“I’ve nothing to say but that I shot the man, and that I’m not sorry I did it. I’m only a poor man, a journeyman painter by trade, but I’ve my feelings the same as the richest. I’ve a daughter I set my heart on, and though she was only a barmaid, you mustn’t think she wasn’t good and pure. That man—him that I shot, and ain’t sorry for—met her at the bar, and got talking to her about love and nonsense, and kept telling her of his estate that he’d come into when his father died, and of the money he had coming to him. Well, the poor gal didn’t know no better, and made up to run away with him to Paris. He was to marry her there, and I believe did go through some affair of the kind to blind her eyes when he saw she was set on coming back if he didn’t. But then the law ain’t strong enough there to make it binding in England, and he knowd she was no more his wife in this country than I am. Well, he kept her till he was tired of her, and then bolted and left her. She got helped across the water, and then came back to her poor old dad. I didn’t know my own gal—my own flesh and blood. I think she’s dying, and I left her in safe hands while I came up to Scotland to see her righted. She sent me to do that, but she didn’t know I meant to do it with a pistol. I walked most of the way, ’cause we’re very poor, and I’m not so able to work as I used to be.”
That was the substance of the prisoner’s declaration, and, after emitting the same, he was taken away and locked up, his wounded arm being first properly dressed. But before a week had elapsed there came a surprise for us all. The wounded man had so far recovered as to be able to receive an account of the prisoner’s declaration, when he expressed the most unbounded astonishment, and emphatically denied all knowledge of the circumstances. That he spoke the truth few could doubt, for it was ascertained beyond question that Stephen Barbour had not been in Paris for more than a year. The complication seemed so mysterious, and the statements of both men remained so emphatic, that a messenger was despatched to the prisoner’s home, and that man found the daughter as emphatic in her statements as her father, and in the end brought her to Scotland to see the wounded man whom she claimed as her lawful husband. This step proved a wise one, for on the poor girl being introduced to the invalid, she at once cried out—
“That is not Stephen Barbour—he is like him, but older and fairer.”
This answer gave the old laird the first clue to the mystery. His second son, a fast youth whom it was impossible to keep at home, spent most of his time in London, and often got into good society by passing himself off as the eldest son and heir. Thus he had been introduced to the pretty barmaid, and by the name of Stephen he had been married to her in Paris.
This, his latest piece of villainy, plunged the whole family into grief, involving as it did not only the family honour, but almost costing his innocent and beloved brother and another man their lives.
So enraged were his relatives that the case was given into the hands of the police, and Adam Barbour, to his profound disgust and surprise, was arrested in London, and tried and convicted of false impersonation, for which he was sent for three months to prison.
Stephen Barbour made a good recovery, and was able at the trial of Huddlestone to speak so feelingly and kindly of the prisoner, that all—even the accused—were moved, and the sentence was the light one of nine months’ imprisonment. The daughter Meg was cared for by the Barbours, and ultimately, I believe, on the death of the man she had married, received the second son’s portion, supplemented by a handsome addition from Stephen Barbour. Her father rejoined her in London at the expiry of his sentence; but either the excitement of his journey to Scotland, or the prison life which followed it, had been too much for his slender frame, and he scarcely saw the end of the year.
A HOUSE-BREAKER’S WIFE.
Going down the Canongate one day I was accosted by a little treacherous rascal known as Dirty Dick. I suppose he had followed me down the street for the purpose of so addressing me, but at the moment I did not think much of the circumstance. Dick was not particularly dirty in his appearance or person, so it is possible he had got the name rather for some dirty trick or act of treachery. He had the distinction of being heartily despised by every one who knew him, myself included.
After a little preliminary patter, to throw me off my guard, Dick said—