I remained only for a short time. I had gratified my curiosity, and I wished to save them from the embarrassment of a presence in many ways suggestive of associations. I had not been disappointed; but I am sure that when I appeared again to the crowd without having Webb or Catharine with me, or at least some of the guests, they were disappointed—so envious, I am sorry to say, is that common nature of ours, and so impatient of the joys of others. Another thing gave a kind of satisfaction. I saw no chance for this celebration being disgraced by pocket-picking—an occurrence so common in crowds—for here truly there were no pockets to pick, that is, no pockets with anything in them, beyond a quid of tobacco and a pipe, or at most a few pence. You will see how this fond hope was destined to be disappointed.
Having joined my assistant, who waited for me at the foot of the stair, we went along to the Cowgate on the look-out; and having finished our survey, we turned to retrace our steps by the scene of the marriage. It was a frosty night, I remember, with thick snow, heaps of which were thrown up on the sides of the cart-ruts. As we were thus proceeding, I heard coming up the rapid steps of a runner; and who should this be but Bill Orr, one of my own. He stumbled against a heap of snow, and fell at my feet.
“What’s all the hurry, Bill?” said I, as he was getting up.
But Bill clearly did not like the question, far less did he like the anticipation of being laid hold of, for he was up in an instant and off, much quicker than a wind-driven snow-flake.
“Where’s the pursuer?” said I to my assistant; “Bill Orr is not the man to run at that rate to get out of the snow.”
The pertinancy of the question was no more apparent to me, than to you, or any one who notices the common actions of mankind, which display a proportion in their vivacity corresponding to the degrees of impulse; nor did the notion leave me that something was wrong with my old friend, and I was accordingly on the outlook. On coming again to Bailie’s Court I was attracted by some noises, not at all like the fun I had witnessed before in that quarter; and on going forward, ascertained, from the lamentations of an old poors’-house pensioner—a very old woman, who in spite of her age and poverty had been attracted in that cold night by the festivity of the marriage—that she had been robbed; yes, a poors’-house pensioner robbed of the sum of four pennies and one halfpenny. Ludicrous enough; ay, but pitiful enough too, when you remember that that fourpence-halfpenny would keep, and was intended to keep, that very poor pauper a day out of the very few she would see on this side of the grave. Don’t wonder, therefore, at a grief which was intense, if it did not amount to as strong an agony as those shrivelled nerves could bear without snapping. I had here my sympathies; and if anything could add to my disturbance, it was that in spite of my hopes this auspicious wedding was disgraced.
“Be easy, my good woman,” said I; “I will get both your fourpence-halfpenny and the heartless rogue that took it.”
“God bless you, Mr M‘Levy; ye’ve saved mony a ane’s property, and ye’re sent here this night to save mine.”
And had she no right to think fourpence-halfpenny entitled to be designated property? It was at least her all; and when all is lost, it is, I suspect, of little importance whether it be a thousand pounds or a penny. Nor was she less miserable than one would be at the loss of a fortune,—only the tear was not there, perhaps because an out-door pensioner does not get nourishment with sap enough in it to produce that peculiar evidence (which is said to be limited to our species) of human grief.
And now there was another contrast between what was going on up-stairs and that which was enacted below. There, merriment was the produce of thieving; here, the offspring of the same parent was sorrow.