Sitting down and scanning the place carefully, the minister said: "You heard from my sermon on Sabbath that I am deeply interested in thebothy question; and I want to be thoroughly acquainted with it."
Strang smiled and said to himself: "Jeddart Justice. He condemned and executed us on Sunday, and now he is going to try us."
"I must confess," said the minister, "that I am surprised to see your place look so tidy and comfortable. You heard, I suppose, that I was coming."
"No," said Strang. "The good wife, Mrs Wedderspoon, looks upon this as part of her own house, and is just as particular about it as she is about the rooms where her two sons sleep. No place could be cleaner or more comfortable."
"But your food?" asked the minister. "Is it not rather coarse?"
"Well, sir!" replied Strang, "it would be coarse to the like of you. But for hard working, healthy, country folk, out in the open air, could anything be better than well-boiled porridge and sweet milk for breakfast and supper, and kail and meat and potatoes for dinner? And looking at us, you would say that our food agrees with us."
"Then," said the minister, after a thoughtful pause, "I am sorry to see that you have nomeans of improving your mind. You seem to have no books."
"Oh yes," said Strang, opening the door of a cupboard, "we have a few. Look! here are Brown's 'Dictionary of the Bible,' 'Shakespeare,' some of Sir Walter Scott's works; and Jim has 'Burns' in his hand. Anyone who masters all these is better educated than most people."
"I'm surprised," remarked the minister gravely, "that you read 'Burns.' He has some very objectionable passages."
"He's a mixture of good and bad," replied Strang, "just like every other author. If we read no author that is not absolutely pure, we shall read none at all. He's a poor creature that can't pick out the good and throw away the bad."
"I suppose," remarked the minister, "that there is a good deal of whisky consumed here sometimes?"
"For months," said Strang, "we never taste it."
"When you see," said the minister, "so many of your fellow-creatures abuse it, why not set them a good example and abstain from it altogether?"
"Well, sir," replied Strang, "I've thought ofthat, and I have also thought that if I were to abstain from everything that is abused, I would soon, like the Irishman's horse, come to the last straw and die of starvation."
"Of course," said the minister, "you have none of the salutary influences of a home?"
"Oh yes, sir," answered Strang, "we go down to the kitchen every night, and have a crack and snuff with the goodman, a gossip with the goodwife, and a game at 'catch the ten' with the sons, and finish up with family worship. To all intents and purposes we are members of the family."
"I am told," said the minister, "that there is a good deal of loose talk in bothies, and that one bad man often corrupts the whole lot."
"I fear, sir," replied Strang, "that that's the fault, not of bothies, but of human nature itself. In almost every company objectionable persons will be found. They are to be met with in the most select society, and even, I am told, in the rooms of divinity students. You'll correct me if I am wrong. There was Mr Joram's son of Kilbaigie, a divinity student, rusticated last year for being tipsy and uproarious at a gathering in his own lodgings."
Then after a little, Mr MacGuffog said—"this bothy of yours seems to be an exception. Is it not?"
"No," said Strang, "all in this neighbourhood are very much alike."
"Then I'm afraid," said the minister, looking very uncomfortable, "I've done the farmers injustice."
"Indeed you have, sir," replied Strang earnestly, "and they feel it very keenly. The country folk are talking of leaving your church in a body. 'Nurseries of hell' and 'servants of the devil' are uncommonly strong terms."
"But such terms," said the minister, "if I am rightly informed, must apply to the system as it exists elsewhere."
"Not so far as I am aware," said Strang. "Besides, your remarks referred to this neighbourhood."
Then after a long pause the minister said in a tone of great embarrassment, "What am I to do?"
"Well, sir," replied Strang, "I think you know better than I do. But what seems to me the only straight-forward plan is this: if you have been wrong, confess it frankly. If you have done injustice to the people, apologise."
"Well," said the minister, "I shall first visit the other bothies in the parish, and I shall be guided by what I see there." Then after a pause he said—"But how do you account for the great outcry that has been raised against bothies?"
"Partly in this way, sir," said Strang. "There are some ministers (you will excuse me for saying it) that are like our sporting lairds. They must have the excitement of the chase. If they start a heresy case, that's their highest game and gives them their best sport. But not always lighting upon that, they have no difficulty in finding what they consider some social evil. Then they give the view halloo, and are after it in full cry through thick and thin."
"Ah!" said the minister, rising, "you are hard upon us poor clergy; but there may be a little truth in what you say. Good night." And away he went.
Next Sunday morning there was a great gathering of country folk at the church. They were discussing the rumour, that the minister was going to apologise. Some believed it, while others thought that it was too good to be true. Among the latter was old Manson.
"Apologeese," he sneered, "no, no. A blackcoat never surrenders. When he has been steekit in by the bethal, he can say what he likes, and no' ane daur utter a cheep. Na, na, the poopit has been ower lang the seat o' an oracle. It's no' gaun to become the stule o' repentance."
But old Manson was wrong. Towards the end of the sermon, which was on the text, "Bear ye one another's burdens," the minister came to a dead pause. There was a terrible stillness all over the church. Every ear was on the alert to catch what was coming, and nervous people held down their heads. Then the minister, looking ghastly pale, and speaking with slow deliberation, said:
"Brethren, my great desire is to find out what your burdens are, and to help you to bear them; but last Sabbath I must admit that I failed. I had always heard that the Bothy System was one of the curses of this country; and I had never heard a word said in its defence. Very naturally, in calling upon the people of this neighbourhood to put away the evil thing from among them, I used very strong language. Brethren, I have since discovered that, as far as this parish is concerned, I was wrong; and I now apologise to the farming people in particularand the congregation in general. May this be a warning to us all—to you as well as me—not to be too hasty in forming judgments regarding our fellow-creatures."
Here was an event altogether unprecedented! No one had ever heard of a minister confessing from the pulpit that he had made a mistake. It was the result of the purest Christian candour; but had it proceeded from policy it would have been a master-stroke. With one sentence the minister turned the hearts of the people from the fiercest indignation right round to an enthusiastic love. The women-folk especially were loud in his praises.
"Oh!" they exclaimed, "wasn't it like a real Christian to own that he was wrang; and didn't he look rale bonny when he was daein' it?" And they all agreed that it was Gilbert Strang, who by his wonderful cleverness had opened the minister's eyes, and made him see that it was his duty to confess.
On the Monday afterwards, Gilbert was ploughing the Five-Acre Lea. To one fond of rustic associations it was a pleasant picture; the pair of horses sleek and well-fed, bending their heads over their strong chests, lifting their legs leisurelyand together, and pulling the plough slowly through the stiff loam; the knife-like coulter evenly cutting a narrow strip of the green turf; the shining share turning it over and forming another long ridge of fresh earth; the man holding steadily the plough-tails and looking contented and happy; and over all, the sombre sky of a winter afternoon gradually darkening towards the dusk. As he was turning the plough at the headrig, he heard himself hailed in a cheery voice. He looked round, and there was Manson of the Hole, with his face in a broad grin of delight.
Shaking the ploughman's hand, and then slapping him vehemently on the shoulder, he roared out, "Eh, man, ye're an awfu' billy. This is an age o' novelties, and ye've brocht aboot ane o' the greatest o' them a'. A minister standin' in the poopit and confessin' to his folk that he had been wrang! Wha ever heard the like? It's an event in the history o' the kirk. And the man that had the head and the tongue to manage a' this—here he is, wastin' himsel on wark that the stupidest clod-happer could dae. By the Lord Hairy! it's no' richt! You should hae been a minister yersel, settin' them alesson o' straightforwardness; and as sure as I am a livin' sinner they require it. Man! I'll tell ye what I'll dae. I'm no' a rich man, but I'll lend ye twa hunder pounds to gang to the college; and ye can pay it back whenever it suits ye. Ye needna hurry."
Strang was taken aback; and for about a minute was silent, fascinated evidently by the prospect which had thus suddenly been called up before him. At last he said:
"Mr Manson! dae ye really mean that? It's awfu' generous; and I'm half inclined to tak yer offer. But no, the kirk is no' my trade; the harness wadna sit easy. Nor yet the schule; my nerves wadna stand a' the tear and wear that's required to stir up a' kinds o' young brains. Besides, I canna gie up an open air country life. It has nearly a' the advantages I care aboot. We get the great natural medicines—fresh air, sunlight, pure water, perfect quiet, and sound sleep. We hae the best food; for what could be mair nourishin' than milk, eggs, and oatmeal, all fresh and unadulterated? And we hae the best opportunities (if we only hae the gumption to tak them) of improvin' oor minds, for we live in the workshop o' nature,and see the coontless wonders which she is producin' a' the year roond."
"But dae ye no' think it richt," asked Manson, "to raise yersel as sae mony hae dune, to a higher position in society?"
"Weel," replied Strang slowly, "I'm no' jist sure aboot that. It seems to me a kind o' selfishness. Should we no' think o' raisin' others? We owe a duty to oorsels, nae doot, but also to those wha hae produced us and brocht us up. That's the true way in which the masses are to be raised—not by being patronised by their superiors, but by being led onwards and upwards by men of their own class. Not that I think I could ever lead them; but I could assist them that are really able to lead them."
"Weel," said Manson, going away, "my offer is still afore ye, whenever ye like to tak it."
Year after year passed away, and Gilbert Strang continued most religiously to save every penny that he could. When his hoardings amounted to a handsome sum, he looked for some way of laying them out at interest. Now, there was in Mr MacGuffog's congregation a Mr Melville, a lawyer and banker of unquestionable respectability, a prominent elder in the kirk, and the brotherof a celebrated D.D. To many of the church members he had become the guide, philosopher, and friend. Besides giving them his advice, he took charge of their spare cash and got an investment for it. To this gentleman Strang had no hesitation in committing his hard-earned money, with the injunction, that the interest when it fell due was to be added to the principal, and the aggregate sum in this way allowed to accumulate. At the end of five years, his affairs had prospered so well that he saw a prospect of buying back his inheritance. He would borrow a sum from Manson, giving him in return a bond upon the property; and that sum added to his savings would make up the purchase money. He had got Manson's hearty consent, he had instructed Mr Melville to realise his investments, and he had written to his mother to tell her the joyful tidings, and to say that he would be over at her house on Saturday evening to discuss the whole matter.
It was a beautiful day at the end of June, and Strang was busy among the haymakers in the Bog. The occasion was important; and all the inmates of the farm—master and servants, old and young, men and women, and even thedogs—were engaged. Amidst a perpetual ripple of gossip, joke, and laughter, they merrily turned over the tanned grass, put it up in cocks (or, as it was called in that district,coles), and carefully raking the cleared space, made the field look tidy and fresh. The sight of the abundant and well-conditioned crop; the delightful scent that arose from it; the twitter of the swallows that wheeled around; and above all the glorious weather, exhilarated every soul. And when the cart, driven by Jim Lochty and containing the dinner, appeared at the gate of the field, they laughed aloud in their joy; for what can be more delightful to a hungry human creature than the prospect of being seated on a heap of fragrant hay with a largebapin one hand and a tankard of nut-brown ale in the other. But what was the matter with Jim? He was all excitement. He had evidently something startling to tell; and, like your ordinary bearer of sensational news, even when it is bad, he had a sort of grim pleasure in delivering it. Before he came up he cried out:—
"Gilbert Strang, yer banker, Mr Melville, has cut his throat and has left a letter to say that he has made awa wi' a' the folks' siller."
Strang was stunned, and for some time could do nothing but stare at Jim, wondering if he were telling the truth.
At last he said: "I don't believe it. Mr Melville o' a' folk! Somebody has been hoaxing ye."
"Na," said Jim, "it's perfectly true. It was the polisman that tellt me; and he had seen him quite stiff and had read the letter. A' the folk were talkin' aboot it. Look! there's Mr Proud o' the Hill passin'. Gang and speir at him."
Mr Proud had stopped his gig and was beckoning to Strang; and when Strang went over to him, it was only to hear a confirmation of the terrible report. But that was not all. Misfortune seems to take a savage delight not only in knocking her victim down, but in trampling upon him after he is down. Mr Proud had another sad calamity to tell, namely, that Mr Manson had been found that morning dead in bed.
Here was the end of all Strang's labour. This double loss dispelled at once the dream which had lighted up all his future—the hope of regaining the inheritance of his ancestors, thatwhite two-storeyed house, with the sunny garden in front, and the snug farm buildings behind, on whose walls the history of the family seemed to be written, and where the associations of his own happy boyhood, like the bright and fresh dewdrops of a summer morning, hung upon every bush and tree. A cloud of despondency fell upon him; and, seen through it, the sunny landscape and the merry faces of the haymakers seemed incongruous and almost unbearable.
His spirit, however, was too robust to be long weighed down. Towards evening he threw off his load, and asked himself if he had, on the whole, any good reason for complaining? He had, indeed, lost the opportunity of realising a happiness which was chiefly made up of sentiment; but, on the other hand, what blessings were still spared to him? Health, strength, congenial employment, wholesome food, sound sleep, fresh air, the glories of the universe, appreciative friends, and a kind Providence. He who could mope and mourn in the face of all these advantages was not a man at all, but a cowardly cur.
Then the thought of his mother arose in his mind. How would she bear it? Beneath thedouble blow of her husband's bankruptcy and death, the poor body's courage had given way. Thoroughly demoralised, she considered herself a victim, and expected restitution, not only from her friends and the public at large, but even from Providence. She had, therefore, staked her whole happiness upon the recovery of the pleasant steading and fields at Sunnybrae. And now that the recovery was impossible, most bitter would be her disappointment, and endless would be her grumbling against society at large and even against Providence.
Strang's mother lived at Cauldale, a solitary place four miles north of Pitlour. It stood far apart from other dwellings, on the side of an uncultivated hill. It had once been a row of thatched cottages; but with the exception of the one at the east end, they had been allowed to fall into decay, and now stood roofless and empty. The hearths which had once been lit up by warm household fires, and the still warmer smiles of family affection, were now covered with rubbish and overgrown with weeds. In the one which was still habitable, Mrs Strang had been allowed by the Laird to take up her abode; and by the aid of her son and some kind friendsshe had managed to get the means of making a scanty living. A cow grazing on the braes, a pig fed on the refuse of the garden, a row of bee-hives and a flock of poultry, gave her a supply of milk, butter, cheese, pork, honey, and eggs—part of which she devoted to her own use, but the most of which she carried into the nearest town and sold for hard cash. She even utilised the crops that grew beyond the range of cultivation. In early summer she culled the young nettles to makekail. In autumn she gathered the brambleberries to make jam for her afternoon tea; and a bed of wormwood growing on the hillside in front of her house supplied her with all the medicine she ever took.
On the Saturday evening when she expected her son's visit, she was seated with her knitting on a chair in front of her cottage. She was in high spirits, and anticipated with great pleasure the discussing with Gilbert all the details of taking possession of Sunnybrae. Soon she saw him in the distance coming striding through the pasture land. Still working at her stocking, she went down the face of the hill to meet him. But when he drew near, instead of that jubilantsmile which she had expected to see on his face, there was a look of depression.
"Gilbert," she exclaimed, "what's wrang? Something has happened. Ye canna hide it from yer mither. Tell me at ance."
He told her; and with a cry of lamentation she dropped on the ground and sat there, wringing her hands and bemoaning her fate: "what hae I dune, what hae I dune, to be afflickit in this way—blow after blow—blow after blow—and after slavin' and starvin' and savin'. But that man (what's his name?) canna hae swallowed the siller. He maun hae spent it on some folk. They should be socht oot and made to pay it back."
Strang thought it best not to answer his mother, but to allow her to give vent to her feelings. Then raising her gently up, taking her by the arm, and telling her that she must come and give him a cup of tea, as he was ready to faint, he led her into her cottage. It was a poor place, but the care which had been taken to make it comfortable in honour of his coming touched his heart. A clear fire was burning behind the two iron bars that served for a grate. The cracked hearthstone and rough earthenfloor had been swept and whitened. The most was made of the scanty bits of furniture, the wreck of her former household; and everything was clean and in its proper place. A snowy cloth covered the frail round table; the marriage china was arranged in order; his favourite brambleberry jam was in a glass dish; his favourite buttered toast simmered before the fire; and the only armchair in the house was placed for him in his favourite chimney-corner.
Wiping her eyes occasionally, and moaning "Oh dear," she poured out a cup of tea for him; but refused to take any herself, and sat rocking herself to and fro. Then came another outburst, "Why did ye ever trust that man? I'm sure I tellt ye weel aboot 'im."
"Mother, mother," he said in a deprecating tone, "hoo can ye say so? Ye never did."
"That I did," she moaned out. "But ye never listen to what I say. Nae wonder ye forget."
Strang saw that reasoning would do no good; and so he sat silent while she continued to give vent to her feelings. And to his great relief, a knock came to the door, and a gentleman, well-dressed and well-mannered, entered.
"Mr Strang, I presume," he said. "I mustbeg your pardon for intruding. I called at Pitlour, and they sent me on here."
Catching fresh alarm, and seeing in this visit a continuation of the coil of troubles in which they had got involved, the mother cried out, "Oh sir! what are ye gaun to dae wi' 'im?"
The gentleman, with a kindly smile, said, "There's nothing to cause alarm; quite the reverse. I am Mr Kemp, Mr Manson's lawyer."
And then in a calm manner, as if it was the sort of thing that occurred every day, he told that Mr Manson had left his money and other belongings to Gilbert Strang.
Mrs Strang burst into a rapture of delight: "Eh, dae ye hear that! It's an answer to my prayers. I aye said that Providence wad mak up to us what He had made us suffer."
But Strang himself was strangely silent. At length he said, "I don't see how I can take it, sir."
"No' tak it!" screamed his mother. "Are ye mad?"
"No, mother!" said Strang, quietly, "this money should have been given to Mr Manson's relatives."
"He has got no relatives," said Mr Kemp, "and he expressly says that he leaves it to you as the man whom he most respects, and who will "guidethe money best"; and if you don't take it, why, it must go to the Queen; and in the ocean of her wealth it will be a mere drop, and will do good to nobody."
"Dae ye hear that!" said the mother. "The Queen indeed; set her up! She's got ower muckle already. She would tak everything."
"Then," said Gilbert, "if I maun tak it, I canna spend it on mysel. I'll pay my father's debts, and wipe off the family disgrace."
"Gilbert Strang!" said his mother, "are ye mad? Sir! ye'll no' allow him to dae this. The money wasna left for this."
"Mother," he said, quietly, "my father's memory is ane o' oor dearest possessions. There's a blot on it, the blot o' bankruptcy. I want to rub that aff, so that you and me may hae nae cause to blush when his name is mentioned."
Utterly foiled, the poor woman collapsed, saying in a tone of resignation, "Weel, weel, gang yer ain gait, and leave me here to slave, and starve, and dee. Ye'll maybe wipe yer faither's debts aff yer conscience, but ye'll sune hae yer mither's death in their place."
Gilbert now rose to go back with Mr Kemp. His mother refused to shake hands with him;but he clapped her on the back, and said, "Courage, mother! there may be some siller left, after payin' a' the debts, to buy Sunnybrae yet."
When they were outside, Mr Kemp said, "if you carry out this Quixotic plan of yours, you'll have nothing left."
"I can't help that," returned Strang; "I must do what's right."
Strang lost no time in carrying out his resolve. Ere a few weeks had passed, his father's creditors, very much to their astonishment, were paid the full amount of what was owing them, along with interest. On the next Sunday morning, as he put on his old and faithful Sunday clothes, he felt a satisfaction which he had never experienced before. The stain on his father's memory—a memory otherwise bright—was removed, and he almost felt that his deceased parent was near, smiling approval of what had been done.
His appearance among the loungers at the church door created quite a stir. Every eye was upon him. The farmers and their wives pressed forward to shake him cordially by the hand. They said nothing, for their limited vocabulary contained no form of words suitable for such anextraordinary occasion; but their looks expressed their feelings. Though they would not very likely, if placed in his circumstances, have done what he had done; yet they could not help admiring him. As he stood before them in his well-worn attire, he looked like a hero of the antique type; and the patches on his coat appeared more than ever like badges of honour.
Meanwhile his mother, on the lonely slopes of Cauldale, moped and grumbled. She felt herself a poor, forlorn wretch, deserted not only by her son but by Providence also; and she took a morbid pleasure in thinking that no one had ever been so ill used as she. But one afternoon, as she sat at her solitary "four-hours," her son burst in, with every feature beaming. She was then quite prepared for the good news that he brought. The creditors were so delighted with his unexpected conduct, that they had met and agreed to return to him half the money. With that, and the remainder of Manson's legacy, he had bought back Sunnybrae.
"So by next Martinmas," he said, "ye'll be in yer ain auld house, mither."
Bright glowed the ben-end, or parlour, of Sunnybrae on the evening of the 12th November.Bright, also, were the occupants, Gilbert Strang and his mother. They had come in on the forenoon of the 11th, and had been hard at work "pittin' things to richts." Mrs Strang had complained bitterly about the state in which everything had been left; but she had at last arranged things so that they could now sit down with some degree of comfort.
"Looking round," she said, "on a' the auld things in their auld places, I feel as if I had been dreamin' aboot livin' in a strange country, and that I had waukened up to find mysel at hame. There is only ae great want,—the presence o' yer faither. But I canna help thinkin' that he is here in spirit, and shares in our joy. And oh, Gilbert! glad he maun be that a' his debts are paid, and that naebody can say that they hae lost onything by him. You were richt, and I was wrang."
THE GENTLEMAN TRAMP.
John Fairgrieve, better known as Hillend, the name of his farm, had been born with a strong appetite for knowledge. Had his education been attended to in his youth, he would very likely have been a great reader. But as he had never got into the way of using books with facility, he was driven to seek his mental food in the actual world around him; and this he did with the greatest assiduity. In plain language, he was a notorious newsmonger, a collector of all the "clashes" of the neighbourhood. In bright summer weather, before the hay harvest came on, and when "there was naething pushin'," it was his delight to stand at his farm gate, under the large plane tree, with his snuff-box in his hand, and exchange news with all the passers-by. It did not matter who they were. The farmer in his gig, the ploughman on his cart, the baker driving his van, the beggarwife with her bratsand her wallets, were all obliged to "stand and deliver." In fact, Hillend was a sort of informal turnpike man, levying mental toll on the king's highway.
Very like him in this inveterate love for tittle-tattle were his two sisters, Lizzie and Grizzie, who kept house for him. They were seldom seen separate. They hunted in couples. And their prey was generally some country laddie that came into the farmyard for milk or butter. They took complete possession of the unlucky urchin. He had no more chance of escape than a gooseberry which has fallen before two greedy hens. The one examined him, and then the other cross-examined him, or (to use the old Scotch phraseology) the one speired and the other back-speired, until the poor child was turned inside out, or, as Geordie Faw, the cattleman, expressed it, "fairly flypeit."
It was eight o'clock on a wild October night. Outside, in the farmyard, were darkness and a fierce gale that rattled at the windows and howled at the chimney tops, and swirled round the stacks and into every hole and corner. Inside, in the farm kitchen, were light and warmth and bright dishes on the walls, and still brighter facesgrouped round the blazing fire. With the exception of Collie the dog and Mottie the cat, all were busy in their own different ways. Miss Lizzie was at the churn, and Miss Grizzie at the spinning-wheel. Willie Foster and Pate Mackie, the two ploughmen, were playing at draughts, or, as they called it, "the dam-brod." Geordie Faw was cobbling his shoes. The itinerant tailor, John Glen, seated cross-legged on a chair, was mending the farmer's coat. And Hillend himself, what was he doing? Occupying the place of honour at the left side of the fire, and, with the usual snuff-box in his hand, he was keeping up the conversation, or, in other words, "ca'in the crack." As the corn and the potatoes were safely gathered in, he was in capital spirits, and bent upon making both himself and the others happy.
You would have thought that there was very little entertainment to be got in that quiet homely scene; but you would have been mistaken. First of all, there was Glen, the tailor, with a tongue as sharp and slick as his own shears, and with odds and ends of scandal as many and varied as his own clippings. Then in came Sandy Livingstone, fresh from a visitto the smithy, and bursting with all the "clavers" of the parish—who was dead, who was going to be married, who hadfailed, who had been fou last July fair, who had been up before the Session, how Grangemire Mary had got her leave, and Geordie Clephane had lost his watch at Kirkcaldy market. And while they were still enjoying these tit-bits, and rolling them like sweet morsels under their tongue, who should appear but a mysterious stranger, foot-sore and tired with travel. All grew quiet to look at him. This was no ordinary tramp.
His clothes were fashionably cut, though threadbare and soiled; and his features and hands were thin and delicate, though tanned by the weather. The company were prepared to hear that he had once seen better days; but they broke into a murmur of astonishment when he told them that he had been an Oxford man and a man about town, and that he had tramped all the way from London. "An Oxford swell!" "A London man!" "Tramped all the way!" Hillend's face glowed with the anticipation of hearing a wonderful story, and in his excitement he took four or fivesnuffsconsecutively. Miss Lizzie and Miss Grizzie stopped their work, rose to theirfeet, drew near to the stranger, devouring him with their eyes, and eager to "speir and back-speir." They, indeed, set him down to a supper of bread and cheese and milk; but they began at the same time to question him about himself and his adventures. However, he said that if they would kindly wait till he had refreshed and strengthened himself with the meal they had placed before him, he would give them a full and true account of his strange career. They were therefore obliged, meanwhile, to satisfy their curiosity by watching him while he stowed away the viands with wonderful celerity. At length his ravenous appetite was appeased; and, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, and begging pardon for doing so, and giving as an excuse that he hadn't a pocket-handkerchief, he began the story of his adventures. In after days it was often repeated, first by himself and then by others, so that I am able to give it for the most part in his own words.
"My father was rich, but I am almost ashamed to confess that he did not make his money in a very nice way. He was, you see, a pawnbroker in the High Street of Edinburgh. When I was a boy I used often to be in the shop on aSaturday night, and, upon my soul, I used to pity the poor quivering wretches that came in, raising money on their furniture, their very bed, and even the family Bible. I have seen a poor woman, half-stripped herself, take off the clothes from a puny child in her arms, and pawn them. All kinds of scenes went on, haggling and arguing, and cursing and swearing. The words of one customer, especially, I can never forget. He was a broken-down author, puffy and shaky. He was angry because he had not got enough upon his silver watch.
"'You cursed old Jew,' he said to my father, 'I'll tell you what you are. You're a wrecker. You wait for those who are cast ashore by the waves of misfortune, and rob them of the remnants of their property.'
"'No, no,' said my father, 'I accommodate them with money to keep them alive, and in return take only the things they can spare.'
"My father himself did not like the trade, for he gave it up, and went to live in a villa at Eskbank. He continued, however, to lend money in private; but it was on a large scale. Young gentlemen, regular swells, used to call at the house and be closeted with him, and had difficultyin coming to an agreement. I heard one say as he was leaving, 'one hundred per cent. is tremendous.' 'So is the risk,' was all my father's answer.
"My mother was of an easy-going disposition, had no head for figures, and left the management of all money matters to her husband. Her whole care was devoted to me, her only child. I was the apple of her eye. Dear old mother! how I wish that I had appreciated her more!
"As we sat at the fire on a winter evening, she would say, 'Ben! my lad, we must give you the best education. I would like to see you a gentleman before I die.'
"'Nonsense!' my father would say, 'I'll not waste any money upon Latin and Greek, and rubbish of that kind. The training I got will be good enough for him.'
"However, to our great astonishment, he came round to mother's view. You see, he intended that I should carry on the money-lending business, and he thought that if I were sent to a high-class school, I would form a wide connection among young aristocratic spendthrifts, which would be of great service to me. So the question came to be discussed, 'to what school should I besent?' and to settle this question our next door neighbour assisted us.
"This man was Captain Beaumont, but was popularly called 'the Earl.' He was, as he told everybody, 'a real gentleman that had taken a thousand years to be produced, not a shoddy one that can be turned out nowadays in a few weeks.' He was tall, grey, and scraggy, with a backbone as stiff as a walking-stick, and with a head that was uncommonly small, but that was 'large enough,' as our minister remarked, 'for all the ideas he had got to put into it.' His house was, like himself, cheerless but pretentious. He called it Dunmore, which, you must know, was the name of the castle where his ancestors had lived, heaven knows how long ago. He had a doited old serving-man, who was dressed in the family livery, and waited at table, and served the thin broth and scraggy mutton on the family silver. There was also above the dining-room mantelpiece his genealogical tree, with many branches and leaves, and each leaf had on it the name of one of his forefathers, and on the topmost leaf was written his own name, 'Reginald Algernon Beaumont, the present earl.'
"For some time the Earl was very haughtytowards us, throwing us a word occasionally, just as he would throw it to a neighbour's dog. But by and by he made an excuse for calling on us; and in a few weeks he came in regularly every night to have a game of draughts at our fireside. 'His hungry nose,' my father said, 'had scented the havannas and the Glenlivet.' In the first part of the evening he was silent and grumpy, as if he looked down upon our society, and was half angry with himself for being in it. But when the whisky and cigars were placed on the table, he brightened up and grew pleasant and sociable, and would talk for hours about his ancestors, and would tell that he was the lineal descendant of Reginald de Beaumont, who came into Scotland in the reign of David the First, and that he was, therefore, the Earl of Abernethy; and then he would blackguard the House of Lords for not acknowledging his title, and would call them 'Brummagem peers, mostly made out of lucky lawyers, brewers, and cotton-spinners.' On one of these occasions, my mother took courage to talk about me, saying that she wished to make me a gentleman, and asked his advice as to what should be done. He was startled, and, screwing up his nose, said:—
"My dear Madam, you can't make your son a gentleman. You can't put blue blood into his veins and give him a pedigree a thousand years long. But you may give him a gentlemanly education, and make him as good a gentleman as ninety-nine out of every hundred who assume the name. Send him to a high-class English school and then to Oxford. There he will get up the classics, the only branch worthy of a gentleman.'
"So by the Earl's advice I was sent to Vere de Vere College, in Yorkshire: Principal, the Rev. Augustus Caesar, LL.D. The doctor, as he was called, received me in a very friendly manner. So did the pupils, after their own way; rather a rollicking kind of way, however. They were healthy, riotous, and as full of mischief as monkeys. Surrounding me, staring at me, and pulling me about, they plied me with all sorts of questions—what was my governor? had he lots of tin? was Scotland such a wild place? how did I feel in trousers? had I brought my kilt with me? Then they began 'to make me at home,' as they called it. One borrowed a sixpence from me; another, learning that I could not box, showed me the way and gaveme a bloody nose; and all of them joined in crying out, that, as a new boy, I must pay my footing and stand them a jolly spread of pies and tarts and rum-shrub.
"For the first few days I had rather a lively time. As I was a new boy, they thought it only right to practise all their tricks upon me, such as putting a bunch of thistles in my bed, filling my boots with hot water, and putting cobbler's wax upon my seat, which held me fast when the doctor called me to get up. They also exercised their ingenuity in inventing nick-names for me, and I was addressed as 'Scotty,' 'Haggis,' 'Jew,' and 'Balls' (for they had ferreted out that my father had been a pawnbroker). But at length Lord Gulpington, who was the trump card of the college, being the heir to a marquisate, claimed me as his fag, and would allow no one to torment me except himself. He slept in the same room with me, and generally awoke me in the morning by throwing his slipper at my head. Then I got up, and, after dressing hurriedly, went down for his boots and his hot water. During the day I did anything that he required, and at night I often had to smuggle in 'grub and lush,' as he called it. We got on welltogether. I was quite delighted to be connected in any way with a lord; and after a while he said that next to his bull dog, Griffin, which he kept at the butcher's in the village, he liked me best of any creature about the place.
"As far as the body was concerned, the pupils got on very well. They had capital appetites, which they constantly attended to; and they were not content with the abundance that was placed before them, but they were constantly devouring apples, oranges, hardbake, and ginger-beer. Most hearty were they also in taking physical exercise. They played cricket and football, and talked about them incessantly, as if they had been the chief end of man; and they ran at hounds and hares as if they had been hunting a fortune, and not a dirty little boy with a bag of paper scraps.
"The physical training, indeed, was splendid, but I can't say as much for the mental training. With the exception of a little Greek, the thing that we always seemed to be grinding at was Latin. Our grammar book was in Latin. Our reading book was in Latin. The very grace said at table was in Latin. I tried to fix Latin in my head, but it came out again as fast as Iput it in. They endeavoured to improve my memory by giving me several hundred verses to commit, but that only made me worse. In despair, one day I told the doctor that I would never be able to learn Latin. He told me that I must learn it, if I wished to be educated. I then had the presumption to ask him what was the use of it.
"'Oh,' he said, 'it is the best instrument for training the faculties. Besides, it is the "open sesame" into good society.'
"Had I been the only backward pupil, I might have thought that the fault lay in my stupidity. But with the exception of two or three, the other pupils were nearly as bad as myself, and detested their lessons. If a knowledge of Latin was to be the 'open sesame' into good society, I'm afraid they would never get in.
"At the end of four years my course at school was finished; and before proceeding to Oxford I spent a few weeks at home. One evening my father, in his business-like way, asked me to make up an account of the items I had got in return for the money he had laid out,—in other words, to tell him distinctly how much I had learnt.
"Afraid to go into details, I said, 'Well, at least, I've learnt the ways and manners of a gentleman.'
"'Ah,' replied my father, 'to be sure, that's worth all the book knowledge. You'll be better able to do business with gentlemen.'
"In this way I had staved off an ugly question; but in my own room, before going to bed that night, I ran over in my mind what I had learnt and what I had not learnt at school. I had learnt to play cricket and football, to run, to leap, to box, to smoke, to drink beer, and make bets. I hadnotlearnt to write a good hand, to spell correctly, to count correctly, and to know something of the history and geography of my native country.
"My mother came to have some notion of the true state of matters. She had asked me to write to the minister, inviting him to our house on a certain night to meet some friends, and unfortunately I had speltmeetwith ana. The minister was a great humorist, and this was an occasion for a joke which he could not neglect. Consequently, he called next morning, with my letter in his hand, to ask what kind of meat he would bring—beef, or mutton, or pork. Mymother, when she understood the mistake, felt it keenly. So, one evening at the fireside, while the Earl and my father were having their game of draughts, she said:
"'Well, Ben, I hope you will get on at Oxford, and correct all your deficiencies, and come out a perfect scholar.'
"'My dear madam,' said the Earl, 'if any place can make him a scholar Oxford is that place. It has got all the means; it has the most money, the best teachers, and the greatest reputation.'
"My mother, however, although she knew it not, was cruelly deceived. To men who were in love with learning, Oxford gave every facility for maturing their scholarship. But to those who had no such love she could do nothing. Into this latter class I was unfortunate enough to fall. Lord Gulpington was there before me, and introduced me to his set, which consisted of the sons of the aristocratic and the wealthy. These youths, though passing through the curriculum of the University, were students merely in name. They did almost everything but study. Bless you! how could you expect them to do otherwise? What charms could they find in musty, out-of-date Latin and Greek works? They were young,healthy, spirited, and rich; and the bright and breathing world lay around them. Everything within them and without them called upon them to enjoy themselves. They, indeed, went through the farce of attending chapel in the morning, and lectures in the forenoon. But everyone, their teachers as well as themselves, knew it to be a farce. As soon as they went back to their rooms, they tossed their gowns aside, donned their sporting habiliments, and were off to the river, or the road, or the hunting-field, or the racecourse. Then back they came in the evening with a keen relish for other kinds of enjoyment. They feasted, they caroused, they gamboled, they sang jovial glees and choruses, and in fact rattled on as if life were to be a perpetual feast, without any such thing as duty, or trial, or suffering. In all these frolics I mingled. The jolly fellows, though they knew my origin, and called me by no other name than 'Balls,' were free and easy with me, played practical jokes upon me, borrowed my money, smoked my cigars, drank my wine, and even used my rooms for their parties.
"But all things come to an end; and the time arrived when the most of these devotees of pleasure had to lay aside their frivolities, and, inorder to please the old folks at home, had to go in for their degree, or, as they called it, 'their smalls.' Many of them were, as it is called, 'plucked,' and no wonder! Their feathers were not home-grown, but were borrowed plumes stuck on with infinite labour and skill by tutors, and, therefore, came off easily. On me they would not even stick, and so I could not go up for the degree, and had not even the honour of being plucked.
"My poor parents were spared the chagrin of seeing the failure of their efforts to make me a gentleman. Before my Oxford career was finished, they died, both in the same week, the victims of the terrible Asiatic cholera, during its first visit to this country in 1832. As I now came into a considerable fortune, I saw no necessity for adopting a profession, or doing any useful work. To enjoy myself was, I thought, to be my only business; and the proper place for enjoyment was London, the centre of all that is pleasant and grand. So, as soon as I had wound up affairs in Edinburgh, I hastened to the metropolis.
"I put up at the Golden Cross, and proceeded, as it is called, 'to do the sights of London.' I visited picture galleries, museums, theatres, concert rooms,until I was tired out and disgusted. Then came on the most terrible feeling I ever experienced, a feeling which you busy and healthy people never had.I did not know what to do.I did not care to stroll about the streets, for the everlasting din and endless throng grew intolerable. I could not sit all day in the coffee-room of the hotel, staring at everyone that entered, and pretending to read the newspaper. When I got up in the morning, it seemed as if I would never manage to get through the day. Time was my great enemy. It loaded the present, and blocked up the future. How was I to kill it? To do this I would have been inclined to try almost anything. I now understood how men committed suicide through sheer weariness. I also felt the truth of the saying that idleness is the cause of nearly every crime, and that the idle man does not wait to be tempted, but of his own accord tempts the devil. My devil soon appeared.
"I had noticed among the inmates of the hotel a middle-aged, stout, and grey-headed gentleman, whom the waiters addressed as Colonel. He seemed to me to be round and oily with health, good nature, and jollity. One day, when heappeared to be idle, he sat down and had a talk with me. Without telling me much about himself, except that he been an officer in the Spanish service, he managed to extract from me a good deal about myself; and when he heard me complain about feeling dull, he at once placed his services at my disposal.
"'London dull!' he said, 'why, it's a paradise, a garden full of flowers, and I, like a bee, or rather a bumble-bee, have visited all of them.'
"And certainly no idle man could have a pleasanter companion than the Colonel. He was stimulating and enlivening, like the morning sunshine. His animal spirits and relish for life never flagged, and he was always ready, when the occasion turned up, to joke, to laugh, to eat, or to drink. Every day he had some novelty to offer. 'Now,' he would say, 'I'll give you a treat that you never had before;' and then he would drive me to a racecourse or some other resort of fashion, or he would take me to some famous old chop-house in the recesses of the city, or some new and gorgeous hotel in one of the fashionable thoroughfares; and, while we sat down to what he called, 'a nice little dinner,' he would introduce some new dish, or some newblend of whisky, or some new brand of wine; and while we discussed it he would smack his lips, rub his hands, and look at me as much as to say, 'Did I not tell you so?' His enjoyment of the pleasures of the great city never seemed to fail. The only thing, in fact, that ever failed with him was money. He sometimes had no change, or had forgotten his purse; but I was only too glad to pay his expenses in return for his company. I could not do without him. He had made life like a dream, a little feverish perhaps, but exceedingly pleasant.
"One night after the theatre, he took me to a house in the Haymarket, where, he said, we could sup cosily together. As soon as we had entered, to his great surprise, he found two old friends who had just arrived from the Continent. They were middle-aged, fashionably dressed, and well-mannered, and were introduced to me as Captain Spurr and Count Lago. At my invitation they joined us in a private room, where we supped on lobster and champagne, and all grew as sociable and as pleasant as you like. A game of whist was proposed, and the Colonel and I played against the other two for small stakes. We had astonishing luck, and won game after game;and at the end of several hours, rose the winners of a considerable sum of money. Of course, we continued the practice of meeting and playing there, and night after night the same results happened. The Colonel and I always won. Such a thing had never been known before. They all attributed it to me; and even the landlord and the waiters complimented me, and wondered that I did not back my luck sufficiently. This was pleasant so far; but I did not like the idea of winning so much money, and feared that we might completely clean out our opponents, and I frankly told the Colonel my feelings on the matter, and suggested that we should stop.
"'Stop!' he exclaimed, 'we can't stop; we must give them their revenge. Oh, don't be afraid that you'll beggar them; they have plenty of the needful.'
"So on we drove in our career of victory, until our winnings amounted to a large sum. Then fortune changed, and, strange to say, went on as steadily against us as it had done for us, until our opponents had not only regained all they had lost, but had won some of our money.
"While on our way home that night I saidto the Colonel—'As our opponents have recouped themselves, we must now stop.'
"'Hang it!' said the Colonel, 'not just yet if you please. I can't afford to lose any money if you can. Let us adopt this method. We are so much money out of pocket. On our first game to-night, let us stake the double of that. If we lose, let us double it again; and let us go on doing this; and whenever the luck turns, and, hang it! you know, it must turn very soon, we shall, at one go, have won all our money back, and then we can cry quits.'
"This seemed a dangerous plan, but I felt that we must follow it. So on we went, night after night losing our games, and always piling up the money, till the stake had become something tremendous, and I became almost mad with excitement. To provide funds, I kept selling out my investments and lodging the money in a London bank; and to keep up my nerve I drank champagne incessantly—and then the crash came!
"I woke up one day with a head a mass of pain, a mouth as dry as a lime-kiln, and a confused memory of exciting scenes, to find myself in a bed in our nightly resort. On summoningthe waiter, I learnt from him that I had been very tipsy, and that the Colonel and his friends had had some difficulty in managing me, and getting me to bed. I lost no time in going to the Golden Cross Hotel to see the Colonel, but to my horror I was told that the Colonel had left that morning with all his luggage. I understood now the hellish plot which had been devised for my ruin; but I thanked God that I had still ten thousand pounds in the bank. I hurried to the bank to make sure; but there I was met with the intelligence that a gentleman, that morning, had presented my cheque for the whole amount, and that all my money had been paid to him. I asked to see the cheque, thinking that it must have been forged; but no, there was my undoubted signature! I had been drugged, and while in a stupor made to sign my name; and my whole fortune was gone. The Colonel, who, it seems, was notorious as a most accomplished blackleg, was advertised for, but was never caught.
"I had now to give up my rooms in the hotel, and all my refined habits, take lodgings in a street near Drury Lane, and seek for some way of earning my bread. Surely, I thought, I can'tstarve: in this immense community there must be many thousands of vacant situations. But I did not take into account, that for every single vacancy there must be at least ten applicants. And I very soon found that the education which I had got at school and at the university, and which had cost so much, was practically useless. In fact, it was now the great stumbling-block in my way. It had not fitted me for the higher situations, for I could not even spell correctly; and it hadunfitted me for the lower situations, for no one would engage an Oxford scholar for a menial office. I could not even compete with the ragged street boys in running on an errand, holding a horse, or sweeping a crossing. Their education, picked up amid the mud and jostle of the streets, had been far more practical and effective than mine. Instead, therefore, of living by my labour, I was obliged to subsist by pawning my valuables, and bit after bit of my finery, like the plumes of a moulting peacock, dropped from me, till I was left almost bare. Then I was obliged to give up my lodgings, and go out on the streets.
"I was now an outcast in London. It seemed strange that in the midst of so many thousandhouses, I should be without a corner to lay my head in,—that in the midst of millions of people I should not have a single one to help me, or take an interest in me. Such was my condition on a night of August last. I had a few shillings in my pocket, but as I did not see any way by which I could earn money, it was necessary to be rigidly economical. I applied for a night's shelter at a cheap lodging-house in the Borough, but it was so crowded with shabby, dirty, and noisy lodgers that I turned sick, and was obliged to leave. I then tried the casual ward in one of the infirmaries, but it was even more disgusting. Quite at a loss to know what to do, I wandered aimlessly up and down till I found myself on London Bridge, when the steeples were pealing out the hour of midnight. Footsore and weary, I threw myself down on the hard stone seat in one of the recesses; but shortly, a poor, slouching tatterdemalion squatted down beside me, actually laying his unkempt head upon my legs. In disgust, I started up, and crawled away into the city. Hour after hour I dragged my weary limbs along the solitary, interminable streets, looking for some covered doorway where I might lay me down and sleep. Twice I had found a suitablespot; but before I could take possession of it, a policeman's lantern was seen approaching, and I was obliged to move on. When morning began to break I found myself close to Regent's Park, and the soft green sward appeared a temptation which I could not resist. Climbing the fence with some difficulty, I made for a large beech tree, and pillowing my head on one of its extended roots, and stretching out my legs on the soft delightful grass, I fell at once into a deep slumber.
"After several hours of absolute unconsciousness, I had a dream, and thought I was back again in Scotland, in our garden at Eskbank, and heard somebody calling to me. I gradually came to myself, and opened my eyes; and there was a working-man standing over me, and, in an accent unmistakably Scotch, calling me by name, and asking why I was there. I cannot describe the gush of delight that ran through me when I heard the kindly tones of my native land, and realised that here at least was a man who took an interest in me. Raising myself up, I asked him how he came to know me? He told me that he belonged to Eskbank, that he used to know me by sight, that he was on his way tohis work in Regent Park Gardens, and that he was astonished to see me lying like an outcast there. What could I do but tell him my sad story? He said that it might be a long time before I could get any suitable berth in London, and that my best plan would be to go home at once, and that he would lend me five shillings—all that he had on him—to help me on my way. My heart bounded with delight at the suggestion, and I wondered that I had never thought of it before. So, taking his offered loan, and along with it his address, and promising to repay him as soon as I was able, I shook hands with my humble friend, and set off at once to prepare for my journey. Not having enough money to pay the fare either by coach or boat, I resolved to go on foot, and hoped that by taking every precaution, I would not find it too much for me, and that I might be able to get some odd jobs by the road, which would assist my expenses. So I packed up all my effects in a napkin, and bravely set my face to the north.
"When, from the top of Highgate, I had taken my last look of the smoky wilderness called London, and when I turned to go forward through the rich autumn landscape, I felt really happy.After my bitter experience of the endless rows of brick houses, and the everlasting stone pavement, I enjoyed the long lines of leafy trees and hedges, and the soft, fragrant wayside grass. The very thought that every step was taking me nearer home was a delight in itself. That the distance was four hundred miles did not seem to matter much. Our school's sports, especially that of hounds and hare, had taught me to hold in, and not expend all my resources at once. So I moved along at a steady, regular pace, taking care not to strain my muscles. When my feet grew hot, I refreshed them by walking into a brook. When faintness came on, I did not seek the ale-house; but I bought a penny loaf, and sitting down by a wayside well, found that plain bread and water were both palatable and invigorating. For dessert, I sometimes had a young Swedish turnip, which I found more sweet and juicy than any pine-apple I ever tasted. At night, as the weather continued remarkably dry and warm, I preferred the open air to the tramp's lodging-house; and under the newly-cut corn sheaves, or in the recess of a haystack, I slept soundly till I was wakened by the rising sun.
"With all my economy, however, my littlestock of money melted fast away; and I soon saw that if I wished to be saved from the degradation of begging I must earn something. I therefore hit upon a plan which I thought would be sure to get me some employment. This was to call upon the clergymen through whose parishes I passed, to tell them frankly the cause of my degradation, and to ask them in the name of Christian charity to allow me to do some work for them, by which I could earn a meal or a small sum of money. But, unfortunately, this patent plan of mine failed. Without exception, the parish priests listened to my story with an incredulous look, shook their heads, and shut their doors in my face. At length I ventured to ask one why he disbelieved me?
"'My good man,' he said, 'I can't help it. I have been so often taken in by people like you. The more plausible your story is, the more likely it is to be false.'
"'You look upon poverty, then,' said I, 'as a crime?'
"'No,' he replied, 'not exactly, but as one of the marks of a criminal. I may be wrong, but I can't help it.'
"I saw, too, that my fellow-tramps had thesame opinion about me. One evening, at a sudden turn of the road, I found myself face to face with one of a most villainous type. There was no mistaking him. He was a real London-made rough, spawned in the gutter, bred in the slums, moulded in the jostle of the streets, with plunder in his look and blasphemy on his tongue.
"Planting himself right before me, and devouring me with his rat-like eyes, he croaked out, 'Well, my bloomin' cove! what lay are you on?'
"I told him that I was a gentleman who had been unfortunate in London, and was now on my way back to my native country.
"'Oh! a gent are you?' he said, with a sneer; 'then, by ——, fork out like a gent;' and he seized me by the coat collar.
"And now, for the first time, I found I had been taught at school something that was useful. Throwing off his hand, I leapt back, and put myself in a boxing attitude; and, as he made a furious assault upon me, I parried his blows, and letting go my left straight from the shoulder, landed on his jaw a crashing blow which sent him to the grass; and there he lay half-stunned, and looking like a heap of filthy clothes. I askedhim if he would have any more, and getting nothing but a terrible imprecation in reply, I left him, and went on my way.
"By this time I had passed Newark, and I was in a sorry plight. I was without shoes and without a waistcoat, and my hat was crushed and battered out of all shape. With bleeding feet and empty stomach, I was limping along painfully, when I came to a farmer superintending his reapers near the roadside. Touching my forehead, I asked him if he could not give a starving man a job by which he could earn a bite of bread.
"'No lad,' he said, 'but if ye had coomed when the taters were young I could have given you a job. I might have employed you as a scarecrow.'
"Thereupon all the workers laughed, especially the women, who sent up a loud skirl of delight. So I had to crawl on, foot-sore, and also heart-sore at the cruelty of my fellow-creatures.
"But relief was at hand. I had not gone far, when, turning a corner of the road, I came upon a strange sight: a fat little man, with a red coat, and a red face, both discoloured by the weather, sitting at the edge of a wood, eating his dinner,with his little dog in front of him, and his properties—a Punch and Judy show, a big drum, and Pandean pipes—indistinctly seen in the foliage behind him. He was eating bread and cheese, which he cut with a clasp-knife, and Toby was eyeing him greedily, ready to snap his occasional bit. Everything about the man was so hearty, and so suggestive of sunshine and country roads, that he seemed to warm up the landscape.
"As soon as he caught sight of me he called out, 'Hallo, mate! you seem done up. Come and peck a bit. Sit down.' And he handed me a big hunk of bread and another of cheese, looking on beamingly when I devoured it; and when at length I could eat no more, he produced a flask.
"'Here is some of the right sort; take a good swig of it; it will oil your digestion works. Man! it does me good to see you enjoy your grub. I feel as if I were eating a second dinner. Now for your yarn.' Then he lit his pipe and smoked while I gave an account of myself.
"'Ah,' he said, knocking out the ashes, 'my case is not altogether unlike yours. I, too, got a good education, or what was intended to be agood education. But I could never settle in any place. By nature I was a rolling stone, or rather a rolling ball of fat; and Fortune, mistaking me for a football, began to kick me about, and has been playing with me ever since. But thanks to my fat, I always fall soft and always rebound. Ha! ha!' and he laughed till his face puckered up and showed his eyes like two small steel beads.
"While he was talking, I had taken up the Pandean pipes, and I now played a tune on them.
"'Ah!' he said, 'can you work that?'
"'Yes,' I replied; 'when I was a boy in Edinburgh, there was nothing I so much delighted in as a Punch and Judy performance. I used to loiter for hours at the foot of the Mound, and see it repeated again and again; and coming upon a set of Pandean pipes in my father's pawnshop, I used to practise upon them.'
"'Why,' said Joe Greener (for, as I learnt afterwards, this was his name), 'you're the very man I want. Aint it lucky? To tell you the truth, I'm in a bit of a fix. My pal bolted two days ago with all the swag. A good riddance at the price.' (And here Joe abandoned himselfto his peculiar snigger. He seemed to laugh all his trouble away, and blow it off as if with a gust of merriment.)
"'I have written,' he continued, 'for an old partner in London, but he can't come for some weeks. Meanwhile you'll do for a substitute. I'll soon coach you up in the business. All that you have got to do is to play the overture before the drama begins, and while it is going on to collect the money and keep the imps of children from pulling aside the baize and peeping in. The terms are six bob a week and your grub; and I'll advance something at once to rig you out.'
"The bargain was struck; and that evening, in the inn yard of the neighbouring village, we had several rehearsals, and I felt that I would manage to get through my part fairly well.
"Behold me now, an Oxford man, and formerly the chum of lords and swells, degraded into a Punch and Judy assistant. It was a bustling life. We were out in the road in all weathers, performing at fairs, and in the evenings in small towns and villages. In fact, wherever we saw groups of people hanging about on the outlook for amusement, we set up our stage. Once wewere hired to amuse the boys at my old school, Vere de Vere College. I cannot describe the feelings with which, in my new character, I entered the well-known scenes. My uppermost feeling was the fear lest I should be identified as a former scholar. But, to my infinite relief, I saw that all the pupils and the servants were strangers. The doctor, indeed, stared at me for a moment as if he recognised me; but he turned away, muttering 'No, no, impossible!' He could not believe that anyone who had had the unspeakable advantage of being taught by him could possibly have fallen so low. His conceit saved me.
"This vagrant life had its drudgery and its difficulties; but there were certain things about it that I liked very much: the quiet country roads, the resting on the green grass under hawthorn hedges, the palatable dinners of bread and cheese and cider at rustic inns, and the merry faces that clustered round us when that abandoned rascal Punch began to play his pranks. But, at the end of a few weeks, Joe Greener's former pal arrived from London, and my occupation was gone. So, bidding a hearty farewell to my merry benefactor, I turned myface northwards again, and partly by walking and partly by coaching, I have come thus far.
"When I arrived at your gate to-night, and listened to the well-remembered sound of the wind in the big plane tree, the past came back upon me, and I felt as if I were a boy again, and as if my strange experiences at Oxford and London were but the medley of a dream."
"Bless me," cried Miss Grizzie, "did you ever live here?" and she and her sister were on their feet scrutinising the face of the stranger.
"Yes," he said quietly; "I once lived in this very house, and I can give you a proof of it. Look at the back of the fireplace there, on the left-hand side, and you will see the letters B.L. cut in a stone." They all crowded round the fire to look; and, surely enough, they detected the initials, badly formed and rather indistinct, but still recognisable.
Then Miss Lizzie, turning round and looking intently at the stranger, called out, "Are you Ben Levy? Eh! I thocht that there was something about yer face that I should ken. Ah! I mind ye weel—a bit laddie, comin' ower here in yer vakens, and introducin' yersel as oor coosin, and steyin' for three or four weeks."
"But yer faither," said Miss Grizzie, "was a gentleman, I thocht. I never heard o' him bein' a pawnbroker."
"No," said Ben, "he had retired by that time from the three balls, and wished them to be forgotten."
Hillend, now putting his hand on the shoulder of the stranger, said, "Oh man! is this you? Man, I'm fain to see ye. I mind ye weel—an auld-farrant loon, dour at the readin', writin', and coontin', but ready with yer haunds, and in the thick of everything—howin', shearin', and threshin',—and wi' an awfu' wark wi' bease. An' have ye really been through a' thae ups and doons: and what are ye gaun to dae noo?"