The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story

CHAPTER XVIII

Mr. Cassilis came to the manse in answer to Katie’s invitation and the business of Huntley. He was young and did not particularly commend himself to the liking of the young master of Norlaw; but as he pleased all the other people very tolerably well, there were, perhaps, various reasons for the less friendly sentiment of Huntley. He was, however, a brisk man of business, and not sufficiently over-burdened with occupation to prevent him entering heartily into the concerns of the half-ruined family.

All this time Patrick Livingstone had been quietly busy, collecting and arranging all his father’s memoranda which seemed to throw any light upon their circumstances; among these were many hurried, and only half intelligible notes of transactions with the former Huntley of Melmar, from which it very shortly appeared that Norlaw’s debts had all been contracted to his old kinsman, and had only come into possession of “the present Melmar,” when he took possession of the house and property, as heir-at-law, on the old man’s death. They had suspected this before, for it seemed very unlikely that one man should borrow of another, whose claims were so entirely antagonistic to his own—but these were their only real evidence—for Norlaw had been so irregular and unsystematic that it was impossible to tell what money might or might not have passed through his hands.

The lawyer took all these scratchy memorandums out of Patrick’s hands, and examined them carefully in presence of the lads. They were in the east room, in the midst of a pile of old papers from which these had been selected. Patie had not completed his task—he was going over his father’s letters, to see whether they threw any light on these forgotten transactions. It was no small task; for Norlaw, like most other men of trifling habits and unimportant correspondence, kept every thing that everybody wrote to him, and even scrawls of his own letters. Some of these scrawls were curious enough—among them were one or two anxious and elaborate epistles to people abroad, whom his search for his lost love had brought him into contact with; some, dating still further back, were intimations of the birth of his children, and other family events of importance to his wife’s relations. They were all composed with considerable care, and in somewhat pompous diction; they threw wonderful light upon the weaknesses and vanities of this departed life, and indifferent people might have laughed at them—but Huntley and Patie blushed instead of laughing, or folded the scrawls away hurriedly with tears in their eyes. To them these memorials were still pathetic, tender, full of a touching appeal to their affection, too sacred to meet the common eye.

Presently, however, Patie caught a glimpse of a handwriting still more scratchy than his father’s—the trembling characters of old age. It was a letter from old Melmar, the most important they had yet lighted upon—and ran thus:—

“Dear Patrick,

“Touching the matter that was under discussion betwixt us the last time I saw you, I have just this to say, namely, that I hold your receipts and acknowledgments for money in the interests of your wife and family, and not in my own. I know well what would happen if you knew yourself free to incur more responsibility; so, mind you, though you’ll get them all at my death, and most likely Melmar to the boot, I’ll take care, as long as I’m to the fore, to keep my hand over you for your good. You can let the Mistress see this if you please, and I’ll wager a bodle she agrees with me. I can not give you them back—but unless you behave all the worse, they’ll never leave my hands until they return to your own.

“H. Huntley.”

“Eh! what’s that?” said Mr. Cassilis, looking up from his little lot of papers, as he saw the two brothers pass this letter between them.

They were half reluctant to show it; and when Huntley at last handed it across the table it was with a proud apology.

“My father was generous and liberal to the extreme. I suppose he was not what people call prudent; few understood him,” said Huntley.

The lawyer took the paper with a half perceptible smile. He knew already what other people said of Norlaw.

However, he added old Melmar’s letter with care to his own heap of scribbled memoranda.

“It’s not very much good,” he said, “but it shows intention. Unquestionably, neither the giver nor the receiver had any thought of payment for these loans. I had better see the present man to-morrow. What with the will and these he ought to come to reason.”

“Me’mar?” cried Huntley—“no, I can have no appeal made to him on our behalf. Do you know how he persecuted my father?”

“I’m not much of an appealing man,” said Cassilis, “but I had better see him. Don’t be afraid—I’ll not compromise you. You did not know much of the matter yourself, I understand, till recently. Be charitable—suppose he were as ignorant as you?”

“Stop!” cried Patie, “never mind personal feelings—is that all the value of the will?—to bring him to reason?”

“Not if I find Mary Huntley,” said the young lawyer.

If I find. The young men exchanged glances—not quite sure that they were pleased with this transference of their interests.

“If she’s to be found alive—or if she’s dead, and we can prove it, every thing, of course, becomes as clear as daylight,” said the minister’s nephew, “and many a man would tell you that in these days either the one thing or the other is certain; but I’ve had some experience. I know there have been cases in which every effort was baffled; and failing either, I don’t see at this moment what’s to be done. You expect me to say, go to law, of course, but who’s to pay the piper? Law’s a very expensive luxury. Wait till you’re rich, and then come down upon him—that is to say, if this search fails.”

“But it is at least worth while to make the search,” said Huntley, hastily, “and if it is so, it is too soon to treat with Melmar. Friendship is out of the question. Let us deal with him honestly. I can not accept a favor from a man one day and commence a lawsuit against him the next; it is not possible.”

“In the meantime,” said Cassilis, coolly sweeping all his papers up into a pocket-book, “you’ve committed your affairs into my hands, and I mean to do my best for my client, begging your pardon, whether my client perceives my tactics or no. Don’t be offended. I’ll claim these said acknowledgments as your right, and not as a favor. I want to see what kind of an animal this is that we’re to fight; and to let you see what I mean, I may as well say that I’ve heard all the history of the last few weeks, and that I understand your feelings; but feelings, Livingstone, recollect, as your brother says, have little to do with the law.”

Huntley could make very little further opposition; but he did not respond by any means to his new agent’s friendliness; he received it even with a little hauteur and surliness, like a ridiculous young hero, finding out condescension and superiority, and sundry other of those agreeable figments of the jealous imagination, in the natural frankness of the young lawyer. If he had been fifty, or had known nothing of the manse, possibly Mr. Charles Cassilis, W. S., would have made a more favorable impression upon Huntley Livingstone.

CHAPTER XIX

“Do I look like a fool?”

The speaker was Huntley of Melmar, seated at that moment in his large leathern easy-chair at his own study-table; this was a long dim room, lined with dusty-looking bookcases, and lighted faintly by one window, from which nothing could be seen but a funereal yew-tree, which kept the room in perpetual shade. The whole apartment had a stifled, unventilated look, as if fresh air never entered it, as sunshine certainly never did; even in winter no fire could be coaxed into a blaze in Melmar’s study—every thing was dusty, choked, and breathless, partaking in the general want of order visible through the house, with private additions of cheerlessness peculiarly its own.

And there could not well be a greater contrast than the two people in this room; Cassilis was young, good-looking, rather careless in manner, shrewd and quick, as became his profession, but by no means formal, as might have become it. He was not the solemn bearer of a legal challenge—a messenger of heroical enmity or hereditary dislike; he was only a morning visitor in a morning coat, quite as ready to talk of the last change of ministry or the ensuing election as of the immediate business which brought him here. Melmar sat watching him like an old cat, stealthy and absorbed. In his day business was managed in a different manner; and the old Aberdeen attorney watched with a chuckle of professional contempt and private satisfaction the informal proceedings of his younger brother and adversary. Mr. Huntley thought himself much too “deep” for the fathoming of this careless neophyte, while his visitor, on the other hand, found equal satisfaction in setting down the Laird of Melmar as one of the old school.

“Not exactly,” said Cassilis, “but it’s odd how often a fool and a man of sense are convertible terms. A man does a thing from a generous motive, and that’s ridiculous, eh, Mr. Huntley? absurd to men of the world like you and me, who don’t recognize the principle; but mind you, there might be circumstances which might induce the most sagacious of us, out of pure self-regard and prudence, to do the very same thing as the blockhead did out of generosity; the result would be the same, you know, in both cases—and who is to judge whether it is done by a wise man or a fool?”

“Aye, man, you’re ironical, are you?” said Melmar, “very good practice, but it does not do with me—I’m too old for inuendoes; come, to the point. You’ve got a foolish case by the hand, though, of course, as an older man and member of the profession, I think it perfectly right of you not to seem conscious of that—perfectly proper. I highly approve of your demeanor in a professional point of view, my young friend.”

“Which is very kind of you,” said Cassilis, laughing; “I think it all the more so because I can’t agree with you. Do you know, I hear everywhere about the country that there could not be a greater difference than between young Livingstone and his father?—quite a different man, I understand.”

“Eh? and what’s that to me?” asked Melmar, sharply.

“Well, you know, between ourselves as professional men,” said Cassilis, laughing and speaking with the most delightful frankness, “if this Norlaw had been a man of spirit and energy, like his son, or indeed worth his salt, as people say, you know just as well as I do—possibly far better, for I bow to your experience—that you could not have had a chance of reigning here as you have done for so many years.”

“What the deevil do you mean, sir?” cried Melmar, growing red and half rising from his chair; “is this language to hold to me, in my own house?”

“Nay, I was only appealing to your professional knowledge,” said the young man, carelessly. “When you speak to me of the profession, of course I necessarily conclude that you are, at least, as well-informed as I am—and this is clear to anybody with half an eye. Mind you, I don’t mean to say that young Livingstone’s claim is weaker than his father’s—you know it is not. I feel indeed that the whole matter is immensely simplified by having a professional man like yourself to deal with—for I don’t presume to suppose that I am telling you any thing that you don’t know already; but possibly—I can’t tell—the young man may not feel it for his interest to push his claims at this moment. It’s for my interest that he should, of course, for it will be a capital case—but we can both wait; however, under the circumstances, I am perfectly justified in asking you to consider whether the little restitution I suggested to you would be the act of a fool or of a wise man.”

Melmar had been gazing with a kind of hazy, speechless wrath at the speaker, who passed so jauntily and lightly over this subject, and took his own perfect acquaintance with its right and wrong, for granted, with so much coolness. When Cassilis came to this pause, however, no explosion followed. The florid face grew redder with a bursting fiery fullness, in which even the grizzled red fringes of hair sympathized—but, in spite of himself, Melmar was afraid. His “young friend,” whom he had patronized and despised, seemed somehow to have got him completely in his power—seemed to see into the very thoughts of the old worldling, who thought himself so much wiser than his adversary. He made a pause of consideration, and felt much the reverse of comfortable. The unconcerned air of his visitor, which had relieved him at first, seemed somehow to give greater weight to his words now. If these downright blows were given in play, what should the serious strokes of the same hand be? and Melmar knew very well that the strength of his opponent’s case lay in plain right and justice, while his was only to be held by art and stratagem. While he pondered, a sudden thought struck him—he rose, went to the window, glanced out there for a moment—then to the door, opened it and glanced along the long passage to make sure there were no listeners—then he returned to his chair, and bent towards the young lawyer, who had been watching all his proceedings with a half amused curiosity.

“To make an end of all this,” said Melmar, with a very good imitation of impatience, “and because they are relatives of the old family, and friends, and all the rest of it—and to prove that I’m sorry for what took place at Norlaw’s funeral—I’ll tell you what I’ll consent to do—”

“Well?” said Cassilis, quietly.

“I’ll consent,” continued Melmar, “because I’m not a man to have a will, or a bill, or any thing of the sort stuck into my face every moment of my life—I’ll consent to give up all Norlaw’s papers, every one of them, as a matter of favor, on condition that this document, that you’ve all made so much work about, shall be placed in my hands. After which I’ll be able to look after my kinswoman’s interests in the proper way—for, as for the fiction about those Livingstones, who have no more claim to Melmar than you have, that’s quite beneath any notice from me. But on that condition, and to be done with the business, I’ll consent to give up all my claims against Norlaw; and a more liberal offer never was made.”

The young man looked steadily, and with a smile, into the old man’s face—indeed, Mr. Cassilis went a step further, and did what is sometimes extremely impertinent, and always embarrassing. He looked into Melmar’s eyes with a keen, yet laughing gaze, which his companion could by no means bear, and which made the florid face once more fiery red with a troubled and apprehensive rage.

“Would you advise me to accept this offer as one professional man might advise another?” said Cassilis, quietly, with his smile. That smile, and that look, and that question, silenced Melmar a thousand times more effectually than a vehement refusal of his proposition. This man was sometimes bold, but he was never brave. He saw himself found out in the laughing eyes of his young antagonist. He thought he had committed himself and exposed his weak point—somehow he seemed to stand self-betrayed and unvailed before this stranger, whose gaze was intolerable, and whose question he should have liked to answer with a curse, proper man as he was, if he had dared. But he did not dare, though the self-restraining effort brought the perspiration to his forehead. He scattered some papers on the table with an irrestrainable movement, a little safety-valve for his secret fury.

“Do as you please, you’ll get no better,” he said, hoarsely, gathering them up again, and turning his face from his young adversary, who did not now seem quite an opponent to be despised.

“I tell you frankly,” said Mr. Cassilis, with that engaging candor of his, “that it’s very much for my interest that young Livingstone should carry on his suit at once. It’s for my interest, in short, to protract the whole business to my utmost ability; and a highly attractive case I have no doubt we should make of it—especially, Mr. Huntley, especially permit me to say, after the proposal you have just made. However, we understand all that, both you and I, and I must ask you again to consider what I said at first; here is this old man’s letter, proving his intentions pretty distinctly; on our part we will not pay a penny under less than compulsion. I leave it entirely in your own hands—what will you do?”

Patricia Huntley was all alone in the drawing-room. She knew when Mr. Cassilis entered; she knew he had been shut up with papa for a very considerable time. She did not know any thing of the questions which were being put in the study, or how hard they were to answer. Though she read poetry-books, this poor little creature had very little to occupy her, save her bad health and her limited imagination—a visitor was an event to Patricia—especially when the visitor was young, rather handsome, and newly come from Edinburgh. She thought she might as well take an accidental stroll into the garden, and see what the gentlemen were about in the study. Accordingly, with her poetry-book in her hand, Patricia stole behind the yew-tree just at this particular moment and crisis of the conversation. She could see them both through the dim window, papa tumbling about his papers, and looking very stormy, Mr. Cassilis, smiling and genial as he always was. Perhaps the younger face of the two, being much the pleasanter, was, spite of filial veneration, the most attractive to Patricia. She thought Mr. Cassilis, who had been so long a time in the study, must surely have some very pleasant news to tell—but at the same time, with sincere and disinterested concern, felt that he must be dreadfully bored by so long an interview with papa. With a generous impulse she approached the window, and knocked on the glass playfully with her fingers.

“Papa, when do you mean to come to luncheon?” cried Patricia.

Melmar started up, opened the window, cried “Get away, you little fool!—who wanted you?” and shook his fist at her menacingly. Poor Patricia sprang back in terror, and lost her breath immediately. She did not know, and perhaps if she had known, would not have appreciated, the great relief which this little ebullition was to Melmar. He went back quite refreshed to finish his fight; but his poor little daughter, who did not understand it, first fell a-crying, and then, drying her eyes, proceeded to revenge herself. She sought out Joanna immediately, and informed that heroine of something extraordinary and mysterious going on in the study—and of the unaccountable and inexcusable affront to herself, “before Mr. Cassilis!” which Patricia could not forgive. Luncheon was ordered immediately, half an hour before its time, and Joanna herself went off to the study like a gale of wind, to order papa into the dining-room. But the scene had changed by this time in Melmar’s private apartment. Mr. Cassilis was writing when Joanna entered, while her father stood by him holding some papers, and looking, stealthily watchful, over the young man’s shoulder, so like an old brindled big cat in the most feline concentration of vigilance, that Joanna’s irreverent imagination was tickled with the resemblance.

“Eh, papa,” cried the girl, with a sudden laugh, “I would not like to be a mouse in your way!—but Mr. Cassilis is too big for a mouse,” added Joanna; “come to luncheon, it’s ready—but I don’t believe Patricia will ever speak to you again—what are these?”

“No business of yours, you gipsy!” said Melmar, as she pulled at his papers.

“Eh, but it is—I can see Norlaw’s name!” cried Joanna; “Mr. Cassilis, tell Mrs. Livingstone that we know—and that I think shame of papa!—and if it was not that I could not help it, I never, never, would have spoken to him again! What are you getting all these papers for? If it’s to hurt the boys you shanna take them out of Melmar! You sha’n’t, whatever he may say!”

“Softly—Mr. Huntley of Melmar will hurt the Livingstones no more,” said Cassilis.

Meanwhile Melmar read the young lawyer’s receipt for these precious bits of paper with no very pleasant face. It was a great deal too carefully worded to be of any ulterior service. Even the pettifogging ingenuity of the “old school” did not see at present any capabilities in it.