Part 27

They quarrelled over that point, and had to separate without an arrangement. Janet Hanford came to me the same night, demanding that I should arrest the “bigamist,” as she declared him to be, and also hunt out her boy, wherever he was hidden, as the care of the child would legally fall to her, who had committed no offence against the moral law. A light task, certainly!

In the first place, I found that the accused persisted that he was not Richard Hanford, but John Ferguson. He had been at the Cape for nearly two years, so he had no one to whom he could refer in confirmation of his statement. He was very hazy as to his antecedents. He had prospered at the Cape, he admitted, but would not say that the money he now possessed had come to him by marriage; he would not admit that he was married at all to the lady who accompanied him, though it was proved that at the private hotel at which they resided they were known as Mr and Mrs Ferguson. The lady herself, being referred to, declined to say whether she was married or not; and when _she_ took up that position, I need not say that our chance of bringing home to him a charge of bigamy became poor indeed. Then there remained the charge of desertion, but that could scarcely be brought forward, seeing that the wife had been in prison, serving a term of two years, while he had been away at the Cape and had but recently returned, and so might be supposed not to know that she was alive.

But the weaker Janet Hanford’s case grew, the more determined and desperate she seemed to become. John Ferguson’s wife had a maid-servant to attend her, and Janet Hanford appears to have taken to watching the girl. One forenoon, when the case was at its most critical point—that is, when there were evidences that John Ferguson and his wife would soon be out of the country—the broken wife saw this girl leave the hotel with two letters in her hand. The girl walked rapidly along Princes Street, with the intention of posting them at the General Post Office; but before she had gone two divisions, Janet Hanford became a highway robber, by snatching the letters from her hand and vanishing like magic. One of the letters was addressed to “Master Frederick Hanford,” at a boarding-school some miles from the city; and almost before the amazed girl got back to her master, Janet Hanford was in a railway carriage and speeding towards that school.

The letter she had stolen proved beyond a doubt that John Ferguson was Richard Hanford, and father of the boy, and also revealed the fact that it had been Hanford’s intention to remove the boy in a day or two, as he was “leaving the country.” Janet Hanford stopped all that by taking a policeman with her, and demanding that the boy—who readily recognised her as his mother—should be delivered up to her. The grief and consternation of the father were terrible to behold, and we had now the singular case of two persons charging each other with a crime, and each demanding the other’s arrest.

Hanford made the most strenuous attempts to get back the custody of his boy—who was lame and rather weakly—but failed completely, though he had money and lawyers to help him. An inquiry had been by that time despatched to the Cape, to ascertain whether the so-called John Ferguson had been legally married to Rosa Gladwin, the girl who in Scotland had passed as his wife. In anticipation of the answer to that question being against him, Hanford redoubled his exertions to quicken the slow processes of law which were to give him charge of his boy; but with almost the same result as if he had single-handed tried to push on some great Juggernaut. The ponderous thing moved none the faster, but all the heat and turmoil and excitement fell to Hanford. He was continually running between his temporary home and his lawyers, and in one of these races he caught a chill which he “had not time to attend to.”

When the pain became unbearable, he was forced to lie down and send for a doctor. By that time he was almost delirious and in a high fever. The doctor pronounced the trouble inflammation of the lungs, and the case critical.

The moment Janet Hanford heard of the illness she came to see her husband, bringing with her the boy, whom she had hitherto kept studiously out of sight. She was loud in her self-recriminations. She blamed herself for the calamity; in grovelling grief cried aloud to heaven to witness her vow, that if Hanford’s life were only spared she would restore his boy, suffer him to leave the country with his father, and nevermore seek to molest either, or wish for anything but their welfare and happiness. The cry was vain; the resolve came too late. Hanford scarcely knew her, and appeared to be living the misfortunes of his life over again; for when his eye did light on her face, he implored those present to take her from him, or at least to save the boy from her remorseless hands. In a day or two he died, to the very last turning from her with aversion, and speaking of his other attendant as his true and only wife, and denouncing Janet Hanford as a curse to herself and all mankind. Of course these delirious utterances could not be taken for his real feelings; indeed, his second wife afterwards assured Janet that the love he bore her was greater than that which he had conceived for herself—it was merely the outside shell of wretchedness and debauchery which he loathed and detested. There was no more concealment of the truth then. It was freely admitted that Hanford had married again out at the Cape, getting a rich settler’s daughter and a little fortune by the union, as well as the unselfish devotion of a woman who knew the whole of his past life, and yet did not hesitate to sacrifice her all for his sake. A strange result sprang from that death-bed scene. The second wife imbibed a strong affection for the lame boy, and could not think of parting with him; at the same time a feeling of pity grew up in her breast for the broken wife, who was so prostrated by her great loss that for weeks her life was despaired of. Rosa Gladwin nursed her through it all, and, I suppose, must have discovered in her some good qualities which were hidden from ordinary onlookers, for when Mrs Hanford fairly recovered they did not separate. At first Rosa offered to provide for her by settling on her an annuity quite sufficient for her wants, but the proposal was never carried out. They went out to the Cape together, and no sisters could have been more firmly bound together in affection. Neither of them ever married again, but their lives have been spent in watching the development of Hanford’s son, who is no longer a lame boy, but a strong man, bidding fair to leave a big mark in the world’s history. The most singular thing in the case, however, is the fact that Janet Hanford left her drunkenness and debasement in the grave which swallowed her husband. Truly there is hope for all, even for the White Savage.

THE BROKEN MISSIONARY.

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.