village. The people were gathered in little groups in the streets, with
earnest and awe-stricken countenances; and even the little children had
ceased their play, and, clinging to their mothers, looked up as if
wondering what strange thing had happened. In some parts of the town the
crowds were larger, but the remarks less audible; at times, two or three
individuals were seen passing along, in grave conversation, while the
women stood in groups at their own or their neighbour's doors, many of
them with tears in their eyes, and giving utterance occasionally to
sounds of lamentation. It was evident, to the most casual observer, that
something unusual had occurred--something that had stricken a feeling
approaching to alarm into all hearts--and that all were engaged in the
discussion of one common topic. There was that gathering together, as if
for mutual support, or for the purposes of sympathy and consultation,
which usually attends the appearance of public danger, the extent of
which is unknown. It seemed, indeed, as if the occurrence of an
earthquake, however much it might have increased the alarm, could not
have deepened the gloom. The night at length gradually thickened, and,
one by one, the villagers crept into their dwellings. Many a fearful
tale was told by the firesides that night; and not a door but was more
carefully barred than it had been perhaps for years before.
Our village was like many other villages in Scotland; it was long,
dirty, and irregular, and wholly wanting in those qualities of neatness
and taste which give a character of comfort and rustic beauty to the
generality of English hamlets. The odour that rose from the fronts of
the cottages was not from flowers, and was certainly much less agreeable
to the senses. The situation, however, was romantic; and there was a
character of rusticity about the place which harmonised well with the
surrounding scenery. On one side it was skirted by a water, which, in
rainy seasons, struggled into some importance, and turned two or three
respectable mills. On the other, the country undulated gracefully, and
rose at one point into a wooded hill, which formed no inconsiderable
feature in the landscape. Striking off the main road, at a point about
half-a-mile distant, was a rough by-road, which crossed near the summit
of the hill, and wound upwards till it disappeared in a ridge of still
loftier mountains. This road formed a favourite walk with the young
people of the village. It was rough, and shaded, and retired, and led to
many a green spot and glorious upland. On very dark nights, however, it
was usually avoided. A considerable part of it was over-arched with
thick foliage; and however pleasant at noonday, when the hot breezes
came panting thither for relief, it needed rather a stout heart to pass
whistling through it, when not even a gleam of starlight was visible,
and when every sound of the rustling branches came to the ear of the
listener, as a groan, a shriek, or a wailing.
It was towards this road, on the morning succeeding the ominous
appearances we have described, that many of the villagers directed their
steps. A good number were hastening thither soon after daybreak, and one
and all seemed bent on the same errand. They entered the road, now
chequered with the wakening glints of the sun, and proceeded onwards
till they came to a break in the rough wall, which bounded it on either
side. They here struck off, and followed the windings of a narrow
footpath, till they reached an open place which looked into the fields
beyond. There was a bush of underwood a good deal dashed and torn; and
those who had a better eyesight, or a more active fancy than the rest,
declared they could trace the sprinklings of blood upon the grass. On
that spot, not many hours before, a murder had been committed. A young
woman, one of the loveliest and liveliest of the village, had been
desperately and cruelly murdered.
The affair was involved in mystery.
Jessie Renton, the deceased, was the daughter of respectable parents in
the village, and a favourite with young and old. She was warm-hearted
and playful; and, pass her when you might, she always greeted you with
a kind glance or a merry word. On the evening which closed on her for
ever, she had gone out alone, as she had done a thousand times before,
with a laughing eye and a light step. Her father had not returned from
his daily toil, and her mother had not ceased from hers. The latter was
busy at her wheel when Jessie left, and not a parting word was exchanged
between them. They knew not that they were never to see each other alive
again in this world, and they parted without thought or word. It was not
known where the unfortunate girl had gone. She had passed the doctor's
shop while his apprentice boy was squirting water from a syringe; and,
joking, she had told him she would "tell his maister o' his tricks." She
had chatted with two girls who were fetching water from the well, and
hinted something about an approaching wedding. An old man had seen her
at the outskirts of the village; and a cow-herd urchin thought--but
"wasna sure"--that he had seen her entering the road leading through the
wood; and that was all. Some hours after she had been thus traced, a
couple of strolling pedlars had been making for the village, and were
startled by a shriek and a cry of murder in the thicket. They rushed in;
but had some difficulty in finding the spot whence the cry proceeded.
The figure of a man dashed by them at some yards distance. They
hallooed to him; but he passed on, and was out of sight in a moment. A
few stifled cries led them to the fatal spot, where they found the
wretched girl stretched upon the ground, faint from the loss of blood,
and unable to articulate. One of the men supported her, while the other
ran for help. The latter had scarcely reached the main road, when he met
some labourers plodding homewards, and with them he returned to the
dying girl; but what assistance could they render? Life was fast ebbing
away; and, in a few moments afterwards, they bent in dumb horror and
amazement, over a mangled corpse. After some consultation, they carried
the body towards the village; and one of them hastened before and
procured a vehicle to relieve them of their burthen. The news of what
had occurred spread in all directions; and, by the time the mournful
procession entered the village, the inhabitants were all astir. The body
was soon recognised; tears and wailings followed; and dark suspicions
and dismal regrets mingled with the hurried inquiries of every new
comer.
Old James Renton and his wife, as decent a couple as lived in the
village, were seated by the fire, enjoying their quiet evening chat,
when the awful intelligence reached them. Some considered it strange
that they had been talking but a few minutes before of their daughter,
and her prospects. But it was not strange: they had no other child: they
had had no other theme so interesting. It was not a new thing with them.
For themselves they had but little to hope, but little to dream over:
their own ambition had long since died out, but it revived in their
child. She was a link which bound them anew to this world, and seemed to
open up to them, once more, bright prospects on this side of the grave.
Often and often had they conversed upon her hopes, as they had aforetime
done of their own; and with an interest only heightened from having
become less selfish. Was it remarkable that they should do so on that
evening? Jessie was growing to a most interesting age. She had arrived
at that point in life from which many roads diverge, and where the path
is often difficult to choose. For her sake, more than one homely hind
had become a poet in his feelings. Indeed, she had many admirers, and
was even what some might call a flirt. But, although her smiles were
shed like the free and glad sunshine on all, there was one who, to
appearance, was more favoured than the rest. This young man had known
her from her childhood, and his attachment was of the most ardent kind.
At school, he had been her champion, and certainly showed himself a true
knight--ready to encounter, nay, courting danger for her sake, and
conceiving himself sufficiently rewarded by her smile. She had recently
been solicited in marriage by another, a man of retired and somewhat
gloomy habits, who dwelt near; but it was understood that she had
refused his offer, and that George Merrideth was the chosen one of her
heart.
It was on these things that the unconscious parents were conversing,
when one of their neighbours entered with the frightful intelligence.
Both started up and rushed to the door. The crowd were hastening on,
bearing with them the melancholy evidence of the truth of what they had
just heard. It came on still--it stopt--it was at their own door it
stopt. The old man could not speak, but his wife rushed forward with a
distressful shriek. The truth was soon all known. They had no child.
They had only a dead body to weep over--to lay in the grave. Is it
necessary to say more? A few days passed. They were the bitterest days
the bereaved parents had ever known; but they passed, and their minds
became comparatively calm. Neither the efforts of their own minds, nor
the commiseration of their friends and neighbours, could subdue their
grief: but it took free vent, and subsided from very exhaustion. They
evinced but little anxiety to discover who had destroyed their child: it
was enough to them that she was gone; and revenge, they said, would not
bring her back. Their chief solace was to visit and linger in the
church-yard--their chief hope to abide there.
To discover the murderer, and drag him to justice, soon occupied the
attention, not only of the authorities, but of many active men in the
village. Rigorous inquiries were instituted, every scrap of evidence was
collected, and suspicion fell at length upon one man. This individual
was, to appearance, about thirty years of age, of a thoughtful
disposition, and retired mode of life. He had been settled in the
village for several years; and no sooner was the suspicion raised, than
many circumstances were bruited to confirm it. His general conduct and
bearing were remarked to have been mysterious. He had rarely associated
with his neighbours; and had often been observed, in lonely places and
at silent hours, muttering and musing, by himself. For some time back,
he had been noticed watching the deceased, and following her whenever
she had any distance to go; and the general belief was, that she had
crossed his affections, and that he had taken this cowardly revenge. On
the evening of the murder, he had been seen returning home only a few
minutes after the time when the deed must have been perpetrated, and his
air and manner were said to have been wild and agitated. The consequence
was, that he was apprehended and thrown into prison. In a few months
afterwards, he was tried. In his defence, he stated that the unfortunate
girl had rather encouraged his suit than otherwise; and mentioned, in
proof of this, that Merrideth, whose grief for her loss had excited
general commiseration, had on the very afternoon of the day on which the
murder took place, quarrelled him on the subject, and accused him of
seeking him to supplant him in her affections. Ultimately, a verdict of
not proven was returned, and he was dismissed from the court.
Jones--for such was his name--returned to the village; but the suspicion
still clung to him. As he went through the streets, the people avoided
him, or gazed at him as a world's wonder. Wherever he passed, they spoke
to each other in whispers. These whispers he seldom heard, but the
thought of their import haunted him. He was restless and unhappy, and
sought relief in motion. No sooner was the sun risen, than he was up and
away to the fields. He wandered about alone for hours, and then came
back to the village. He felt as if a curse rested on him; a stain on his
name, which he could not wipe off. So unhappy did he seem, that some men
began to take compassion on him, and even to converse with him. He felt
grateful; the tears rushed to his eyes; and they left him with their
suspicions confirmed. Night came, and he felt that he could not sleep.
He sometimes tried to read, but in vain: and would suddenly dash down
the book and hurry into the street.
In one of his rambles, an incident occurred, which, although trifling in
itself, may yet be related as showing the kind of feeling with which he
was regarded. Miss Manners, the daughter of the village clergyman,
accompanied by another young lady, was coming along in a direction in
which they could not avoid meeting him. Jones observed the latter
hesitate, on beholding him, and apparently refuse to go on, till
encouraged by her companion. They met, however, and passed each other;
but Jones had not proceeded many yards, when he observed a silk bag
which one of them had dropped. He picked it up and hastened after them.
The young lady, on hearing his footsteps, glanced round and screamed
outright. Jones paused. When the affrighted damsel had somewhat
recovered herself, he said in a soft voice--
"Young lady! I am sorry if my politeness has alarmed you. I thought this
might be your bag, which I found lying on the road."
Miss Manners stepped towards him, and received it, saying--"Thank you,
sir. My companion is foolish."
"I cannot blame her," he replied, "for she does not know me. I have
rather to thank you, than wonder at her."
His voice was rather tremulous as he spoke; and Miss Manners regarded
him with a look of the tenderest compassion. Nothing more, however, was
said. They simply bowed to each other and parted. Jones walked on for a
short distance, then, leaning over a rustic gate by the roadside, mused
till his eyes filled.
The violent emotion exhibited by the unhappy man was not allowed to pass
unnoticed by the villagers. It was looked upon only as the writhing of a
tortured spirit; and whatever doubts existed as to his guilt, they were
soon all removed. There was hardly a soul in the village but shunned and
feared him.
Sometimes Jones would drop into one or two shops where he had been
accustomed to visit, and talk freely on matters of common interest. But
those who formerly saw nothing odd in his manner, now discovered a
thousand peculiarities. They imagined they detected an unnatural
wildness in his eye, and set him down as a deep and dangerous man. At
one time the villagers would stand gazing after him, at others they
would pass him with a scowl. Little children, whom he used sometimes to
pat on the head were taught to fear and avoid him; and often, when he
approached, would run away screaming to their homes.
The unhappy man, at length, resolved to leave the place. He pursued his
journey to Edinburgh, and took lodgings in a street in the Old Town. The
reflection, however, that he had not succeeded in vindicating his
character--that he had left behind him a blasted reputation--poisoned
all his enjoyments. He walked backward and forward in Princes Street,
crossed the North Bridge, and wandered about the Canongate and High
Street, and tried to lose himself in the crowd. Again he returned to his
lodging, and felt that his loneliness and misery were increased.
He next set off for Glasgow, and pursued there the same course. He
traversed the Trongate and Argyle Street for hours, and strode down to
the Broomielaw, and stared vacantly at the bustle going on on the river.
But in nothing could he take any interest. Change of scene could bring
no change to his mind. Weeks and months were spent in this rambling and
unsatisfactory life, and again he resolved to retrace his steps to the
village.
The coach in which he took his seat set him down within about a mile and
a half of the place; and he finished the journey on foot. It was on a
Saturday afternoon that he entered, and with feelings which can hardly
be described. Many of the villagers were sitting at their doors,
enjoying the cool air of the evening, when the mysterious man walked up
the main street. His appearance attracted general attention. One rumour
had stated that he had fled to America; another, that he had taken away
his own life. At all events, the people had congratulated themselves on
his sudden departure; and felt irritated, as well as surprised, at his
return. As he walked quietly along, he was followed by a number of boys,
some of whom threw pieces of turf at him; and, by the time he reached
the centre of the town a considerable crowd was collected. A disposition
to riot was soon exhibited, and stones began to be thrown. Jones turned
coolly round and folded his arms, as if in defiance of his persecutors.
At that moment, a stone of a pretty large size struck him on the
forehead, and some blood trickled from the wound. He was a man of a
quick eye and muscular frame. He singled out the person who threw it,
and dashed through the crowd--never once losing sight of him until he
had him firmly in his grasp. A struggle ensued, and Jones threw his
opponent with great force on the ground. Loud threats, and angry
imprecations followed; and "Villain!--Murderer!" burst from a hundred
tongues. Ten or a dozen men sprang forward upon him at once; but he
started back and eluded their grasp.
"Stand back!" he cried in a loud voice. "I shall strike the first man to
the earth who dares to lay a finger on me!"
For a moment his pursuers were awed; but only for a moment. Two or three
hands were in an instant at his throat, and a violent struggle and
altercation ensued.
"Villain!--villain!" cried one man, older than the rest, "ye hae killed
ane o' the sweetest bairns that ever drew breath. It was an evil hour
when ye took up your abode in this village!"
"Hold off, old man!" exclaimed Jones; "why do you persecute me so?"
Groans and yells followed.
"I swear before God," he continued, shaking himself free, "that I am
innocent of this crime!"
The crowd, however, were not to be deterred from giving vent to their
rage; and matters might have proceeded to an alarming height, had not
Mr. Manners, the parish minister, who chanced to be passing at the time,
interfered in his behalf. The old man pushed his way through the crowd,
and taking Jones by the arm, succeeded in dragging him away. They
proceeded in the direction of the manse; but, as the mob still followed,
Mr. Manners did not think it safe to leave him. He accordingly took him
in along with him; and, closing the garden gate, exhorted the crowd to
return peaceably to their homes.
For a few moments, some shouting and noise were heard; but they died
away by degrees, and Jones and his protector stood alone in the quiet
and secluded garden. The former grasped Mr. Manners by the hand, and
thanked him cordially.
"Sir," he said, "I have been sorely abused. An unhappy suspicion has
clung to my name; but innocent I declare I am, although suffering the
worst consequences of guilt. All men have some sins to weep for; but, as
I shall answer to my Maker, I swear that I am as innocent of the great
crime laid to my charge as the unborn child is."
Mr. Manners was a kind-hearted man. He was struck with the
earnestness--the quiet and subdued fervour with which Jones addressed
him--and, taking him kindly by the hand--
"Young man," he said, "I am bound to believe what I cannot disprove, and
what you so solemnly affirm. If there be no truth in your words, you may
yet repent having so solemnly sworn; but whether true or false, I can
never repent doing you an act of kindness."
Jones was invited into the house to rest--an invitation which he gladly
accepted. On entering the lobby, they were met by Miss Manners, who
started involuntarily on beholding the stranger; but instantly recovered
herself, and opened the door of the parlour for him to enter. The latter
bowed politely to her; and, blushing, she returned the salutation. Her
father desired her to walk in and set some wine upon the table, which
she did with alacrity and grace.
Miss Manners was a young lady of rather an eccentric disposition. She
was high-minded, and high-spirited, and not without a dash of romance.
She was, of course, familiar with the story of the murder, and knew
Jones well by sight. His appearance, which others regarded as at least
mysterious-looking, seemed, in her eyes, rather prepossessing than
otherwise; and when she heard the old women in the village imprecating
curses on his head, she had uniformly reproved them for judging without
adequate proof. On the present occasion, there was something in Jones'
looks and manner peculiarly calculated to confirm her good impression,
and engage her sympathy. His collar was loosened, and his dress a
good deal dashed by the rough treatment he had experienced; but the
expression of his countenance seemed to plead for compassion, and spoke
eloquently to her heart. She addressed him in a kindly tone of voice;
inquired what was the matter, and hoped that no accident had occurred.
The stranger put his hand to his brow, from which the blood had been
previously wiped, and turned towards the window; while her father
briefly explained the circumstances of their meeting, of the harsh
treatment to which Jones had been subjected, and of his own
interference.
"You did well father!" said the girl; "the people may be mistaken!"
"They _are_ mistaken!" said Jones, turning round with moist eyes. "I
know not why suspicion should have settled upon me. I led a quiet
life in the village, harming no one, offending no one; neither had I
exhibited any of those vices in which great crimes usually originate.
I was not cruel, revengeful, or choleric: least of all had I shown
unkindness to her whom they accuse me of having murdered. Lady, I cannot
expect that you will believe the word of an accused, I may almost say a
condemned, man; but I shall live in hope that something may yet arise to
convince you that I am innocent!"
A reply rushed to her lips, but she checked it, and pressed the stranger
to take some refreshment.
Mr. Manners expressed a hope that the people would not annoy him
farther; and his daughter ventured to question him as to his returning
to a place where he was exposed to such insult and persecution.
"Madam," he replied, "where else could I be happy, with such a stigma on
my character? A man's evil deeds are always more widely trumpeted than
his good ones; and go where I would, I know that the slander would
follow me. I have taken a solemn vow, never again to leave this place
till I can do so with an unsullied character. The feeling that makes a
man eager to trace a calumny to its source, and exculpate himself in the
eyes of the world, deters me from flying from reproach. No! I will meet
my accusers boldly. I have done nothing to cause me to leave the place;
and what others may say or do, will not drive me from it."
Both Mr. Manners and his daughter pressed him to stay to supper, but he
declined. He expressed, as well as words could express, how grateful he
felt for their kindness, and was about to depart, when the old gentleman
laid one hand on his shoulder, and, grasping his hand frankly with the
other, said--
"Till it has been proved that you are undeserving of my hospitality, my
door shall always be open to you; and the more readily, that others are
closed!"
Jones was a good deal affected, but struggled to conceal his emotion.
"No," he articulated, with a slightly faltering voice, but a steady eye,
"I will not trouble you with a friendship which might bring odium on
you. I need not say how delightful it would be to me; but"----
"My father," interrupted Miss Manners, "can easily bear a little burden
to lighten another's great one. Can you not, father?"
"My good child," he replied, "you know me, and can speak for me. Sir,"
he added, "my good wishes and prayers attend you."
Jones took his leave, with many expressions of gratitude, when Mr.
Manners came running after him, with his hat on, to see whether the
crowd had wholly dispersed, and resolved to accompany him if necessary.
On reaching the road, however, it was discovered that everything was
perfectly quiet; and the good man, having escorted him only a short
distance on his way, left him to his reflections.