“BALDOVIE.”

South Canterbury Times, Issue 6233, 4 June 1890, Page 4

“BALDOVIE.”

LITERATURE-

A TALE OF CRIME AND

MISFOSTUNB

The intimation that John Carmichael ol Baldevie was dead, caused a profound sensation in Jutedom; and in that sensation surprse almost predominated over regret. For, although Mr Carmichael h icijattained|his seven tieth year, lie had been, till within a fortnight ol his death, a hale, active, fresh man, who had never known any serious illness in the course of his long, hardworking career. Dr Deucbars was an old friend of the Baldovie family, and, as a friend, a frequent visitor. Professionally he attended the ailments of the establishment; but in that capacity he had never much to do with the master of the house, John Carmichael used to say at times, with a generous smile, in the course of a chat:

4 You may pheesic awa’ at other folk, doctor, as long as it pleases them to feel the better for it; but you’ll get little credit in dealing with me.’ And the words were prophetic ; for the poor doctor got anything but credit in dealing with his old friend’s fatal illness. At first he regarded it as a slight cold due to the east wind; but there was a sudden and extreme prostration of his patient’s strength, which caused him to summon to his aid an eminent physician : from Edinburgh. They had a consultation, and a course of treatment was adopted, which appeared to be producing the most satisfactory effect, j The patient was the best a doctor could wish to deal with. He was quite clear in intellect, and obedient to every detail of instructions. As he improved, a telegram was, by his desire, sent to his eldest son ; and Wild Will had travelled homeward as fast as trains and steamers would carry him. There was an interview between father and son alone. The time occupied was about an hour. Will departed on (he mission entrusted to him, and immediately afterwards Dr Deuchars paid his second visit that day. He was alarmed b} the change in his patient for the worse ; and insisted that no one save the nurses, should see him again without his sanction. On leaving, the doctor telegraphed again for the eminent physician. The gentleman arrived on the following afternoon, only to witness the peaceful close of John Carmichael’s life. The doctors, having exhausted their skill, stood at the fool of the bed waiting for the end. On one side knelt the wife clasping her husband’s right hand ; on the other, their son David, clasping the left band, his cheek resting on it, whilst big tears forced their way from bis eyes. On the dying man’s face was a placid

smile. ‘ I have set the house in order, gnidwife,’ he said clearly, although iaintly. ‘ Take care of your mother, David, like a guid lad ; and Marget—be kind to her. I see she is not here; but you needna send for her,’ Then he pressed their hands, sighed gently, and the rest was silence. Howeverjjgreat the affliction which befalls a family, some one must attend to the ordinary duties demanded by the occasion ; and amidst the sorrow of Baldovie Mrs Carmichael remained calm. She gave her directions quietly, although her eyes were throbbing with suppressed tears. Everything was to be done in order, exactly as ne would have wished it to be done. She attended to every detail with as much care as if he were still the supervisor, ready to express satisfaction or the reverse.

She was a tall, handsome woman, not more than forty-five. She had been a girl scarcely out of her teens when she accepted the hand of John Carmichael 5 and, notwithstanding the disparity of their years, she had never ‘ rued her bargain,’ She enjoyed the greatest triumph that a true wile can desire —she made her husband happy. . So, wishing to do precisely as he would have directed her to do, had he been permitted to speak, she put aside her tears until there might be leisure to indulge in them, and proceeded to do the work which had fallen to her

hands. One of the first tasks was to make inquiries about Mr William. On learning from Currie that he had gone out on” the previous night, saying that he would not return until some time next day, she directed inquiries to be made for him at the office and at the houses of his friends. Three days passed, and to all the inquiries about William Carmichael there was a uniform answer —no one had seen him.

This was strange, and would have been alarming but for the eccentric habits of the man, to which they were all accustomed. It was. howeve’’, most embarrassing to the mistress of Baldovie at this sad crisis in the affairs of the house. It was well known that she and her stepson looked coldly on each other—or, in the homely phrase, that ‘ there was no love lost between them’—although they preserved an outward semblance of civility during his rare appearances at Baldovio, There were some who whispered that Will s roving propensities had developed only after the instalment of his stepmother. However that might be, his courtesy to her was scant, whilst she never neglected anything which, being neglected, could be interpreted as a mark of respect to bis father’s son. S Ijlt became imperative to appoint the day ior the funeral. Mrs Carmichael had delayed as long as possible in the expectation of the absent son s return, so that he might express his wishes on tho subject. Alter consulting with the lawyers of her husband, the date wan at length fixed. No one could sururse how much she regretted that ihe son who had travelled so”far and fast at the intimation of his father’s illness should not be in his place now.. Besides there was something in his inexplicable disappearance to such a time which, despite her knowledge of his peculiar ways, made her feel uneasy.

It was impossible that he could be ignorant of bis father’s death if he were anywhere in the country ; for the newspapers had paid handsome tributes to the memory of the late merchant, and had cited at length the benefits he had conferred on the royal burgh. But Will had been so singular in his ways of coming and going that it was only the peculiar and painful state of affairs at present which provoked any surprise at his absence.

Mrs Carmichael was in her own room —the one next to that in which all that remained of her husband lay—when Currie informed her that Mr Todd from the office desired particularly to see her. Knowing that the man had been a tavounte with his master, she told Currie to show him into the library, and she would see him there. Mr Todd stood near the door, nervously turning his hat round on his umbrella, when the widow entered the room. ‘ Good evening,’ she said m her quiet, rich voice. ( I hope you have brought some message for us from Mr William.’

‘ It is not precisely from him, mem, but it is about him,’ he answered, with an effort to control the agitation which was threatening to deprive him of the power of speceh altogether. ‘ Any news about him will be welcome,’ she said. ‘ Will you not be seated, Mr Todd P . . . Have you learned where he is ?’ ‘ I’m real sorry to say no ; but I m half feared that I can guess.’ * Then let me know your guess.’ Johnnie Todd felt and looked awkward. With a handkerchief he wiped his brow and head.

‘ I wish I could tell without showing what an auld fule lam to be taken in by two bairns—for they are no more than bairns compared wi’ me.’ Mrs Carmichael looked at him in surprise—wondering whether the man was weaker in his intellect even than he had been represented to her, or whether he had been drinking. ‘I do not understand you, Mr Todd.’

‘No, no,’ he murmured with a sharp note of despair, as he gently swayed his frail body ; ‘ nobody understands me now that he has gane awa.’ She felt the cry without understanding it, and endeavourtd to recall him to the object of his visit. ‘ I will try to understand you, Mr Todd, for his sake,’ she said gently. ‘ You were going to tell me something about Mr William.’

{To he (Jontinued.)