Up in Ardmuirland Part 12

"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 circ.u.mstances.

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 rea.s.suring. Every sc.r.a.p 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 doc.u.ment.

"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 doc.u.ment among the clothes and packing-cases. But my antic.i.p.ations were dispelled when we entered. Everything had been neatly folded and placed on the bed and the two tables; it was evident that no doc.u.ment could have been pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured 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 doc.u.ment 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 G.o.d!"

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 sc.r.a.p of paper that meant so much to us. "It's not an imposing doc.u.ment, 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 Ma.s.s--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 s.h.i.+nty 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 la.s.sie was known as "Mr.

McGillivray"; for the repeal of the penal laws had not yet emanc.i.p.ated the people from the cautious reticence of the days of persecution, and they still spoke of "prayers" instead of "Ma.s.s," 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 (G.o.d 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 cla.s.s 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 Ma.s.s. 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 Ma.s.s 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 t.i.t-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 fis.h.i.+ng. 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 a.s.sistance 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, la.s.sie, 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!"