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James M’govan
(Wm. C. Honeyman, 1845-1919)
I used to wonder what would be the end of the fierce war between M’Indoe and the thieves; for a war it very speedily became, in which, if M’Indoe was not the sufferer, he owed his safety entirely to his intimate knowledge of all their crimes and haunts. They could not hunt him down, for he lived by unremitting hard labour; and still less could they do him bodily injury, for he glided about more like a shadow than even their own dreaded leader, The Ruffian. The truth is, they feared M’Indoe, and cowered in their holes, as he stalked gloomily through their haunts, as if he had carried a whole cohort of invisible detectives at his back. Perhaps they read the expression of his seamed and sunken features aright; for if ever quenchless vengeance was written on a face, it was in these rigid lines. On the whole, I was inclined to look upon them as wolves—tearing and fighting each other, and all doomed to perish in the struggle.
As for M’Indoe, I got to believe that every merciful feeling—every ray of sunshine—was completely shut out of his heart; but in this I was mistaken, as the following interesting case, and another which shall follow, will show. In relating the simple incidents, I will also give another instance of the boundless devotion and quenchless love of a mother.1
In a little bright room at the top of one of those long stairs in Milne Square, two persons sat conversing pleasantly as equals, though their stations in life were very different. The first was the tenant of the room, Mrs. Lyons, who, through almost every phase of happiness and good fortune, calamity and reverses, had at last landed there in the poverty and retirement of that garret; and the second was Walter Hutton, medical student and amateur artist, who had been sent there by the Public Dispensary to attend the old lady in her sickness. Hutton was a gentleman by birth and education, studying for a profession merely for form’s sake, and gliding along carelessly and easily, as became a man of wealth; but the suspicion had just dawned upon him that the poor woman he attended was not what she seemed, but in some respects even his superior. Mrs. Lyons sat propped in a chair by the fire facing the light, giving the “laddie,” as she persisted in calling her visitor, such solid and sterling advice, and talking to him in such a kind, motherly strain, that at last his wayward sympathies were touched.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, brightening into a frank smile, and instinctively bowing before his poor patient, “but I think I have been mistaken in you. It seems to me that you have not always been in such a position. Believe me, I have no wish to pry into your affairs; but you talk so kindly and warmly, that I’m sure you must have had a wayward son of your own at one time?”
The words came out in a thoughtless, impetuous burst; but the speaker was astonished at their swift effect on the grave, still face before him. Mrs. Lyons started violently, looked him keenly in the face to make sure that the words had no special meaning, and then pressed her hand on her breast with a weary sigh, and remained silent. It did not escape the quick eye of the student, however, that her tearful gaze was for a moment turned to a painting, veiled with crape and hung above the fireplace, the massive gilt frame of which contrasted strangely with the poverty of the other furnishings; and as this was a subject that had often dwelt in his mind and excited his curiosity, he determined to gently lead the conversation in that direction. But before any suitable form of words could rise to his hushed lips, Mrs. Lyons had found voice to say:
“Oh, laddie! dinna speak of that. I once had a son, it is true, beautiful and guileless as the angels in heaven; but because a’ my heart was set on him, he was swept for ever from my sight”; and the poor mother shook as she covered her furrowed face with her hands.
“He is dead, then?” returned the student in a subdued tone.
“Ay, dead to me—dead to a’ the world—lost to God and man—a hounded thief!” cried the old woman, looking up with a flash in her eye. “They tell me so, and I maun believe it. In my happy days, I lived in the town of Paisley—admired, envied, and respected, with no care but the upbringing of my fatherless boy. They tell me that from a boy he became a man, robbing me and others on every hand, and at last was sent to herd with the off-scourings of the earth in a prison; but that woeful time seems now but a fevered dream. I love to think of him as dead—as taken from me when guileless and innocent as he stand in that portrait”; and with a shaking hand she indicated the veiled picture.
“Your story interests me much,” said the student respectfully. “Might I look upon the portrait for a moment? You know I paint a great deal myself; indeed, I am an enthusiast in the art, and have scarcely yet decided whether I may not follow it as a profession.”
Her answer came slowly, and with manifest reluctance.
“I care not to look upon it often myself,” she said; “but as you have shown me much kindness, and it may teach you how the most innocent may through time become corrupted, I will not say you nay.”
Walter Hutton, with an eager hand, drew aside the veil of crape, and then started back with an exclamation of wonder and delight, which merged into a breathless and ecstatic silence as he ran his eye over the beautiful picture that stood revealed. It was the picture of a young boy, whose fair cheeks were browned with the sun and flushed with happiness and exercise, with a flood of golden hair floating forward over his shoulders, as he half-slyly and half-roguishly peeped out from behind a cherry tree, playfully holding up a bunch of the red fruit in his hand. On the frame beneath was legibly painted the words, “Cherry ripe! James Lyons, aged 7.”
For some moments there was a deep silence in the room, the student being rapt in admiration, and the poor mother in memories of the past; but at last, after viewing the picture in every light, the young man’s words came in an impulsive burst:
“I have never seen anything so exquisite; it is beautiful beyond all praise!” he cried, turning to the delighted owner. “Do you not know, ma’am, that this painting is worth money—a considerable sum—perhaps one or two hundred pounds?”
A quiet smile lit up the face of his patient.
“I have been told so often in happier days, when my wee Jim was young and innocent,” she softly replied. “But in all my struggles, and they have not been few, I never even dreamed of parting with it, not only for my boy’s sake, but that of the hand that painted it. It was my husband’s last work. It was a labour of love, and could never be valued in money. A whole fortune laid at my feet would not buy it.”
The student’s faint hopes were instantly crushed, and he turned and once more gazed at the picture with a tinge of covetous envy creeping into his heart.
“I did not mean to buy it,” he said at last; “though, if you had been so inclined, I might have seen my way even to that. But would you not allow me to copy it—to incorporate it in a picture I am at present hard at work upon?”
“And then, it would be exhibited—exposed to the vulgar gaze of hundreds?” calmly inquired Mrs. Lyons.
“It would be exhibited, doubtless,” awkwardly returned the student-artist, “but it would be in a different form; and though it is possible that some who have known you in former times might see and recognise it, their comments could never injure you. Besides I would be willing to pay any sum that you might think fit to ask for the favour, and would certainly guard it, while in my possession, with even more sacred care than you can possibly exhibit.”
These last words almost died on his lips as he uttered them, for the quiet refusal was written on his patient’s face even before she spoke.
“I cannot oblige you,” was her firm reply; “I could not trust the portrait a moment from my sight.”
“But think,” he persisted. “The money—”
“Has no influence with me,” she quietly rejoined. “I had it once—it went, wrenching from me at the same moment my darling son; and as it has only cursed me in the past, I care not though I never again feel its influence.”
What answer could there be to such a speech? The young student—the gentleman who had never from his infancy had his slightest wish crossed—might well turn away with a flush of disappointment on his cheeks, and bite his lip in silence. But now every fresh objection only made him more eager to attain his object, and after a pause he pleadingly said:
“Then, Mrs. Lyons, you might allow me to take a sketch of it here, in your presence?”
“Not for such a purpose. Laddie, I’m sorry that I ever yielded so far as to let you see it at all,” firmly returned his patient, rising from her seat with difficulty, and again drawing the veil over the picture. “Think of it as if you knew nothing of what lies behind this veil. You have much to learn yet in repressing your fancies before you can rise to be a good and noble man.”
“I don’t know,” he repiled, for the moment flashing up into a semblance of eloquence. “It is the sole ambition of my life to be an artist. I love it with all my heart and soul, but have been forced into the drudgery of this medical profession till I can show the world and my friends some conception so powerful that every objection should at once be hushed. Such a picture I am now at work upon, and with a subject and effects such as this portrait contains worked into it, my triumph would be complete. You who have been the wife of an artist can understand my feelings. I would sacrifice anything to this one ambition. Now, Mrs. Lyons, you know how much depends on your granting this simple request—let me hear my sentence!”
The old woman was moved—visibly moved; for in spite of his carelessness and easy selfishness, there was a frankness and openness in his manner and talk especially winning to one living in poverty and obscurity.
But her decision remained firm and unaltered: she would not allow him to remove the picture, to copy it, or use it in any way. He plied her in every possible manner—w armly, reproachfully, and temptingly—but all in vain, and thus they parted for the day.
“I’ll get it yet,” he muttered to himself, as he descended the stair—“I’ll get it yet, though I should have to employ some one to steal it!”
Next day he returned to the subject, but found Mrs. Lyons cold, silent, and distant. All his offers were either answered with a smile or met by a grave silence and shake of the head more effectual and convincing than a torrent of words. Another day elapsed, and then he was firmly but politely requested not to renew his visit, his patient declaring that she had perfectly recovered, and would require no further medical attendance. His quick intelligence penetrated the shallow artifice to get rid of his importunities; but he was still gentleman enough to obey, with however bad a grace, and I daresay but for the merest accident would soon have forgotten all about the veiled portrait and its poor owner.
It happened that a few nights after he was over in a billiard room in Rose Street, having a quiet game with a friend, when in a pause his opponent chanced to say:
“By the bye, I suppose you don’t know that Bob, the marker here, is an accomplished thief? There, don’t start—he’s a clever thief, but quite a harmless one. He is not now in the profession, and as honest a man as breathes; but what I mean is that, for the fun of the thing, or a glass of beer, he will steal anything you like from any gentleman here to show his skill—on condition, of course, that the article be afterwards returned to its owner.”
Nothing more was said on the subject at the time; but though Hutton appeared to laugh heartily at the idea, the words had planted a strange thought in his mind, and before leaving he drew the marker aside, and began cautiously sounding him on the subject nearest and dearest to his own heart.
“I suppose,” he said at last, “that having been a thief yourself, you will be well acquainted with the members of the fraternity—by sight, I mean, even here in Edinburgh?”
“Well acquainted?—rather!” was the knowing rejoinder, given with an expressive wink. “I know every blessed prig in Edinburgh.”
“I will be candid with you,” cautiously continued the student. “I have not asked without a reason. Do you think, now, that you could recommend me any one that would do a job of the kind for me?”
“What! is it possible? Do you want to commit a robbery!” exclaimed the marker, starting back in surprise.
“No, not exactly,” was the smiling rejoinder; “but I want something done which only a thief can do, and which would certainly look like a robbery to most people. I will explain. A friend of mine has in her possession a picture which I am anxious to copy. She refuses to lend it, and all I want is to borrow it by force for a week or a fortnight, when it would be faithfully returned.”
“Hem—seems all fair and above board,” ponderingly returned the marker. “You’re sure, though, that you don’t mean to do a slope with the picture after all? Because, if you do, you’ve come to the wrong man. I would not commit a real robbery myself for any consideration, or help another to do it.”
“You need have no fear on that account,” haughtily returned the student. “I would not dream of retaining in my possession a thing so religiously prized by its owner. I wish to copy it—nothing more. Do you know any one who would do the job for a fair sum, faithfully and honestly?”
“Well, as to that, there’s dozens would be glad of the chance,” replied the marker; “but I don’t think you could get a better hand than Coreing Jim, the Paisley Wire.”
“And who may he be, if I may inquire?”
“Oh, he is one of The Ruffian’s gang—a clever enough young cove in his way, but a little rash and reckless with his hands. However, if you were to strictly warn him against all violence, I daresay it would come off all right—especially as you say there would be little trouble about the job.”
“No trouble at all,” eagerly rejoined the student. “She is an old woman, living in a poor locality, at the very top of the stair, with not another near her. The door is so flimsy and rickety that I myself could burst it in with one hand”; and then he hurriedly detailed the facts already known to the reader.
“Well, I don’t mind obliging you. I’ll take you to where you are likely to see the Paisley Wire,” said the marker; “but mind, if anything happens, or any evil befalls the old woman, I’ll peach as sure as guns; so weigh well the risk before you go a step further.”
“Risk? There is no risk,” blindly reasoned the student, in an impatient burst. “Besides, I’m determined to have a loan of the picture, even were it for only twenty-four hours. I believe that the masterly execution and delicate colouring there is not another such picture in Scotland.”
This conversation had been carried on in whispers in the tap-room, in which there was at the time only one other person, a seedy-looking man in a faded black suit, who appeared to be fast asleep, with his head resting on a bundle of newspapers on the table near the fire. The moment the arrangement had been concluded, the student and marker left the room and house together; and then the man by the fire cautiously raised his head and disclosed the whisky-tacketed face and cunning eyes of Simon Penbank. Finding himself quite alone, he shook himself into through wakefulness, and gleefully rubbed his hands.
“Another for M’Indoe, and two quid for me!” he muttered with a chuckle. “Coreing Jim is a smart man, but he has now got to the end of his tether. Alas, alas! such is life—it is the fate of all to be nabbed in the end”; and with this pathetic reflection he left the place, and took his way over to M’Indoe’s home in the Horse Wynd.
Meanwhile the student and the marker were making their way through some dens in Leith Street Terrace, then down to Greenside, and finally to the head-quarters in the “Happy Land,” in Leith Wynd, where they were at last successful in finding the man of whom they were in search.
Coreing Jim was quite a young man, and so polite and proper-spoken that the student opened his eyes in surprise. There was no slang or brutal oaths; indeed, but for the unmistakable brand of crime written on his pallid features, Hutton could not have believed that he was not conversing with one holding as good a position in society as himself. The very way in which he placed the rickety chairs for his visitors, spoke of better days and circumstances; but it was not that which chiefly fascinated the impulsive young student. It was the man’s face. It seemed wondrously familiar in every line to the artist; and yet, think as he might, he could not remember where he had seen it, or something like it, before.
The thief listened patiently to what was required of him—to steal or forcibly borrow a picture, leaving a written note in its place, and return the same at the end of a fortnight.
“I myself can point out the stair to you,” said the student in conclusion. “And you cannot mistake the house, for it is at the very top, with no other door near it.”
“And you say it is a woman who owns it?”
“An old woman, and generally bedridden.”
“Could she not be induced to lend the picture, or sell it you for a consideration?” inquired the thief, demurring a little. “Be sure, if it belongs to a woman—especially a poor one—there will be trouble in securing it; and if she squealed or resisted, I don’t know what I might do in my passion.”
“I have come to you as a last resource,” quietly returned the student. “She will not lend it, or allow me to use it in any way. But I will have no violence; and unless you think you can so far command yourself to do it quietly, without laying a finger on the poor lady, or even frightening, her, I will not have it done; so ponder well before you decide.”
“I’ll do it,” said the thief, after a pause. “How much shall it be?”
“Five pounds. Will that be enough?”
“It’ll do. Give me your address and the note I am to leave in its place, and you shall have the picture in three hours.”
This ended the conversation. The note was written there and then, under some difficulties, and placed in the hands of the intending burglar; and then the student and the marker took their leave and made for their different homes through the dark and deserted streets; while Coreing Jim rummaged about for a few tools and a dark lantern, which he cleaned and adjusted, and disposed of in various parts of his dress. Shortly after twelve o’clock, well buttoned up, and with his cap pulled down over his brow, he slipped up the High Street on the right-hand side, in the shade, and reached the stair in Milne Square unmolested, at the precise time indeed that M’Indoe and Penbank were lugging me in from a station at the south side, as fast as legs could carry me, with the promise of another capture in connection with The Ruffian’s gang.
All was hushed and dark at the top of the stair in Milne Square, and Coreing Jim, who had removed his shoes before ascending the last flight of steps, was feeling gently the panels and fastenings of the door with a view to discovering the swiftest and least noisy mode of forcing an entrance, when, to his surprise, he found that, by some overlook on the part of the occupant, the door had been left simply on the latch. The thief could scarcely believe his good fortune, and listened breathlessly, with the door slightly ajar, for any signs of wakefulness within. A heavy slow breathing caught his ear and thrilled him with renewed hope, and a slight twinkle from the dying embers of the fire served to direct his keen glance to the veiled picture above.
“Good!” he muttered; “I’ll slip in and out and she’ll never be a bit the wiser till she wakes and misses it in the morning”; and in another moment he was within the room, across the floor like a dark shadow, and grasping the prize in his hands.
During this short interval, and at every step, he had listened with strange attention to the breathing of the sleeping woman; but now, while he fumbled in his pocket for the anonymous note to leave in place of the picture, a sudden flutter—a stop-page of the steady breathing and a waking sigh—caught his ear, and almost made his heart stand still. He stood there motionless as a statue, and not daring to breathe; but it was only for an instant.
The mischief was done. The eyes of the old woman were open, and staring with rousing intelligence at the dim figure against the twinkling light of the fire, and in another moment there was a great scream echoing through the room as she sprang up and threw herself upon the intruder.
“Curses on it, leave go!” he hissed, striving in vain to loosen the desperate grasp of her fingers from the picture—“leave go, I say, or it’ll be worse for you.”
“Never, though you should kill me on the spot,” cried the poor mother, clinging to her one treasure with all her strength. “Help! help! thieves! murder! A-h-h!”
Her last exclamation was a groan, which died away in a faint sigh as she dropped like a stone unheeded on the floor. One crash of the cruel neddy had stilled her cries and loosened her grasp, and the picture dropped heavily on the floor, with the crape veil torn away in shreds, and the beautiful gilt frame being rapidly stained and dabbled with her blood.
“She would have it,” whispered Coreing Jim, in hushed and awful tones, as he listened breathlessly for any sounds of alarm from below. “Yet I’m sorry I did it, though I don’t know why. Now for the picture, and then I’m off.”
He stooped to grope for the picture, and in doing so turned back the slide of the dark lantern he carried; and the crape having been torn off in the struggle, the strong glare of light fell full on the beautiful picture.
But why did he start and shiver and gaze at the beautiful and innocent young features with his eyes starting from their sockets, with every nerve and muscle in his frame petrified into rigidity, and with his heart suddenly ceasing to beat within him? Why did he utter a piercing groan, as if his very heart had been torn from his breast, and sink on his knees and try to raise the poor woman in his arms, heedless of the warning tramp of footsteps below?
“My mother!” he hoarsely quivered forth. “O God! I have killed my own mother!” and then in a paroxysm of grief, he tried to kiss the oozing blood from the pale brow of the stricken woman, wildly chafing her hands in his own, and striving by every endearing term to call her back to sensibility; and for a moment it appeared as if he were likely to succeed. Mrs. Lyons opened her eyes with a faint moan, and gazed wildly in his face; but there came no recognition.
“Mother! mother!” he almost screamed. “It is Jimmy—your own wee Jim.”
“My wee Jim?” she faintly and dreamily echoed. “No, no, you are not he; for he is dead—lost to God and man!” and then with a faint sigh she relapsed into insensibility; and at the same moment the door was burst open, giving entrance to Hugh M’Indoe, Penbank, and myself. I turned up the light, while the other two threw themselves on Coreing Jim, and tried to wrench him away from the wounded woman. But the thief instead of turning and fighting like a tiger, as we had anticipated, only continued to bend over the senseless figure, wringing his hands and moaning out:
“I have killed her! I have killed her! Take me up—take me away, and hang me before all the world! I have killed her!”
“Aha!” cried Simon Penbank, perking forward and gloaingly rubbing his hands, after exhibiting two gold coins in
his palm—“You said you would do me, Mister Jim; but I think the knife has cut the wrong way. I’ve done you, and there’s the price, in good solid gold.”
But the taunt fell on dulled senses. heedless or incapable of retort; for the thief still wrung his hands and moaned:
“Take me away—I’ve killed her! Oh, mother, and is this the end of it all?”
M’Indoe gazed at him with widely opened eyes, but offered no remark, except to demur and hurl aside Penbank when he again advanced to taunt our prisoner; and then I slipped on a pair of handcuffs and led Coreing Jim away up to the Office, when a medical assistant was at once despatched to attend to the injured woman.
Next morning, to the surprise of all, Mrs. Lyons appeared, with her head all bound up, and supported between two women, and demanded in such a piteous strain to see the prisoner, stating as a reason that she was sure some great mistake had been committed, that her request was at last complied with; but what took place in the cell of course was known to no one. After the interview she appeared calmer, though it was evident that she had been weeping, and was accommodated with an easy seat by the fire in one of the side rooms, where she remained propped up till the hour appointed for the examination of Jim Lyons drew near. M’Indoe arrived about half-past ten, and was shown into the same room; and the moment he was made known to her, she addressed him long and earnestly in an eager whisper, clasping one of his hands in her own the while, and wetting it with her tears. As the imploring rush of words fell on the ears of the stern unflinching man, he was observed to start and question her, then to listen breathlessly, and then, when at last she said, “Remember I am his mother, and he is my only boy; have mercy on him, as you expect mercy hereafter,” his hard features relaxed, and, stooping down, he reverently kissed her hand.
When the case was called, the result appeared; and it was enough to take away the breath of one even more experienced than myself. Mrs. Lyons was the first to be examined, and, after the usual oath had been administered, she was asked to look at the prisoner.
“Do you recognise that man?” asked the superintendent. “I do; he is my son.”
There was a stir and a start all over the Court as she uttered these words.
“Do you charge him with breaking into your house and committing this shocking assault upon your person?”
“I do not. Jimmy would never raise his hand against me, his own mother.”
“Do you mean to tell us that he did not commit this assault?” sharply demanded the superintendent. “How did you get hurt?”
“I don’t know. I have not seen him for years, and I fainted away in his arms, and when I woke I found my forehead bleeding, and a doctor binding it up.”
Here the prisoner groaned aloud, and buried his face in his hands.
“Is it not true that you were once in better circumstances, and that the prisoner squandered your whole substance and left you to beggary?” inquired the superintendent, in a softened tone.
“It was all his own,” was the tearful answer. “Poor Jim! he was led away by bad companions. O Sir! if you only knew all, you would not ask me to speak against him”; and then the poor, forgiving mother covered her face with her shaking hands and sobbed aloud.
The superintendent whispered for a moment with me, and then said:
“It is useless to trouble further with this witness. Bring forward Hugh M’Indoe.”
The reformed thief stepped forward, while Mrs. Lyons bent forward breathlessly to listen to his evidence.
“Do you know this man?”
“I do; he is known as Coreing Jim, the Paisley Wire.”
“Have you reason to believe that he last night attempted to commit a burglary at a house in Milne Square?”
“I thought so last night, but it seems I have been mistaken, and that he was only on a visit to his mother.”
More cross-examination followed, but nothing could induce the hunter of thieves to reveal more. I was next examined, but of course I could only tell the truth—that I had been sought out by M’Indoe to trap another of the “Happy Land” gang, without having time to glean particulars; and that we arrived only to find the prisoner moaning over his mother’s senseless form, and stating that he had killed her. The result was that the case was given up owing to the defective evidence, and the prisoner was discharged with a caution. Yes, a caution, and one that was effectual for life. Coreing Jim, I rejoice to say, from that moment ceased to exist; but in a town a good many miles west, James Lyons sprang into life, an energetic foreman in a spinning-factory, a credit to the town, and the sole comfort and joy of his aged mother.2
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2 Reprinted by permission of the author’s executors and the publishers, Messrs. Herbert Jenkins, Ltd., from the volume “Hunted Down.” James M’Govan was also the author of “Solved Mysteries,” “Brought to Bay,” “Traced and Tracked,” “Strange Clues,” and “Criminals Caught.”
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