THE LINDSAYS.
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THE LINDSAYS
A Romance of Scottish Life
BY
JOHN K. LEYS
[Illustration: colophon]
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1888
[_The right of translation is reserved_]
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER PAGE
XIII. SOPHY MEREDITH 1
XIV. A TURNING POINT 22
XV. ‘BUT YOU ARE NOT A CHRISTIAN’ 43
XVI. IN LONDON 61
XVII. AN UNCONVENTIONAL GUEST 83
XVIII. AT THE ACADEMY 105
XIX. THE SHADOW OF DEATH 120
XX. MR. LINDSAY’S WILL 140
XXI. ROGUES IN COUNCIL 161
XXII. ‘TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS!’ 184
XXIII. DAVID MACGOWAN GETS INTO TROUBLE 194
XXIV. THE SIGNING OF THE WILL 208
XXV. MR. WILLIAM BEATTIE ACTS LIKE A CHRISTIAN 222
XXVI. THE RICH MAN DIED, AND WAS BURIED 235
THE LINDSAYS.
CHAPTER XIII.
SOPHY MEREDITH.
In a garden, the garden of a large old-fashioned house on Highgate
Hill, a girl sat with a book in her hand, dreaming, on a July afternoon.
The scene was a thoroughly English one. Behind the garden-seat rose
the gray brick walls of the house. It was old without being in the
least degree venerable, ugly without looking positively mean. Its size
redeemed it from that--its size, and a certain air of comfortableness
that belongs only to English homes. High walls shut out the sight of
the new garish houses of red brick, and the sounds from the road,
which of late years had become very much like a street. Within the
lofty garden walls, order, comfort, propriety were supreme--they
were not likely to be replaced by any other principles so long as
Sophy Meredith reigned at Grove House. The lawn exactly resembled a
carpet; not a weed was to be seen in gravel-walk or in flower-bed; the
rose-trees had just so much liberty as would prevent their appearing
formal, not a fraction more. But the principle of order was, after all,
subservient to that of comfort. Books and magazines, garden-chairs, and
bits of feminine ‘work’ lay about. On one side stood an invalid’s chair.
Sophy lay back on the garden-seat, her hands clasping the half-closed
book on her lap. She was no longer a girl, being now seven-and-twenty;
but she had one of those smooth, fair complexions which take ten years
off a woman’s apparent age. Her features were not striking, but very
pleasing, and suited well her slight figure and her low forehead.
As if unable to sit still any longer, she rose and passed into the
house through a French window which was standing wide open. The
drawing-room, like the garden, spoke of orderly comfort. Everything was
in its place, yet one could not say that the room or its furniture had
an air of stiffness. Crossing over to the mantelpiece, Sophy lifted a
letter-weight which had been placed above some neatly folded papers,
and took from under it a telegram. She blushed slightly as she opened
it, for she knew it by heart already. It was dated on the previous
evening, and contained only the words: ‘Shall be with you to-morrow
afternoon.--Hubert.’
This quiet dwelling was Hubert Blake’s home, the only home, at least,
that he had ever known, though he generally lived in his chambers in
London. His uncle, who had been his guardian, was now an old man and
an invalid, or rather, a valetudinarian. He had been for the last ten
years a widower; and Sophy Meredith, his wife’s niece, had managed his
household and seen to his comfort since his wife’s death. Hubert and
she had been, of course, thrown very much together. They called each
other ‘cousin,’ though they were not really related to one another, and
corresponded at intervals, sometimes in long, chatty epistles, oftener
in brief notes.
Four years had passed since Hubert had despatched those long letters
from the Castle Farm; and for the last two years the inmates of Grove
House had heard very little from him. He had been wandering over the
face of the earth, trying to find occupation, excitement, anything to
drive Margaret Lindsay’s image out of his head.
After meeting her at Arrochar three years ago, he had thought himself
cured of what he told himself was a halfinsane passion. He saw plainly
that Margaret was not suited to him. Her mental powers, though
considerable, were totally undeveloped. The world of literature and
that of art were as unknown to her as the world of fashion. It would be
an act of folly, he knew very well, to tie himself to one with whom he
had so little in common, and who was so little likely to be moulded by
any man as Margaret Lindsay. So he did not follow her back to Castle
Farm. He stayed at Arrochar for a few days, and then wandered westwards.
But the girl’s face haunted him. At times he was consumed with a desire
to make this stately, simple, self-sufficient beauty his own, to feast
his eyes continually on her loveliness, to watch her unfolding mind as
she was brought into new scenes and surrounded with new ideas. He felt
as if he could not live without seeing her again. Accordingly he ran
down to Scotland a third time, and (under cover of his friendship with
her brother) spent some days in her company.
But her presence did not satisfy him. She was cold, narrow,
unsympathetic, as she had always been. He went abroad, determined to
stay away till he should forget her. Now, at last, he was coming home.
Sophy, having read the welcome telegram two or three times, as if to
assure herself of its truth, replaced it under the paper-weight, and
then left the room, going into the hall. Opposite her was a broad
flight of shallow steps, and these she ascended. Going a little way
along a corridor, she came to a door, which she softly opened. It led
to a large bedroom with a wide window, which commanded a view of the
greater part of London; this was the room which Hubert always occupied
when he was at Grove House.
With something that was not exactly a blush, Sophy moved noiselessly
from the dressing-table to the writing-table, seeing that nothing had
been omitted. Everything was in its place; everything was spotless and
fragrant. There was nothing to be supplied, nothing to be altered; and
yet the girl looked as if she must do something. She went back to the
garden, picked a single red rose, and then, going up to the second
floor, she visited her own bedroom, and took out of a closet a slender
glass vase. It had been presented by her to Hubert long ago; boy-like,
he had forgotten it, and, indeed, it was not a very suitable present
for a lad. Sophy took the neglected vase, placed the rose in it, and
carried it down to her cousin’s writing-table.
She was leaving the room when she heard a querulous voice calling her,
and she hastened to the end of the corridor, and entered Mr. Blake’s
sitting-room. He was a thin, tremulous, dried-up looking old man, who
looked as if he were in a state of perpetual anxiety.
‘Is that you, Sophy?’
‘Yes, uncle.’
‘Has Jackson gone with the brougham to meet Hubert?’
‘Not yet, uncle.’
‘Not yet! Why haven’t you sent him off?’
‘The train is not due till 5.30.’
‘Let him go at once!’ interrupted the old man. ‘I wouldn’t have him
late on any account. I wonder, Sophy, you haven’t more consideration
for Hubert, when he has been so long away, than let him run the risk of
finding no one to meet him at the station.’
Sophy turned away to carry out her uncle’s wishes with a half-sad,
half-contemptuous smile about her lips.
The afternoon was a tiresome one, but it wore itself away at last; and
the carriage made its appearance. Before it had time to stop, Hubert
sprang out and grasped his uncle’s hand, while he held out his left to
Sophy. Then, disengaging his right hand, he placed it upon hers, and
bending down, kissed her cheek.
‘What a long time you have been away!’ exclaimed old Mr. Blake, as soon
as the first greetings were over. ‘We thought we should never see you
again.’
‘Well, here I am, and I don’t intend to run away in a hurry.’
‘How changed you are! You look older, and you have let your beard grow
longer. I never approved of beards. I think they give a man a coarse,
common appearance.’
Hubert laughed, and busied himself in carrying various packages into
the house, while Sophy glanced shyly at her cousin, at moments when she
was not likely to meet his eye.
After dinner they all returned to the garden, and Hubert fetched a box
which had just been opened.
‘I’ve picked up a few little things I thought might interest you, while
I was away,’ he said; and he proceeded to unpack his treasures and
present them.
For his uncle there were several antiques, one or two rare coins, and a
silver crucifix; for Sophy two or three mosaics, some beautiful bits
of Venetian glass, and two brooches--one a cameo, the other a piece of
old-fashioned workmanship in plain gold.
Sophy thanked him, but she felt disappointed. She had thought it likely
that he would bring her some little thing, and she had unconsciously
resolved that she would keep it as long as she lived. These presents
were too fine, too valuable, and there were far too many of them. She
could not invest any one of them with a special interest. If she did,
it would be her own selection, not his.
‘And what have you been about, little one, all this time?’ he asked,
laying his hand suddenly on Sophy’s, as it lay on the garden-table.
‘Oh, nothing very remarkable,’ she answered, quietly withdrawing her
hand. ‘We went to the Academy, of course, and to the Grosvenor--and to
a Rose Show; and I have been to one or two garden-parties.’
‘We were thinking of going to the seaside next week,’ put in Mr. Blake;
‘but we can’t find a house to suit us; and the drainage is always
imperfect at these places--always. Some of those seaside resorts I
consider nothing else than fever-traps. My wonder is that the people
who stay there are alive.’
This was said with a judicial solemnity.
‘If you had been in some of the towns I have visited, uncle, you would
have had more cause for wondering. The drainage, I believe, was simply
non-existent.’
Mr. Blake closed his eyes and shuddered.
Sophy rose to fetch something from the house.
‘If there are any letters for me, Sophy, you might bring them along,’
said Hubert.
Presently Sophy reappeared, bearing a tray on which was a pile of
letters and newspapers. Hubert sprang up to relieve her of it.
‘I had no idea there could be so many, or I wouldn’t have troubled
you,’ he said, looking at the heap with an air of disgust.
Then he lit a cigar, and sat down again.
‘Aren’t you going to open your letters, Hubert?’ said his uncle, after
a pause.
‘No; there’s such a heap of them, and some are sure to be annoying. It
will do quite as well to-morrow.’
‘Some of them may be important,’ rejoined the old man, after another
pause.
Hubert saw that his laziness displeased the querulous old gentleman, so
he began slowly to open his letters.
‘I think the man should have been hanged,’ he said between the puffs
of his cigar, ‘that invented penny stamps. I don’t mean Sir Rowland
Hill. It was another man--poor beggar, I forget even his name--who
had the idea, and the man in office got all the glory and all the
reward--_tulit alter honores_. As for Hill, he got a fortune and
various ugly statues for an evil deed he never committed. Well, if
these things are all to be set right one day, there’s a good deal
of clearing up to be done--that’s all. What’s this? A card for Lady
Baldwin’s garden-party--“thought it possible you might be home in
time; hope to have the pleasure of your company”--ah! What one misses
by going abroad!’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said the old gentleman; ‘and I hope you won’t leave this
country again, so long as I live. It may not be very long.’
‘Then I should stay at home permanently,’ returned Hubert, knowing well
enough that none like better to be assured of a long life than they who
are fond of referring to their approaching end.
‘Another invitation, and another--a bill, a circular, another circular.
Some people grumble at getting circulars; I like them. It’s so pleasant
to open a letter you expect to have to answer, and find that you may
drop it at once into the basket with a clear conscience.’
‘You don’t encourage me to write to you often,’ said Sophy, with a
little laugh.
‘But he doesn’t mean you, my dear,’ said the invalid.
‘Mean Sophy? Oh yes, particularly,’ said Hubert half absently, looking
up from a letter he was reading.
Sophy knew, of course, that he was speaking ironically; but somehow she
wished he had chosen to put the thing the other way.
‘Well, you have one interesting correspondent, at any rate,’ said
Mr. Blake, who never could refrain from commenting upon the smallest
actions of those near him.
Hubert made no reply. He was reading the letter a second time, while
his cigar slowly went out. When he had finished it, he put his cigar
into his mouth without noticing that it was unlighted, and sat silent,
leaning his cheek on his hand. Sophy knew very well what letter he
had been reading--at least, she knew the post-mark on it--and her
heart beat faster as she bent her head over her work, and listened for
Hubert’s next words.
‘I am afraid, sir,’ he said at length, ‘you will think me ungrateful
for your kind welcome; but I think I must run off to-morrow for a day
or two. It’s one of my Scotch cousins,’ he added apologetically, seeing
a look of grave displeasure on his uncle’s face. ‘He is in trouble of
some sort, and he seems to think I can be of use to him.’
‘But that’s no reason for your hurrying off to Scotland before we have
had time to look at each other,’ said the old gentleman peevishly.
‘It’s very unreasonable of him to expect such a thing.’
‘I think if I am to be of any use I must go at once,’ said the younger
man, again unfolding Alec Lindsay’s letter.
‘If you are thinking of coming north after your return to England,’ ran
the letter, ‘I wish you would come as soon as you can. I feel as if a
crisis in my life were approaching, and as if I were all unprepared to
meet it. I need a friend at my side. My father has set his heart on my
becoming a Presbyterian minister; and as I took my degree in May, he
thinks my next step will be to enter one of the Free Church Colleges. I
shall do nothing of the kind; and I told him so as civilly as I could,
but he seems to think he can break down my resolution. I believe he
would be content if I were to take a place under Semple (you remember
meeting him?) in my uncle’s oil-works; but I am nearly as unwilling
to do that as to don the Geneva gown. The worst of it is, my father’s
reproach that I don’t know my own mind is true enough. And yet, I am
sure I have no desire to lead an idle life. I wish you were here to
advise me. Do you think I should have any chance at the English bar?
Everybody says there is not the slightest opening at the Scotch bar;
but I know so little of the world!’
‘You do indeed, poor fellow!’ was the reader’s inward comment. But
Hubert was deceiving himself when he ascribed his sudden resolution
to set off for Scotland to a desire to see Alec Lindsay through his
difficulties; or rather, he refused to listen to the whisper in which
his heart told him that if he went to the Castle Farm he would in
all probability find Margaret there. He had forced himself to stay
away from Scotland for two years; he had come back to England (as he
thought) cured of his passion; and at the first reasonable excuse the
other half of his nature, the half which had so long been denied a
hearing, sprang up and refused to be suppressed. ‘At least go down to
see her once more. You do not need to stay long, but to spend a day or
two at the farm will hurt no one, and you may be of service to Alec.’
Thus spoke his heart while his judgment condemned; and Sophy, glancing
at him, guessed something of what was going on in his mind. She had not
failed to notice how her cousin (as she called him) had found his way
down to Scotland again and again; and when she saw among his letters
one bearing the Muirburn post-mark, she told herself that if he went
to the north shortly after coming home she would know that her guess
had been a right one. But she had not expected that before he had been
four hours in the house he would have decided upon making the journey,
and it was in a cold indifferent tone that she asked Hubert whether he
thought of making an early start.
‘If I take the 7.15 from Euston,’ he replied, ‘I can get to the farm
the same evening. I had better do that; but don’t make any alteration
in your usual arrangements. I can easily get a cup of coffee at the
railway station.’
When he came downstairs next morning, however, Sophy was tranquilly
presiding over a well-furnished breakfast-table.
‘Hullo!’ he exclaimed; ‘I really don’t want anything. But how awfully
good of you, Soph, to take so much trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said she coldly, and with the faintest
vestige of a smile. ‘I very often get up at half-past five these summer
mornings; and I’m glad of an excuse for having breakfast so early.’
They sat down together for a hurried meal, and Hubert began to talk
in a more excited manner than was usual with him. Sophy, however,
answered only by monosyllables.
‘How is my uncle to-day?’ he asked; ‘oh! I forgot; you can’t tell. I
suppose he isn’t awake yet. He seemed rather depressed last night.’
‘Perhaps it was the reaction after the excitement of your coming home.
And I think he was hurt at your leaving again so soon,’ she added.
She was angry at herself for having said this as soon as the words had
left her lips; but Hubert did not seem to mind her.
‘I’ll be back in a day or two,’ he said, without looking up.
Nothing more was said beyond the civilities of the table, till it was
announced that the cab was at the door. Then Hubert started up in a
fever to be gone.
‘Good-bye, Sophy; you may look for me in--oh! I’ll write, or wire, and
let you know.’
‘Good-bye, and a pleasant journey,’ she returned; but she did not
offer to go into the hall to see him off.
Hubert noticed the coldness of her manner.
‘Can I have offended her in any way?’ he said to himself. ‘Surely _she_
is not such a baby as to be annoyed at my leaving so soon. I told them
I had a reason.’
Meantime Sophy, standing well back from the windows, watched her cousin
get into his hansom. He looked back and waved his hand, but there was
no response.
‘I fancy,’ he mused to himself as the cab drove off--‘I fancy girls in
our rank of life get stiffer and more conventional every year. What
harm would there have been, now, in Sophy coming to the door to see me
off? I suppose it’s because she hasn’t a chaperon. It’s a pity when
people allow themselves to be twisted out of shape by conventional
rules. Somehow, girls in the lower classes seem far more natural,
warmer hearted. I wonder if it is the fear of seeming improper that
makes Margaret so cold in her manner. If it were not for that, she
would be perfect--simply perfect.’
And a series of dreams began, which lasted till the dreamer reached
Euston Square.
Meantime Sophy, after fighting a successful battle with a rising flood
of tears, set herself to begin, as patiently as she could, those
important trifles which formed the occupation of her life.