“He left me, wi’ his deein’ breath,
A dwelling-house, and a’ that.”
OLD SONG.
“I WANT a next of kin, Charteris,” said an Edinburgh W. S., entering
the little office where Cuthbert sat, solemnly considering the
morning’s paper, opposite an elbow-chair, which had very seldom been
honoured by the presence of a client. “I want a next of kin, and I
can’t tell where to find him.”
The speaker was a young man about Cuthbert’s own age, who like
himself had newly begun to encounter on his own behalf the cares
and responsibilities of business. They had come together through the
training of the High School and College, and now were great friends and
allies, furthering each others progress, by all means in their power.
“Advertise,” said the laconic Cuthbert, from behind the folds of his
newspaper.
“Oh, oracle!” answered Mr. David Lindsay, throwing down a black
crumpled “_Times_,” which struck upon the fair broadsheet of “_The
Scotsman_,” and compelled the reader’s attention. “And suppose I have
advertised, and failed--what then?”
“It’s a cold day, Davie,” responded the learned advocate. “Sit down,
Lord Lion, and tell me all about it.”
“I say, Cuthbert, there’s a story,” said the W.S., mysteriously.
Cuthbert stirred the fire, and prepared to listen.
“Up near the links of Forth, there is a gray old house called
Allenders,” said Lindsay, with some importance, “and in the house
there dwells a family as your penetration will guess--or rather, dwelt
a family--for they are now extinguished--Allenders of Allenders--and
between four and five hundred a-year; now that’s what I want a man for,
Cuthbert.”
“Between four and five hundred a-year,” repeated Cuthbert gravely. “I
would take it myself, to oblige you, Davie.”
“Thank you--I could get lots,” said the representative of the poet
King-at-Arms. “But the right man, Charteris--by-the-bye, I should say
the right woman--the right two women--where to lay my hands on them!--”
“So the heir is extant after all,” said Cuthbert; “you know that, do
you?”
“Wait a little, and I’ll tell you what I know. They have always been
a highly respectable family, these Allenders, mind, and you know what
that means; comfortable, slow, common-sense folk, with no hair-brained
sentimental traces about them. Well! the last father of them had seven
sons--there was no appearance of a lack of heirs then--and one of
the sons, the third or fourth I think, took it into his head to be
a--what is your newest philosophical name for it--the Allenders said a
sentimental fool--which means, you know, that he married somebody.”
“I beg to assure you that there is no sort of philosophy in that
achievement, Lion,” said Cuthbert.
“Don’t interrupt me, Charteris--why, man, a romantic episode in
the history of a dull family is a treasure. This son--his name was
John--everybody’s name is John--married some poor girl or other in
Stirling; and thereupon followed a regular tragic disowning of the
refractory son. The good people were startled out of their propriety;
never an Allenders had been known before, to do anything out of the
ordinary jog-trot, and the example of his daring aroused his father and
his brethren. They cast him out--they banished him from the paternal
countenance, and from all hope of ever inheriting the paternal acres,
and so left him to seek his fortune, as he best could. That was seventy
years ago.”
“Seventy years! why, the man must be dead,” said Charteris.
“Very possibly. It does not concern me that,” said Lindsay. “Well,
Charteris, this sentimental John got some sort of situation in
Stirling, and was by no means annihilated by the family ban. He throve
and multiplied for a few years--then his wife died suddenly, leaving
him with two daughters, and then he disappeared.
Where he went to, there is not the least clue. The man was half mad
with grief, I suppose. It was said he was going to England--and it
was said he was going to America. It seems quite impossible to
discover--every trace of him is gone. And now all the seven sons are
exhausted; after all, it must be best to be stagnant, Charteris--for
see you, whenever this romance stepped in among the decent people, what
a blight it brought upon them. Four of them died unmarried--other two
had children who have grown old and died during the lingering lifetime
of the last proprietor. He was a childless widower--and now the old man
has gone too; and where am I to get those heirs?”
“Did he know nothing of them,” said Cuthbert.
“Nothing; he died very old--upwards of ninety--and his senses failed
him; but his memory seems to have turned with a strange kind of
affection to this poor sentimental lost John. There are some far away
cousins who would claim as heirs, but the old laird left a will,
ordaining that search should be first made for the children of John
Allenders--children! they will not be quite youthful now.”
“And there is no trace?” said Cuthbert.
“None, but a rather fantastic one,” said Lindsay, smiling. “The
favourite female name of the Allenders’ family was Violet--old
Allenders thought it certain that one of those children would be called
Violet--and their mother’s name was Rose. What’s the matter, Cuthbert?”
“Strange!” said Cuthbert, looking up, with a start. “Why, I met a
family in Glasgow, last month, in which there were both these names.”
“Ay--where? what’s their name? who are they?” said Lindsay eagerly.
“Their name is Muir--they are rather a noticeable family in many
respects,” said Cuthbert, with a little hesitation; “but so far as
pecuniary matters go, very humble people. Could it be? Rose and
Violet--there can be no mistake about the names. I’ll tell you what,
Lindsay, I’ll go through, myself, to the west, and find it out.”
“Many thanks. I had no idea you took so much interest in these
professional investigations,” said Lindsay, with some curiosity, “I
think it is more in _my_ department than yours, Cuthbert.”
“You don’t know them, Davie--you’re an alien and a foreigner, and an
east countryman--whereas my mother is a Buchanan! I am free of the
city, Lion, and then, I know the Muirs.”
“Well, Cuthbert, you know your own secrets, I suppose,” said Lindsay,
laughing, “and whether all this is pure professional zeal, or no, I
won’t inquire; but as for your rubbish about east countrymen, you don’t
mean me to believe that, you know. Of course, if you are acquainted
with the family, that is a great matter. But mind, be cautious!”
“Look at ‘_The Scotsman_,’ Davie,” said Cuthbert, “and keep silence,
while I read your advertisement. There now, be quiet.”
Two stories up in the honourable locality of York Place, lived
Cuthbert’s mother. They were not very rich, certainly, but the old
lady had a sufficient portion of the means of comfort, to prove her a
Buchanan. She was a little, brisk, active woman, under whose management
everything became plentiful. It was not an economical propensity, but,
refined and somewhat elegant though Mrs. Charteris’ own individual
tastes were, it was an indispensable thing with her that there should
be “routh” in her house. So there were dependants hanging about her
door at all times, and stores of bread and broken meat dispensed to all
comers. Mrs. Charteris had unlimited faith in her two neat, blooming,
sister servants. She thought they could discriminate the line between
plenty and waste, almost as distinctly as she did herself--yet when
Cuthbert returned home that day he found his mother delivering a short
lively lecture on the subject--a lecture such as was rather a habit of
hers--to the elder of the two trusted confidential maids.
“You see, Lizzie, my woman, to lay the moulins out of the bread-basket
on the window-sill for the sparrows is very kindly and wiselike--a
thing that pleases me--but to crumble down one side of the good loaf
that we’re using ourselves, is _waste_. You see the difference. It
might have been given to some poor body.”
“Yes, mem,” said Lizzie, demurely, “and so I did. I gi’ed the ither
half o’ the loaf to Marget Lowrie.”
Mrs. Charteris looked grave for a moment. “We were using it ourselves,
Lizzie; but to be sure, in a house where there’s plenty, there should
aye be the portion for folk that have more need, and as long as its
lawfully used, Lizzie, I never find fault, but to waste is a great
sin. Now, you’ll mind that, and take the moulins after this for the
sparrows.”
“It’s Mr. Cuthbert, mem,” said Jess, the younger sister of the two,
returning from the door, and the little active old lady rustled away in
her black silk gown to her parlour, to see what had brought home her
son at so unusual an hour.
The parlour or drawing-room, for it might be called either, was
a handsome room, though it was on the second story, and its very
comfortable furniture had an air of older fashion than the present
time, which suited very gracefully with the age of its mistress. Near
one of its large windows stood an antique spider-legged table, bearing
a work-box of somewhat elaborate manufacture, an open book, with Mrs.
Charteris’ silver thimble lying on it for a mark, and Mrs. Charteris’
work by its side--while within reach of these stood an easy chair and
a footstool. The spring was brightening rapidly, and Mrs. Charteris’
chair stood always in this window, when the weather permitted her to
leave the fireside--for here, as she plied her sewing, or glanced up
from her book, she could observe the passengers in the street below,
and watch for Cuthbert as he came home from his little office. Cuthbert
had a slight look of excitement to-day, his mother thought, as she took
off her spectacles, and looked at him with her own kindly unassisted
eyes. Mrs. Charteris fancied her son had perhaps got a brief.
“Well, Cuthbert, my man, what brings you home so soon?” said Mrs.
Charteris, sitting down in her chair, and drawing in her footstool.
“I think I will go through to Glasgow to-morrow, mother,” said Cuthbert
hastily.
The old lady looked up with her glasses on. There was certainly an
unusual flush and a happy embarrassed smile upon the face of her good
son.
“The laddie’s possessed!” said Mrs. Charteris. “What would you do in
Glasgow again so soon. It is not a month since you came home, Cuthbert?”
“Neither it is, mother,” said the advocate, “but I have got some
business in hand--a mystery, mother, to exercise my legal judgment on.”
Mrs. Charteris was interested. “Aye, what’s that?”
There was a good deal of hesitation about the learned gentleman--it was
evident there was no fee in this case.
“I told you about that young man, mother,--that family of Muirs.”
The old lady looked up quickly. She was a good deal interested in this
family of Muirs, partly because her son had spoken much of them, and
still more because he seemed so very willing to return to the subject.
“What about them, Cuthbert?”
“I had Davie Lindsay with me to-day,” said Cuthbert, lifting up and
turning over the pages of his mother’s book. “He is very anxious to
trace out the heirs of a small old estate near Stirling, and I’ve a
notion these Muirs are the people he wants.”
Mrs. Charteris dropped her work on her knee, and looked up with much
interest.
“The lost heir had two daughters called Rose and Violet,--rather a
singular conjunction. Now the two younger Muirs bear these names--a
strange coincidence, if it is nothing else; and if one could help such
a family--I told you how much they interested me, mother.”
“Yes,” said the old lady; “Violet--that was the little girl--I heard
you mention her--but which of them is Rose?”
Mr. Cuthbert Charteris looked a little foolish, and withdrew into the
shadow of the curtain, which fortunately was green, and neutralised the
slight unusual flush upon his face. “One forgets these girls’ names,”
he said, with a short laugh, “though this is rather a pretty one. The
elder one is Martha, you know, mother--a grave enough name to make up
for the romance of the other two--the intermediate young lady is Rose.”
“How old is she, Cuthbert?” interrogated his mother.
“I really am no judge--I could hardly guess--quite young though,” said
Cuthbert hurriedly, “but the similarity of names is very striking, and
if I could trace out a relationship, I should be exceedingly pleased,
mother; besides, that one is bound, as a matter of duty, to assist in
proving a birthright in any circumstances--and this young man will
never do in business, it is clear--whereas he might make a capital
country gentleman.”
Mrs. Charteris was a little prejudiced. She shook her head: “It is not
so easy to make a gentleman, Cuthbert; the transition from sixty pounds
a-year to five hundred, though it must be very comfortable, no doubt,
will never accomplish that.”
“Harry Muir, mother,” said Cuthbert, “is not a wise man by any
means--at five and twenty, I scarcely think I was very wise myself--but
Harry Muir with his sixty pounds, is a gentleman already. I am afraid
Dick Buchanan would suffer very greatly, if you saw them together, and
compared the two.”
“Ritchie Buchanan is your cousin, Cuthbert,” said the old lady, warmly.
“He is called after my father, who _was_ a gentleman, though he was not
so rich as his son. To be sure these laddies were very loud the last
time I saw them, and I believe Ritchie had a ring, and no glove upon
his hand--but still, Cuthbert, you must not be an ill bird.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Cuthbert, smiling. “Wait till I show you
Harry Muir, mother--no discredit to Dick, or any of them--but my
uncle’s clerk is a very different person; poor fellow!--if he only had
half as much prudence as the youngest of them, it would be better for
him. He is of that class, who, people say, are nobody’s enemies but
their own.”
“And that is just the most hopeless class of all, Cuthbert,” said Mrs.
Charteris; “you may cure a bad man that has pith--you may turn a vessel
that is ballasted and steady, into another course--but for your bits of
gay pleasure-boats that float with the stream--alack and woe is me! It
is a hopeless work, Cuthbert: you never tried your hand at anything so
vain.”
“That is the sister’s work, not mine, mother,” said Cuthbert, “and I
can believe it is not a very promising one--but in the meantime, I must
try and lay my hands upon the clue which will conduct Davie Lindsay
to his end, and give him an heir to Allenders. Of course, I will not
speak of it to the family, till I have ascertained something more
about these names--but I think the result is very likely to be what I
heartily wish it may.”
“I will wager you a silver crown, Cuthbert,” said Mrs. Charteris, “that
the bairn is called after old Mrs. Violet Primrose of Govan, and that
Mrs. Hervey of Monkland, is the name-mother of the elder one; and to
make it the more appropriate, to-morrow is the first of April, and
Davie Lindsay has sent you on a gouk’s errand, for a credulous callant
as you are; now mind, I told you.”
“Very well, mother, we shall see,” responded Cuthbert.