on
how much they were absorbing of continental affairs that would be of
utility in increasing their ability to make money.
“Of the two boys perhaps the hostess preferred the company of
Alexander--‘Sandy’ his friends called him. They frequently visited
points of interest together, while James and John after visiting the
office of the latter would attend a boxing match or visit a variety
show matinee.
“Because the hostess preferred home and her baby girl, she seldom
accompanied the boys in their night prowls and frequently Sandy stayed
at home for company.
“Now, Mr. Montrose, God knows that was natural enough, as James had
a bent for pokin’ into the odd places at night. John was of the same
mind. You must remember that he was newly married, only a little more
than a couple of years and until his friends came, London at night
was to him as much an unknown country as it was to the Craigheads.
Newmarket, Chinese runaways, the quarters of sailors near the river,
the underworld of a great metropolis, kept these two boys absorbed;
often times they were out most of the night. Alexander seemed to care
nothing for all this, preferring a quiet evening at home.
“Montrose, I’m not a suspicious mon,” McFarlane shot at me as though I
had questioned the propriety of Alexander’s spending his evenings with
his hostess, “and, Montrose, I’m not criticizin’ onybody, nor makin’
aspersions,” he resumed, “but one night when both Craighead boys were
out, John, havin’ stayed at home, a terrible thing happened.
“James Craighead was leavin’ a theater on the Strand about eleven
o’clock that night; just as he stepped across the walk to enter a cab,
his friend Blankleigh, with eyes blazin’ like a madman’s, eyewitnesses
testified, shot him through the heart, then threw the pistol into the
gutter and stood wi’ arms folded until seized by a policeman.
“When the murdered mon, who the witnesses said was facin’ the murderer
and smilin’, fell on his face, his head a’most touched Blankleigh;
somebody turned him onto his back and when Blankleigh saw the face of
the twin and recognized that it was James, he said, ‘My God! what hae
I done,’ and struggled to recover the weapon but the police snapped
handirons on and carried him off to prison.
“Montrose, I spent months gettin’ all the details o’ this period in the
life and trial of John Hogarth Blankleigh--”
“Hogarth!” I yelled, bringing McFarlane fairly out of his chair;
“Hogarth! why Hogarth is my reason for being here; what is his
connection with this history?”
McFarlane leaned forward saying, “Mon, mon, ye’re overly excited;
perhaps ye are too late ailin’ to hae the judgment ye need to advise
me.”
He listened patiently while I explained my errand to Craighead Hall,
then said, “It’s merely a middle name; there are aplenty o’ Hogarths
in England. If ye interrupt me like that ye’ll never hear me through.
“It seems,” he resumed, “that John intended the bullet for Alexander;
the boys were verra much alike in height and build and probably, though
there was no evidence adduced at the trial, he was crazed through
jealousy of Alexander. He rotted in prison for months, never speakin’
to a soul; would not permit his wife e’en to see him when she recovered
from an almost fatal sickness.
“At the bar of Old Bailey he pleaded guilty and was sentenced to spend
the remainder of his life in the penal colony called Van Diemen’s
Land--he never saw wife or child again.”
As McFarlane talked, my mind traveled back to Hugh’s story. I heard
and yet did not hear the Scotchman speaking. Things began to piece
themselves together in my brain--a patchwork quilt.
I sat dreaming, but Mac’s eyes were evidently upon me as he said, “Mon,
mon, are ye heedin’ me; ye ken this John Hogarth Blankleigh was your
John Blank, Hugh’s friend and I hae his story, e’en to his queer doin’s
since his death, though I don’t hold to such things--they are uncanny
machinations of auld clutie.”
“Go ahead,” I said, “I am all attention and shall not interrupt again.”
Mac settled back, saying, “Ye didna interrupt, but ye canna sense a
thing when your wits are awa’ wool-gatherin’.”
I remained quiet.
“The deeil was to pay at Hill Head when the auld man Craighead got word
that his son James was deed,” resumed McFarlane.
“The newspapers printed the usual sensational news. Nobody saw the
bereaved auld mon when he read that the cause of his son’s death was
jealousy, though Blankleigh had ne’er said ane word but ‘Guilty,’ the
papers made out that it was well founded, Alexander and Mrs. Blankleigh
havin’ been seen togither overmuch.
“We may only guess at the old man’s line of reasonin’. Every copy
of the London and Glasgow papers containin’ anythin’ aboot the case
was carefully filed and rested in his strong box at the time of the
death--yes, and long after.
“Think of the shock; he thought of his boys about to return, broadened
through the experience that comes of continental travel, and learned
that they had been in London all the time. Nobody ever knew his
feelin’s. Doubtless in his stern way, his twin boys, for whom the
mother had given her life, meant as much to this lone auld mon as do
children to other parents, but he was silent.
“He sent for his solicitor, willed awa’ all property not subject to
entail; disinherited the survivin’ son after givin’ him fifty thousand
pounds sterlin’--and his curse. He refused to see Alexander who went
home to seek forgiveness; had him turned awa’ at the gates which were
locked against every man, with instructions to see his solicitor.
“He died some fifteen or saxteen years afterward never havin’ set eyes
on his boy from the day the twins left for the Hook of Holland on their
holiday trip.
“Now, Mr. Montrose, pay attention; here is the delicate and most
difficult business that brought me across the water. Over nine months,
the register says, after the date of the murder of James Craighead,
Ruth Blankleigh gave birth to a boy--that boy is known to you as Hugh
Craighead.”
“My God, McFarlane, can this be possible?” I said in an awed whisper.
“Illegitimate--Hugh illegitimate? Why the man is noble, proud--what
will this mean?”
“Aye, that’s the rub, mon, that’s what I’m askin’ ye--how can we break
it to him?” McFarlane dejectedly replied. “I’m marrit to his sister,
Blankleigh’s first born, but oh, mon, she’s made o’ different stuff.
Ye ken Hugh was alys pulin’ as a boy. I reared him wi’ the help o’ God
and his sister Alix, frae a wee laddie to man’s estate. He was always a
sensitive youth--even Alix doesna ken how to deal wi’ him.”
McFarlane fell into a moody silence, then added, “The birth-register;
an’ I could hae laid eyes on it first, the date would not hae so
registered.”
“Tell me all,” I said, “Did Craighead acknowledge him as his son?”
Yet, I reflected, which was the more consoling thought, to acknowledge
sonship to a man humiliated as Blank had been or to bear the stain of
illegitimacy? Then the mother, the sainted mother of Hugh’s tenderest
memory--what of her? And I could see no light.
McFarlane was again proceeding in his inimitable, even, yet jerky
enunciation. “A year later, Alexander Craighead married the widow of
John Hogarth Blankleigh, for the law of England held the felon as dead
as though sax feet beneath the sod. He adopted both children, Alix and
Hugh, and the papers in the proceedin’ affirm that both are the issue
of John and Ruth Blankleigh and by my hope of heaven, Montrose, I
believe this true, save for the pesky birth-book--but how to make the
world believe it is beyond me and I am afraid of how Hugh will take it.”
“He is very much a man,” I interposed, “though the stain on his
mother’s name is a bad feature.”
“Weel, weel,” McFarlane resumed. “We shall see. Anyway, the young ane
was Craighead’s chield, that’s certain. She doesna resemble either Hugh
or my wife; I refer to Elaine.
“When Hugh’s father--by adoption I mean,” corrected Mac, “came over to
Scotland on learnin’ that the auld mon was deed, he found the property
so tied up that he couldna get anywhere in a settlement. I think hadna
auld Alexander died suddenly, he would hae had Hill Head plastered with
squatter’s titles as a hindrance to his son’s succession.
“I was employed by Hugh’s adopted father in the disentanglement of his
affairs and we were in the midst of the work when my client was found
dead on the far side of the sheep pasture. He had been thrown from a
horse that he had ridden for months. The beast was grazin’ nearby when
the shepherd saw him--no accountin’ for such things.
“Poor Mrs. Craighead, husband gone, children in Canada, and about to
become a mother. The shock killed her, Montrose. She wouldna hear of
anythin’ except that I go bring her bairns, just as though they were in
the next shire.
“That was a great adventure for me, and oh mon, when I set eyes on that
girl Alix down at the pier at this very spot; when I saw how masterful
she was, my mind was made up; she should be mine, whether or no. She
took a lot of persuadin’ though, and would not permit me to become a
comfortable married man for years.”
“Hugh has recounted the bringing up of Elaine and himself,” I said.
“You should hae seen the boy take o’er the property of auld Sandy
Craighead though,” the Scot resumed. “The old surrogate was opposed
to it, but the law was wi’ me and at that time, three hundred thousand
pounds came to Hugh--yes, the children are rich beyond their needs,
but there is anither estate that belongs to Hugh--the estate of old
John Blankleigh, through his son John H., who lost his entail, it was
claimed when he was declared a felon.
“It was a pretty pickle I found when I first undertook to unravel the
thing. Hugh, if legitimate, was, in law, a posthumous child as he came
to the mother after the father’s conviction and there’s the damnable
birth-record which must be corrected, and that’s what will save the
estate or I am no solicitor.
“He must go to England and lay claim to his own and it’s a pretty
property, a thousand broad acres and a manor-house that puts this old
castle to shame.”
“When did you first learn that the children were adopted son and
daughter?” I interposed.
“An auld servant gave me the first hint,” Mac responded. “When I came
here after the children they were Craigheads as far as I knew; though I
was his counsellor he never said otherwise--had I not been clean daft
coortin’ Alix for years I would hae been wise to the situation much
earlier.
“I found in an old strong box the newspaper articles relatin’ to the
case of John Blankleigh and pieced the whole thing together. The
record of adoption was in London. Hugh was Alexander’s legal heir and
he is also the legal heir of Blankleigh.
“At first when I investigated at Blankleigh’s home, a woman lived
there; the house was never closed, though this woman, a sister of
Blankleigh’s, later disappeared. A couple, man and wife, old servants,
looked after the house. All the tenements were let, nobody knew
where Margaret Blankleigh was, all knew that John was in Tasmania or
dead, but this old couple answered all inquiries by sayin’ that Miss
Margaret was travelin’ on the continent and frequently they kept off
trouble-makers by reportin’ that she had been home but had just gone
abroad again.
“Hugh saw her once on a channel boat. Of course, after John escaped and
went to Canada, he had to keep in hidin’. I think, Montrose, that the
brother and sister died about the same time. She was buried from her
home.
“Then the trouble began. A scamp of a cousin filed a claim as heir to
the Blankleigh estate. I was near comin’ to get Hugh then, though not
ready, but on interviewin’ the cousin’s solicitors I learned that their
client could not be found,” and here McFarlane stopped short, grasped a
handful of his curly hair and gave it a sharp pull, his eyes riveted on
mine seemed to expand. Quietly he said, “Gordon Montrose, what did ye
say was the name of the mon ye were searchin’ for?”
“Hogarth, James Hogarth, Winchester, England,” I replied.
“Then by the Hall of Holyrood, they are ane and the same,” Mac boomed
at me. “James Hogarth, son o’ the brither o’ John Hogarth Blankleigh’s
mother, Hugh’s cousin and a bad mon, a ne’er-do-well, who gambled and
dissipated. He made the claim and disappeared.”
I sat silent, thinking, piecing together the threads. McFarlane gazed
at the ceiling for a moment or so, then said, “What did the veelin come
snoopin’ round here for? Ye were on the right track, Montrose, but
verra late; seven years will soon be here since the claim was filed
and unless Hugh’s heirship is presented and proven the British Crown
will be soon the richer by hundreds of thousands of pounds sterlin’.
’Twould be a pity, mon, to let that get oot o’ the family,” and the
Scot solicitor got up and paced the floor.
My mind was harking back to a lone cabin beyond the ash swamp to a
night described by Hugh, when he found himself in the embrace of John
Blank. What must have been the anguish of that father, realizing that
his own son fainted at sight of his terrible deformities? Providence
was certainly in a grim mood when it brought within three miles of each
other John Blankleigh and Alexander Craighead--Blankleigh a felon,
hiding from God and the world, Craighead, disgraced, disinherited by an
aggrieved father, fleeing to the wilderness with the woman of his heart
and her two innocent children.
A picture of the verse on John Blank’s tombstone came before my eyes,
“_The day will come when I shall rise,
And meet my dear ones in the skies._”
It was not meaningless to the despairing father--nor to me now.
Craighead could not have been a bad-intentioned man. Love is a strange
emotion--all barriers give way, be it strong enough; anything short of
taking life is excusable.
McFarlane broke in on me, “Montrose, God Almighty brought these people
together in this out-of-the-world place for a purpose. It is up to us
to find out what that purpose was,” adding as he took up and started
to put on his topcoat which had been draped into his chair, “Alix will
fash me when she espies the wrinkles in this; I’m goin’ oot to admire
the dawgs and think on it.”
What a peculiar character I thought; used good English when on
guard--reverted to his native tongue when aroused--a good clear
thinker. Doubtless he would find the way to approach Hugh on the
delicate subject that we had discussed.
As for my telling that sensitive fellow that his paternity was in
question--why, the thought was revolting--yet it must be done.
I met them at the stairtop, Hugh’s arm encircling the waist of
Elaine. Back at the doorway from the orchard, Mac and Alix were
evidently exchanging hurried confidences, and there followed Estelle,
my erstwhile nurse, and the red-haired secretary Hunt, carrying a
portmanteau.
They were all evidently in high spirit. Hugh called: “Hello, Gordon,
here you are, come and kiss the first bride to enter Craighead Hall;
may there soon be another.” And he whirled Elaine away and pulled me
forward to where Estelle was standing, a blush that would have shamed
many a rose on her fair face. I kissed her and congratulated the
secretary--I could not remember his name at the moment, but I shook his
hand so heartily and for such an extended period that both Hugh and
Mac rallied me, “I believe the man is envious” from Hugh and from Mac,
“Methinks he doth congratulate too much; he is embarrassed.”
Elaine had disappeared. Alix took the bride to a room which adjoined
that usually occupied by the secretary; then we four men repaired to
the Hall where Hugh poured out four generous drinks and we toasted the
groom.
Hugh jokingly admonished the newly-wedded man that in this house of
men he must prove himself a super-husband or risk losing his treasure
and adding with a wink at Mac, “You must be especially alert while
Mr. Montrose is about--he is a very attractive and susceptible young
fellow.”
Of course I joined in the laughter, but I kept thinking: “If Hugh but
knew!” He revered his mother; his sensitive soul would perish at the
parallel being drawn here, the Craighead boys’ visit to the bride and
groom in England in the long ago and the sequence.
Late that night, McFarlane gently tapped at my door. “I hae a monstrous
proposal to make to ye, mon,” was his greeting as he stepped inside the
room.
“Not murder, I hope,” I returned lightly, he looked so serious.
“Nay, Montrose, worse than that. I’m contemplatin’ traffic with the
deeil.”
“And you presume that I am a more fit intermediary than you. That’s
flattering,” I replied.
“I’m serious, mon,” he replied, “we want John Blank’s shade to come
oot o’ his grave just this once to tell Hugh why he thought his wife
untrue to him,” continuing, “Hugh ne’er wrote ane word on that i’ all
his report of Blank’s communications, which I feel is mighty peculiar;
though I don’t believe i’ the thing--not a whit.”
“Rather inconsistent for a solicitor. If you do not believe the
communications, why try now to get others?” I rejoined.
“Oh weel,” he replied, “i’ a case o’ this kind ane must perforce get
a’ ane can on the subject. ’Tis goin’ straicht against a’ my beliefs,
though the writin’s o’ Elaine are well borne oot by the evidence.
“God save us! I hope the Almighty will not take offense that a gude
churchman should so disrespect the Holy Word as to hae dealin’s wi’ the
minions o’ the Fallen Ane,” and the religious Scot looked piously up at
the black beams in the high ceiling, doubtless with an unspoken prayer
in his heart.
“But, Montrose, what now suggests itself is, can ye not hae Elaine
call up the speerit just this once and ask it just ane question which
ye and I shall prepare in writin’? I suspect the mind o’ John Hogarth
Blankleigh was tampered with or he never would hae gone huntin’ for
Craighead wi’ murderous intention.”
“Not for a thousand Hughs and all the property in England,” I heatedly
replied. “I would not see the face of that girl blanched to a
death-mask if I knew that everything could be satisfactorily explained
and James Craighead brought back to life. Why man, you are asking
something preposterous.”
“Weel, weel, then what hae ye to suggest? It goes sorely against my
religious beliefs, the tryin’ o’ the experiment.”
At the moment I despised the Scot for the exposition of his selfish
reason for a willingness to abandon the project. It was not on Elaine’s
account. His mawkish fear of God dissuaded him, though his next words,
in a measure, reinstated him in my esteem.
“I would risk the damnation of my immortal soul, friend Montrose, and
the little girl is just as much my baby as she is Hugh’s. The guid Lord
knows an I thocht there was any risk to Elaine girlie I’d cut off my
richt hand before I’d write oot any question, real or hypothetical,”
and his face spoke the truth of his expressions.
Mac was a fanatically religious Scotchman who would doubt verified
messages from the dead, but who, if shown a weather-beaten olive-wood
stick tapering at both ends and informed by an ordained Presbyterian
minister that it was a “round from Jacob’s ladder” would probably have
said, “Praised be God, the truths of Holy Writ cannot be refuted.”
We parted without perfecting any plan, concluding to sleep on the
subject and I retired sad at heart. Unaccountable, but the woes of this
family had gotten into my blood and I had not had even a glimpse of
_her_ since Hugh swung her from his arm down the hallway.
[Illustration]