The Truth-Tellers. A novel

Part I. Chapter

I. OF THE NATURE OF A BOMB SHELL. Miss Mortimer came leisurely down the broad and handsome staircase of her London house, which was one of the pleasantest in that delightful old spot which is almost rebuilt now and which we call Hans Place. Miss Mortimer's house was one of the newly built ones, a handsome, red-brick mansion as to the outside, a spacious, roomy, and elegant abode as to its interior. The time was dull November. Outside, the air was thick and heavy with fog ; within, Miss Mortimer's careful servants had turned up the elec tric light, and as she came down the spacious stair way she was greeted by the rich glow of a blazing fire which illumined the hall. " A dreadful morning, James," she remarked, as she passed into the beautiful dining-room. " It is, ma'am. I think we're going to 'ave a thoroughly foggy day," was James' sedate reply.

James had been many years in the employment of Miss Mortimer, and really knew her affairs much better than she knew them herself. " Shall you be going out of doors to-day, ma'am ?" he enquired, as he tucked his mistress comfortably into her accustomed place at table. " No, James, I think not," said Miss Mortimer, with a shuddering glance at the window, " I think not. Yes, I will have some of that kedgeree." The sedate James went, with the regular and careful walk of the well-trained London servant, to the end of the table where the kedgeree was placed. He helped his mistress to a goodly quantity, which he placed in front of her. " A little toast, ma'am ?" " Yes. Thank you, James. How very late the post is this morning," Miss Mortimer added. " I daresay it is the fog, ma'am," said James, with an admirable mingling of indifference and regret in his tones.

" Then I may tell Cox that you will not require anything to-day ?" " Yes, except this evening, James. I dine at Mrs. Halliburton's." " Very good, ma'am. At what time ?" " Oh — I think at a quarter to eight. But you might look at the invitation rack." " I will, ma'am." He departed out of the room with the same stealthy and catlike tread, and Miss Mortimer picked THE TRUTH TELLERS. 11 up one of several papers which were lying on the little table set at her left hand. The first paper that she happened to take up was Truth, and she set it up against the coffee-pot and glanced down its pun gent pages with what was evidently considerable mental refreshment. " Dear me ! Truth gets more scurrilous every day," her thoughts ran. She had finished the kedgeree and helped herself to a kidney before the faithful James again made his appearance.

This time he carried a silver tray on which were a handful of letters. "Oh, the letters at last!" said Miss Mortimer. " Thank you, James, thank you." She opened them as they came, not taking the trouble, as some ladies do, to scrutinize the envelopes before she began her correspondence. Two invita tions, three small accounts, a letter from her dress maker asking her to be fitted on the following morn ing, a letter from her hair-dresser saying that he had received his fresh supplies from Paris and was now prepared to tint her hair according to her instruc tions, three letters from intimate friends out of Lon don, three communications from gentlemen connected with public companies, who were most anxious to increase Miss Mortimer's income by twenty per cent., and last of all a long official-looking envelope bear ing a North British postmark.

" Oh ! This is from Tom. Yet that is not Tom's writing," Miss Mortimer exclaimed aloud. " Still, that is his postmark. Ah ! dear, dear ; I wonder if I shall ever get to that enchanted island of his ! I fancy not. It must be very charming living in a feudal atmosphere, very primitive and all that kind of thing, but five hours of open sea in what he is pleased to call a tug — dear, dear, dear ; I don't think I can face it ! One would feel such a wreck when one landed." She broke the seal of the letter and carelessly drew out the contents. The first glance showed her that it was not from her brother, but from his solicitors, in fact. It was dated a couple of days back, and was written from a town at one of the most northerly points of the Scottish coasts. " Dear Madam," it began, " we regret to inform you of the unexpected demise of your respected brother, Sir Thomas Mortimer, which took place at his residence in Fynlan early yesterday morning.

Sir Thomas paid us a visit not more than a fortnight ago, when he then seemed in the very best of health. To us his demise was therefore quite unexpected ; but we learn from Miss Mortimer, and also from the bailiff of the estate, that Sir Thomas had been seriously ill for several days, — in short, he died of pneu monia, which attacked him in an exceedingly aggra vated form. The late Sir Thomas's will is in our possession, and was drawn up by us about two years ago in accordance with his instructions. By it you are left sole guardian of his children, five in number. There will be ample provision for Sir Thomas' sons and daughters. The will is a rather complicated one, and in case you are not prepared to make so long a journey at this time of year, we are at the present moment engaged in drafting a copy of it, which we shall have the pleasure of forwarding to you as soon as completed.

Our Mr. McTavish returned to Fynlan by the yacht which brought the news of Sir Thomas's demise, and it will immediately return here in order to be at your disposal in case you should wish to go to Fynlan Castle. Might we ask you to be good enough to apprise us by tele gram of your intentions in this respect, and whether, in the event of your not wishing to make the journey, you will give us the necessary instructions for carrying out the late Sir Thomas's obsequies. " We beg to remain, Madam, " Your obedient servants, " McGregor & McTavish. Miss Mortimer dropped the letter upon the table and sat back in her chair with a feeling as if the end of the world had come upon her. So Thomas was dead, bluff, good-natured, crochetty, cranky Sir Thomas Mortimer, of whom she knew next to nothing, and who had left her the sole guardian of his five children, only one of whom had she ever seen.

It was a tragedy, and Miss Mortimer drew a long breath as she realized it ! Fynlan — yes, that was the name of the place in which he had lived and wherein he had brought up his five children — Fyn lan, and Fynlan was five hours' journey from the most northerly point to which British land ran ! Probably they were young savages ! She fancied the eldest girl must be about sixteen ; of the younger ones she had no record. She had only seen her sister-in-law, Lady Muriel, twice in her life; once was when she and Sir Thomas paid a brief visit to London, when Sir Thomas had persisted in going about in the half-naked and wholly indecent dress of a Highland chieftain. She remembered that he had been rather offended because she had told him that it was out of keeping for Sir Thomas Mortimer, a respectable Berkshire baronet, to be making a travesty of himself in a garb to which he had no national rights.

At all times, Sir Thomas, who was much her senior, very much her senior, Miss Morti mer reminded herself, had been an individual of a somewhat peppery nature, and he had been so angry on that occasion that the poor lady had felt more than thankful that a convenient godmother had amply provided for all her needs, so that she was not in the smallest degree dependent upon the favour or kindness of her own people. Of course, she had had a provision of five thousand pounds under her father's will, but the interest on five thousand pounds will not buy houses in Hans Place nor do much towards keeping them up. Miss Mortimer's god mother had left her so exceedingly well provided for that she was enabled, with the frankness which wants nothing, to give any opinion which crossed her mind without fear of disastrous consequences.

The consequences in this instance had been that she and her sister-in-law had never become intimate ; indeed, after that short visit, she never saw Lady Muriel but once again ; that was when they had been down to the Chase for a few days. The Chase was the name of the old place in Berkshire which had called the Mortimers lords for several hundreds of years. Miss Mortimer had stayed three days with her brother and his wife at the old house, and, looking back, she recalled how Lady Muriel had com plained of feeling choked and hemmed in there. " I am not a very strong woman," she remarked, " and I am always better in a brisk and bracing climate. This soft Berkshire air suffocates me. I don't think I shall ever come to the Chase again." Poor lady, she never did go to the Chase again, and some years afterwards, when Miss Mortimer heard of her death, she wrote very kindly and sym pathetically to her brother, but she happened unfor tunately to say that probably now he would be more at the Chase and that she would see more of him.

In reply to this well-meant consolatory epistle she received an indignant and somewhat incoherent letter, saying that he should never again visit a place which had been disliked so much by his dear wife. " I shall spend the rest of my life," Sir Thomas wrote, " within sight of my darling's grave, and I shall en deavour to bring up my children on those broad and unyielding lines of truth which were the guiding motive of her life. At any time, my dear sister and last living relative of my own generation, that you care to travel so far as this lonely island you will receive a warm and brotherly welcome ; but I do not think I shall ever come to England again." Years had gone by since that day, and Sir Thomas never had travelled so far as England again. No, he had passed his life and he had died in the island home which he had made for himself, and Miss Mor timer wept a little — quite decorous and well-restrained tears — to think that her only brother had passed away without having once seen her again.

" It is very sad," she said to herself, and then she wondered whether she had not better order the brougham in spite of the fog, and go and consult Madame Zareen as to the mourning which would be necessary for her to wear. The stately James came into the room again just as she rose from the table. " Oh, James," said Miss Mortimer, " I have had such dreadful news ! My brother, Sir Thomas, died three days ago at his place in — that is, off that island that he lived at in Scotland. And, James," she added, barely giving him time to do more than begin a murmur of respectful sympathy, " Sir Thomas has left me guardian, sole guardian of all his children. I cannot think what we shall do with them." " Dear me, ma'am, that is a great responsibility for you," said James. " Where did Sir Thomas live ?"

" Oh, he lived on an island five hours' journey from — six hundred miles off," said Miss Mortimer, helplessly. " And you will find it necessary to attend the funeral, ma'am ?" " Oh, no, James, not this weather ! No, James ; five hours of open sea in a small steam-yacht, which I expect is little more than a tug, at this time of year, is beyond me," said Miss Mortimer, with consider able emphasis ; " and it is not as if I could do my poor brother any good by going. No, I will send a telegram to the lawyers at once, authorizing them to carry out all the necessaiy ceremonies without me. And should you think a wreath would travel as far, James ?" " Not a wreath of 'ot-'ouse flowers, ma'am," said James, promptly. 2* b THE TR i TTH- TEL L ERS. 18 " Then what ought I to do ? Could I send im mortelles ?

Would immortelles be out of keeping, do you think, James ? Now, if my brother had been' a soldier or a sailor, or anything of that kind, I should have sent a laurel wreath, — that would have been most appropriate, — but I cannot very well send a laurel wreath under the circumstances. Really, James, I don't know what to do. What do you think I ought to do for the best ?" " I should say, ma'am," said James, sedately, " that the florist would be the best person to advise you. Considering the time of year, ma'am, and the dis tance the remembrance would have to travel, I should say that they would be able to make something more appropriate than 'ot-'ouse flowers, or even a laurel wreath, — something in winter berries." " Not mistletoe, James," said Miss Mortimer, quickly. James coughed discreetly behind his hand.

" I was not thinking of mistletoe, ma'am," he replied, quickly," but 'oily berries, 'ollyberries and other things of a similar nature would look a little cheerful at this time of year, don't you think, ma'am ? And they would travel well." " Well, James, I think if you can send round to Cox and get him to bring me the brougham at once, — I really don't like taking the horses out this weather, to say nothing of poor Cox, — but it is imperative that I should have my mourning. You can explain the circumstances to him." " Very good, ma'am," said James, blandly. " Then might I ask, ma'am, shall you be goin' up at all ?" " Not this time of year, James, certainly not. It would be as much as my life was worth ; and as I am left these children's sole guardian I must regard my own as a more valuable life than I have done up to now.

I cannot think what I shall do with them," she added, looking helplessly round as if she was considering whether she could put up five beds in different corners of the room. " I suppose there are schools and things to be had. You see, James, we are not accustomed to young people." " They will make the 'ouse bright and lively, ma'am," said James, who was great at making the best of things. " It will give you a fresh interest in life, Miss Mortimer. For my part, ma'am, I always like to 'ave young ladies and gentlemen about the 'ouse. Then shall I send off the telegram that you mentioned just now?" " Oh, yes, James ; I had forgotten it. Wait a moment. I will write it at once." She sat down at a writing-table which stood on one side of the spacious fireplace and addressed a telegram to McGregor & McTavish " Quite im possible for me to make so long a journey in this weather.

My health imperatively forbids it," she wrote. " I will leave it to you to make all necessary arrangements for my brother's funeral and for mourn ing for his children and servants. Carry out what you believe would have been his own wishes, and kindly convey my deepest sympathy to my nieces and nephews." She signed it " Elinor Mortimer," and handed it to the attendant James with a deep sigh.

CHAPTER II. MISS MORTIMER LOOKS FORWARD WITH DREAD AND BACKWARD WITH DISMAY.

Two day? later Miss Mortimer received from Mc- Gregor & McTavish the copy of her brother's last will and testament. They had indeed spoken truly when they described it as a somewhat complicated document. It was more than complicated ; it was voluminous to a degree. It set forth in the usual legal phraseology that the testator was of sound mind, and that he had died in the fear of God and in the full belief of salvation to come, and then went on to dispose of his large properties, the main portion to the boy. All the Berkshire property, his several Scottish estates, and the island and castle of Fynlan were to go with the title to his eldest son, Thomas ; tc his younger son — apparently only two of the five children were boys — he left in strict trust for him self and his children a sum in money of fifty thou sand pounds ; to each of his three daughters he left in the same manner twenty-five thousand pounds.

Then came a long list of possessions, some of which he wished to go with the title as heirlooms, some of which he wished to be held in trust by his sister and executrix for the younger and other children. Noth ing was left to chance ; every little thing had been carefully thought out and arranged for. Then he appointed his sister, Elinor Mortimer, spinster, of Hans Place, London, as his children's sole guardian. He left to her a sum of five thousand pounds and a certain necklet which had belonged to their mother as a small return for the trouble which he was re luctantly compelled, by circumstances over which she would understand he had no control, to place upon her. The trustees, whom he named, were to pay over to the said Elinor Mortimer a sum of not less than five thousand a year for the maintenance and education of his children.

This sum was to re main unaltered so long as any of his children were under age, but as they came of age it was to be re duced by one-fifth. His daughters were not to marry without their guardian's consent until they were of full age, but if they married with her consent before that time their incomes were to be paid over on the marriage-day. Then Sir Thomas gave at length his reasons for having selected his sister for this office and trust. " My sister herself, and others whom it may or may not concern," the testament ran, " may think it somewhat strange that I should have placed this great trust upon one of whom I have seen but little during my married life. I will briefly recount my reasons for having made such a choice, and will also ask my sister to bear one or two things in mind, which I shall thank her to regard as my last and most earnest wishes concerning the bringing up of my dear children.

My late dear wife's main principle in life was an unswerving love of truth, and, in accord ance with her wishes and my own desires, I have brought up my children in what I might almost call a new religion. I care nothing for creeds, believing that only the truth will last when all else shall have faded away. King Agrippa asked, ' What is truth ?' It is to be a truth-teller ; and we inhabitants of the isle of Fynlan are proud to call ourselves the truth tellers to and before the whole world. Being fifteen years older than my sister Elinor, I have naturally not much remembrance of intimate personal inter course with her during the days of our childhood, — we were not children at the same time, — but I have before me a very frequent remembrance of a phrase which was most often upon her lips as a little child in our old Berkshire home. ' It is the truth !' was her most frequent cry.

And I have also the remem brance of a disagreement of thought which occurred during my last visit to the metropolis between my sister, my wife, and myself. This difference of thought did not lead to any difference of friendship, — at least, not upon our side, — but my sister told me that she considered I had no right to wear the Highland costume, which has been my adopted garb ever since I first came to live upon the island of Fynlan. In a certain sense I did not agree with my sister, but I have thought many times since that day that her remark pointed to an exceedingly honourable and upright sense of rectitude, which in reality went further in the cause of truth than even I had tried to do. It is because I feel convinced that my only sis ter has an innate and inborn love of the great quality of truthfulness that I have chosen her before the whole world to be the guardian of my children.

I will ask her as the last request that I shall ever make — for she will not know of this until I shall have passed to my forefathers — to keep before her in her dealings with my children only that one great principle, to keep them truthful, to see that they go on as they have begun, that they are the truth-tellers. She will find them frank, fearless, and open to a degree. They do not understand anything that is underhand, — deceit is not in them. I entreat my sister in the case of my daughters not to entrust their education wholly to others ; I mean that she shall not send them to boarding-schools, of which my dear dead wife had no opinion. In the case of my sons, it is, of course, necessary that they should receive a public school education" (" For which thank God !" ejaculated Miss Mortimer, piously).

" I have a preference for Eton, but I will leave that to my sister's v/isdom and discretion. I will also leave to her, un til my son comes of age, the entire use of my castle of Fynlan, and of the Chase, where we were both born, so that she may make their home where seems best to her from time to time. In all general details I would wish my children to have the education that befits their station in life. I leave to them my fond est blessings, and beg them to remember in all the circumstances of life that their mother was a woman of blameless integrity and of stainless honour ; a higher example they could not follow. Of their un worthy father I will ask them to think with leniency, remembering always that he was early bereaved of the support and comfort of a blessed companion and bright example."

Miss Mortimer laid down the copy of the will and wiped her eyes with a wisp of embroidered cambric. " Most touching, I am sure," she said, with a little gurgle in her voice. " Poor Thomas ! I am sure it was a very good thing for Muriel that he saw all those virtues in her. I thought she was a detestable person. Ah, well, well, I suppose there is always some one who believes in us through thick and thin. Perhaps if she had lived — but there, it is an un worthy thought, and I will not give expression to it even in my own mind. Poor Thomas ! Five children ! Dear, dear, whatever shall we do with five children ! I am sure if Thomas knew that I had so 3 I! little real sympathy with his poor Muriel he would not have chosen me as his children's guardian. It is all very sad, very sad. Well, let me see what else he says."

She tucked the wisp of cambric into the bosom of her dress and took up the copy of the will again. It was some little time before she could find the place at which she had left off reading its contents. She had, however, mastered the greater part of its mes sage, and she read to the end and then laid it aside with another deep sigh. " I suppose," she said to herself, " that I cannot leave these young things up there alone with only their savage servants and such like to take care of them. I once went up to pay a visit in the Highlands, not nearly as far north as Fynlan, and really they might have been Chocktaw Indians for aught I would have known to the con trary. They could not speak English, and they called everything she, — even the men. I wonder if my nieces and nephews will call James she !

If I remember rightly, they called themselves she. I suppose I had better send for them to come down here. Dear, dear, dear, to think of five young barbarians, who have never been off their Shetland island, being suddenly shot into one's life as five separate and grave responsibilities ! Oh, my dear Thomas, if only you had mixed with the world a little more, your sister Elinor is the very last person whom you would have chosen to carry out your dear Muriel's particular cranks in the way of bringing up children ! I wonder whether I had better send James up to fetch them, or whether I had better let one of their High land retainers bring them down and deliver them to me here on the doorstep. Really, I wish I had somebody whose advice I could ask. If it had been summer I could have gone up to — well, as far as McGregor & McTavish's office, and I could have awaited the arrival of that dreadful little steamer, but in this weather — the end of November, to travel six hundred miles to discuss business matters of the dryest character with gentlemen who would talk with such a Highland accent that I should not be able to make head nor tail of them, well, that is a little too trying even for poor Tom's sake — to say nothing of Muriel.

Oh, dear, dear, what a misfortune to think that both Thomas and Muriel should be dead and gone, and what a greater misfortune to think that they should have left five olive branches for me to take care of. I feel really as if, well, as if life was getting too much for me ! And to think that poor Thomas should be so impressed with an idea that I am afflicted with a passion for the truth. A greater mistake was never made in this world. It only shows, when you get a little twisted in your mind, how every action in life becomes subservient to the one warp. To think that the only thing that Thomas remembers of my childhood should be a little trick I had of saying, " It is the truth !" And to think that he should put such a construction upon my very natural annoyance at his going about in London with his legs all naked and petticoats on !

Oh, dear, dear, dear, what a queer world this is ! And I wonder," she said, with a sudden drop of the jaw, " whether the young Sir Thomas and his brother will both be naked boys in petticoats, and afflicted with a passion for carrying out their father's last wishes." 3* 29

Part II. Chapter III

THE ARRIVAL OF THE TRUTH-TELLERS. In due course of time the house in Hans Place was entirely ready for its young guests, and the day and hour of their arrival drew very near. Miss Mortimer had arrayed herself in the most becoming mourning, a little deeper, perhaps, than she would have thought necessary had the late Sir Thomas's will not rendered it necessary that his children should be transported from their Shetland home to her own immediate vicinity. Miss Mortimer was a lady who had no be lief in that grief which runs rampant. Her regrets for her only brother were subdued and decorous. Left to her own unbiassed judgment, they would have taken the form of light and airy attire, and by that I do not mean light and airy as to texture, but rather as an indication of depth of woe. However, as she was so soon to expect the immediate presence of her young nieces and nephews, she sacrificed her personal inclinations sufficiently to order mourning which was really quite deep in its character.

" No, Madame Zareen, I will not begin with chifson," she replied in response to a really touching suggestion from the great dress-maker on the subject of chiffon as an embellishment to a dinner costume ; " I will not begin with chiffon. You see I should not like in any way to hurt the feelings of these poor young creatures, and although the loss of a brother is a very great loss, yet it is not in any way commen surate with the terrible blank which is left by the death of a parent, — an only remaining parent, too. Well, perhaps, I may have just a little jet on the sleeves, but nothing showy. I wouldn't hurt their poor young feelings for the world." So, by the time the five young Shetlanders were due in Hans Place, Miss Mortimer might have been seen arrayed in garments which would not have done any discredit to a widow who had just got over the first symptoms of her grief, — I mean, who had just changed her weeds for more every-day garments.