CHAPTER IX.
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!