MRS. MOWBRAY took the minister’s arm with a little eagerness. “I am so glad,” she said, “so very glad to have an opportunity of speaking to you alone. I want so much to consult you, Mr. Buchanan. I should have ventured to come over in the morning to ask for you, if I had not this opportunity; but then your wife would have had to know, and just at first I don’t want anyone to know—so I am more glad of this opportunity than words can say——”
“I am sure,” said Mr. Buchanan, steadily, “that I shall be very glad if I can be of any use to you. I am afraid you will not find much to interest you in our homely garden. Vegetables on one side, and flowers on the other, but at the east corner there is rather a pretty view. I like to come out in the evening, and see the lighthouses in the distance slowly twirling round. We can see the Bell Rock——”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “I have no doubt it is very fine, but take me to the quietest corner, never mind about the view—other people will be coming to see the view, and to talk is what I want.”
“I don’t think anyone will be coming,” said the minister, and he led her among the flower-beds, and across what was then, in homely language, called not the lawn, but the green, to the little raised mound upon which there was a little summer-house, surrounded with tall lilac bushes—and the view. Mrs. Mowbray gave but a passing glance at the view.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “the same as you see from the cliffs, the Forfarshire coast and the bay. It is very nice, but not remarkable—whereas what I have got to say to you is of the gravest importance—at least to Frank and me. Mr. Buchanan, as the clergyman, you must know of everything that is going on—you knew the late Mr. Anderson, my husband’s uncle, very well, didn’t you? Well, you know Frank has always been brought up to believe himself his great-uncle’s heir. And we believed it would be something very good. My poor husband, in his last illness, always said, ‘Uncle John will provide for you and the boy.’ And we thought it would be quite a good thing. Now you know, Mr. Buchanan, it is really not at all a good thing.”
In the green shade of the foliage, Mr. Buchanan’s face looked gray. He said, “Indeed, I am sorry,” in a mechanical way, which seemed intended to give the impression that he was not interested at all.
“Oh, perhaps you think that is not of much importance,” said the lady. “Probably you imagine that we have enough without that. But it is not really so—it is of the greatest importance to Frank and me. Oh, here are some people coming! I knew other people would be coming to see this stupid view—when they can see it from the road just as well, any time they please.”
It was a young pair of sweethearts who came up the little knoll, evidently with the intention of appropriating the summer-house, and much embarrassed to find their seniors in possession. They had, however, to stay a little and talk, which they all did wildly, pointing out to each other the distant smoke of the city further up, and the white gleam of the little light-house opposite. Mrs. Mowbray said scarcely anything, but glared at the intrusive visitors, to whom the minister was too civil. Milly Beaton, who was one of these intruders, naturally knew every point of the view as well as he did, but he pointed out everything to her in the most elaborate way, at which the girl could scarcely restrain her laughter. Then the young people heard, or pretended to hear, some of their companions calling them, and hurried away.
“I knew,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “that we should be interrupted here——”
“No, I don’t think so: there will be no more of it,” said the minister.
He was not so unwilling to be interrupted as she was. Then it occurred to her, with a knowledge drawn from other regions than St. Rule’s, that she was perhaps compromising the minister, and this idea gave her a lively pleasure.
“They will be wondering what we have to say to each other,” she cried with a laugh, and she perceived with delight, or thought she perceived, that this idea discomposed Mr. Buchanan. He changed colour, and shuffled from one foot to the other, as he stood before her. She had placed herself on the garden-seat, within the little chilly dark green bower. She had not contemplated any such amusement, but neither had she time to indulge in it, which might have been done so very safely with the minister. For it was business that was in her mind, and she felt herself a business woman before all.
“Fortunately,” she went on, “nobody can the least guess what I want to consult you about. Oh! here is another party! I knew how it would be. Take me to see your cabbages, Mr. Buchanan, or anywhere. I must speak to you without continual interruptions like this.”
Her tone was a little imperative, which the minister resented. He was not in the habit of being spoken to in this way, and he was extremely glad of the interruption.
“It is only a parcel of boys,” he said, “they will soon go.” Perhaps he did not perceive that the carefully-attired Frank was among the others, led by his own older son John, who, Mr. Buchanan well knew, would not linger when he saw how the summer-house was occupied. Frank, however, came forward and made his mother a satirical bow.
“Oh, this is where you are, mater?” he said. “I couldn’t think where you had got to. My compliments, I wouldn’t interrupt you for the world.”
“You ridiculous boy!” Mrs. Mowbray said; and they both laughed, for what reason neither Mr. Buchanan nor his serious son John could divine.
“So you have come up, too, to see the view,” said the lady; “I never knew you had any love for scenery and the beauties of nature.”
“Do you call this scenery?” said Frank, who, in his mother’s presence, felt it necessary to be superior as she was. “If you could only have the ruins in the foreground, instead of this great bit of sea, and those nasty little black rocks.”
“They may be little,” said John, with all the sudden heat of a son of St. Rule’s, “but they’re more dangerous than many that are far bigger. I would not advise you to go near them in a boat. Father, isn’t that true?”
“It is true that it is a dangerous coast,” said Mr. Buchanan, “that is the reason why no ship that can help it comes near the bay.”
“I don’t care for that kind of boating,” said Frank. “Give me a wherry on the river.”
“Give you a game—a ball, or something,” said his mother, exasperated. “You ought to get up something to amuse the young ladies. Doesn’t Mrs. Buchanan allow dancing? You might teach them, Frank, some of the new steps.”
“We want you for that, mater,” said the lad.
“Oh, I can’t be bothered now. I’ve got some business to talk over with Mr. Buchanan.”
Frank looked malicious and laughed, and Mrs. Mowbray laughed, too, in spite of herself. The suggestion that she was reducing the minister to subjection was pleasant, even though it was an interruption. Meanwhile, Mr. Buchanan and his son stood gazing, absolutely unable to understand what it was all about. John, however, not used to badinage, seized with a firm grip the arm of the new-comer.
“Come away, and I’ll take you into the Castle,” he said, giving a drag and push, which the other, less vigorous, was not able to resist.
“I cannot stand this any longer,” cried Mrs. Mowbray, “take me please somewhere—into your study, Mr. Buchanan, where I can talk to you undisturbed. I am sure for once your wife will not mind.”
“My wife!” the minister said, in great surprise, “why should my wife mind?” But it was certain, that he did himself mind very much, having not the faintest desire to admit this intruder into his sanctum. But it was in vain to resist. He took her among the cabbages as she had suggested, but by this time the garden was in the possession of a young crowd penetrating everywhere, and after an ineffectual attempt among those cabbages to renew the conversation, Mrs. Mowbray so distinctly declared her desire to finish her communication in the study, that he could no longer resist. Mrs. Mowbray looked about her, before she had taken her seat, and went into the turret-room with a little curiosity.
“I suppose you never admit anyone here,” she said.
“Admit! No, but the two younger children used to be constantly here,” said Mr. Buchanan. “They have left some of their books about still. There was a great alliance between them a few years ago, but since Rodie grew more of a school-boy, and Elsie more of a woman——”
“Elsie! why, she is quite grown-up,” said the visitor. “I hope you don’t let her come here to hear all your secrets. I shouldn’t like her to hear mine, I am sure. Is there any other door?”
“There is neither entrance nor exit, but by my study door,” Mr. Buchanan said, somewhat displeased.
“Well, that is a good thing. I hope you always make sure when you receive your penitents that there is nobody there.”
The minister made no reply. He thought her a very disagreeable, very presuming and impertinent woman; but he placed a chair for her with all the patience he could muster. He had a faint feeling as if she had lodged an arrow somewhere in him, and that he felt it quivering, but did not inquire into his sensations. The first thing seemed to be to get rid of her as quickly as he could.
“Now we can talk at last,” she said, sinking down into the arm-chair, stiff and straight as it was—for the luxury of modern days had scarcely yet begun and certainly had not come as far as St. Rule’s—which Mrs. Buchanan generally occupied when she came upstairs to talk over their “whens and hows” with her husband.
“It is very serious indeed, and I am very anxious to know if you can throw any light upon it. Mr. Morrison, the man of business, tells me that old Mr. Anderson had lent a great deal of money to various people, and that it proved quite impossible to get it back. Was that really the case? or is this said merely to cover over some defalcations—some——”
“Morrison,” cried the minister, almost angrily, “is as honourable a man as lives; there have been no defalcations, at least so far as he is concerned.”
“It is very satisfactory to hear that,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “because of course we are altogether in his hands; otherwise I should have got my English solicitor to come down and look into matters. But you know one always thinks it must be the lawyer’s fault—and then so many men go wrong that have a very good reputation.”
Mr. Buchanan relieved his heart with a long painful breath. He said:
“It is true; there are such men: but Morrison is not one of them.”
“Well, that’s satisfactory at least to hear,” she said doubtfully, “but tell me about the other thing. Is it true that our old uncle was so foolish, so mad—I really don’t know any word sufficiently severe to use—so unjust to us as to give away his money on all hands, and lend to so many people without a scrap of acknowledgment, without so much as an I.O.U., so that the money never could be recovered; is it possible this can be true?”
Mr. Buchanan was obliged to clear his throat several times before he could speak.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said, “was one of the men who are so highly commended in Scripture, though it is perhaps contrary to modern ideas. The merciful man is merciful and lendeth. He was a providence to many troubled persons. I had heard——”
“But, Mr. Buchanan,” cried the lady, raising herself up in her chair, “you cannot think that’s right; you cannot imagine it is justifiable. Think of his heirs.”
“Yes,” he replied, “perhaps at that time he did not think of his heir. If it had been his own child—but we must be fair to him. Your son was not a very near relation, and he scarcely knew the boy.”
“Not a near relation!” exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray, “but he was the nearest relation. There was no one else to count at all. A man’s money belongs to his family. He has no right to go and alienate it, to give a boy reason to expect a good fortune, and then to squander the half of it, which really belonged to Frank more than to him.”
“You must remember,” said the minister, with a dreadful tightening at his throat, feeling that he was pleading for himself as well as for his old benefactor, “you must remember that the money did not come from the family—in which case all you say might be true—but from his own exertions; and probably he believed what is also written in Scripture, that a man has a right to do what he will with his own.”
“Oh, Mr. Buchanan!” cried Mrs. Mowbray, “that I should hear a clergyman speak like this. Who is the widow and the orphan to depend upon, if not on the clergy, to stand up for them and maintain their rights? I should have thought now that instead of encouraging people who got round this old man—who probably was not very clear in his head at the end of his life—and got loans from him, you would have stood up for his heirs and let them know—oh! with all the authority of the church, Mr. Buchanan—that it was their duty before everything to pay their debts, all the more,” cried the lady, holding up an emphatic finger, “all the more if there was nothing to show for them, no way of recovering them, and it was left to their honour to pay.”
The minister had been about to speak; but when she put forth this argument he sat dumb, his lips apart, gazing at her almost with a look of terror. It was a full minute before he attempted to say anything, and that in the midst of a discussion of this sort seems a long time. He faltered a little at last, when he did speak.
“I am not sure,” he said, “that I had thought of this: but no doubt you are right, no doubt you are right.”
“Certainly I am right,” she cried, triumphant in her victory. “I knew you would see the justice of it. Frank has always been brought up to believe that he would be a rich man. He has been brought up with this idea. He has the habits and the notions of a man with a very good fortune; and now that I am here and can look into it, what is it? A mere competence! Nothing that you could call a fortune at all.”
Oh, what it is to be guilty! The minister had not a word to say. He looked piteously in her face, and it seemed to him that it was an injured woman who sat before him, injured by his hand. He had never wronged any one so far as he knew before, but this was a woman whom he had wronged. She and her son, and her son’s children to all possible generations,—he had wronged them. Though no one else might know it, yet he knew it himself. Frank Mowbray’s fortune, which was not a fortune, but a mere competence, had been reduced to that shrunken measure by him. His conscience smote him with her voice. There was nothing to show for it, no way of recovering it; it was a debt of honour, and it was this that he refused to pay. He trembled under her eye. He felt that she must be able to read to the bottom of his soul.
“I am very sorry,” he said; “I am afraid that perhaps none of us thought of that. But it is all past—I don’t know what I could do, what you would wish me to do.”
“I would wish you,” cried Mrs. Mowbray, “to talk to them about it. Ah! I knew I should not speak in vain when I spoke to you. It is a shameful thing, is it not, to defraud a truthful, inexperienced boy, one that knows nothing about money nor how to act in such circumstances. If he had not his mother to speak for him, what would become of Frank? He is so young and so peace-making. He would say don’t bother if he heard me speaking about it. He would be content to starve himself, and let other people enjoy what was his. I thought you would tell me perhaps who were the defaulters.”
“No, I certainly could not do that,” he said harshly, with a sound in his voice which made him not recognise it for his. He had a momentary feeling that some one else in the room, not himself, had here interposed and spoken for him.
“You could not? you mean you would not. And you the clergyman, the minister that should protect the orphan! Oh, Mr. Buchanan, this is not what I expected when I braced up my nerves to speak to you. I never thought but that you would take up my cause. I thought you would perhaps go round with me to tell them they must pay, and how badly my poor boy had been left: or that at least you would preach about it, and tell the people what was their duty. He must have lent money to half St. Rule’s,” cried Mrs. Mowbray; “those people that all look so decent and so well-dressed on Sunday at church. They are all as well-dressed (though their clothes are not well made) as any one need wish to be: and to think they should be owing us hundreds, nay, thousands of money! It is a dreadful thing for my poor Frank.”
“Not thousands,” said the minister, “not thousands. A few hundreds perhaps, but not more.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “I have heard there was one that got four hundred out of him; at interest and compound interest, what does that come to by this time? Not much short of thousands, Mr. Buchanan, and there may be many more.”
“Did Morrison tell you that?” he asked hastily.
“No matter who told me. How am I to get at that man? I should make him pay up somehow, oh trust me for that, if I could only make out who he was.”
“There was no such man,” said the minister. There breathed across his mind, as he spoke, the burden of the parable: “Take now thy bill, and sit down quickly, and write fourscore.” “I have not heard of any of Mr. Anderson’s debtors who had got so large a loan as that: but Morrison expressly said that it was in the will he had freely forgiven them all.”
“I should not forgive them,” cried the lady, harshly. “Get me a list of them, Mr. Buchanan, give me a list of them, and then we shall see what the law will say. Get me a list of them, Mr. Buchanan! I am sure that you must know them all.”
“I don’t know that I could tell you more than one of them.”
“That will be the four hundred man!” cried Mrs. Mowbray. “Tell me of him, tell me of him, Mr. Buchanan, and I shall always be grateful to you. Tell me the one you know.”
“I must first think it over—and—take counsel,” the minister said.