Chapter XIV: Part 14

While he was settling this matter another stranger appeared, and placed a silver coin in the plate, at the same time asking to be shown to a seat. The half-crown which this gentleman dropped into the plate rested on the bank note already there, and thus the two contributions were left while the deacon went inside and showed the gentleman to his own form. Not a minute was occupied in the task, and during the interval only one person entered the church. That person was the Rev. Arthur Morrison, who appeared heated and flushed as he pressed past the deacon and made his way to the little desk from which he preached. Mr Aikman went straight back to his post at the plate, and the bank note being still prominent in his thoughts, he glanced at once in that direction. Then he started and rubbed his eyes. He himself had been the last to leave the spot—for the gentleman had preceded him into the church—and then the bank note lay in the plate all right, with the half-crown safely weighting it; now, when he got back, the note was gone. The half-crown was there—shining like a white disc among the coppers, but not a vestige of paper money was near it. The deacon looked around. There was no wind, but the note might have got over the edge of the plate, and fallen to the ground. No; it was not in the vestibule. Aikman darted outside; there was not a human being in sight. He staggered back again and stared at the plate till his goggling eyes might have speared a hole in it. There could be no doubt about it—the church had been robbed, and was the poorer by £5 of the deacon’s momentary absence. He had no one to advise or assist him, the other deacon on the list having failed to appear, and felt doubly angry and excited over the strange loss from having already mentally decided how the money should be utilised. He was in a fever of bewilderment, perspiring in every pore, and even madly thrusting his hands into his own pockets to make sure that the note had not fluttered in there. Then, after another dart outside to make sure that no prowling thief could have been near, the deacon did a little mental reasoning. No one, so far as he was aware, had entered the church during his absence from the plate but the minister. Could it be possible? No, never! Well, yes it might be. The man was poor and needy, and he might consider the drawings at the door as in a manner his own, or intended for him. Mr Aikman had an old grudge at his minister, who had once dared not only to correct him on some theological points, but had satirized him in a quiet way as well. The man who could utter a joke at the expense of a great man like Aikman was fit for anything, and the bank note could not have gone without hands. The deacon began to understand the whole mystery, and put up the collection and closed the door to go inside and listen to the sermon in no frame of mind to profit by the discourse. At every telling point in the oration Aikman turned up his nose, and mentally exclaimed—

“How can he, with that stolen £5 note in his pocket!”

On the whole, the deacon felt more of pity than of anger at the cool appropriation, but he determined that the minister should know that the robbery had been discovered. How best to make the revelation exercised Aikman’s small brain pretty closely during the service. He had not quite settled the matter when the benediction was pronounced. As the lady who had made the handsome gift handed him back the books she had used, and made some remarks about the church, a happy idea struck the deacon. He boldly thanked her for her liberality, and then concluded by asking her—much to her surprise—if she knew the number of the note she had put in the plate. She did not; and as she was too polite to ask the reason for inquiry, no more passed between them, and the lady departed and was seen no more. Had Mr Aikman been of a less active disposition the matter might have ended there. No one had seen the bank note but himself, and it was now gone through no fault of his. But then there was the minister, and the suspicion, and his own old grudge. He could not remain passive.

When all the congregation were gone Aikman steadily fixed the young clergyman with his ferocious eye, and said—

“There was one lady very good to us to-day—she put a £5 note in the plate.”

A slight flush overspread the pale face of the young preacher, and he said a little hurriedly—

“Ah, indeed? I am pleased to hear that. Excuse me just now; I must hurry home.”

He moved away abruptly, and the deacon stood staring after him, now thoroughly convinced of the soundness of his suspicions.

“A minister of the Gospel to descend to a mean theft like that!” he said to himself. “I must call a meeting of the managers and report the whole case.”

It happened to be the month of July, and there was a difficulty in getting a quorum of the managers together, but at length Aikman was promised a full meeting, which took place on the Wednesday following in his own house. There, after shutting themselves in, and making sure that no one could overhear, the four men considered the case of the stolen bank note. Of course they were shocked at the implied guilt of one whom they revered and trusted so much, but Aikman piled up his facts in such a minute and positive manner, that even without additional evidence there would have been little diversity of opinion among them. At this stage, and when Aikman had scarcely concluded, another of the managers quickly exclaimed—

“Why, Mr Morrison changed a £5 note with me yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” echoed another, to whom the minister owed a small sum. “And he told me on Saturday that he had no money, and would not have till next quarter day.”

“There! What did I say?” cried Aikman with triumphant energy. “Could anything be clearer than that? I know for a fact that he has no money—it is all eaten up long before it is paid to him by me; yet there you have proof that near the end of the quarter he pays away money, and that a £5 note. Have you the note yet?” he added to the man who had received the payment.

He had, and would run and get it. A wiser plan would have been to first make Mr Aikman describe the note put in the plate, and write down its number, and then send for that received from the minister, and compare the record with the note, but that was never thought of. The other deacon had only half a street to traverse, and was back in a few minutes with a crisp bank note. It was of the Bank of Scotland, and nearly new. Mr Aikman snatched it from the bearer—opened it, glanced at the device and the number, and then exclaimed—

“It’s a clear case! look at the number for yourselves, ‘7607’—the very figures of the one I saw lying in the plate. I couldn’t help reading them, for the note lay open, and I never forget anything.”

A painful silence followed. At length some one asked the question which was uppermost in all their minds—What was to be done? They could not pass over the robbery in silence, and yet it would be a delicate and possibly a dangerous thing to charge a clergyman with such a theft.

“Nothing dangerous about it,” said Aikman, brusquely. “I can swear to the note being put in the plate, and the number, and the name of the bank; also, that the minister was the only one near the plate while I was absent for half a minute; and you can swear that he paid away the note to you and got change. What’s to be done? Shall we ask him to resign, demand the money back, or give him up to the police to be dealt with as they think best?”

It was quite clear to all present which of these courses Mr Aikman wished followed, and they unanimously decided that the most rigorous course was necessary in dealing with such a criminal. Mr Aikman was therefore deputed to lay the matter before the chief constable of the town, who, however, happened to have a personal acquaintance with the young clergyman, and a great liking for him as well, and not only scouted the idea of him stealing the bank note, but strongly urged Aikman to say nothing of the matter to his minister, whatever other means he might employ for the recovery of the note.

Finding it impossible to move the deacon, the constable at length compromised the matter by agreeing to go with Aikman to the minister’s house—it was not a manse, but a little flat, up an outside stair—and see if Mr Morrison had any explanation to offer. They found the young clergyman at home by the bedside of his wife, who was almost a confirmed invalid, and had been rather weaker than usual for some days. The constable was moved at the sight of the young preacher’s pale and concerned expression as he hung over the invalid, but the deacon had no such qualms—he looked upon these as indications of guilt, and would have blurted out the charge in hearing of the sick wife but for a huge pinch on his arm by the constable, who at the same time quietly nodded to Morrison, and invited him to speak with them for a moment in the next room.

“There is some difficulty about that £5 note which you paid away on Tuesday to Blackie, the grocer,” observed the constable, kindly; while the deacon, as a duty he owed to society, steadily speared the young preacher with his goggling eyes. “Would you mind saying where you got the note?”

The righteous deacon had his reward, for the moment these words were uttered, a startled look came to the worn features of the minister, and his face flushed a deep crimson.

“I scarcely know myself,” he at length responded, with considerable hesitation; “is it necessary that I should make that known? What has happened? Is there anything wrong with it? Is it a forged note?”

“Oh, no; the note is good enough,” cried the deacon, sternly, still using his spears liberally; “as good as any ever put out by the Bank of Scotland. The lady who put it into the plate on Sunday was not likely to have a forged note in her pocket.”

The young preacher started as if the deacon had run a knife into him. He seemed petrified, breathless, and dumb with astonishment.

“I do not know what you mean, or what you are hinting at,” he at length replied; “but I know that the note you speak of could not possibly have been in any lady’s pocket on Sunday, seeing that it was then lying in my desk here, in this house.”

“You’ll have to prove that,” derisively returned Aikman. “Where did you get it, and when?”

“I got it on Saturday afternoon,” answered the suspected man, with calm dignity. “It came to me in an envelope, by post, and without a line to indicate the sender. There were a few words written inside the flap of the envelope, which I had not noticed when I put the envelope in the fire. I snatched it out again and read them. They were—‘For the little ones, from a well-wisher.’ I was quite overpowered,” continued the young preacher, with a quiver in his tones; “I had seen nothing but darkness and trouble before me, as one of my creditors was pressing me sorely for money, knowing perfectly that I had none. I went to God with my trouble in prayer, and that was His answer.”

The deacon was horrified. That the minister should steal the note he could readily understand, but that he should account for its possession in such a manner showed a depth of depravity and a hypocrisy which he had not conceived possible to dwell in man.

“You have the envelope, of course?” he sneeringly observed, after a significant silence.

“No; unfortunately I have not. I put it into the fire in case my wife should see it, and—and be pained by the thought of me having to accept such help from an unknown friend.”

The deacon looked at the constable with a significant jerk of the head. It was quite evident they could make nothing of a man so lost in wickedness, and so ready with plausible excuses. The constable, however, appeared to be foolishly overcome by the cunning reply of the culprit, and made no remark. It therefore devolved upon Aikman to make a noble stand for honesty and religion.

“Mr Morrison,” he impressively began, “that bank note which you paid to Blackie the grocer was put in the plate on Sunday by a lady. I saw it, and read the number of it as it lay. After you had passed the plate, it had vanished. Either admit your crime, or take the consequences.”

“Now—at last—I understand you,” answered the minister, with more dignity and calmness than his accuser. “You accuse me of stealing the bank note?”

“We do, upon the clearest evidence,” snorted the deacon.

“Then I deny it emphatically,” said the accused, almost smiling. “I cannot believe you to be in earnest. Steal it! why should I do that? It was put there for the general benefit of the church, I suppose, and that includes me, doesn’t it?”

“So you thought when you took it, I’ve no doubt,” angrily returned Aikman, “but you will find yourself grievously mistaken. Constable, I charge that man, in the name of the managers, with the theft of £5. Do your duty.”

Matters had now become serious, but the gentleness of the constable smoothed away much that might have been painful.

They walked together to the house of the Fiscal, and, after an account of the circumstances had been gone over, the young minister was allowed to go back to his home on his own recognisance.

The next day I had a visit from the young minister, in at the Central, in Edinburgh. I have but a faint recollection of the interview, but I remember that he appeared greatly excited and agitated, and ended his somewhat incoherent statement of the facts by imploring me to take up the case with a view to—what think you?—with a view to convicting Mr Aikman of perjury or conspiracy! The reasoning of the young clergyman was this:—No one but the deacon had seen a £5 note in the plate, and he alone had reported the note stolen—therefore the note might never have been there at all! From this followed the deduction—the deacon from his old grudge had got up the whole as a revenge on the young preacher to injure his reputation and force him out of his post. In consequence of this appeal I went out to the place and made some inquiries, but was met almost at the outset with clear proof that a £5 note had been put into the plate. The lady who had been the donor was gone, but at the hotel in which she had been staying the landlord had heard her mention the gift to her husband.

The case was tried shortly after at the Burgh Court, the accused conducting his own case. From the evidence led few could doubt the guilt of the poor preacher the deacon was so cool, and clear, and positive in all his statements. On one point alone did he show confusion, and that was regarding his noting the number of the note while it lay in the plate. Here the deacon, from his very evident desire to make all clear and firm, contradicted himself slightly, and then floundered worse under a very simple question from the Sheriff, and was put down in confusion. The result was that the case was dismissed—quite an unsatisfactory result to both parties. The deacon was enraged—having recovered from his momentary confusion, and being now ready with a clear and minute explanation—and the poor minister was quite broken down under the disgrace. When he returned to the town which had brought him so much suffering, he met with so many cold looks from those whom he had believed to be his warmest friends, that he was almost forced to resign his charge. The resignation was accepted with a promptitude even more crushing to his spirit; and then, while he was making preparations to leave the place, his creditors swooped down on his few possessions, and left him and his family with little but the clothes in which they stood.

Morrison appeared to bear it all with calm dignity, but his wife, who was a quick-tempered, high-spirited woman, though delicate, felt the disgrace keenly. They moved in to Edinburgh, and Morrison tried hard to get another appointment, but in vain. The ban was upon his reputation—his name had appeared in connection with an accusation of mean thieving, and he was looked upon with suspicion even by strangers. At length he got employment for a few hours daily in keeping a tradesman’s books, for which he got nine shillings a week, and with that and a little copying and tuition he managed for a time to keep himself and his family alive.

But poor diet and a mean habitation among the very roughest characters soon broke the spirit and constitution of his wife, and she passed out of his arms into her long rest before a year was gone. One of the children followed in three months, and he was left alone with the baby. He struggled on quietly and without complaint, shunning all, but ever ready when sought for to go and pray and converse with any of the sick or dying among the very poor who might express a wish for his presence. He became gaunt and thin, and the tradesman who employed him told him he needed a change of air.

I met him more than once in some of the lowest slums, but I failed to recognise the bloodless face and stooping figure. I knew him as “the broken missionary,” and it was dimly understood that he had either been in prison or found guilty of some offence against the law, though the poor wretches with whom he conversed and prayed declared their firm belief in his purity and innocence.

One day, at that time, I found a stout, red-faced man waiting for me at the Office, who nodded to me, and appeared greatly pleased at seeing me. I had to tell him that he had the advantage of me, and then he introduced himself as Mr Aikman, the deacon who had figured as such a prominent witness in the case against the minister.

“I have been a cruel wretch, and I deserve ten years in prison for the misery I have brought on an innocent man,” he said, shedding tears freely—great hot tears, genuine as genuine could be. “A lady in delicate health belonging to our congregation was ordered to live abroad, and came back only yesterday. The moment she heard of Mr Morrison’s disgrace, she came to me and said that it was she who had sent the £5 note to the minister. She sent it from Edinburgh just as she was setting out. I am a sinful and wicked man! God help me! If I could only find out where he is—if you could help me to that—there is no atonement or reparation I should think too great to make to him and his poor wife and bairns. Every penny I have shall be spent in the effort.”

I remembered the case then, and immediately set about tracing Morrison, a task which would have been easy indeed if I had thought for a moment of him being identical with “the broken missionary.” At length I came upon a solicitor who occasionally employed Morrison to copy deeds, and by him was referred to the tradesman who employed the broken man to keep his books. It was only when we were near the hovel which Morrison called his home that the idea flashed upon me that the broken missionary was the man I was after. I knew where he lived, and went straight to the house, which tallied perfectly with the description given by the tradesman.

When we knocked at the door a low voice told us to “Come in,” and on entering we saw only a child of eighteen months creeping about the floor in great glee, with a doll of rags in its hands. But a glance round showed us where the voice had come from. There was a bed behind the door, and in that there was a pale, bloodless face, and a pair of shiny eyes, bearing a shadowy resemblance to the man we sought. The broken missionary feebly attempted to raise himself upon his arm, while the deacon rushed forward, dropped on his knees before the bed, and hid his face and tears in the thin wasted hands he had clasped.

“My poor wronged minister!” he exclaimed; “say you forgive me. We have found out the lady who sent you the £5 note; and I know I have been cruel and wicked——”

A strange convulsion passed over the ghastly face and sunken features of the missionary, while his great eyes appeared to shine out with a perfect radiance.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name!” he fervently exclaimed, as the great eyes became soft and beautiful with tears.

The child on the floor crowed with delight, and hammered vigorously on the floor with the head of its doll of rags. The deacon gathered the thin form of the sick man in his arms, and hurriedly breathed out all his plans for reparation. He would carry him back with him to his own home; he would care for him, and send him away to the country, to fresh green fields and cool shady woods, where he would have nothing to do but take his fill of the balmy air, and draw health from the glorious sunshine. But the grey head was shaken on his breast in quiet demur, with a pitiful look in the great eyes as they rested on the laughing face of the neglected child on the floor.

“I am going to fair fields and a glorious country,” he feebly gasped, “but not there—not there. God has sent his sunshine into my soul, and I can depart in peace.”

He fainted away as he spoke, and it was long before he could be restored. The deacon had a nurse and a doctor there in an hour, but they came too late. In the dead of night, with the deacon clasping his hand and wetting it with his repentant tears, the missionary went quietly to his rest.

The child was taken to the deacon’s house, and trained and educated, and finally sent to college, and now promises to occupy a distinguished position in the profession which proved so disastrous to his father.

The stolen bank note was never traced, but it was believed to have been taken by a woman who had acted as chapel-keeper, and who was afterwards sent to prison for a theft quite as mean, though less disastrous in its results.

A MURDERER’S MISTAKE.

A toll-keeper on the main road some miles south of Edinburgh was standing at his open door watching the gambols of his two children, when a weary traveller approached and arrested his gaze. There was something uncommon about the dusty tramp when his appearance could rouse interest in an old toll-keeper, accustomed to look with indifference on every kind of wanderer that God’s earth can produce. This one was an old man, tall and gaunt and white-haired. So far there was a bond of interest between them, but with age the comparison ceased, for the toll-keeper was stout and well-clad, and had a comfortable expression beaming from every part of his face; while the stranger was haggard, worn, and drooping, like one who had got all that earth was likely to give, and did not care how soon the giving ceased. Above the toll-keeper’s happy face was a ticket intimating that he was licensed to sell tobacco; while in one window a few bottles of confections and biscuits, and the words “Refreshments and Lemonade” on a show card, summed up his efforts at trading. The dusty tramp halted in front of the toll-keeper, giving the stout man a full view of his poor clothing and fragile boots, from which his toes were peeping, and his sharp eyes eagerly devoured the intimation above the doorway.

“Good evening, sir,” he said quietly, as he fumbled among his clothes for a pocket, and at length produced a penny.

The toll-keeper in general was gruff enough with tramps, even when they seemed disposed to buy his wares, but there was a ring in the tones of this one which struck a chord of pity in his breast, and he returned the greeting kindly. In front of the window showing the biscuits and sweets was a wooden bench. The haggard one limped towards this bench, saying in the same quiet tones—

“Might I rest for a bit on this bench?”

There was nothing arrogant or bold in this request, but rather a ring of indifference or despair. It was as if he had said—“It doesn’t matter whether you say yes or no, or whether I sit down or move on, or drop dead by the way. The end is not far off either way.”

“Oh, ay, sit as lang as ye like; ye’re welcome,” said the toll-keeper, heartily. “You look like you had come a far way?”

“I have, sir—a matter of four hundred miles,” said the white-haired tramp, knitting his brows; then recovering himself, he said in his former quiet tones, “I suppose you couldn’t let me have a penn’orth of tobacco? I’ve on’y a penny left.”

“Hout, ay;” and the toll-keeper brought a liberal length of roll tobacco, which the weary traveller grasped eagerly and paid for promptly with his penny. He bit off a piece and chewed it fiercely, his eye resting steadily the while on the face of one of the toll-keeper’s children, a rosy-cheeked girl of seven or eight, who was gazing on the gaunt face and figure in a species of awe.

“It’s good for killing hunger,” he observed, with his eye still meditatively fixed upon the child; “not that I’ve felt much of it,” he hastily added, as if in fear that the toll-keeper would think that he meant to beg; “I haven’t had time to think of that. That’s a pretty child,” he abruptly added, alluding to the girl.

“Yes, but she’s not looking so well as she did,” answered the toll-keeper, with a father’s pleased look at the compliment. “We nearly lost her with fever a while ago.”

“Imphm!” grimly returned the white-haired tramp. “Mebbe some day you’ll wish she had been taken. She’ll grow up to a fine lass, and then some one will envy you of your bonny flower and crush it up in his fingers, never thinking or caring to think that your heart’s inside of it. You’ll go mad, then, and think how happy you could have been smoothing the turf on her grave when she was a little child.”

“God forbid!” fervently exclaimed the toll-keeper, catching the child up in his arms, as if to shield her there.

“God? What’s God got to do with it, I’d like to know?” cried the white-haired tramp, with his hard tones rising to a despairing snarl. “Is there any God? I never see him, though there’s plenty of devil about—that everybody can see with their eyes shut. Look you, sir!” he added, clenching one bony hand and smiting the palm of the other in fearful excitement, “I’ve done with God for ever! When my girl was like that little one I used to go to church o’ Sundays, and feel pious and good, and have my heart full of softness and gratitude. I’ve felt as if I could have took the whole world into my arms to bless it. But that’s all gone now, and the devil’s the one I speak to. He’s been with me all the way, cheering and helping me over the weary miles, and I won’t turn agen him now when I’m near the end of it.”

The toll-keeper shrank back before the terrible words and sudden hurricane of passion which convulsed the speaker; then he gathered the two children in his arms, and said softly to them—

“Run round into the garden, bairns, and pull some bonnie flowers, and make a fairy’s feast in a corner, with rose leaves for plates. I’ll come round and see it when it’s done. Haste ye now!” and, with a kiss and a smile, he dismissed them.

“Excuse me, sir; I forgot about the little uns,” said the tramp, falling back into his former subdued tones, and evidently perfectly understanding the toll-keeper’s haste to get the children out of hearing. “I’ve seen the day when I’d ’a’ been horrified at such words myself. It’s the way the world goes. We’ve good occasion to look mercifully on them as is far down, ’cause we may get into their state afore we die. I knew a man once—a Methody he was—who preached a sermon on that man that was hanged for killing his sweetheart up in London. It would have done you good to hear it—how he pitched into that poor chap in the condemned cell. Well, that same Methody quarrelled with a man about some furniture, and went home and got a log of wood, and came back and struck the other over the head till he died, and he was had up for murder, and convicted and hanged for it, as sure as you stand there. I wondered, when I saw him brought out, if he had been pitching into himself when he was in the condemned cell;” and the white-haired tramp laughed a hard, sardonic, unmusical laugh, without a vestige of merriment in the sound.

The toll-keeper fidgeted uneasily, and began to wish this man of such changing moods gone.

“Are you going far?” he asked, wishing to change the subject.

“I’m going on—on—to be hanged,” said the stranger, absently; then, recovering himself on noting the toll-keeper’s look of horror, he said, abruptly, “What do you call this ’ere town?”

The toll-keeper named the place.

“That’s it!” cried the tramp, rousing up and speaking with a kind of triumphant ferocity. “That’s the place—I’m not going far past that. I’ve come to find a man out and pay a debt.”

To pay a debt!—a man who had just parted with his last penny! The toll-keeper’s suspicions were confirmed—the old man’s brain was affected; his wrongs, if he had any, had deprived him of reason. At this stage there came an interruption to their conversation from a field on the opposite side of the road. There was no gate or stile at that part of the field, but over the wall there came clambering a gamekeeper and a gentleman, who had evidently been hard at work with the gun among the woods and coverts further back. The gamekeeper, after a word or two from his companion, walked on with the heavy bag of game, while the gentleman strolled forward familiarly to the toll-keeper’s door, wiping the sweat from his brow, and looking almost as tired as the tramp there seated. As he did so, the tramp noted what a fine face the gentleman owned—not so very pretty or finely proportioned, but full of sympathy and gentle courtesy, and altogether likeable and attractive even to a man old, soured, and broken in spirit.

“A warm day, John,” the new-comer said, with just one swift passing glance at the tramp on the bench. “A glass of lemonade, as quick as you can, for I’m dying of thirst.”

“Will you no come in an’ sit doon, sir?” returned the toll-keeper, obsequiously.

“No, thank you—this will do nicely. Now, hurry!” and the gentleman seated himself easily beside the tramp on the bench, where they formed a queer contrast—the tramp old and done, the gentleman in the full flush of youth and strength, and evidently with everything at his command that could make man happy.

“A warm day this,” he added pleasantly to the white-haired tramp. “You look tired and thirsty too. Will you have a drink with me? John, another glass of lemonade and some biscuits,” he imperatively called out, as the tramp refused the proffered gift, with an instinctive touch at his fore-lock. The lemonade was brought and decanted, the first glass being handed to the gentleman, who politely handed it to the white-haired tramp, who, with another protest, not quite so firm as the first, and the words, “Long life to you, sir!” placed the grateful beverage to his lips and drank it off, the gentleman then following his example. The biscuits had been brought out on a tray, and the frank sportsman lifted one of these, and then crammed the remainder bodily into the hands of the tramp.

“Eat away; I only want a bite. I shall be having dinner when I get home,” he said, in a careless, yet kindly manner, which disarmed the gift of anything calculated to offend the most sensitive. “You’re English, I think?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the white-haired man, in so soft a tone that the toll-keeper felt inclined to rub his eyes to see if it was really the same man.

“London way, eh?” continued the gentleman, toying with the biscuit.

“Yes, sir—Rotherhithe,” said the tramp, eating as if he had not eaten for some time.

“Ah, I’ve been often there myself—a fine place,” said the gentleman, with kindling eyes; and then they talked pleasantly of London and its attractions, the gentleman never once showing by word or look that he considered the tramp his inferior. At length he rose to go, took up his gun and paid the toll-keeper, and then, with a pleasant nod to both toll-keeper and tramp, he walked off towards the town.

The tramp looked after him in silence, munching the while at one of the biscuits.

“Who is that?” he said at length, with less gloom on his face and bitterness in his tones.

“Oh, that’s young Gowlieden.”

“Gowlieden? Good heavens! what a name to go to bed with!” said the tramp. “Well, anyway, he’s a good fellow; God bless him, and send more of his kind into this hard world!”

“Gowlieden isn’t his real name,” said the toll-keeper with a smile. “It’s the name of one of his father’s estates, and it’s our fashion here in Scotland to give the big folks the name of their land. That’s the heir, you know, and we call him young Gowlieden. His real name is Stephen Barbour. They live at a place called Frearton Hall, on the other side of the town.”

“What!”

The tramp had started to his feet, and given out the word with a shout which almost drove the breath out of the toll-keeper’s body.

“Yes, Frearton Hall—what’s wrong with that?” stammered the toll-keeper.

“And Stephen Barbour, you say, is his name?” cried the tramp, with every feature of his face gradually overspreading with horror and loathing.

“Yes, that is his name.”

“My God!” moaned the white-haired tramp, snatching the bite from his own mouth and dashing it down on the road, and then trampling on it with insensate fury; “my God! and I broke bread with him, and took the drink from his hands, and thought him so kind and noble-looking! And I said ‘God bless him,’ not knowing any better. Why did the words not blister on my tongue?”

“You know him, then? You have met the young laird before?” said the astonished toll-keeper.

“Never, never! But I know him, the scoundrel! I know him too well.”

“He’s no scoundrel,” cried the toll-keeper, warmly. “He’s as good and true a man as any that breathes. Everybody likes him far or near, and never yet did I hear any but yourself say a word against him.”

The tramp did not seem to hear the words. He sent the last of the biscuits skimming as far as he could throw them, and, wringing his hands, he dropped on his knees on the dusty road.

“Forgive me, Meg, forgive me!” he muttered in a frantic fashion, with his thoughts evidently far away. “How could I know any better?”

Tears were flowing down his cheeks, and these stopped the harsh words which were rising to the lips of the toll-keeper. The tramp tugged out a ragged handkerchief to wipe away the tears, and in doing so dragged out something hard and shiny, which dropped with a metallic clank on the road. The toll-keeper looked round just in time to see that the dropped article was a pistol, which the tramp was hurriedly putting out of sight again. All his sympathy vanished at the sight of the weapon.

“You had better be going,” he said coldly, “for if the police saw you carrying that, they’d soon give you a place to sleep in.”

“I’m going,” said the tramp calmly, rising and moving off. “I haven’t far to go now. Oh, if I had only known!”

Thus he limped away, still wiping his eyes with the ragged handkerchief; and if the county constable had chanced to pass the spot that night, the toll-keeper would certainly have warned him to look after the mad old man, as he thought him. As it was, he got leave to go on to the town, and further. On the north side of the place, and but half a mile from the toll, Frearton Hall stood within its own grounds. There was a lodge at the entrance, kept by the gamekeeper already alluded to, but if the tramp entered there, he had opened the gate and walked in unseen. The dinner at the hall was just over when one of the servants brought a message, which she whispered into the ear of the young laird.

“Wants to see me? Who is he? Did he give no name?” he was heard hurriedly to say.

“No, sir; and he’s such an awful-like man—just like a tramp or a beggar,” answered the girl.

“A tramp? Oh, I see! Is he old and white-haired?” said the gentleman, remembering the scene at the toll-keeper’s house, and the queer character he had assisted there. “Excuse me; I’ll be back in a minute,” he said to the others in the room; and he ran out, expecting to find the man in the hall.

“He wouldn’t come in; he said he’d wait outside,” said the girl, noticing her young master’s look of disappointment. “P’r’aps he’s away by this time.”

The young laird stepped briskly through the hall and looked out into the dusk. The sun had just set, and there was still light enough to see any one near the spot. At the head of the walk leading to the house there was a clump of laurels and a drooping ash, and Stephen Barbour fancied he saw a white-haired head look out from behind that, and quickly cleared the space to find his suspicions correct. The queer tramp stood before him, with his right hand hidden down among the rags by his side.

“Oh, it’s you again?” said the gentleman frankly, at the same time extending his hand to be shaken.

“You’re Stephen Barbour, eldest son of Russel Barbour, aren’t you?” said the tramp, taking no notice of the proffered hand, and glaring on the young man with a ferocity which startled the other.

“I am, sir—what then?”

“Then I’ve come to pay you back for what you did to Meg,” said the old man, with suppressed fury. “Take that!” and instantly he raised his right hand, and a pistol-shot rang out on the soft evening air.

Quickly as the hand was raised the victim had time to throw out his own in a futile grasp at the old man’s arm; then, when the bullet reached him, though desperately wounded, Barbour, with a loud cry, threw himself upon his assailant, grasping him tightly in his arms as if he would have squeezed the breath out of the man’s body. The tramp had made no attempt to escape, and probably meant to make none; but the grasp annoyed him, and he struggled violently for a moment, and at length, as the senses of the wounded man were leaving him, succeeded in throwing Barbour backwards. At the same moment a coachman, turning a corner of the house with a pitchfork in his hands, ran forward to learn the cause of the disturbance, and seeing his young master in the act of being thrown down by a ragged tramp, he ran at the old man full tilt with the prongs of the fork, one of which passed clean through the tramp’s arm.

This assault seemed to rouse the old man to a pitch of insane fury, which gave him an unnatural strength. He rushed at the coachman, wrenched the pitchfork from his hands, smashed him furiously over the head with the long pole, and then, throwing down the new weapon, turned and vanished.

The spectacle which met the eyes of the alarmed household when they rushed out was that of two men lying prostrate on the ground, with the pitchfork and pistol near them, and the first impression naturally was that the coachman in an insane moment had turned and attacked his young master. In a minute or two the true state of affairs was made known; the wounded man was borne into the house, and messengers despatched in every direction in search of the murderous assailant. From the first the medical man summoned gave very little hope of Barbour’s recovery, and positively forbade him being questioned in any way. But when the news of the crime had been sent to Edinburgh, and I went out to get the facts of the case, the toll-keeper had spoken to the county constable of all that took place at the door, and, after a visit to that worthy, I thought I had the true solution of the mystery, which was far from being the case. During some of his visits to London the young heir had met the old tramp’s daughter; the usual heart-rending result had followed, and the visit of the father had been undertaken solely for revenge. That was my view of the case, and in spite of the deadly determination with which that vengeance had been wreaked, my sympathy lay more with the poor father than his victim. To my surprise, however, both the toll-keeper and the county police strongly dissented from my opinion. Stephen Barbour, they strenuously declared, was quite incapable of such villainy. His character was singularly pure, and his whole life had been known to these men to be honourable and upright. From the lowest to the highest, every one had a good word for Stephen Barbour, and at the time of the shooting he was about to be married to a gifted young lady, who for years had been sole mistress of his affections. Without troubling to argue the point I set out to trace the murderer. Edinburgh was not a great distance from the scene of the attack, and the nearest large city, and my experience is that a genuine red-handed murderer always seeks safety among the masses of the biggest town within reach, unless he can at once leave the country. This one was poor—his last penny had been expended—therefore he could not go far quickly. I returned to Edinburgh, and the same afternoon met a man at the Night Asylum who had given the old tramp twopence, and a bit of white cotton to bind round his wounded arm. He had come upon him at the roadside near the city trying to remove the ragged coloured handkerchief with which he had bound up the arm, and which he was afraid might poison the wound.

On getting this news I started for the South Side, and had got as far as Minto Street, when, looking up one of the quiet streets leading towards St Leonards, I saw a tramp seated on a gate step, and moved up to have a look at him. So minutely had the man been described to me, that I recognised him at a glance. He was seated on the step holding his wounded arm, and staring straight before him in despair and apathy, his face white as his hair, and his whole expression that of a man longing for death to end his troubles.

I stopped before him, and when his dull eyes at length rose to meet my own, I said to him sharply—

“You were out at Frearton Hall last night?”

A slight flush came into his bloodless face at the words, and he faintly tried to rise.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “You’re a pleeceman, though you don’t wear the clothes?”

“Take care what you say—it’ll all be used against you,” I said, as I gave him my hand to help him to his feet.

“Oh, I don’t mind that a bit,” he said in a woeful and weary way that went straight to my heart. “Is he dead?—the man I fired at—is he dead?”

“He was not when I left him, but they’re expecting that,” I curtly answered. “Can you walk with me to the Central—it’s more than a mile—or would you need a cab?”

“I’m willin’ to walk as far as my strength will carry me,” he said, with child-like obedience, as he took my arm for support. “Only to think that I’ve been an honest working man, striving to do what’s right all my life, and yet to come to be hanged for murder after all! And I’m not sorry, either. I’m glad I’ve killed him, for I expect my Meg to die through him.”

I looked at him curiously, thinking that his mind was affected, but the quick eyes took in the look at once, and he added—

“I’m not touched here;” and he put a finger-point to his forehead; “don’t think that. I’m as right in the head as you are—only worn out and done. I was strong enough till it was all over, and then I seemed to have not the strength of a sparrow.”

I thought he was right, and at the end of the street hailed a cab from the stance, and we drove to the Central, he looking out on the crowded streets with great interest, and making another of his queer remarks.

“I s’pose it’s the last time I’ll see so many people till I’m brought out to be hanged,” he said, stolidly. “Well, it won’t be any worse than what I’ve felt already here—here;” and he put his hand on his breast and quickly added, “Be you a family man, now?”

I nodded gravely.

“And you don’t look a bad ’un—you didn’t kick me or pull me about as I’ve seen some do, never thinkin’ they’ll be old themselves one day. You’ve a gal, mebbe?—one you’ve sort o’ set your heart on!” he added, hooking his bony fingers on one of my arms and fixing me with those searching eyes of his. “How’d you feel if any one stole her out of your bosom, and ruined her, and cast her at your feet—a poor, bleeding, crushed thing, ready to lie down and die? Wouldn’t you feel like killing that man? I see it in your face. Well, that’s just how I felt; we’re both alike, only that I’ve done it, and you haven’t come to that yet.”

At the Office he quietly and calmly gave his name as Philip Huddlestone, and when asked if he had any statement to make, he said—

“I’ve nothing to say but that I shot the man, and that I’m not sorry I did it. I’m only a poor man, a journeyman painter by trade, but I’ve my feelings the same as the richest. I’ve a daughter I set my heart on, and though she was only a barmaid, you mustn’t think she wasn’t good and pure. That man—him that I shot, and ain’t sorry for—met her at the bar, and got talking to her about love and nonsense, and kept telling her of his estate that he’d come into when his father died, and of the money he had coming to him. Well, the poor gal didn’t know no better, and made up to run away with him to Paris. He was to marry her there, and I believe did go through some affair of the kind to blind her eyes when he saw she was set on coming back if he didn’t. But then the law ain’t strong enough there to make it binding in England, and he knowd she was no more his wife in this country than I am. Well, he kept her till he was tired of her, and then bolted and left her. She got helped across the water, and then came back to her poor old dad. I didn’t know my own gal—my own flesh and blood. I think she’s dying, and I left her in safe hands while I came up to Scotland to see her righted. She sent me to do that, but she didn’t know I meant to do it with a pistol. I walked most of the way, ’cause we’re very poor, and I’m not so able to work as I used to be.”

That was the substance of the prisoner’s declaration, and, after emitting the same, he was taken away and locked up, his wounded arm being first properly dressed. But before a week had elapsed there came a surprise for us all. The wounded man had so far recovered as to be able to receive an account of the prisoner’s declaration, when he expressed the most unbounded astonishment, and emphatically denied all knowledge of the circumstances. That he spoke the truth few could doubt, for it was ascertained beyond question that Stephen Barbour had not been in Paris for more than a year. The complication seemed so mysterious, and the statements of both men remained so emphatic, that a messenger was despatched to the prisoner’s home, and that man found the daughter as emphatic in her statements as her father, and in the end brought her to Scotland to see the wounded man whom she claimed as her lawful husband. This step proved a wise one, for on the poor girl being introduced to the invalid, she at once cried out—

“That is not Stephen Barbour—he is like him, but older and fairer.”

This answer gave the old laird the first clue to the mystery. His second son, a fast youth whom it was impossible to keep at home, spent most of his time in London, and often got into good society by passing himself off as the eldest son and heir. Thus he had been introduced to the pretty barmaid, and by the name of Stephen he had been married to her in Paris.

This, his latest piece of villainy, plunged the whole family into grief, involving as it did not only the family honour, but almost costing his innocent and beloved brother and another man their lives.

So enraged were his relatives that the case was given into the hands of the police, and Adam Barbour, to his profound disgust and surprise, was arrested in London, and tried and convicted of false impersonation, for which he was sent for three months to prison.

Stephen Barbour made a good recovery, and was able at the trial of Huddlestone to speak so feelingly and kindly of the prisoner, that all—even the accused—were moved, and the sentence was the light one of nine months’ imprisonment. The daughter Meg was cared for by the Barbours, and ultimately, I believe, on the death of the man she had married, received the second son’s portion, supplemented by a handsome addition from Stephen Barbour. Her father rejoined her in London at the expiry of his sentence; but either the excitement of his journey to Scotland, or the prison life which followed it, had been too much for his slender frame, and he scarcely saw the end of the year.

A HOUSE-BREAKER’S WIFE.

Going down the Canongate one day I was accosted by a little treacherous rascal known as Dirty Dick. I suppose he had followed me down the street for the purpose of so addressing me, but at the moment I did not think much of the circumstance. Dick was not particularly dirty in his appearance or person, so it is possible he had got the name rather for some dirty trick or act of treachery. He had the distinction of being heartily despised by every one who knew him, myself included.

After a little preliminary patter, to throw me off my guard, Dick said—

“Bob Brettle has finished his time and got back here.”