“But maybe you werena meaning a relation?” adventured Jacky, addressing Jean.
“Na, lassie, it was nae relation. I ken naething about his kin: it was a friend—ane that was uncommon chief wi’ him. He was a student lad at that time, that had served his time to be a doctor like my ain nephew Andrew, only he was done wi’ the college; and if ever mortal man was out o’ his mind wi’ trouble and fricht and sore grief for an unhappy reprobate, it was that lad, the morning o’ the murder.”
“Did you see him?” exclaimed Jacky, anxiously.
“Ay, lass, I saw him. I was gaun hame that very day to my place that I’m in yet—I’ve been eighteen year past wi’ the same mistress—and it happened I was by that waterside between eight and nine in the morning. I was but a young lass then, and I had reason for’t—it’s nae matter now what it was. I was coming round the howe o’ the brae where the road turns aff to the Milton, when I met that lad. That white apron had mair a life-like color than he had on his face; but, for a’ that, he was wiping his brow for heat. The look of him was like the look of a man that had the bluid standing still in his veins. He neither saw me, nor the road he was gaun on, but just dashed on right before him, as if naething could stop him in the race. Ye may tak my word, it’s nae little grief like what men ca’ sympathy or pity, that could pit a man into a blind madness like that. I ken mair about it noo than I did then.”
“Woman—Jean!” exclaimed Mrs. Young; “what for did ye no come forrit at the time—it might have helped the proof? Losh! would the tane be helping the tither? would there be twa o’ them at the misfortunate man?”
“Na; he was an innocent, pithless callent, that Maister Patrick,” said Jean. “He could have nae hand in’t. A’ that day I couldna get his face out o’ my mind; but I had mony things to trouble me, sorting at my mother, and putting things right for Andrew—he was doing weel then, puir man!—and getting my ain kist ready for my journey, and I gaed away early in the day, and so I didna hear o’ the murder. And my mother was nae hand at the writing, and Andrew, puir man, was aye a thocht careless, and I never saw ane belanging to my ain place, to tell me the news. So a’ the trying that there was, was dune, and poor young Redheugh was lying at the bottom of the sea, before I ever heard tell o’t—but I’ve aye minded sinsyne Maister Patrick Lillie’s awfu’ face—I’ve had a kindness for him frae that day, for of a’ the sair troubles in this world, I ken nane, like murning ower a sinner that ye canna mend, and yet that ye would gie your ain life for, as blythe as ever ye gaed to your rest. I ken what it is—and sure am I, that if ever there was a man distracted with the crime o’ anither, it was Maister Patrict Lillie, for young Redheugh.”
“And was Redheugh an ill man?” said Jacky, in a half whisper.
“I never heard an ill word o’ him till then. He was as weel likit as a man could be—and a kinder heart to puir folk there wasna in the countryside.”
“And that’s true,” said Mrs. Young. “Ye should take it to yoursels, lassies—you that are young, and havena got the rule o’ your ain spirits. There was a fine young gentleman, ye see, wi’ routh o’ a’ thing, as grand as heart could desire, and yet he tint baith life and name, in this world and the next, a’ for an evil anger in his heart. It’s an awfu’ warning—it’s our pairt to improve it for our ain edification.”
“And what for was the gentleman angry at Mr. Aytoun?” asked Bessie.