The Day of Judgment. Hocking Joseph
am trying to find out all about her," he said presently. "And I would be very glad if you could give me any information concerning her childhood and girlhood up here."
"Why should I?" asked the woman. "It'll not be to my advantage."
"Please don't be so sure of that," replied Paul. He knew instinctively that she was avaricious by nature, and would be likely to do anything for gain.
"You wouldn't thank me for telling," she replied.
"If you promise to tell me all you know," said Paul, "I am empowered to give you five guineas."
"And it'll get me into no trouble?" she asked, with that suggestion of Scotch caution of which Paul had so often heard.
"No," replied he, "your name need never be mentioned; but I'm anxious to find out all I can concerning the childhood and girlhood of Jean Lindsay up to the time of her marriage."
"Her marriage!" said the woman scornfully. "Weel, it may be she was married, after all, and it may be I was hard on her, and it may be, too, it was because I thought Donald cared more for her than for my children. Anyhow, she never liked me, and I don't say that I liked her. She was a good lass as lasses go, although never tractable—always stubborn. An unnatural way she had with her, too: she always wanted to be out on the moors alone, and I used to tell Donald it would never come to any good. She might have married well. Willie Fearn, who owns a farm over the moors here, would have had her, and he's worth thousands of pounds now, is Willie. But she would have nothing to say to him. One day I saw a stranger coming up the path with her, one of these handsome Southerners, and they used to meet in secret, and I suppose he courted her. Anyhow, she ran away with him, or said she did, and then came back the next day telling us that she was married."
"Yes?" said Paul eagerly. He knew all this before, but it seemed to him as though he was getting nearer the truth that he longed to learn. "And did she stay with you long?"
"Not long," replied the woman. "You see——" And a look almost of shame came into her eyes. "Well, she stayed as long as she dared."
"And have you heard what has become of her since?" he asked.
"We've heard that she died. We've no proof of it, but we saw in the papers a few weeks afterwards that a girl was found dead, and from the description given of her we concluded that it was Jean."
"But did you not try and find out?" he asked. "Surely your husband would not be so callous towards his daughter?"
"My husband did what I told him," she said. "Besides, the girl had disgraced herself, and we did not want to be dragged into it. Mind, I'm not sure, after all, but what she was properly married, and it may be I did wrong. But there it is—she's dead."
"And did you hear anything more—have you ever heard anything more about this young Southerner?"
"Well, we are not so sure about that," replied the woman. "You see, I never saw him but once before the time Jean said he married her, and so I cannot swear to him anywhere. But some time after Jean left a man came here, and, in a roundabout way, he found out what we knew about her."
"And did you tell him she was dead?"
"I told him just what I've told you," replied the woman.
"And how did he take the news?" asked Paul.
"Oh, nothing particular," replied the woman. "He just went on talking about something else, but I believe that was a bit of make-up."
"Wasn't he a friend of the Grahams at a house called 'Highlands'?" asked Paul presently.
"I believe there were some people called Graham at the time. It is said that they came there for their summer holidays, but they left before we had guessed about Jean's trouble, and so we could never find out anything about them."
"What kind of a man was he—I mean the one who came asking questions?"
"Oh, a middle-aged man, perhaps forty or fifty. He had iron-grey whiskers, and he was bald, I remember."
"And he was the only one who ever came making inquiries?" asked Paul.
"Yes, the only one."
Paul's hopes were dashed to the ground again. Still, the man must have had some reason for coming North; no one would come all the way from England to make inquiries unless something of importance lay at the back of it.
"What kind of questions did he ask?" continued the young man.
"It is a good many years since," replied the woman, "and I am afraid I did not encourage him much. But as far as I can call to mind now, he asked how long since she had left, and whether anything had happened to her."
"And did you tell him"—and Paul's voice was almost hoarse as he spoke—"did you tell him of—of what you call her disgrace?"
"No," replied the woman harshly. "I am not one of that kind. Donald Lindsay's name is a good one, and I'm proud of it myself. Besides, I thought she was dead, and so—well, I said nothing."
"And that is all you can tell me?"
"That is all."
From the little farmstead Paul went to "Highlands," but his visit seemed in vain. The people who occupied the house had lived there for some twelve years, and they had bought it from an agent as a summer residence. They had heard that the previous owner lived in Edinburgh, but they were not sure. They only knew he was in the habit of letting the house during the summer months.
"Did you know the Grahams?" Paul asked.
"No. I've heard they lived in England, in London, in fact, but we knew nothing about them. I have been told that they were a large family, and came here during the three summer months, but that's twenty years ago now, and so nothing is known."
"And they have not been here during your time?" asked Paul.
"No," was the reply.
And this was all he learnt. He asked many questions, but the answers were all vague and tentative.
From "Highlands" he went to Willie Fearn's farm. He thought perhaps his mother's one-time admirer might be able to give him some information, but Willie Fearn was a dour Scotsman, who said he knew nothing. When Paul approached the subject of Willie's former relation to Jean Lindsay and his hopes of making her his wife, the Scotsman set his lips firmly together and refused to speak. He admitted presently how he had heard "that the lass had gut into sore trouble, and then went away and died. But there's nae proof," he said, "there's nae proof. And it's a warning to Scotch lasses to have nothing to say to Southern strangers. And Jean was a good lass," he added confidentially, "and would have made a good saving wife for a sober man with a little siller. She had a grip of doctrine, too. She was well versed in the fundamentals and would have made a good elder's wife. But, ay, man, the tempter comes in many a form, and it behoves us all to be very careful."
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