“Oh, lean and covetous old age!--a winter unblessed, that blights
where’er it touches.”
ALEXANDER MUIR instantly proceeded in great haste to the kitchen,
whither Miss Jean suspiciously followed him. In a few minutes Cuthbert
heard “the kist” making audible progress--and a very short time after,
the old man called him out to the passage, between the two rooms,
whither they had dragged it.
“Ye’re giving yoursel a hantle fash wi’ a thing that can never do
you ony good, Sandy,” said Miss Jean tauntingly, “for the Allenders
were nae connexion to you, even though Violet Calder did marry your
brother Jamie--Weel I wat she would have been better wanting him. It’s
a bonnie story when its telled--a woman to live as lang as fifty year,
and syne to die because her man died--auld taupie! when she might have
been to the fore to have a share of the benefit, if there is to be ony
benefit--what ailed the fuil to dee?”
“Poor woman, she would have been blithe to remain, for the bairns’
sakes,” said the old man, gently, “if it had not been otherwise
ordained.”
“Weel, there’s the fewer to pairt it among, if onything comes o’ this,”
said the miser. “Ye maun just stand back awee, my man. I dinna open a’
my posies afore fremd folk; and ye’re no to think the Allenders left as
muckle behind them, claithes and a’ thegither, as would fill the half
o’ that kist. What there is, I’ll bring ye, but I’ll hae nae stranger
meddling wi’ my gear.”
Cuthbert withdrew as he was ordered, to the door of the “best room.”
The chest was a large one, painted a dull brown colour, and judging
from its broken lock, contained nothing of any value. The old woman
raised the lid, and dived into a wilderness of lumber, faded worn
out cobweb-like garments, long ago unfit for use, but preserved
nevertheless on the penurious principle of throwing nothing away. After
long fishing among these relics of ancient finery, Miss Jean at last
produced from the very bottom of the abyss, a small quarto Bible in
a dark decayed binding, much worn at the corners. “Here!” she said,
abruptly, handing it to Cuthbert, “ye can look at that, and I’ll see if
there’s ony mair--there should be some papers in the shottle.”
Cuthbert hastily returned to the window to examine the book; on the fly
leaf was written simply the name of John Allenders, a remote date, and
a text. It gave no further clue to its owner’s identity.
“Have ye gotten onything, Mr. Charteris?” asked anxiously the old man
at his side. Cuthbert could only shake his head as he turned over the
dark old pages and looked for farther information in vain.
The Bible contained, as all Bibles do in Scotland, the metrical
version of psalms sanctioned by the Kirk, and between the end of the
New Testament and the beginning of these, it is customary to have
the family register of births and deaths. Cuthbert turned hastily to
this place; at first he concluded there was no entry, but on further
examination, he found that two leaves had been pasted together, and
that on the outer side of one something was written. He looked at it,
“Behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke,”
was the melancholy inscription; and the handwriting was stiff and
painful and elaborate, most like the hand of bitter grief. There were
mistakes too and slips of the mournful pen. Cuthbert felt it move him
greatly--so strange it seemed to see the mark of the faltering hasty
fingers, which so long ago were at rest for ever.
One of the leaves had been a good deal torn in a vain endeavour to
open this sealed record. Cuthbert feeling himself growing excited
and anxious, with the wished for evidence so very near him, made
other attempts which were as unsuccessful. The dead man had shut up
the chronicle of his happier days that he might not see it in his
desolation, and the jealous grief seemed to linger about it as its
guardian still.
Cuthbert held it up to the light and endeavoured to read through, but
with as little success as before. Alexander Muir had been watching him
anxiously. There was a glass of water on the table, which Katie had
brought for him; the old man wet his handkerchief, and with trembling
hands spread it upon the hidden page.
“I dinna ken what a’ thae papers are,” said Miss Jean, entering with
a bundle of yellow letters tied together with a strip of old linen as
yellow as themselves, “but there’s nae secrets in them, ye may look
over them as ye like. What are ye doin’ to the book?”
“There’s something written here,” said the old man, endeavouring vainly
to conceal his anxiety.
“Ane wad think there was a fortune coming to _you_, Sandy Muir,” said
Miss Jean, “ye’re unco anxious to bring profit to other folk.”
“I aye wished weel to my neighbours,” said Alexander, meekly, and with
a little self-reproach. He felt as if it were almost selfish to be so
anxious about his nephew’s fortune.
In the meantime Cuthbert untied the string, and as the too jealous gum
showed yet no indication of yielding, began to look over the papers.
The first that came to his hands, evidently added by Miss Jean to the
original heap, and ostentatiously displayed on the top, was an account
for the funeral expenses of John Allenders, in which Mrs. Calder
appeared debtor to William Lochhead, undertaker; unfortunately Miss
Jean had not observed the rigid honesty with which it was endorsed in
a very cramped female hand, “Paid by me, out of the notes left by John
Allenders for his burial, leaving a balance of three pounds and a penny
halfpenny for the behoof of Rose and Violet. Signed--Marget Calder.”
Other tantalizing bits of writing were below this; a child’s note
signed Violet, and addressed to the father in some temporary absence
from home, telling how Rose had began to “flower” a collar, and how
the writer herself had bought seeds with her sixpence for Mrs. Calder’s
garden. Another bit of paper contained a list, in a hand more formed,
of different articles of “flowering,” received from some warehouse.
Then there were school accounts, for the girls, of a still earlier
date, and at last Cuthbert came to a letter bearing the postmark
of London and Stirling. He opened it in haste. It was a letter of
commonplace condolence, beginning, “My dear Sir,” and suggesting the
ordinary kind of consolation for the loss of “my dear departed sister,”
and was signed by “Daniel Scott.” Lindsay had not mentioned the surname
of the wife of John Allenders--this letter was evidently from her
brother.
Cuthbert went on with great anxiety, and very considerable excitement,
just glancing up to see that the softening process carried on by
Alexander Muir had not yet produced much effect, and taking no part
in the conversation. The next letter in the bundle was in the same
hand, and in its substance little more interesting; but its postscript
brought a flush of satisfaction to Cuthbert’s eager face.
“I hear that your father is but weakly,” wrote the matter-of-fact
Daniel, “and your brother Gilbert being dead two months ago, as you
were informed, has sent for Walter--that’s the captain--home. If you
were asking my opinion, I would say you should certainly come back to
be at hand whatever might happen; for when once trouble comes into a
family, there is no saying where it may end; and, after your father,
and Walter, and Robert, there is no doubt that you are the right heir.”
This letter had been torn up as if in indignation of the cold-blooded
counsel. Cuthbert laid it aside as a link in the chain which he had to
form.
“I’ll no have the book destroyed wi’ weet. I tell ye, I winna, Sandy
Muir,” said Miss Jean, extending her lean brown hand. “Let it abee wi’
your napkin. I wonder that the like o’ you, that pretends to be better
than your neighbours, could gie such usage to the Scripture. Think
shame o’ yourself, man; and be done wi’ your slaistering.”
The old man thrust her hand away with less than his usual mildness.
“Have patience a moment--just have patience. See, Mr. Charteris, see!”
Cuthbert rose--the leaves came slowly separate--and there in this
simple record was all he sought.
“John Allenders, writer, fourth son of Gilbert Allenders, of Allenders,
married, on the first day of March, 1769, to Rose Scott, daughter of
Thomas Scott, builder, Stirling.”
Cuthbert laid down the book on the table, and, extending his hand,
took the somewhat reluctant one of the anxious old man, and shook it
heartily. “It’s all right,” said Cuthbert, swinging the arm of uncle
Sandy in unusual exhilaration. “It’s all right. I have nothing to do
but congratulate you, and get up the proof. I thought we would find it,
and here it is as clear as daylight. It’s all exactly as it should be.”
“What is right? what’s the lad meaning?” said Miss Jean, thrusting
herself in between them; “and what are ye shaking hands wi’ that
foolish body Sandy Muir for, when it’s me that ony thing belonging to
the Allenders should justly come to? We keepit them here in our ain
house; we gied the auld man decent burial as ye would see, and it’s out
of my book ye have gotten a’ ye ken. What does the man mean shaking
hands wi’ Sandy Muir?”
“It’s no for me--it’s for the bairns--it’s for Harry,” said Alexander.
“Hairy! and what has Hairy to do wi’t, I would like to ken? He’s but
a far-away friend; forbye being a prodigal, that it wad be a shame to
trust guid siller wi’--Hairy!--the man’s daft! what has he to do with
John Allenders?”
“A little,” said Cuthbert, smiling. “He is the _heir_ of John
Allenders, Miss Calder.”
“The heir!” the old woman’s face grew red with anger. “I tell ye he had
nae lawful heir, if it binna the ane surviving that did him kindness.
It’s you that disna ken. Hairy Muir is but niece’s son to me.”
“But he is grandson to Rose Allenders,” said Cuthbert, “and the heir of
her father.”
Miss Jean stood still for a moment, digesting the strange purport of
those words; at last she stretched forward her hand to clutch the
Bible. “The book’s mine--ye ken nocht but what ye have gotten out of
my book--gie it back to me, ye deceivers. Am I gaun to gie my goods,
think ye, to better Hairy Muir? Na, na,--ye have come to the wrang
hand; give me back my book.”
“There is some property in the case,” said Cuthbert, keeping his
hand upon the Bible: “It cannot come to you, Miss Jean; for, though
I believe you were very kind to them, you are not related to John
Allenders; but Harry Muir is. Now, whether would it be better that this
property should go to a stranger, or to your nephew who is in your
debt?”
Miss Jean had been eager to interrupt him, but his last words were a
weighty utterance. She paused to consider. “Ye’re a clever chield,” she
said at last, with a harsh laugh. “I wadna say but ye could put a case
gey weel. My nephew that’s in my debt--and so he is, that’s true--what
kind o’ property is’t? ye’ll be a writer, I reckon?”
“Yes,” said Cuthbert, with a smile, “I am a writer. It is some land--a
small estate, Miss Jean; but only one who is a descendant of John
Allenders, can be the heir, and that is Harry Muir.”
“Weel, I take ye to witness that what ye have said is true,” said the
old woman eagerly; “that this lad is in my debt; and payment I’ll hae
afore he bruiks the possession a week. Wasna it out of my book ye
got a’ ye ken? and wha has sae muckle claim to consideration as me?
I take ye to witness; and you, ye auld sneck-drawer--it was this ye
was thinking about a’ the time?--Oh Sandy Muir! me, in my innocence,
thinking ye were taking this pains to do me a guid turn: as ye’re awn
me a day in harst, a’body kens; and you thinking o’ yoursel a’ the
time. I wonder ye can have the face to look at me!”
“I am seeking nothing for mysel, Miss Jean,” said Alexander, with a
little pride, “the little I have will soon go to the bairns, as this
will do. And I am thankful to say I owe ye nothing, if it be not in
the way of good will.”
“Guid will, said he! bonnie guid will to take a braw inheritance out
frae under my very een,” said the old woman, bitterly. “I hand ye bound
for the value of that book, Sandy Muir, mind. I’ll haud ye bound, and
you too, my braw lad; sae if ye tak it away the noo ye sall bring it
back again, or it will be a’ the waur for yoursels. Mind what I say;
I’ll hae my goods spoiled and my gear lifted for nae man in this world.”
Cuthbert promised, with all reverence, to restore the Bible, which he
had considerable fears he would not be permitted to take away; and
after they had soothed, so far as was possible, her bitter humour, Miss
Jean, with as much courtesy as she was capable of, suffered them, rich
in these precious documents, to depart.
“I’ll no can speak to Miss Jean to day, Katie,” whispered uncle Sandy,
as the little girl stole after them down stairs; “but keep you a good
heart, my bonnie woman, there’s blythe days coming--and may be I’ll
take ye to see your mother myself.”
“Are you sure this will do, Mr. Charteris?” continued the old man, when
they were again on their way to the town.
Cuthbert was in great spirits. “I will astonish Davie Lindsay,” he
said, smiling. “Oh yes, it will do, it was just the thing I wanted. Now
we must have the register of the different marriages and births; that
part of it will be easily managed, I fancy.”
“My brother James’s Family Bible is in my house,” said uncle Sandy,
“and he was married by Mr. Clunie, of the Old Kirk. I will go to the
session clerk to-night, if you like, or it will be time enough the
morn. He is never far out of the way, being an old man like myself,
half idle, half independent. And, speaking of that, ye must see my
garden, Mr. Charteris, though this is hardly the best time.”
“You seem to keep it in excellent order,” said Cuthbert.
“It’s no bad; you see, Mr. Charteris, the house is my own, and so
is it,” said the old man, with a little natural pride, desiring to
intimate that the substance was not altogether on the Calder side of
Harry’s ancestry; “and it is just a pleasure to me to dibble at it in
my own way. Indeed I think sometimes that it’s this work of mine, and
the pleasure of seeing the new life aye coming up through the soil,
that makes me like the bairns so well.”
“It has not always so pleasant a result,” said Charteris.
“Mostly, I think, mostly,” said Alexander. “For example, now, how could
ye think a man that had such thoughts in his heart to a mouse or a
gowan, as Burns had, could harm or be unkindly to the bits of buds of
his own race; though to be sure I am not minding what a strong part
evil had in that grand earthen vessel. Woes me! that what might have
been a great light in the land should be but a beacon on the black
rocks; but I never mind that when I read the Cottar.”
“The Cottar is your favourite, I think,” said Charteris.
“Aye--I confess I like them all, ill as some of them are,” said the
poet’s countryman; “but the Cottar is near perfect to my vision--all
but one place, where he puts in an apostrophe that breaks the
story--that about ‘Sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth’--you mind? I aye
skip that. He kent ill ower weel, poor man.”