It was signed by a Glasgow doctor, and sent from one of the chief
hotels of the city.
I followed Val to his den, where he was writing the answer.
"Would you mind my coming with you?" I asked.
"I should like it of all things," was his reply.
In less than half an hour we had started, and before night had arrived
at our destination.
It always seems to me that one feels one's personal insignificance more
keenly in a big city than anywhere else. The hurry and bustle on all
sides witness to the self-interest which rules every individual of the
crowd, to the exclusion of any sincere concern for others. The feeling
was accentuated when we reached the hotel. There all was brightness
and movement; in the brilliantly lighted dining-room guests were
eating, drinking, chatting, and enjoying life; in the hall and on the
staircases attendants were moving swiftly about, visitors were coming
and going. Each one's pleasures, comforts, and advantages were the
business of the hour. Yet in some chamber overhead a momentous crisis
was at hand for one poor, lonely man, who had to leave behind him this
scene of busy life, to enter upon an eternity of weal or woe. Upon the
passing moments everything depended for him; he had to prepare to meet
his God. Around him things were taking their usual course; it mattered
little to the majority of the people under that roof whether he lived
or died, and less still how his soul would fare in that passage. Yet
the things which made up the present happiness of the crowd were those
which he had labored so strenuously to procure--ease, enjoyment,
freedom from care--the companions of wealth. For these he had bartered
not only the toil and stress of his best years, but something
infinitely more precious; part of the price had been the favour of his
God! Now he had to part with all these gains, willing or unwilling;
would he have the grace to sue for the mercy which might still be his
for the asking?
We had ascertained that Gowan still lived, though there was no hope for
his recovery, and were ascending the staircase to our rooms when we
encountered a priest coming down. He regarded Val with evident
interest, then stopped and accosted him. He proved to be one of the
neighboring parochial clergy, who had just been visiting the dying man.
Val invited him to our room, and there we learned the circumstances of
the case.
Gowan had been in Glasgow about a fortnight, having come thither
immediately after landing in Liverpool. He was seriously ill when he
arrived at the hotel, and was compelled to take to his bed at once. A
doctor was sent for, and found him suffering from heart disease, which
had already reached an advanced stage. In spite of every attention the
patient became rapidly worse. He would not infrequently fall into fits
of unconsciousness, which were the prelude to a state of coma in which
he would eventually pass away from life.
To the man's credit, be it said, he at once asked for a priest when he
became aware of his danger, and had afterward desired to see Val. All
the Sacraments had been administered, and Gowan lay in a weak state,
hovering between life and death. I could not but think of the lasting
gratitude of Christian Logan and her children, which had led them to
remember this man daily in their prayers; who could tell how great a
part those prayers had had in securing for him the grace to make his
peace with God at the eleventh hour?
Val went in alone to Gowan's room; it was not for me to take any part
in such an interview. It was not long before he was back again in our
own apartment. Gowan's reception of him had been all that could have
been desired. The man expressed sincere sorrow for his ill behavior,
and begged Val's forgiveness. But what was still more satisfactory was
his message to Christian and her children. He asked pardon for his
unkindness in deserting them; they would soon see, he said, how dear
they were to him.
"He has made his will in their favor," was Val's summing up of the
matter. "He was just explaining that fact when he had another bad
attack quite suddenly, and I came away, after summoning the nurse."
That conversation, short as it was, proved to be the last in which the
dying man was to take part with my brother. He passed away a short
time after, having never recovered consciousness. The Catholic nurse
had sent for Val a few minutes after he had rejoined me. We both went
to the sick-room, and my brother had said the prayers for the dying,
followed by those for the repose of his soul when Gowan ceased to
breathe.
The funeral was over and we had been back in Ardmuirland for some weeks
before any tidings arrived about the dead man's affairs. All
arrangements as to payment of expenses and the like were carried out by
a Glasgow lawyer, who had been empowered to act for Gowan's agent in
America. The most thorough search had failed to discover anything in
the shape of a will among the dead man's effects in Glasgow, and it was
supposed to be in the keeping of the American lawyer. When tidings did
arrive, they were such as to fill us with consternation. The will in
the lawyer's possession was dated more than two years before, after
Gowan's return to America from Ardmuirland. Its terms, moreover, by no
means tallied with the information given by the dying man to Val; for
in it there was no mention of the Logans at all, everything being
bequeathed to the Freemason's lodge of which Gowan had been a member.
Val was puzzled, but not convinced.
"It's a mystery, certainly," he said; "but I feel absolutely satisfied
that there is another will somewhere. Poor Gowan said so,
unmistakably."
"Can you recall his exact words?" I asked.
Val had an idea that Gowan had said: "I have settled everything on
Cousin Christian." He fancied that just before the attack occurred he
had added: "You will have to see about it," or words to that effect.
We both felt convinced that Gowan had been too good a man of business
to make such a remark unless he had made his bequest legally secure.
The obvious thing to do was to cable at once to the lawyer to delay
action until the new will should turn up. This we did; a letter
followed, detailing circumstances.
Our next communication was from the Glasgow lawyer, who requested Val's
presence there to consult about matters, as my brother was the only
person to whom Gowan had spoken on the subject of a second will. I was
too much interested in the mystery to let Val go alone, and he was
delighted to have my company, so once more we set off for the distant
city.
Dalziel, the lawyer in question, received us in his private office on
the morning after our arrival. He was a small gray man, with keen
black eyes that twinkled behind his gold-rimmed spectacles now and
again when an ordinary man would have smiled. His statement of affairs
was indeed not reassuring. Every scrap of paper left behind by Gowan
had been carefully examined by one of his responsible clerks, but
nothing in the shape of a will had been discovered. Had there been no
previous will, Christian Logan's boy might have claimed the estate as
next of kin; but that was now not possible. To bring the matter before
the law courts was equally futile; the law took cognizance of a man's
wishes expressed in writing, and no evidence of a verbal declaration on
his part would suffice to set aside a written document.
"I am afraid, Father Fleming," said the lawyer, summing up his report,
"that there is no case to go upon for the Logan family."
"But I am convinced," replied Val, "that Gowan has made another will.
He sent for me to tell me so, and to ask me to help the Logans in the
matter. The will must be somewhere. The question is: Where?"
"I am inclined to think that he never made a second will," the lawyer
went on to say. "Not that I think he meant to deceive you," he added
hastily, as he noticed Val's air of protest. "But it has often come
within my experience that a man in such a weak state may persuade
himself that he has already accomplished something which he has fixed
his mind upon doing, while all the time nothing has been actually done."
Val, however, could not be convinced that such was the case in the
present instance, and I could not help agreeing with him.
"It would be as well if you would call at Gowan's hotel before you
leave Glasgow," said Dalziel, as our interview came to an end. "There
are some clothes, traveling-cases, rugs, and such like, which it would
be absurd to send to America, and equally absurd to sell. They will be
something for the Logons if you think well to take them. I can easily
arrange with the legatees on the other side, who will certainly make no
difficulty."
It was a good idea, and we resolved to act upon it. The lawyer drove
with us to the hotel, to introduce us to the manager, and left us when
we ascended to the room occupied by the dead man, which was still being
retained by the executor until the property should be removed.
The manager himself very civilly accompanied us, directing us to summon
a servant, when we had examined things to our satisfaction, and to give
orders about packing and removal.
I must confess that I had not altogether given up hope of discovering
the lost document among the clothes and packing-cases. But my
anticipations were dispelled when we entered. Everything had been
neatly folded and placed on the bed and the two tables; it was evident
that no document could have been passed unnoticed. The room, too, was
quite clean and in order. Val, like myself, seemed rather depressed at
the state of things. There was no receptacle where any paper could
have been stowed away that had not been thoroughly ransacked by the
lawyer's men, whose interest it was to discover the will. A wardrobe
for hanging clothes, a chest of drawers, dressing-table, and washstand
were the only articles of furniture besides bed, tables, and chairs;
none of them looked like possible receptacles of a hidden paper.
Scarcely realizing what I did, I began opening one after another the
drawers in the chest. Each was neatly lined with paper, but otherwise
empty. As though possessed by a mania for searching, I took out each
paper and carefully assured myself that nothing had slipped underneath.
Val, roused by my action, began to poke into the drawers of the
dressing-table; but his search was just as fruitless. There was
nothing to be done but to settle as to the packing of the clothes and
take our departure.
Suddenly an idea struck me. How often does a small article get lost in
a chest of drawers by slipping behind the drawers themselves. At once
I acted on the suggestion. I did not watt to consider that others had
probably searched as thoroughly as I could do. Out came the drawers,
one after the other, and were deposited on the floor. The bottom
drawer was rather tight, and would not come out easily; but I got it
out with an extra expenditure of muscle. Positively, there was a small
folded paper--like a letter--lying behind it; my heart sank, for it was
too small for such a document as I was anxious to find. I picked it up
listlessly and unfolded it.
"By Jove, Val! Here it is!" I cried exultantly.
He skipped across the room to read the paper over my shoulder.
"That's it, all right!" was his exclamation. "Thank God!"
It was but a sheet of common note-paper, bearing the printed heading of
the hotel. Across it was written in shaky characters the following:
"This is the last will and testament of me, Alexander Gowan, of 269
Heniker Street, Chicago, U. S. A. I revoke all former testaments, and
hereby bequeath the whole of the property of which I die possessed to
Rev. Valentine Fleming of Ardmuirland, Scotland, in trust for Christian
McRae, widow of Donald Logan, of Ardmuirland, and her children.
"ALEXANDER JOHN GOWAN.
"May 16, 1912."
"Blessed Scottish law!" cried Val, when he had scanned the scrap of
paper that meant so much to us. "It's not an imposing document, but
it'll stand good in this country. Let's take it to Dalziel at once."
The lawyer corroborated Vat's declaration. It was a holograph will,
and therefore needed no witness; Gowan was man of business enough to
realize that. He had probably slipped it into the drawer where some of
his clothes were, meaning to hand it to Val. The drawer must have been
over-full, and the mere opening of it would sweep the bit of paper to
the back, where it had fallen behind the other drawers.
* * * * * *
Six months later we had a Catholic wedding in the little church at
Ardmuirland. All the congregation flocked up for the ceremony and the
nuptial Mass--for the bridegroom had suggested that it would be well to
begin his married life in perfect union with his wife, and he had been
received into the Church a month before.
The Camerons are very well off; for poor old Gowan, though not a
millionaire, had put by pots of money. But it would suit neither
Lachlan nor his wife to lead an idle life. They have got Redbank into
their own hands and are turning it into quite a model farm.
The children are at school. Jeemsie is said to be able to do
everything except talk. Tam is bent on being a priest.
Val got his shinty club and his parish hall, and if he wants anything
for the church or for himself he has but to mention it. Indeed, he had
almost to use force to prevent Christian handing over half her fortune.
Golden dreams do, now and again, it seems, get realized!
X
A RUSTIC PASTOR
"In sober state,
Through the sequestered vale of rural life,
The venerable patriarch guileless held
The tenor of his way."
(_Porteus--"Death."_)
The priest who ministered to the Catholic flock of Ardmuirland in the
far-off days when "Bell o' the Burn" was a lassie was known as "Mr.
McGillivray"; for the repeal of the penal laws had not yet emancipated
the people from the cautious reticence of the days of persecution, and
they still spoke of "prayers" instead of "Mass," and of "speaking to
the priest" and "going forward" to intimate Confession and Holy
Communion.
"He wes a stoot, broad-shouldered gentleman o' middle size," said Bell
in one of her reminiscent moods; "when I first knew him he wes gettin'
bent wi' age, and his hair wes snow-white and lang on his shoulders
like. I couldna' ha' been muckle mair ner five or sax year auld when
he took me by the hand and askit me if I'd like to come an' herd his
coos an' leeve wi' his niece at the chapel hoose. That wes in 1847,
sir, ten years aifter Queen Victoria (God rest her!) cam' to the
throne. That's a good bit back, ye ken."
Bell dwelt under the same roof as the priest until she was needed at
home, a few years later. Although chiefly employed during the day in
looking after the two cows that grazed on the hillside about a mile
distant, and driving them out and in, she was sufficiently within doors
to be able to gain much knowledge of the daily life of a simple
Scottish pastor of the old school.
That life, as her reminiscences witness, was one of extreme
homeliness--not to say austerity. The food of the priest was that of
the ordinary peasant class among which he lived. "His denner," said
Bell, "wes juist tatties, taken in their skins; his supper wes brochan
an' sometimes tatties as weel. Some o' the neebors would come an' join
him, whiles, an' share the supper wi' him, as they sat roond the
hearth." (In answer to my query Bell explained that "brochan" was a
kind of soup or gruel, made from oatmeal.)
"My faither an' mither," Bell remarked with some pride, "usit often to
tak' denner wi' the priest o' Sundays. They wes bidin' a good bit awa'
frae the chapel, ye ken, sir, an' they aye likit a talk wi' me aifter
Mass. So Mr. McGillivray wouldna' aloo them to fast till they got
hame, but aye pressit them to stay. For they wouldna' break their fast
till the priest did, ye ken; it had aye been the custom in their young
days, and they keepit it till they wes too weak to fast sae lang."
Besides the Ardmuirland district, the priest had charge of two others
at some little distance over the hills in different directions. It was
his duty to say Mass at one or other of these stations occasionally,
and the Ardmuirland folk who could conveniently manage the journey
would generally accompany him on a Sunday. They would walk over the
hill in a kind of unorganized procession, reciting the Rosary and
litany as they went.
During the week the priest kept daily moving about among his people,
and little of interest could happen which did not soon come to his
knowledge. "The fowk aye enjoyit a chat wi' the priest," said Bell,
"for Mr. McGillivray wes the best oot at tellin' auld-fashioned
stories." His figure was a familiar one in all the countryside, as he
walked slowly along, leaning on his silver-mounted walking-stick, and
wrapped in the ample folds of a well-worn Spanish cloak, buckled at the
neck by a silver clasp. Under that same cloak he would often carry
tit-bits of oatcake for the horses he might come across in the farms he
visited--for he was a lover of all dumb creatures.
Mr. McGillivray's only outdoor recreation was fishing. Children knew
his ways, and would shyly steal after him down to the side of the burn
and watch him from a distance. When his rod happened to get caught in
the branches of the stunted birches which bordered the stream--which
was not of infrequent occurrence--they would run to his assistance and
help to untangle the hook; they would often search for and carry to him
worms to serve as bait. Both kinds of service were sure to be rewarded
by a piece of "black sugar," as Bell styled licorice, which he always
carried with him for use in such emergencies.
"We bairns," she explained, "were niver feared o' the priest. I weel
remember hoo my mither chided me for usin' sic freedom wi' him--I had
lived sae lang in the hoose wi' him, ye ken, that I wes whiles gey
familiar in my speech. Well, when he askit me one day--juist as a
joke, ye ken--to tak' a snuff oot o' the wee boxie he aye carrit, I
tossit my head and said (ill bred as I wes!), 'Fuich!' Mr. McGillivray
wesna' angered; he juist laughed oot an' says he: 'Weel, lassie, ye
couldna' ha' said worse to a dog!' But I got mair words frae my mither
aifter, an' a strappin' as weel, an' to bed wi'oot supper. It learned
me to be mair respectful-like to the priest!"
This anecdote recalled another. "I mind weel hoo I got my first bonnet
through Mr. McGillivray. In they times, ye ken, sir, it wes aye the
fashion to wear large bonnets o' Tuscan straw, an' a lassie o' foorteen
wes surely auld enough for siclike--I said to mysel'. So when the
priest cam' to oor hoose aince, I made sae bold as to get him to ask my
faither to buy me a bonnet for Sundays, next time he went to the toon
o' Aberdeen. My faither wouldna' ha' done it for me, but he did when
the priest askit him, and I got my bonnet! But I doot I wes a bit o' a
favorite with the priest, sin' I herdit his coos sae lang."
However free the children may have been in their intercourse with the
old priest, I gathered from Bell's narrative that the grown-ups rather
feared him. His methods were certainly such as would be considered
unnecessarily severe in these days; still, there is no doubt he managed
by them to keep his people well in hand.
"I canna' mind muckle aboot Mr. McGillivray's discoorses," she
answered, when I questioned her on that subject. "I wes but a bit
lassie, an' I couldna' onderstand weel. He seemed to me to stan' an'
drone awa' mostly. Whiles, he wud gi' great scoldin's, an' then I usit
to think it wes splendid! He could be eloquent then, I assure ye, sir!
I mind weel when there wes a marriage in Advent in a Protestant family,
an' Mr. McGillivray warned the fowk that they mightna' attend it; some
o' them, in spite o' that, went to the marriage, an' I could niver
forget the awfu' way he chided them in the chapel on the Sunday aifter!
It wes tarrible!
"If ony o' the fowk cam' to the chapel in their working clothes he
would be greatly pit aboot. He would ca' them up to the rail at
catechism time an' reprove them before a' the congregation."
"So you said your catechism in public!" I asked.
"There wes aye catechism, atween the Mass an' the preachin'. Aebody
had to be prepared to be callit up till they wes marrit, at least!
Even aifter that, a body couldna' be sure o' bein' left alane! I mind
him callin' a mon o' saxty years o' age ane Sunday! He wes a mon
greatly thought of by the congregation, an' maybe the priest wes
afeared he wes gettin' prood. Onyways, Mr. McGillivray had him at the
rails wi' the bairns. 'Are you ashamed,' he says, 'to learn your
Christian Doctrine?' 'Na, na, sir,' says he. 'Then gae back an' sit
ye doon,' says the priest."
Such treatment would scarcely be appreciated in these days, but perhaps
the reason is that we are less endowed with humility than our fathers
in the Faith.
Bell had other anecdotes of a like kind.
"If ony o' the bairns wes restless or trifling-kind, during the
preachin', Mr. McGillivray would stop his discoorse an' ca' them up to
the rail an' reprove them severely. I mind him summoning a grown man
from the choir aince, and mak' him own his fault. Hey! He wer a
graund priest, an' nae mistak'--wer Mr. McGillivray!"
On stormy days, when it was difficult for the aged pastor to wade
through the deep snow down to the chapel, Mass was said in his own
house. The people crowded in at the door of his little living-room,
and would fill the kitchen. When he grew old and infirm it was
impossible for the greater number to hear anything of the sermon; yet
he never omitted to preach.
"An' I mind," naïvely added Bell, "that there wes aye a collection
made."
People went to Confession in the house at such times; otherwise the
priest heard them in the chapel on Saturdays or Sundays, and on the
eves of feasts.
It can not be denied that Mr. McGillivray was a militant churchman,
whenever the interests of his flock or of the Catholic Church were at
stake. Bell had more than one anecdote to prove it.
A poor woman who was at the point of death had been induced by two good
old Catholic spinsters who lived near her to send for the priest to
reconcile her to the Church. She was the offspring of a mixed
marriage; her mother--the Catholic party--had died when the child was
quite young, and the father had at once taken the girl to kirk with
him. She had once been to Confession, but had received no other
Sacrament except Baptism. When she had grown to womanhood, she married
a Presbyterian, and all her family had been brought up in that
religion. Yet the grace of her Baptism seemed to cling to her. After
her husband's death she would now and again attend at Mass, driven the
six miles by her Protestant son; but she was not known to the priest,
and so she remained outside the pale. Her intimacy with Jeannie and
Katie Ann McGruer was the means of keeping her in touch with Catholic
matters, and eventually resulted in her reconciliation.
This was not accomplished, however, without a stiff skirmish between
the old priest and the members of her family--not to mention the
minister of their particular kirk.
In compliance with the summons conveyed by one of the McGruers (Bell
spoke of them as "guid Catholic lassies," but in answer to my query
explained that Katie Ann, the younger sister, would be "risin'
sixty"!), Mr. McGillivray betook himself to the house of the invalid.
The door was opened by her eldest son, Adam Fordyce--a burly,
black-browed, bearded man of forty. He had charge of the roads in the
district, so that he and the priest were on speaking terms, at least.
Adam held the door in one hand and the door-post in the other, and his
portly figure filled up the opening fairly well.
"I am sorry to hear that your mother is unwell," said the priest
sympathetically.
"Aye, aye, sir, she's nae weel at all," was the answer.
"I would like to see her, if she's well enough," said Mr. McGillivray.
"Weel, sir, I wouldna' like to say she's nae fit to see a
veesitor--but--ye ken, sir----"
"You mean she's not well enough to see me."
"Weel, it's this wye, Mr. McGillivray," answered Adam, lowering his
voice; "I'm nae ohjectin' mysel', sin she askit me to let ye come; but
the ithers is awfu' set again' it. That's the wye it is, sir."