The Disentanglers Part 39

'I'm come about stopping a marriage,' said the marquis, at last arriving at business.

'My experience is at your service,' said Merton.

'Well,' went on the marquis, 'ours is an old name.'

Merton remarked that, in the course of historical study, he had made himself acquainted with the achievements of the house.

'Auld warld tales! But I wish I could tell where the treasure is that wily auld Logan quarrelled over with the wizard Laird of Merchistoun.

Logan would not implement the contract--half profits. But my wits are wool gathering.'

He began to wander round the room, looking at the mezzotints. He stopped in front of one portrait, and said 'My Aunt!' Merton took this for an exclamation of astonishment, but later found that the lady (after Lawrence) really had been the great aunt of the marquis.

Merton conceived that the wits of his visitor were worse than 'wool gathering,' that he had 'softening of the brain.' But circ.u.mstances presently indicated that Lord Restalrig was actually suffering from a much less common disorder--softening of the heart.

He returned to his seat, and helped himself to snuff out of the enamelled gold box, on which Merton deemed it politic to keep a watchful eye.

'Man, I'm sweir' (reluctant) 'to come to the point,' said Lord Restalrig.

Merton erroneously understood him to mean that he was under oath or vow to come to the point, and showed a face of attention.

'I'm not the man I was. The doctors don't understand my case--they take awful fees--but I see they think ill of it. And that sets a body thinking. Have you a taste of brandy in the house?'

As the visitor's weather-beaten ruddiness had changed to a ghastly ashen hue, rather bordering on the azure, Merton set forth the liqueur case, and drew a bottle of soda water.

'No water,' said the peer; 'it's just ma twal' ours, an auld Scotch fas.h.i.+on,' and he took without winking an orthodox dram of brandy. Then he looked at the silver tops of the flasks.

'A good coat!' he said. 'Yours?'

Merton nodded.

'Ye quarter the Douglas Heart. A good coat. Dod, I'll speak plain. The name, Mr. Merton, when ye come to the end o' the furrow, the name is all ye have left. We brought nothing into the world but the name, we take out nothing else. A sore dispensation. I'm not the man I was, not this two years. I must dispone, I know it well. Now the name, that I thought that I cared not an empty whistle for, is worn to a rag, but I cannot leave it in the mire. There's just one that bears it, one Logan by name, and true Logan by the mother's blood. The mother's mother, my cousin, was a bonny la.s.s.'

He paused; his enfeebled memory was wandering, no doubt, in scenes more vivid to him than those of yesterday.

Merton was now attentive indeed. The miserly marquis had become, to him, something other than a curious survival of times past. There was a chance for Logan, his friend, the last of the name, but Logan was firmly affianced to Miss Markham, of the cloak department at Madame Claudine's.

And the marquis, as he said, 'had come about stopping a marriage,' and Merton was to help him in stopping it, in disentangling Logan!

The old man aroused himself. 'I have never seen the lad but once, when he was a bairn. But I've kept eyes on him. He _has_ nothing, and since I came to London I hear that he has gone gyte, I mean--ye'll not understand me--he is plighted to a long-legged shop-la.s.s, the daughter of a ne'er-do-well Australian land-louper, a doctor. This must not be. Now I'll speak plain to you, plainer than to Tod and Brock, my doers--ye call them lawyers. _They_ did not make my will.'

Merton prevented himself, by an effort, from gasping. He kept a countenance of cold attention. But the marquis was coming to the point.

'I have left all to the name, lands and rents, and mines, and money. But, unless the lad marries in his own rank, I'll change my will. It's in the hidie hole at Kirkburn, that Logan built to keep King Jamie in, when he caught him. But the fool Ruthvens marred that job, and got their kail through the reek. I'm wandering.' He helped himself to another dram, and went on, 'Ye see what I want, ye must stop that marriage.'

'But,' said Merton, 'as you are so kindly disposed towards your kinsman, this Mr. Logan, may I ask whether it would not be wise to address him yourself, as the head of his house? He may, surely he will, listen to your objections.'

'Ye do not know the Logans.'

Merton concealed his smile.

'Camstairy deevils! It's in the blood. Never once has he asked me for a pound, never noticed me by word or letter. Faith, I wish all the world had been as considerate to auld Restalrig! For me to say a word, let be to make an offer, would just tie him faster to the la.s.s. "Tyne troth, tyne a'," that is the old bye-word.'

Merton recognised his friend in this description, but he merely shook a sympathetic head. 'Very unusual,' he remarked. 'You really have no hope by this method?'

'None at all, or I would not be here on this daft ploy. There's no fool like an auld fool, and, faith, I hardly know the man I was. But they cannot dispute the will. I drew doctors to witness that I was of sound and disponing mind, and I've since been thrice to kirk and market. Lord, how they stared to see auld Restalrig in his pew, that had not smelt appleringie these forty years.'

Merton noted these words, which he thought curious and obscure. 'Your case interests me deeply,' he said, 'and shall receive my very best attention. You perceive, of course, that it is a difficult case, Mr.

Logan's character and tenacity being what you describe. I must make careful inquiries, and shall inform you of progress. You wish to see this engagement ended?'

'And the lad on with a la.s.s of his rank,' said the marquis.

'Probably that will follow quickly on the close of his present affection.

It usually does in our experience,' said Merton, adding, 'Am I to write to you at your London address?'

'No, sir; these London hotels would ruin the cunzie' (the Mint).

Merton wondered whether the Cunzie was the t.i.tle of some wealthy Scotch peer.

'And I'm off for Kirkburn by the night express. Here's wis.h.i.+ng luck,'

and the old sinner finished the brandy.

'May I call a cab for you--it still rains?'

'No, no, I'll travel,' by which the economical peer meant that he would walk.

He then shook Merton by the hand, and hobbled downstairs attended by his adviser.

'Did Mr. Logan call?' Merton asked the office boy when the marquis had trotted off.

'Yes, sir; he said you would find him at the club.'

'Call a hansom,' said Merton, 'and put up the notice, "out."' He drove to the club, where he found Logan ordering luncheon.

'Hullo, shall we lunch together?' Logan asked.

'Not yet: I want to speak to you.'

'Nothing gone wrong? Why did you shut me out of the office?'

'Where can we talk without being disturbed?'

'Try the smoking-room on the top storey,' said Logan, 'n.o.body will have climbed so high so early.'

They made the ascent, and found the room vacant: the windows looked out over swirling smoke and trees tossing in a wind of early spring.

'Quiet enough,' said Logan, taking an arm-chair. 'Now out with it! You make me quite nervous.'

'A client has come with what looks a promising piece of business. We are to disentangle--'