The place was called a church, but it was really little more than a
mission-house thrown out and partly supported by a religious body
in Edinburgh wishing to extend its connection. The town is a few
miles from Edinburgh, and the building used for the church had at
one time been used as a school, then as a slaughter-house for pigs,
and at last, with a little painting and fitting up, as a church or
meeting-house.
It is not necessary to name the particular sect of which this small
church was a part. All churches are formed of men and women, and with
these there is always to be found some twist of character, which we,
who are twisted in another direction, call an imperfection. Such
men as the deacon in the following case may be found in almost any
church—men of strong convictions and great pugnacity, who are such
heroes for virtue that they never think it possible to fall on the
other side.
The little church had no vestry, and but one door, so the minister
and congregation all entered from the front. Just within the door
there was a small partition, and a folding door to keep the draught
off the congregation during the assembling, and conspicuously in
front of that, and facing the outer door, stood a three-legged stool
bearing a big pewter plate for contributions. The contents of this
plate were in general so scanty that they might easily have been
counted by the eye, but occasionally, during the summer, visitors
from the city would drop into the little place and leave in the plate
a practical proof of their interest in the struggling church. After
the services, it was the duty of the deacon or deacons to count the
collection and place the sum to the credit of the general fund of
the church. The minister or missionary, Arthur Morrison by name,
was a young man with a wife and two children, who was struggling
vainly to exist upon £55 a year. He had striven hard, but had so far
failed that he was considerably in debt to different tradesmen about
the town. He could scarcely be blamed for that, for his wife was a
delicate woman, and most of the expenses had been forced upon him on
her account. There was little prospect of his position in that town
improving, as only a part of his salary was made up by the church,
the rest being a grant from the main body; and as he was a quiet mild
fellow, with no great energy or ability, there was little chance of
him being sought after by a richer congregation. The poor fellow,
however, seemed very earnest and sincere, and to love the work, and
had never uttered a word of complaint to one of his people during the
three years he had been among them.
That was the position when an incident occurred, so curious and so
strange in its results, that it is necessary to put it down minutely,
and exactly as it was afterwards narrated by the chief witness in the
case, the deacon himself.
It was immediately before the morning service, and the congregation
had nearly all assembled. The Rev. Arthur Morrison had not arrived,
but an agreeable incident had kept the deacon who stood at the plate
from noting the fact. A lady, evidently a summer visitor of wealth,
had put a bank note into the plate, and asked to be shown to a seat
as graciously as if she had been in the finest cathedral in the world.
The deacon was a man named Thomas Aikman, a baker by trade, a sharp
business man, who considered himself the main pillar of that church.
He fluttered into the building and showed the distinguished visitor
to his own pew—if pew it could be called—placed books before her, and
returned to the plate. There was an interval during which no other
worshippers entered, and Mr Aikman spent the time in admiring that
bank note as it lay in the plate, contrasting so deliciously with
the thin strata of coppers below. It was a crisp note of the Bank of
Scotland, and so new that it would not remain folded. Of course it
had a number, and that number Mr Aikman declared he could not help
noting, as the paper lay open before him. He did not mark down the
number—did not think of doing so—but he had a good memory, and he
could trust to that, and swear by his convictions.
As he gazed the deacon rapidly ran up in his mind all that this bank
note would do. There was a trifling debt on the building fund, and
this would all but clear it off. There would be no difficulty in
getting the other managers of the church to agree to that; they were
afraid of the stout and pugnacious baker, and always hurriedly agreed
to whatever he thought fit to propose.
While he was settling this matter another stranger appeared, and
placed a silver coin in the plate, at the same time asking to be
shown to a seat. The half-crown which this gentleman dropped into
the plate rested on the bank note already there, and thus the two
contributions were left while the deacon went inside and showed the
gentleman to his own form. Not a minute was occupied in the task,
and during the interval only one person entered the church. That
person was the Rev. Arthur Morrison, who appeared heated and flushed
as he pressed past the deacon and made his way to the little desk
from which he preached. Mr Aikman went straight back to his post at
the plate, and the bank note being still prominent in his thoughts,
he glanced at once in that direction. Then he started and rubbed
his eyes. He himself had been the last to leave the spot—for the
gentleman had preceded him into the church—and then the bank note lay
in the plate all right, with the half-crown safely weighting it; now,
when he got back, the note was gone. The half-crown was there—shining
like a white disc among the coppers, but not a vestige of paper money
was near it. The deacon looked around. There was no wind, but the
note might have got over the edge of the plate, and fallen to the
ground. No; it was not in the vestibule. Aikman darted outside; there
was not a human being in sight. He staggered back again and stared
at the plate till his goggling eyes might have speared a hole in it.
There could be no doubt about it—the church had been robbed, and was
the poorer by £5 of the deacon’s momentary absence. He had no one to
advise or assist him, the other deacon on the list having failed to
appear, and felt doubly angry and excited over the strange loss from
having already mentally decided how the money should be utilised.
He was in a fever of bewilderment, perspiring in every pore, and
even madly thrusting his hands into his own pockets to make sure
that the note had not fluttered in there. Then, after another dart
outside to make sure that no prowling thief could have been near,
the deacon did a little mental reasoning. No one, so far as he was
aware, had entered the church during his absence from the plate but
the minister. Could it be possible? No, never! Well, yes it might
be. The man was poor and needy, and he might consider the drawings
at the door as in a manner his own, or intended for him. Mr Aikman
had an old grudge at his minister, who had once dared not only to
correct him on some theological points, but had satirized him in a
quiet way as well. The man who could utter a joke at the expense
of a great man like Aikman was fit for anything, and the bank note
could not have gone without hands. The deacon began to understand the
whole mystery, and put up the collection and closed the door to go
inside and listen to the sermon in no frame of mind to profit by the
discourse. At every telling point in the oration Aikman turned up his
nose, and mentally exclaimed—
“How can he, with that stolen £5 note in his pocket!”
On the whole, the deacon felt more of pity than of anger at the cool
appropriation, but he determined that the minister should know that
the robbery had been discovered. How best to make the revelation
exercised Aikman’s small brain pretty closely during the service. He
had not quite settled the matter when the benediction was pronounced.
As the lady who had made the handsome gift handed him back the books
she had used, and made some remarks about the church, a happy idea
struck the deacon. He boldly thanked her for her liberality, and then
concluded by asking her—much to her surprise—if she knew the number
of the note she had put in the plate. She did not; and as she was too
polite to ask the reason for inquiry, no more passed between them,
and the lady departed and was seen no more. Had Mr Aikman been of a
less active disposition the matter might have ended there. No one had
seen the bank note but himself, and it was now gone through no fault
of his. But then there was the minister, and the suspicion, and his
own old grudge. He could not remain passive.
When all the congregation were gone Aikman steadily fixed the young
clergyman with his ferocious eye, and said—
“There was one lady very good to us to-day—she put a £5 note in the
plate.”
A slight flush overspread the pale face of the young preacher, and he
said a little hurriedly—
“Ah, indeed? I am pleased to hear that. Excuse me just now; I must
hurry home.”
He moved away abruptly, and the deacon stood staring after him, now
thoroughly convinced of the soundness of his suspicions.
“A minister of the Gospel to descend to a mean theft like that!” he
said to himself. “I must call a meeting of the managers and report
the whole case.”
It happened to be the month of July, and there was a difficulty in
getting a quorum of the managers together, but at length Aikman was
promised a full meeting, which took place on the Wednesday following
in his own house. There, after shutting themselves in, and making
sure that no one could overhear, the four men considered the case
of the stolen bank note. Of course they were shocked at the implied
guilt of one whom they revered and trusted so much, but Aikman piled
up his facts in such a minute and positive manner, that even without
additional evidence there would have been little diversity of opinion
among them. At this stage, and when Aikman had scarcely concluded,
another of the managers quickly exclaimed—
“Why, Mr Morrison changed a £5 note with me yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” echoed another, to whom the minister owed a small sum.
“And he told me on Saturday that he had no money, and would not have
till next quarter day.”
“There! What did I say?” cried Aikman with triumphant energy. “Could
anything be clearer than that? I know for a fact that he has no
money—it is all eaten up long before it is paid to him by me; yet
there you have proof that near the end of the quarter he pays away
money, and that a £5 note. Have you the note yet?” he added to the
man who had received the payment.
He had, and would run and get it. A wiser plan would have been to
first make Mr Aikman describe the note put in the plate, and write
down its number, and then send for that received from the minister,
and compare the record with the note, but that was never thought of.
The other deacon had only half a street to traverse, and was back in
a few minutes with a crisp bank note. It was of the Bank of Scotland,
and nearly new. Mr Aikman snatched it from the bearer—opened it,
glanced at the device and the number, and then exclaimed—
“It’s a clear case! look at the number for yourselves, ‘7607’—the
very figures of the one I saw lying in the plate. I couldn’t help
reading them, for the note lay open, and I never forget anything.”
A painful silence followed. At length some one asked the question
which was uppermost in all their minds—What was to be done? They
could not pass over the robbery in silence, and yet it would be a
delicate and possibly a dangerous thing to charge a clergyman with
such a theft.
“Nothing dangerous about it,” said Aikman, brusquely. “I can swear
to the note being put in the plate, and the number, and the name of
the bank; also, that the minister was the only one near the plate
while I was absent for half a minute; and you can swear that he paid
away the note to you and got change. What’s to be done? Shall we ask
him to resign, demand the money back, or give him up to the police to
be dealt with as they think best?”
It was quite clear to all present which of these courses Mr Aikman
wished followed, and they unanimously decided that the most rigorous
course was necessary in dealing with such a criminal. Mr Aikman was
therefore deputed to lay the matter before the chief constable of the
town, who, however, happened to have a personal acquaintance with the
young clergyman, and a great liking for him as well, and not only
scouted the idea of him stealing the bank note, but strongly urged
Aikman to say nothing of the matter to his minister, whatever other
means he might employ for the recovery of the note.
Finding it impossible to move the deacon, the constable at length
compromised the matter by agreeing to go with Aikman to the
minister’s house—it was not a manse, but a little flat, up an outside
stair—and see if Mr Morrison had any explanation to offer. They found
the young clergyman at home by the bedside of his wife, who was
almost a confirmed invalid, and had been rather weaker than usual
for some days. The constable was moved at the sight of the young
preacher’s pale and concerned expression as he hung over the invalid,
but the deacon had no such qualms—he looked upon these as indications
of guilt, and would have blurted out the charge in hearing of the
sick wife but for a huge pinch on his arm by the constable, who at
the same time quietly nodded to Morrison, and invited him to speak
with them for a moment in the next room.
“There is some difficulty about that £5 note which you paid away on
Tuesday to Blackie, the grocer,” observed the constable, kindly;
while the deacon, as a duty he owed to society, steadily speared the
young preacher with his goggling eyes. “Would you mind saying where
you got the note?”
The righteous deacon had his reward, for the moment these words were
uttered, a startled look came to the worn features of the minister,
and his face flushed a deep crimson.
“I scarcely know myself,” he at length responded, with considerable
hesitation; “is it necessary that I should make that known? What has
happened? Is there anything wrong with it? Is it a forged note?”
“Oh, no; the note is good enough,” cried the deacon, sternly, still
using his spears liberally; “as good as any ever put out by the Bank
of Scotland. The lady who put it into the plate on Sunday was not
likely to have a forged note in her pocket.”
The young preacher started as if the deacon had run a knife into him.
He seemed petrified, breathless, and dumb with astonishment.
“I do not know what you mean, or what you are hinting at,” he at
length replied; “but I know that the note you speak of could not
possibly have been in any lady’s pocket on Sunday, seeing that it was
then lying in my desk here, in this house.”
“You’ll have to prove that,” derisively returned Aikman. “Where did
you get it, and when?”
“I got it on Saturday afternoon,” answered the suspected man, with
calm dignity. “It came to me in an envelope, by post, and without
a line to indicate the sender. There were a few words written
inside the flap of the envelope, which I had not noticed when I put
the envelope in the fire. I snatched it out again and read them.
They were—‘For the little ones, from a well-wisher.’ I was quite
overpowered,” continued the young preacher, with a quiver in his
tones; “I had seen nothing but darkness and trouble before me, as one
of my creditors was pressing me sorely for money, knowing perfectly
that I had none. I went to God with my trouble in prayer, and that
was His answer.”
The deacon was horrified. That the minister should steal the note
he could readily understand, but that he should account for its
possession in such a manner showed a depth of depravity and a
hypocrisy which he had not conceived possible to dwell in man.
“You have the envelope, of course?” he sneeringly observed, after a
significant silence.
“No; unfortunately I have not. I put it into the fire in case my
wife should see it, and—and be pained by the thought of me having to
accept such help from an unknown friend.”
The deacon looked at the constable with a significant jerk of the
head. It was quite evident they could make nothing of a man so lost
in wickedness, and so ready with plausible excuses. The constable,
however, appeared to be foolishly overcome by the cunning reply of
the culprit, and made no remark. It therefore devolved upon Aikman to
make a noble stand for honesty and religion.
“Mr Morrison,” he impressively began, “that bank note which you paid
to Blackie the grocer was put in the plate on Sunday by a lady. I
saw it, and read the number of it as it lay. After you had passed
the plate, it had vanished. Either admit your crime, or take the
consequences.”
“Now—at last—I understand you,” answered the minister, with more
dignity and calmness than his accuser. “You accuse me of stealing the
bank note?”
“We do, upon the clearest evidence,” snorted the deacon.
“Then I deny it emphatically,” said the accused, almost smiling. “I
cannot believe you to be in earnest. Steal it! why should I do that?
It was put there for the general benefit of the church, I suppose,
and that includes me, doesn’t it?”
“So you thought when you took it, I’ve no doubt,” angrily returned
Aikman, “but you will find yourself grievously mistaken. Constable, I
charge that man, in the name of the managers, with the theft of £5.
Do your duty.”
Matters had now become serious, but the gentleness of the constable
smoothed away much that might have been painful.
They walked together to the house of the Fiscal, and, after an
account of the circumstances had been gone over, the young minister
was allowed to go back to his home on his own recognisance.
The next day I had a visit from the young minister, in at the
Central, in Edinburgh. I have but a faint recollection of the
interview, but I remember that he appeared greatly excited and
agitated, and ended his somewhat incoherent statement of the facts
by imploring me to take up the case with a view to—what think
you?—with a view to convicting Mr Aikman of perjury or conspiracy!
The reasoning of the young clergyman was this:—No one but the deacon
had seen a £5 note in the plate, and he alone had reported the note
stolen—therefore the note might never have been there at all! From
this followed the deduction—the deacon from his old grudge had got up
the whole as a revenge on the young preacher to injure his reputation
and force him out of his post. In consequence of this appeal I went
out to the place and made some inquiries, but was met almost at the
outset with clear proof that a £5 note had been put into the plate.
The lady who had been the donor was gone, but at the hotel in which
she had been staying the landlord had heard her mention the gift to
her husband.
The case was tried shortly after at the Burgh Court, the accused
conducting his own case. From the evidence led few could doubt
the guilt of the poor preacher the deacon was so cool, and clear,
and positive in all his statements. On one point alone did he show
confusion, and that was regarding his noting the number of the note
while it lay in the plate. Here the deacon, from his very evident
desire to make all clear and firm, contradicted himself slightly, and
then floundered worse under a very simple question from the Sheriff,
and was put down in confusion. The result was that the case was
dismissed—quite an unsatisfactory result to both parties. The deacon
was enraged—having recovered from his momentary confusion, and being
now ready with a clear and minute explanation—and the poor minister
was quite broken down under the disgrace. When he returned to the
town which had brought him so much suffering, he met with so many
cold looks from those whom he had believed to be his warmest friends,
that he was almost forced to resign his charge. The resignation
was accepted with a promptitude even more crushing to his spirit;
and then, while he was making preparations to leave the place, his
creditors swooped down on his few possessions, and left him and his
family with little but the clothes in which they stood.
Morrison appeared to bear it all with calm dignity, but his wife,
who was a quick-tempered, high-spirited woman, though delicate, felt
the disgrace keenly. They moved in to Edinburgh, and Morrison tried
hard to get another appointment, but in vain. The ban was upon his
reputation—his name had appeared in connection with an accusation
of mean thieving, and he was looked upon with suspicion even by
strangers. At length he got employment for a few hours daily in
keeping a tradesman’s books, for which he got nine shillings a week,
and with that and a little copying and tuition he managed for a time
to keep himself and his family alive.
But poor diet and a mean habitation among the very roughest
characters soon broke the spirit and constitution of his wife, and
she passed out of his arms into her long rest before a year was
gone. One of the children followed in three months, and he was left
alone with the baby. He struggled on quietly and without complaint,
shunning all, but ever ready when sought for to go and pray and
converse with any of the sick or dying among the very poor who might
express a wish for his presence. He became gaunt and thin, and the
tradesman who employed him told him he needed a change of air.
I met him more than once in some of the lowest slums, but I failed to
recognise the bloodless face and stooping figure. I knew him as “the
broken missionary,” and it was dimly understood that he had either
been in prison or found guilty of some offence against the law,
though the poor wretches with whom he conversed and prayed declared
their firm belief in his purity and innocence.
One day, at that time, I found a stout, red-faced man waiting for
me at the Office, who nodded to me, and appeared greatly pleased at
seeing me. I had to tell him that he had the advantage of me, and
then he introduced himself as Mr Aikman, the deacon who had figured
as such a prominent witness in the case against the minister.
“I have been a cruel wretch, and I deserve ten years in prison for
the misery I have brought on an innocent man,” he said, shedding
tears freely—great hot tears, genuine as genuine could be. “A lady
in delicate health belonging to our congregation was ordered to live
abroad, and came back only yesterday. The moment she heard of Mr
Morrison’s disgrace, she came to me and said that it was she who had
sent the £5 note to the minister. She sent it from Edinburgh just as
she was setting out. I am a sinful and wicked man! God help me! If I
could only find out where he is—if you could help me to that—there is
no atonement or reparation I should think too great to make to him
and his poor wife and bairns. Every penny I have shall be spent in
the effort.”
I remembered the case then, and immediately set about tracing
Morrison, a task which would have been easy indeed if I had thought
for a moment of him being identical with “the broken missionary.” At
length I came upon a solicitor who occasionally employed Morrison to
copy deeds, and by him was referred to the tradesman who employed
the broken man to keep his books. It was only when we were near the
hovel which Morrison called his home that the idea flashed upon me
that the broken missionary was the man I was after. I knew where he
lived, and went straight to the house, which tallied perfectly with
the description given by the tradesman.
When we knocked at the door a low voice told us to “Come in,” and on
entering we saw only a child of eighteen months creeping about the
floor in great glee, with a doll of rags in its hands. But a glance
round showed us where the voice had come from. There was a bed behind
the door, and in that there was a pale, bloodless face, and a pair
of shiny eyes, bearing a shadowy resemblance to the man we sought.
The broken missionary feebly attempted to raise himself upon his arm,
while the deacon rushed forward, dropped on his knees before the bed,
and hid his face and tears in the thin wasted hands he had clasped.
“My poor wronged minister!” he exclaimed; “say you forgive me. We
have found out the lady who sent you the £5 note; and I know I have
been cruel and wicked——”
A strange convulsion passed over the ghastly face and sunken features
of the missionary, while his great eyes appeared to shine out with a
perfect radiance.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy
name!” he fervently exclaimed, as the great eyes became soft and
beautiful with tears.
The child on the floor crowed with delight, and hammered vigorously
on the floor with the head of its doll of rags. The deacon gathered
the thin form of the sick man in his arms, and hurriedly breathed out
all his plans for reparation. He would carry him back with him to his
own home; he would care for him, and send him away to the country, to
fresh green fields and cool shady woods, where he would have nothing
to do but take his fill of the balmy air, and draw health from the
glorious sunshine. But the grey head was shaken on his breast in
quiet demur, with a pitiful look in the great eyes as they rested on
the laughing face of the neglected child on the floor.
“I am going to fair fields and a glorious country,” he feebly gasped,
“but not there—not there. God has sent his sunshine into my soul, and
I can depart in peace.”
He fainted away as he spoke, and it was long before he could be
restored. The deacon had a nurse and a doctor there in an hour, but
they came too late. In the dead of night, with the deacon clasping
his hand and wetting it with his repentant tears, the missionary went
quietly to his rest.
The child was taken to the deacon’s house, and trained and
educated, and finally sent to college, and now promises to occupy a
distinguished position in the profession which proved so disastrous
to his father.
The stolen bank note was never traced, but it was believed to have
been taken by a woman who had acted as chapel-keeper, and who was
afterwards sent to prison for a theft quite as mean, though less
disastrous in its results.