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 a lesson 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 brother of 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 the dogs--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 large _bap_ in 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, that white 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 the double 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 friends she 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 make _kail_. 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 jubilant smile 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 earthen floor 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 must beg 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 "guide
the 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
an extraordinary 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 brats and
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 faces grouped 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 visit
to the smithy, and bursting with all the "clavers" of the parish--who
was dead, who was going to be married, who had _failed_, 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 five
_snuffs_ consecutively. Miss Lizzie and Miss Grizzie stopped their
work, rose to their feet, 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 a Saturday 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 difficulty
in 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.'