MR. KIPPILAW, W.S.
Shafto found himself a little nervous when he and Florian were
actually in Edinburgh, a city in its beauty, boldness and grandeur of
rock and mountain, fortress, terrace, and temple, so foreign-looking
to English eyes, and so utterly unlike everything they had ever seen
or conceived before.
Florian's thoughts were peculiarly his own. His father's
death--though called an uncle now, but Florian always felt for and
thought of him as a parent--the loss of Dulcie, their abrupt
departure from Devonshire, and rough uprootal of all early
associations, had made a kind of hiatus in the young fellow's life,
and it was only now when he found himself amid the strange streets
and picturesque splendour of Edinburgh that he began--like one
recovering consciousness after a long illness--to gather up again the
ravelled threads of thought, but with curious want of concern and
energy; while Shafto felt that he personally had both, and that now
he required to have all his wits about him.
Florian stood for a time that night at the door of their hotel in
Princes Street looking at the wonderful lights of the Old Town
sparkling in mid air, and some that were in the Castle must, he
thought, be stars, they were so high above the earth. Scores of cabs
and carriages went by, eastward and westward, but no carts or wains
or lorries, such as one sees in London or Glasgow--vehicles with
bright lamps and well muffled occupants, gentlemen in evening suits,
and ladies in ball or dinner dresses, and crowds of pedestrians,
under the brilliant gas lights and long boulevard-like lines of
trees--the ever-changing human panorama of a great city street before
midnight.
How odd, how strange and lonely poor Florian felt; he seemed to
belong to no one, and, like the Miller o' Dee, nobody cared for him;
and ever and anon his eyes rested on the mighty castled rock that
towers above streets, monuments, and gardens, with a wonderous
history all its own, 'where treasured lie the monarchy's last gems,'
and with them the only ancient crown in the British Isles. 'Brave
kings and the fairest of crowned women have slept and been cradled in
that eyrie,' says an enthusiastic English writer; 'heroes have fought
upon its slopes; English armies have stormed it; dukes, earls, and
barons have been immured in its strong dungeons; a sainted Queen
prayed and yielded up her last breath there eight centuries ago. It
is an imperishable relic--a monument that needs no carving to tell
its tale, and it has the nation's worship; and the different church
sects cling round its base as if they would fight again for the
guardianship of a venerable mother..... And if Scotland has no
longer a king and Parliament all to herself, her imperial crown is at
least safely kept up there amid strong iron stanchions, as a sacred
memorial of her inextinguishable independence, and, if need were, for
future use.'
Florian was a reader and a thinker, and he felt a keen interest in
all that now surrounded him; but Shafto lurked in a corner of the
smoke-room, turning in his mind the task of the morrow, and unwisely
seeking to fortify himself by imbibing more brandy and soda than
Florian had ever seen him take before.
After a sound night's rest and a substantial Scottish breakfast had
fitted Shafto, as he thought, for facing anything, a cab deposited
him and Florian (who was now beginning to marvel why he had travelled
so far in a matter that concerned him not, in reality) at the
residence of Mr. Kenneth Kippilaw, W.S., in Charlotte Square--a noble
specimen of Adams Street architecture, having four stately
symmetrical corresponding façades, overlooked by the dome of St.
George's Church.
'Lawyers evidently thrive in Scotland,' said Shafto, as he looked at
the mansion of Mr. Kippilaw, and mentally recalled the modest
establishment of Lawyer Carlyon; 'but foxes will flourish as long as
there are geese to be plucked.'
Mr. Kippilaw was at home--indeed he was just finishing breakfast,
before going to the Parliament House--as they were informed by the
liveried valet, who led them through a pillared and marble-floored
vestibule, and ushered them into what seemed a library, as the walls
from floor to ceiling were lined with handsome books; but every
professional man's private office has generally this aspect in
Scotland.
In a few minutes Mr. Kippilaw appeared with a puzzled and perplexed
expression in his face, as he alternatively looked at his two
visitors, and at Shafto's card in his hand.
Mr. Kippilaw was now in his sixtieth year; his long since grizzled
hair had now become white, and had shrunk to two patches far apart,
one over each ear, and brushed stiffly up. His eyebrows were also
white, shaggy, and under them his keen eyes peered sharply through
the rims of a gold pince-nez balanced on the bridge of his long
aquiline nose.
Shafto felt just then a strange and unpleasant dryness about his
tongue and lips.
'_Mr. Shafto Melfort?_' said Mr. Kippilaw inquiringly, and referring
to the card again. 'I was not aware that there was a Mr. Shafto
Melfort--any relation of Lord Fettercairn?'
'His grandson,' said Shafto unblushingly.
'This gentleman with the dark eyes?' asked Mr. Kippilaw, turning to
the silent Florian.
'No--myself,' said Shafto sharply and firmly.
'You are most unlike the family, who have always been remarkable for
regularity of features. Then you are the son--of--of--'
'The late Major Lennard Melfort who died a few weeks ago----'
'Good Heavens, where?'
'On the west coast of Devonshire, near Revelstoke, where he had long
resided under the assumed name of MacIan.'
'That of his wife?'
'Precisely so--my mother.'
'And this young gentleman, whose face and features seem curiously
familiar to me, though I never saw him before, he is your brother of
course.'
'No, my cousin, the son of my aunt Mrs. Gyle. I am an only son, but
the Major ever treated us as if he had been the father of both, so
great and good was his kindness of heart.'
'Be seated, please,' said the lawyer in a breathless voice, as he
seated himself in an ample leathern elbow chair at his writing-table,
which was covered with documents and letters all arranged by his
junior clerk in the most orderly manner.
'This is very sudden and most unexpected intelligence,' said he,
carefully wiping his glasses, and subjecting Shafto's visage to a
closer scrutiny again. 'Have you known all these years past the real
name and position of your father, and that he left Kincardineshire
more than twenty years ago after a very grave quarrel with his
parents at Craigengowan?'
'No--I only learned who he was, and who we really were, when he was
almost on his deathbed. He confided it to me alone, as his only son,
and because I had been bred to the law; and on that melancholy
occasion he entrusted me with this important packet addressed to
_you_.'
With an expression of the deepest interest pervading his well-lined
face, Mr. Kippilaw took the packet and carefully examined the seal
and the superscription, penned in a shaky handwriting, with both of
which he was familiar enough, though he had seen neither for fully
twenty years, and finally he examined the envelope, which looked old
and yellow.
'If all be true and correct, these tidings will make some stir at
Craigengowan,' he muttered as if to himself, and cut round the seal
with a penknife.
'You will find ample proofs, sir, of all I have alleged,' said
Shafto, who now felt that the crisis was at hand.
Mr. Kippilaw, with growing interest and wonder, drew forth the
documents and read and re-read them slowly and carefully, holding the
papers, but not offensively, between him and the light to see if the
dates and water-marks tallied.
'The slow way this old devil goes on would exasperate an oyster!'
thought Shafto, whose apparently perfect coolness and self-possession
rather surprised and repelled the lawyer.
There were the certificate of Lennard's marriage with Flora MacIan,
which Mr. Kippilaw could remember he had seen of old; the
'certificate of entry of birth of their son, born at Revelstoke at 6
h. 50 m. on the 28th October P.M., 18--,' signed by the Registrar,
and the Major's farewell letter to his old friend, entrusting his son
and his son's interests to his care.
'But, hallo!' exclaimed Mr. Kippilaw, after he had read for the
second time, and saw that the letter of Lennard Melfort was
undoubtedly authentic, 'how comes it that the whole of your Christian
name is _torn out_ of the birth certificate, and the surname
_Melfort_ alone remains?'
'Torn out!' exclaimed Shafto, apparently startled in turn.
'There is a rough little hole in the document where the name _should
be_. Do you know the date of your birth?' asked Mr. Kippilaw, partly
covering the document with his hand, unconsciously as it were.
'Yes--28th October.'
'And the year?'
Shafto gave it from memory.
'Quite correct--as given here,' said Mr. Kippilaw; 'but you look old
for the date of this certificate.'
'I always looked older than my years,' replied Shafto.
Florian, who might have claimed the date as that of his own birth,
was--luckily for Shafto--away at a window, gazing intently on a party
of soldiers marching past, with a piper playing before them.
'Another certificate can be got if necessary,' said Mr. Kippilaw, as
he glanced at the Registrar's signature, a suggestion which made
Shafto's heart quake. 'It must have come from the Major in this
mutilated state,' he added, re-examining with legal care and
suspicion the address on the envelope and the seal, which, as we have
said, he had cut round; 'but it is strange that he has made no
mention of it being so in his letter to me. Poor fellow! he was more
of a soldier than a man of business, however. Allow me to
congratulate you, Mr. Melfort, on your new prospects. Rank and a
very fine estate are before you.'
He warmly shook the hand of Shafto, who began to be more reassured;
and saying, 'I must carefully preserve the documents for the
inspection of Lord Fettercairn,' he locked them fast in a drawer of
his writing-table, and spreading out his coat-tails before the fire,
while warming his person in the fashion peculiar to the genuine
'Britisher,' he eyed Shafto benignantly, and made a few pleasant
remarks on the Fettercairn family, the fertility and beauty of
Craigengowan, the stables, kennels, the shootings, and so forth, and
the many fine qualities of 'Leonard'--as he called him--and about
whom he asked innumerable questions, all of which Shafto could answer
truly and with a clear conscience enough, as he was master of all
that.
The latter was asked 'what he thought of Edinburgh--if he had ever
been there before,' and so forth. Shafto remembered a little 'Guide
Book' into which he had certainly dipped, so as to be ready for
anything, and spoke so warmly of the picturesque beauties and
historical associations of the Modern Athens that the worthy lawyer's
heart began to warm to so intelligent a young man, while of the
silent Florian, staring out into the sun-lit square and its beautiful
garden and statues, he took little notice, beyond wondering _where_
he had seen his eyes and features before!