THE RICH MAN DIED, AND WAS BURIED.
On a gloomy winter morning the invisible hand was stretched forth,
and James Lindsay was taken behind the veil. Then hired people came
and went silently. The blinds were drawn, and the house was almost in
darkness. The servants, knowing that little would be expected of them,
gathered round their fire and told each other what steps they would
take to gain new places. Miss Lindsay informed Mr. Hatchett of what had
happened, that he might seal up the dead man’s desk and the drawers
of his writing-table; and Mr. Hatchett sent a trusty old clerk named
Drake, who had performed that service for scores of deceased clients,
to do what was necessary. After Mr. Drake’s departure Miss Lindsay
locked the doors of the library, and of the room where the dead man was
lying, and betook herself to her own room on the third floor. Laura
followed her example.
Early in the afternoon Semple, finding that existence at No. 21,
Claremont Gardens was, under the circumstances, an insupportable
burden, wandered off towards the City, leaving word that he would not
be back to dinner.
About three in the afternoon Laura crept downstairs, and finding that
the drawing-room fire was lighted, she sat down before it, and wondered
for the hundredth time that day whether her guardian had left her
anything in his will. She wished Semple had not gone out. She would
have made him tell her. She wished Alec would come, that she might ask
him--it would have been some relief, some breach in the monotony, even
to see him for five minutes--but he did not come to the house all day.
As it happened, he was confined to the house with influenza.
An hour passed, and Laura felt that she could not stand it any longer.
She went to the library for a book, but the door was locked. Then she
put her hand on the bell, meaning to send out one of the servants for
a novel; but before ringing she withdrew her hand and went up to her
own room. Very quietly she put on her hat and boots. She knew she
was committing a breach of propriety, and that was in great part the
attraction for her.
Slipping quietly, with an inward shudder, past the chamber where death
held his court, she reached the hall, and in another minute she was in
the open air. The fog was thick, but not too thick for her to find her
way.
She knew that a few streets off there was a station on the District
Railway. There, at least, she would find some distraction; there
would be something to look at, something to listen to, instead of the
dreadful stillness in which she had spent the day. Wrapping her cloak
around her, she hurried on, enjoying the motion and the cold air,
though the fog was stifling.
When she reached the station, she went to the book-stall, and,
carefully selecting two novels which promised a fair share of mental
excitement and a society paper, she bought them and slipped them under
her cloak. Her errand was now accomplished, but she was unwilling yet
to return to that great, dismal house, so she sauntered for a few
minutes up and down the platform.
The place was chilly, draughty, and almost deserted, and she was
thinking of returning home, when she heard the tinkle of an electric
bell and the rattle of an approaching train. She stepped back into
one of the arched recesses in the wall, to wait until the crowd of
passengers, who were sure to alight, had gone by.
Ten seconds more, and the deserted platform was alive with people.
First came the third-class passengers--message-boys, porters,
work-girls, stout women with babies. Then a scattered group of business
men in heavy overcoats. And among them was James Semple. Not caring to
be seen by him, Laura stepped back as far as she could, but she was in
no danger, as she was in the shadow, and her veil was down.
A man whom she did not recognise joined Semple. They seemed to have
been travelling by the same train without knowing it. The two men
passed her, walking slowly on account of the crowd, and conversing
together as they went.
‘And Alec Lindsay is ill?’ she heard Semple say to his companion.
‘Yes; a bad cold, he says. I hope he won’t be able to leave the house
for a week,’ was the reply.
‘Why?’
‘Ah! you don’t understand. You think we are in sight of land. Not yet.
In fact----’
Laura could hear no more, for Semple and Beattie (who was his
companion) had passed her. But her curiosity was excited. She mingled
with the crowd, and managed to get a little nearer to the speaker.
But Beattie had dropped his voice, and she could only catch the
words--‘must not be there when the will is read, on any account,’ when
the two men reached the door of exit, and passed beyond her hearing.
There was nothing Laura Mowbray loved so much as a secret. Here was
one, she felt sure. Who was not to be present when the will was read?
Alec Lindsay? They had been talking of his illness just before. Why
should he not be present at the reading of the will? It could make no
difference to anyone, surely, whether he was there or not. Who was this
stranger who was interested in Mr. Lindsay’s will?
There was no solution, however, to these questions; and Laura, after
waiting a few minutes to avoid any chance of meeting Semple in the
street, made the best of her way home.
Semple, she found, had not arrived; nor did he return until late in
the evening. Miss Lindsay, fortunately, was still upstairs. As the
evening advanced, however, she came down, and ordered tea, in lieu of
dinner, for Laura and herself. Then she went to the library and fetched
two volumes of sermons, one of which she gave to Laura, while she sat
down to study the other. One by one the slow hours went by, till nine
o’clock struck, and then Laura went to bed, where she lay reading ‘The
Mystery of the Manor House,’ till the cold compelled her to lay the
book down.
Next day the dressmakers came with the half-finished mourning dresses,
and that was a great relief; and so the time passed until the day of
the funeral.
It was a small and a melancholy company. Mr. Hatchett was there, Mr.
Beattie having told him that the estate was a large one, and it would
be well that he should be on the spot. The physician was there; also
Mr. Andrew Simpson and Mr. Nicol Carnegie, two old friends of Mr.
James Lindsay’s whom he had named as his executors, and James Semple,
of course. Alec Lindsay was not sufficiently recovered for the doctor
to allow him to attend the funeral; and his father was deterred from
making the long journey to London by a sharp attack of rheumatism. Dr.
Mackenzie, however, had come from Scotland, as well as a Dr. George
Adamson, who was one of the trustees for the Free Kirk.
The clergyman at the cemetery hurried over the last words of the
prayers. Another funeral was due in ten minutes, and the curate was
anxious to warm himself thoroughly at the fire in the clerk’s office
before he began to read the service for the fourth time that day.
Soon the dismal task was ended. James Lindsay was laid in his native
dust; and the mourners felt relieved as they mounted the steps of the
mourning-coaches, to be driven back to the house.
When they had all taken their seats in the dining-room, which felt
chilly in spite of a roaring fire, wine and cake were handed round,
while Mr. Hatchett, who had brought the will in the pocket of his
overcoat, made a formal search among James Lindsay’s papers for another
testament. He was still busy in the library when Miss Lindsay and Laura
entered the dining-room.
Miss Mowbray walked slowly, with downcast eyes. She knew that her
mourning dress was very becoming to her, and she secretly determined to
be often in mourning, or half-mourning, at least, in the future. Dr.
Mackenzie met the two ladies, and conducted Laura to a seat; while Mr.
Carnegie, an old acquaintance of Miss Lindsay’s, came forward and led
her to a chair.
‘This is a very sad event, Miss Mowbray,’ said Dr. Mackenzie, seating
himself.
‘It is indeed,’ answered the girl in a subdued tone, lifting her eyes
for a moment to the minister’s face.
‘And it is one which may happen to any of us at any time. It is well to
be prepared.’
‘Oh, I am sure Mr. Lindsay was prepared to die. He was so resigned, so
peaceful towards the close.’
This was said in Laura’s sweetest tone, but it was not a satisfactory
answer in the ears of the Scottish Doctor of Divinity.
‘There is a false peace as well as a true peace, Miss Mowbray,’ he said
somewhat severely. ‘I believe Mr. Lindsay’s peace was well founded. He
knew the way of salvation. But a mere general trust in the goodness of
God is worthless--utterly worthless.’
This startled Laura, and, anxious to reassure the minister, and to
prevent the conversation taking a more personal turn, she said:
‘I have been reading such beautiful sermons in a book Miss Lindsay
gave me. I am sure you would like them. They are by a Mr. Robertson.’
‘You don’t mean Robertson of Brighton?’
Laura saw that she had made a mistake.
‘Ye--yes; I think so.’
‘Poison! Rank poison!’ cried the minister, unconsciously raising his
voice. ‘I cannot understand Miss Lindsay putting such a book into your
hands, or into the hands of any young person. I trust you did not agree
with that writer. But he is most seductive, especially for the young.
Did you read many of the sermons?’
‘No.’ (This was true enough. Laura had read about a page and a half of
one of them.) ‘And I will not read any more of them, since you do not
approve of them. Have you published any sermons, Dr. Mackenzie?’
‘I did--some time ago.’
‘I _thought_ I had seen them somewhere,’ said Laura, knitting her brows
as if she were making a great effort of memory. ‘I wish I knew where I
could get a copy.’
‘I will send you a volume of them, if you like,’ said the minister.
‘Oh, thank you _so_ much!’ replied Laura, with a look of gratitude.
‘How we misjudge people,’ said the minister to himself. ‘I had thought
this young lady had been of a rather frivolous disposition;’ and he
helped himself to another glass of port.
As he did so, Mr. Hatchett opened the door, and proceeding to the top
of the long table, amid a universal silence, took his seat.
‘There seems to be no document of a testamentary character, ladies and
gentlemen, among the papers of the deceased. This is a will which he
executed a few weeks ago. It was drawn and engrossed at my office. With
your permission I will read it to you.’
When the lawyer finished his preface, everybody assumed an attitude
of polite indifference, listening intently all the while. Laura, who
had not expected to understand much of it, found that it was quite
intelligible. Her own name was among those of the legatees.
‘And I leave and bequeath to my ward, Laura Mowbray, the sum of two
thousand pounds.’
‘Well, it is always something; with what I have I shall be independent,
at any rate,’ said Laura to herself.
Then came one or two other small legacies, and then the lawyer
proceeded:
‘And I leave and bequeath to the person who shall be the Moderator of
the Free Church of Scotland at the time of my death, and to all the
persons then surviving who shall have filled that office, and to every
person who shall hereafter fill that office, the sum of five thousand
pounds in trust----’
A hoarse, inarticulate cry had burst from Dr. Mackenzie’s lips.
The lawyer stopped and looked at him.
‘Read that again if you please, sir,’ said the minister, in a hard,
stern voice.
Mr. Hatchett eyed him for a moment before he bent again over the paper.
‘And I leave and bequeath to the person who shall be the Moderator of
the Free Church of Scotland at the time of my death, and to all the
persons then surviving who shall have filled that office, and to every
person who shall hereafter fill that office, the sum of five thousand
pounds in trust for----’
‘There is some mistake here,’ said Dr. Mackenzie, rising and going up
to the table.
The lawyer contemptuously pushed the paper under the minister’s eyes
and pointed silently to the words. Yes; there they were plainly--five
thousand pounds. Dr. Adamson came up behind, and having with trembling
fingers put his spectacles on his nose, he peered into the paper, and
satisfied himself that the words were ‘five thousand pounds’ beyond any
possibility of doubt.
Dr. Mackenzie was trembling with anxiety and passion. It was not only
that an annual sum which would have doubled his income was lost to
him; nor was it only the injury done to his Church that moved him;
he felt that both he and the cause which he had at heart had been
shamefully defrauded.
He looked at the signatures of the witnesses. They were, or appeared to
be, the same as when he had seen them affixed. The date was correct.
There was no appearance of erasure, no possibility that the words had
been tampered with.
While the minister had been examining the will there was a deep
silence. He now laid it on the table, and leaning one hand upon it,
said in a grave tone:
‘All I can say is that my deceased friend expressed his intention to
me of leaving half a million of money to the Church of which I am a
member. He consulted me on the subject. He showed me a draft of the
will, in which that sum _was_ so left----’
‘In figures, or in words, sir?’ asked the lawyer sharply.
‘I think it was both in words and in figures. But the draft can be
sent for, and it will be found to bear me out. And more than that, I
heard Mr. Lindsay’s nephew read the will to him before he signed it,
and the sum he read was five _hundred_ thousand pounds.
‘There I think you are mistaken, Dr. Mackenzie.’
It was James Semple who spoke. He had not risen. He was very pale. His
left arm remained folded across his breast; with his right hand he was
pulling his moustache. Laura gazed at him curiously.
‘What, sir!’ shouted Dr. Mackenzie.
‘I only say that you are mistaken in thinking that my cousin read what
you say he did. As to my uncle’s intentions I know nothing.’
‘Do you think, sir, that I, knowing my friend’s intentions, would
have heard a will contrary to those intentions read out to him
before signature, without saying a word of protest, or asking any
explanation?’ cried the minister.
‘And do you think _I_ would have said nothing if such a monstrous
bequest had been in the will?’ retorted Semple.
‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Hatchett, who had been listening
carefully to all that had passed. ‘Mr. Alexander Lindsay doubtless read
what was in the will; and the will is here to speak for itself. I think
I had better finish reading it.’
He did so, and when he had finished, Dr. Mackenzie said excitedly:
‘We do not accept that document as a true exponent of the testator’s
wishes. We protest--eh, Dr. Adamson?--we protest against it. We shall
appeal to the law-courts.’
‘Very good, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Hatchett politely; ‘all shall be
done in a correct and orderly manner. You will select your own
solicitors, whom I shall be happy to meet. Meanwhile, Mr. Carnegie, and
Mr.--er--Simpson, you accept the executorship and trusteeship, as I
understand?’
The two gentlemen, who knew enough of the world to know what this
meant, yielded a melancholy assent. Miss Lindsay, seeing that there was
no need for her further presence, made a sign to Laura Mowbray; and the
two ladies left the room together.
‘And I will apply for probate, I presume, in the usual way,’ remarked
Mr. Hatchett, rubbing his hands gently, with much inward satisfaction.
‘I have one suggestion to make, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘before we
separate. I believe the domestics who signed the will as witnesses are
in the house. It would be well to summon them now, before they have
been led to suppose that anything can depend on what they may have to
say, and ask them in your presence whether they can swear that these
are their signatures.’
The suggestion was received with a murmur of applause, and some one
rang the bell. Meantime, Dr. Mackenzie asked a question.
‘If I remember aright,’ he said, ‘the other legacies bequeathed in the
will are of comparatively small value, perhaps not more than twenty or
thirty thousand pounds in all?’
Mr. Hatchett bowed.
‘Then who takes all the money?’
‘With regard to any property not specifically mentioned,’ said Mr.
Hatchett, glancing once more at the document before him, ‘it goes to
the residuary legatees.’
‘And they are?’
‘Mr. Alexander Lindsay is one of them,’ said the lawyer, while a grave
look came into his face.
He was stopped by the entrance of the servants, and James Semple was
glad, somehow, that Mr. Hatchett did not go on to recite his name. It
would have weakened the effect of his contradiction of the minister’s
recollection, although, of course, the whole world must soon know how
the matter stood. But as the words ‘Mr. Alexander Lindsay is one of
them’ fell from Mr. Hatchett’s lips, a certain thrill ran through the
little company.
The servants declared without hesitation that the document before them
was the one they had signed, that and no other; and then everybody rose
up and prepared to go.
Miss Lindsay went up to Dr. Mackenzie as he passed into the hall, with
the intention of offering him hospitality, but as she was on the point
of speaking to him, Semple interrupted her, affecting not to see the
minister, and speaking in a loud whisper:
‘My dear aunt, don’t you think that after what has happened to-day Dr.
Mackenzie would be more comfortable at an hotel?’
The minister reddened and involuntarily clenched his fists.
To do James Semple justice, this piece of rudeness was not a mere
wanton insult. William Beattie had carefully instructed him that Alec
Lindsay and the justly infuriated minister were not to be allowed to
meet; and Semple thought it quite possible that if Dr. Mackenzie were
staying in the house he might get Alec’s address from his aunt and go
to him at once.
The minister, holding his chin very high in the air, sent for a cab,
and drove off with his friend, Dr. Adamson, in search of an hotel. As
they jolted along one subject jostled with the great question of the
will in the minister’s mind, sometimes altogether ousting it from his
attention. Would it be fair, he was asking himself, for him to charge
Dr. Adamson’s expenses as well as his own to the trust, if it should
turn out to be five thousand pounds only, as he might unquestionably
have done if the legacy had been one of half a million? And if not,
seeing that he had asked Dr. Adamson to take what was really an
unnecessary journey to London, and considering that his colleague’s
family was twice as large as his own, would it not be incumbent upon
him in equity to pay those expenses out of his, Dr. Mackenzie’s, own
pocket? An Englishman would probably not have raised either point in
the tribunal of his conscience. Dr. Mackenzie not only raised them,
but argued them, and finally decided them against himself, consoling
himself as he did so with that remarkably Scotch proverb, ‘It’s not
lost that a friend gets.’
But the sum could ill be spared; and the loss of it did not tend to
diminish his resentment against those defrauders of the temple, as Dr.
Mackenzie considered them, James Lindsay’s nephews.
END OF VOL. II.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
Transcriber’s Note:
This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been
left unchanged. Dialect, obsolete, and misspelled words were not
corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside
down, or partially printed letters, were corrected.