We have written somewhat ahead of our general narrative, and must now recur to Lord Fettercairn's visit to Mr. Kenneth Kippilaw in Edinburgh, at that gentleman's request—one which filled the old Peer with some surprise.
'Why the deuce did not his agent visit him?' he thought.
Smarting under Shafto's insolence, and acting on information given to him readily by Madelon Galbraith, Mr. Kippilaw took certain measures to obtain some light on a matter which he should have taken before.
'You look somewhat unhinged, Kippilaw,' said Lord Fettercairn, as he seated himself in the former's private business room.
'I feel so, my lord,' replied the lawyer, in a fidgety way, as he breathed upon and wiped his spectacles; 'I have to talk over an unpleasant matter with you.'
'Business?'
'Yes; perhaps you would defer it till after dinner?'
'Not at all—what the deuce is it? Debts of Shafto's?'
'Worse, my lord!'
'Worse! You actually seem unwell; have a glass of sherry, if I may press you in your own house.'
'No thanks; I am in positive distress.'
'How—about what?' asked the Peer impatiently.
'The fact is, my lord, I don't know how to go about it and explain; but for the first time since I began my career as a W.S.—some forty years ago now—I have made a great professional blunder, I fear.'
'Sorry to hear it—but what have I to do with all that?'
'Much.'
Lord Fettercairn changed colour.
'You wrote strangely of Shafto?'
'No wonder!' groaned Mr. Kippilaw.
'How?'
'The matter very nearly affects your lordship's dearest interests—the honour of your house and title.'
'The devil!' exclaimed the Peer, starting up, and touched upon his most tender point.
'I have had more than one long conversation with the old nurse, Madelon Galbraith, and therefore instituted certain inquiries, which I should have done before, and have come to the undoubted and legal conclusion that—that——'
'What?' asked Fettercairn, striking the floor with his right heel.
'That the person who passes as your grandson is not your grandson at all!'
'What—how—who the devil is he then?'
'The son of a Miss MacIan who married a Mr. Shafto Gyle.'
'D—n the name! Then who and where is my grandson and heir?'
'One who was lately or is now serving as a soldier in Zululand.'
'My God! and you tell me all this now—now?'
'When Lennard Melfort lay dying at Revelstoke he entrusted the proofs of his only son's birth with his older nephew, Shafto, who, with amazing cunning, used them to usurp his rights and position. I blame myself much. I should have made closer inquiries at the time; but the documents seemed all and every way to the point, and I could not doubt the handwriting or the signatures of your poor dead son. The result, however, has rather stunned me.'
'And, d—n it, Kippilaw, it rather stuns me!' exclaimed Lord Fettercairn, in high wrath. 'May it not be a mistake, this last idea?'
'No—everything is too well authenticated.'
'But, Kippilaw,' said Lord Fettercairn, after a pause, caused by dire perplexity, 'we had the certificate of birth.'
'Yes—but not in Shafto's name. The document was mutilated and without the baptismal certificate, of which I have got this copy from the Rev. Mr. Paul Pentreath. The name in both is, as you see,' added Mr. Kippilaw, laying the document on the table, 'Florian, only son of the Hon. Lennard Melfort (otherwise MacIan) and Flora, his wife—Florian, called so after her.'
'You have seen this young man?'
'Yes—once in this room, and I was struck with his likeness to Lennard. He is dark, Shafto fair. The true heir has a peculiar mark on his right arm, says Madelon Galbraith, his nurse. Here is a letter from a doctor of the regiment stating that Florian has such a mark, which Shafto has not; and mother-marks, as they are called, never change, like the two marks of the famous "Claimant."
'I cannot realize it all—that we have been so befooled!' exclaimed Lord Fettercairn, walking up and down the room.
'But you must; it will come home to you soon enough.'
'Egad, so far as bills and debts go, it has come home to me sharply enough already. It is a terrible story—a startling one.'
'Few families have stories like it.'
'And one does not wish such in one's own experience, Kippilaw. It is difficult of belief—monstrous, Kippilaw!'
'Monstrous, indeed, my Lord Fettercairn!' chimed in Mr. Kippilaw, who then proceeded to unfold a terrible tale of the results of Shafto's periodical visits to Edinburgh and London—his bills and post-obits with the money-lenders, who would all be 'diddled' now, as he proved not to be the heir at all; and though last, not least, his late disgraceful affair of the loaded die, and the fracas with Major Garallan.
'Garallan! that old woman Drumshoddy's nephew—whew!' His lordship perspired with pure vexation. 'I have to thank you, however, for finding out the true heir at last.'
'When there are a fortune and a title in the case, people are easily found, my lord.'
'Things come right generally, as they always do, if one waits and trusts in God,' said Madelon Galbraith, when she was admitted to an audience, in which, with the garrulity of years, she supplemented all that Mr. Kippilaw had advanced; and, as she laughed with exultation, she showed—despite her age—two rows of magnificent teeth—teeth that were bright as her eyes were dark.
'Laoghe mo chri! Laoghe mo chri!' she murmured to herself; 'your only son will be righted yet.'
Every nation has its own peculiar terms of endearment, so Madelon naturally referred to Flora in her own native Gaelic.
'And Florian is—as you say, Kippilaw—serving in Zululand?' said Lord Fettercairn.
'Yes.'
'Serving as a private soldier?'
'He was——'
'Was—is he dead?' interrupted the Peer sharply.
'No; he is now an officer, and a distinguished one—an officer of the gallant but most unfortunate 24th. I have learned that much.'
'Write to him at once, and meanwhile telegraph to the Adjutant-General—no matter what the expense—for immediate intelligence about him. You will also write to Shafto—you know what to say to him.'
With right goodwill Mr. Kippilaw hastened to obey the Peer's injunctions in both instances.
He wrote to Shafto curtly, relating all that had transpired, adding that he (Shafto) could not retain his present position for another day without risking a public trial, and that if he would confess the vile and cruel imposture of which he had been guilty he might escape being sent to prison, and obtaining perhaps 'permanent employment' in the Perth Penitentiary.
This letter—though not unexpected—proved a most bitter pill to Shafto! He saw that 'the game was up'—his last card played, that life had no more in it for him, and that there was nothing left for him but to fly the country and his debts together.
His face was set hard, and into his shifty grey eyes came the savage gleam one may see in those of a cat before it springs, but with this expression were mingled rage and fear.
With Mr. Kippilaw's letter were two others, from different parties. In one he was informed that legal proceedings had been taken against him, and in default of his putting in an appearance, judgment for execution and costs had been given against him in an English court, for £847 16s. 8d., in favour of a Jew, who held another bill, which, though it originally represented £400, would cost £800 before he parted with it; and Shafto actually laughed a little bitter and discordant laugh as he rent the lawyers' letters into fragments and cast them to the wind.
Before departing, however, and before his story transpired, he contrived to borrow from the butler and housekeeper every spare pound they possessed, and quietly went forth, portmanteau in hand.
Did he as he thus left the house recall the auspicious day on which he had first seen, with keen and avaricious exultation, Craigengowan in all its baronial beauty, its wealth of pasture and meadow-land, of wood, and moor, and mountain, and deemed that all—all were, or would be, his?
He turned his back on the Howe of the Mearns for ever, and from that hour all trace of him was lost!
* * * * *
The reply to Mr. Kippilaw's telegram to South Africa gave him, and even his noble client, cause for some anxiety.
It was dated from Headquarters, Ulundi, on the last day of August, and stated that Lieutenant MacIan 'was down with fever, and not expected to live.'
So—if he died—the title of Fettercairn, being a Scottish one, would go to Finella, and the heir male of whosoever she married.