CIII. BURGLARS AT BLACKHEATH――THE SURPRISE――THE STRANGE MEETING…

CIII. BURGLARS AT BLACKHEATH――THE SURPRISE――THE STRANGE MEETING

It has been said that Charles Peace carried out the burglaries on the other side of London entirely by himself, and without the assistance of even one confederate, and to a considerable extent the statement is borne out by facts.

Nevertheless, it is quite certain that occasionally he had a helpmate or accomplice, this being none other than Bandy-legged Bill.

Rawton, however, was fortunate enough to escape notice.

He was never implicated in the extensive series of depredations carried on by our hero during what may be termed his London career.

We have it upon good authority that there was another person besides Bill who occasionally accompanied Peace on his predatory excursions――this personage also escaped detection.

It is true that both he and the gipsy only acted in concert with our hero some half-dozen times or so.

As a rule Peace certainly did commit an almost incredible number of burglaries entirely by himself, and this perhaps furnishes us with the series of daring exploits which for audacity and fearlessness are without a parallel in the history of criminals.

But Peace was altogether a character far above the level of the ordinary housebreaker.

His cunning, finesse, his hypocrisy and assumption of the character of a well-to-do respectable member of the community when in his house in the Evelina-road, seems to be altogether outside the barriers which hedge in the lawless class to which he most unquestionably belonged.

The neighbours, as they saw him drive his pony trap along the Evelina-road, said, “The old gentleman has gone out for his evening drive.” They saw him go out, but none of them saw him come back. Whither he went nobody seemed to take the trouble to inquire. The supposition was that he was going to pay a visit to some friend who did not live within walking distance, and as Peace made it appear that he was an invalid and was not able to bear much fatigue, they naturally concluded that the respectable independent gentleman had a large circle of acquaintances who lived on the outskirts of London, and to these persons he was accustomed to pay periodical visits.

That he did make it his business to call at the houses of the wealthy in Blackheath, Greenwich, and elsewhere was very certain――the number of houses he entered it would be very difficult to enumerate, and in most cases he brought away with him substantial proofs of his having made a careful selection of the valuables therein.

Upon arriving at Spurgeon’s Tabernacle he found Bandy-legged Bill awaiting his appearance. Bill was good at an appointment, and seldom failed to keep any he made with our hero.

“Well, old stick-in-the-mud, are you in better fettle now? Got rid of the miserables――eh?” cried Peace.

“I’m all right now, old man,” returned the gipsy. “It was but a passing cloud.”

“Ah, so you’ve still got a touch of the romantic, it would seem. Well, jump up.”

The gipsy got into the trap, which was driven off by Peace.

“Where are you making for――any place in particular?”

“I saw a tempting-looking crib at Upper Charlton, and we’ll just see if it can be worked to rights.”

Rawton laughed.

“I wish I had got your ability, Charlie, and your nerve,” said he. “I’ve tried, but have never been able to manage this sort of business by myself. I expect I’m clumsy. Anyway, I’m a fool compared to you.”

“I don’t know so much about that. We’ve done pretty well together at one time――why not now?”

“Oh! I’m well enough to play second fiddle, but aint of no manner of use when left to myself. So you’ve given up Sheffield and the other towns――have you? Got too hot, I suppose.”

“It’s not altogether that. I could do well enough in my old quarters, but a change was absolutely necessary.”

“I see――a change of air for the benefit of your health.”

“Look here, nobody knows me as Charles Peace in Peckham, and so you’d better not mention Sheffield, Manchester, or Bradford, ’cause, you see, if you do, it might get wind, and, if it did, I should be ‘copped’ as sure as eggs is eggs.”

“Oh, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

“I know that, old boy――I’d trust you with my life, and that’s saying something, seeing how few there are a bloke can trust now-a-days. Men are getting more like wild beasts than human beings. As to the people in this world getting wiser or better it’s all my eye and Betty Martin.”

“That’s right enough, they are not near so good I think as they were when I first came into this world,” remarked the gipsy. “Look at old Gallipot. He poisoned his first wife, and no doubt intended to polish off his second by the same means.”

“He left behind him an excellent fiddle, that’s one thing in his favour, seeing that I bought it for a mere song.”

“Was that his fiddle you were playing on to-day?”

“Why, of course it was. I told you so.”

“Oh, true, I forgot.”

“Why your wits are wool-gathering.”

“That’s better than oakum picking,” returned Bill, bursting out into a loud laugh. “I had you there, old man, and no mistake.”

“Look here, Bill, it aint worth while for you to remind me, nor for me to remind you of the miseries of prison life. I don’t like to think of it――blessed if I do. It seems to send a cold shudder through my frame. I’ve had enough of it, and don’t intend to be ‘copped’ again, come what may.”

“Why, what would you do then?”

“Shoot my man down, rather than be taken.”

“Oh, Jerusalem! But――――”

“Well, what?”

“That sounds like murder,” cried the gipsy; “and we’ve neither of us come to that as yet, and I hope as how we never shall――never.”

Peace was a little discomposed at this speech, which was delivered with an earnestness and power which seemed to go right through him.

“No, Bill, we aint come to that as yet. Let’s hope there’ll never be any occasion for us to be brought to such an extremity.”

“Brought be blowed!” said Rawton. “Prigging’s one thing and murder another. If you lift a few things from a crib as you enter, while the owner and his wirtuous family are asleep, why, well and good; the loss of them won’t ruin him――indeed, in a manner of speaking, it won’t perhaps do him a morsel of harm; but taking human life, old pal, is a horse of a different colour, an’ I’d rather give myself up, let alone being ‘copped,’ than rob a cove of his life. ’Cause, you see, Charlie, life is a precious gift, and when once taken, it be a gift it aint in the power of mortal man to restore; and you know it’s dear to everyone ov us, however hard-up and miserable we may be.”

“I tell you what it is, Bill, I’m blowed if some sanctimonious parson aint been getting at you――there’s no mistake about that.”

“You make a jolly big mistake if you suppose that. I aint sed a word to any parson, nor has one sed even so much as a word to me; but that don’t much matter. Prigging’s one thing, murder’s another.”

“Well――who says it aint?” cried Peace, petulantly. “We’ve not come out on a preaching tour――have we?”

“No, I dunno as we have; but you mustn’t talk about shooting your man down, ’cause, in the first place you’ll be a jolly fool to do so; and in the next the chances are you’ll never have a happy hour arter.”

“You’re a jolly old hypocrite, Bill!” exclaimed Peace, laughing in his turn――“a thundering old hypocrite!”

“Am I? Well, I s’pose I am, if you say so. But them’s my sentiments and always were, come what may. I don’t intend to go in for murder or manslaughter. As to giving a cove a crack on the head when he becomes troublesome that’s another matter, but shooting or stabbing aint in my line, and, as I said afore, I hope it never will be.”

“You never know what you may be brought to, so don’t you make cock sure of being free from temptation.”

“Oh, I aint free from temptation――I admit that, Charlie. Don’t you imagine I’m going for to do the sanctimonious, as you term it, because, yer see, it wouldn’t fit either on us――not a bit on it. I am game to lift anything as comes in my way, and no gammon.”

“If you said otherwise I shouldn’t believe you.”

“In course yer wouldn’t. You might as well expect Cooney to preach morality as me.”

“Cooney!” exclaimed Peace. “Have you seen anything of him lately?”

[Sidenote: No. 55.]

Our hero now became seriously alarmed.

“Eh. Well, yes, I have.”

“For mercy’s sake don’t say you’ve seen anything of me. Don’t tell Cooney I’m in London; but perhaps you have already done so.”

“No I aint, nor do I intend. Do you take me for a fool?”

“Far from that, old stick-in-the-mud. But don’t you say a word to Cooney about me.”

“I won’t――’taint likely.”

“He’s all well enough in his way, but he’s got a precious long tongue, and is too fond of chattering.”

“Oh, there aint any harm in the chap; leastways, I never found any. He’s fair and square enough.”

“That may be, but I again charge you, Bill, to say nothing about my being in London, what I am, and what I am doing. This is most important. Do you understand?”

“I do. Cooney knows nothing, nor shall he.”

“That’s right. You’ve passed your word, and I am satisfied.”

They had by this time passed Charlton. The curtain of night had fallen over the landscape. Not a star to be seen.

Peace drew the rein, and the pony and trap turned into a dark narrow lane.

“We are within sight of the crib,” said Peace. “I shall leave you here in charge of ‘Tommy.’”

“Who’s ‘Tommy?’”

“The pony.”

“Oh, I see. Well, and what then?”

“You wait here till I come back. The house is some little distance off from where we are now. So much the better. I don’t want the trap to be seen by any chance passenger. Here you are pretty safe from observation, but if a bobby does hail within sight you can drive slowly on――and after he has gone return to this spot or near it. I shall be sure to find you. If I do not I shall give a whistle, and you’ll know I am at hand.”

“Oh, you are going to crack the crib all by yourself then?”

“I shall manage it better without a companion; besides, some one must be left in charge of ‘Tommy’ and the trap――don’t you see that? Tommy’s worth his weight in gold, and I wouldn’t lose him for the best man or woman that ever breathed.”

“You were always fond of animals, Charlie, and you ain’t altered in that respect, I see.”

Peace left the gipsy, and proceeded to the habitation he proposed operating on, and Rawton had to content himself as best he could in the dark lane till the return of his companion.

A quarter of an hour passed over, then half an hour; the gipsy felt cold and uncomfortable. He got out of the trap, and walked backwards and forwards in the lane to break the monotony of the hour.

“I wonder how far this place is Charlie was speaking of? I do hope he’ll work it to rights. I’m getting jolly sick of waiting, but anyhow I’ll stick to my post. He is a stunner, and no mistake.”

Presently the moon, which had hitherto been obscured, shone forth, and lighted up the surrounding neighbourhood with remarkable distinctness.

Rawton re-entered the trap; before doing so, however, he reined up Tommy, whom he had loosened, that he might nibble at the grass which grew by the hedge-side.

The gipsy glanced in every direction. In a few minutes, after he had seated himself again in the trap, he beheld at some distance down the road, which ran at right angles with the lane, a man running at the top of his speed. He was at no loss to comprehend that the fugitive was Charles Peace.

He was panting, and almost breathless.

It was evident enough that he had run his hardest. He threw his bag into the trap, put on an overcoat, encased his neck in a red muffler, and exchanged hats with the gipsy.

In the space of a few seconds he made such an alteration in his appearance that none would have known him.

“Drive your hardest!” exclaimed Peace, “and keep as quiet as possible.”

The gipsy put Tommy out to the greatest possible speed, and in a few minutes after this they were far removed from the scene of action.

“What’s been the matter, then?” cried Bill, after they had got clean away.

“Matter,” returned our hero. “I was as near as possible being potted. Just as I was leaving the grounds of the house, who should come up with me but a bobby. ‘What have you got in that bag?’ says he.

“‘That’s no business of yours,’ says I.

“‘Aint it though,’ cries my gentleman.

“‘No it aint. You mind your own business, and leave respectable people alone.’

“‘You’ll just let me see what you’ve got there, my man,’ says he, and with that he endeavours to seize hold of the bag.

“‘Now then, guv’nor,’ says I, ‘you’re a jolly sight too fast, you are, by a long way. If you give me any more of your cheek I’ll report ye.’

“‘You are not going away without satisfying me as to what you’ve got in the bag,’ says he; ‘just hand it over without further ado.’

“‘No; not if I know it,’ says I. Well, with that he seizes me by the collar of the coat, when, before he was aware of it, I slipped out of his grasp, and tripped him up. I didn’t wait for any further conversation with my gentleman, but ran my hardest; he followed, but you see I had the start of him, and cut across a field, and reached the high road again. By this means I doubled on him, but he was still giving chase when I jumped into the trap. However, he’s left behind now; but it might have been worse.”

“I am glad you were not driven to extremities,” observed Bill, in a tone of satisfaction.

“I am glad of it myself; but I was very near being copped though――precious near.”

“Which road am I to take now?” inquired the gipsy, as they came to the end of the one through which they had been travelling.

“Make for Blackheath.”

“What! not for Peckham?”

“No, shan’t go home just yet; my business is not over.”

“Why, surely you don’t intend――”

“Aye, but I do. One crib don’t satisfy me; have got to work another.”

“Well, you have got a nerve, Charlie. After what has taken place, I should have supposed it would have given you the sick of it for to-night, at all events.”

“Drive on to Blackheath, I tell you, and leave me to myself.”

“To yourself?”

“Yes, I’ll tell you what to do presently.”

“Right you are, old sinner. I’ve no right to interfere; so, here goes.”

Upon reaching Blackheath Charles Peace got out of the trap, took his burglar’s instruments with him, and declared that he was about to effect an entrance into a palatial-looking mansion in the immediate neighbourhood.

“Now, if you like, you can drive Tommy home, and leave me to myself. See, here’s the key of the stable.”

“I don’t care about leaving you to yourself, as you term it.”

“It is best for you to do so. There’s a goodish many things in the trap, and if we are suspected――which is more than likely, seeing that the cart and pony may be recognised if we are not――and the contents of the bag are overhauled, where shall we be then? No, no, Bill――it won’t do to risk it. You make the best of your way to the Evelina-road, put up the nag, hide the booty in the place I pointed out to you, and then step it. If you see either of the women say I am detained playing at a concert in Blackheath. Then you can see me in the morning.”

“Oh, very well, if it is to be so, there’s no help for it, I suppose. But where are you going to now?”

“Oh, I’ve had my eye on one or two little places. Never you mind where they are――I tell you I’ve not done for the night――not as yet.”

“You lick me――knock me silly; I’m not in it,” cried the gipsy, with a laugh. “I’m to go back――am I?”

“Yes――haven’t I told you so?”

“Anything else you want?”

“No――nothing. Drive on.”

Bill turned the horse’s head, wished his companion good night, and trotted on towards London.

Charles Peace remained for some little time silent and abstracted until the gipsy was lost to sight, after which he walked on in the most unconcerned manner it is very well possible to conceive. He had before leaving his companion taken off the overcoat and muffler, put on his own hat, and made himself up in a manner which was altogether different to the one he had assumed when starting out on his lawless expedition.

After a walk of some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour’s duration, he came in sight of an elegant mansion, situated in its own grounds, which was to all appearance tenanted by some wealthy well-to-do citizen.

The house in question stood not very far from Kidbrook-lane, which has attained an unenviable celebrity for the barbarous murder of the ill-fated girl named Margaret Clewson. This crime, like many others of a kindred nature, remains a mystery to this day.

The murderer of Margaret Clewson is, in all probability, still in our midst. The murder in Kidbrook-lane was one of the greatest possible atrocity. The victim lay for hours in a semi-unconscious state by the hedge where she had been stricken down, with fourteen wounds of a most fearful character on the head and face. After lingering in perfect agony and torture for some days, death put an end to her sufferings, but the perpetrator of this horrible crime has never been overtaken by justice――the avenging arm of the law has been nerveless and powerless in this instance.

Margaret Clewson was not able to articulate or express herself in the smallest degree after being taken to the hospital.

When found in the lane by a policeman all she was able to say, “Oh, let me die.” Those were the last words she uttered. Many of the inhabitants of Blackheath, Greenwich, and Sydenham believe to this day that her death will be avenged, but we fear the chances are very remote of her murderer being discovered.

Peace walked round the fence which enclosed the garden and grounds of the house upon which he had an eye. As he was making a survey a policeman, who was going his rounds, passed close to the spot where the burglar stood, but the latter was in no way abashed, he walked leisurly on, and watched the bobby going his round till he was lost to sight, then he returned to the habitation.

With one spring he cleared the low wall which ran round the back garden, he then found himself in a dense plantation of trees and underwood, which effectually concealed him from observation.

He then bethought him of what to do. He glanced at the back of the house.

One of the windows of the first-floor room seemed to be available. He might succeed in climbing up to this without attracting anyone’s notice.

He paced up and down the garden, being still in doubt as to the weakest point of attack.

While doing so he observed a short ladder stretched lengthways by the side of the wall.

It had been used in the early part of the day by a man who had come to prune the vines.

This would suit his purpose admirably. He rubbed his hands with glee.

“Sent on purpose; nothing could be better,” he murmured. “Nothing.”

He looked over the wall; no chance passenger was visible. He reached the ladder, and in an incredibly short space of time he succeeded in opening the back window.

He crept softly into the apartment. He found himself in an elegantly-furnished room full of articles of virtu, with a large wardrobe, in which were articles of female attire, a lady’s riding habit, sealskin mantles, and other costly garments.

Peace looked about, and observed by the aid of his dark lantern a number of valuable trinkets and portable property, which quite charmed him to look upon.

He set to work without further hesitation.

In the next room to the one in which he was occupied sat a lady, who was evidently waiting for some one. She heard a noise in the adjoining apartment.

“Dear me, how late it is!” she murmured. “I ought to have been in bed hours ago. Ethel, is that you?”

Ethel, the ladies’ maid, did not answer, and the faint rustle in the back-room, which had called forth the lady’s question, ceased the instant she spoke aloud.

The lady was not wanting in courage――she was not nervous――far from it, yet her watch seemed to tick with extraordinary vigour, and her heart to beat harder than common while she listened.

The door of communication between the two rooms was closed. Another door in the smaller apartment opened to the passage; but this, she remembered, was invariably locked on the inside.

It couldn’t be Ethel, therefore, who disturbed her mistress’s reflections, unless that faithful handmaiden had come down the chimney or in at the window.

It could not be her husband, for he was far away in the country on a visit to some of his relatives. Still, it was just possible he might have come back; but even assuming he had, it was not at all likely that he would be groping about in the adjoining room.

The house was very silent――so silent that in the distant corridors were distinctly audible those faint and ghostly footfalls which traverse all large houses after midnight.

A small hand-lamp was burning on the lady’s toilette table, but it served rather to show how dismal were the shadowy corners of the large lofty bedroom than to afford light and confidence to its inmate.

She listened intently. Yes, she was sure she heard somebody in the next room.

A step that moved stealthily about. A noise as of woodwork skilfully and cautiously broken open.

She became seriously alarmed. Who could it be? She endeavoured as best she could to account in some rational and reasonable way for the sounds which fell upon her ear.

One moment she felt frightened, then her courage came back higher for its interruption.

She was a woman who was not daunted by a trifle――still it must be confessed the situation in which she found herself was a trying one.

She could have escaped from her own room into the passage easily enough, and so alarmed the house, but when she reflected that its fighting garrison consisted only of an infirm old butler, and a page boy whom no one could possibly wake, there seemed little to be gained by such a proceeding if violence or robbery were really intended.

Besides, she rather scorned the idea of summoning assistance till she had ascertained the amount of danger.

She remembered at this time the accounts she had heard of the numberless daring robberies which had taken place in that and the surrounding neighbourhoods.

She had laughed at these reports, which she concluded had been greatly exaggerated, but she looked upon the matter in a more serious light now.

It was likely enough that some daring burglar had paid her establishment a visit during her husband’s and the footman’s absence, for both were away.

She determined upon her course of action. She would know the worst.

She blew out the lamp on her toilette table, and crept to the door of the smaller room, in which our hero was now so busily occupied.

She put her ear to the keyhole, and heard the burglar’s movements more distinctly. She laid her hand noiselessly on its lock.

Softly as she turned it, gently as she pushed the door back on its hinges inch by inch, she did not succeed in entering unobserved.

The light of a shaded lantern flashed over her the instant she crossed the threshold, dazzling her eyes indeed, yet not so completely but that she made out the figure of a man standing over her shattered jewel-box of which he seemed to have been rifling the contents.

Quick as thought, she said to herself――

“Come, there is only one. If I can frighten him more than he frightens me the game is mine.”

The man uttered a series of impious oaths in a whisper, and the lady was aware of the muzzle of a pistol covering her above the dark lantern.

She wondered why she was not frightened. It was most remarkable, for her position was one of imminent peril; but she did not lose her presence of mind.

She could distinguish a dark figure behind the spot of intense light radiating round her own person, and perceived besides, almost without looking, that an entrance had been made by the window, which stood wide open, so as to disclose the topmost rounds of a garden ladder propped against the sill.

What Charles Peace saw in the flood of light was an aristocratic-looking woman, decked in the most costly raiment, with her neck and arms sparkling with jewels.

There was such an air of composure and refinement about her that he was fairly bewildered.

“Bessie Dalton, as I’m a living man!” he ejaculated.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CIV. CHARLES PEACE IS CHECKMATED

The pale dauntless woman, with her haughty delicate face, and her loops of brown hair falling over robes of white, stood erect and motionless, confronting the levelled weapon of the burglar without the slightest fear.

To his exclamation she made no reply.

He had never before set eyes on such a sight as this in circus nor music-hall, nor gallery of a metropolitan theatre.

For a moment he lost his heart――for a moment he hesitated.

In that moment his companion was equal to the occasion.

Quick as thought she made one step to the window, pushed the ladder outwards with all her force, and shut down the sash.

As it closed, the ladder, poising for an instant, fell with a crash on the ground below.

“Now,” she said, quietly, “you are trapped and taken. Better make no resistance, for the man servant can be summoned if I choose, and I have no wish to see you ill-treated.”

Peace was aghast. What could it all mean? Was he awake or dreaming?

“She must be well backed,” he said to himself, “to assume such a position as this, and she looked so firm and resolute.”

Nevertheless, instinctively, rather than of intention, he mattered hoarsely――

“Drop it, let’s have no more of this. One word out loud and I’ll shoot you as you stand there.”

“Fire away,” she answered, with perfect composure. “You will save me the trouble of giving an alarm. They expect it, and are waiting for it every moment below stairs. Light those candles and let me see what damage you have done before you return the plunder.”

A pair of wax candles stood on the chimneypiece, and he obeyed, mechanically wondering to himself the while.

His cunning, however, had not quite deserted him, and he left his pistol lying on the table ready to snatch it away if she tried to take possession.

It was thus he gauged her confidence, and seeing she scarcely noticed the weapon, argued that powerful assistance must be near at hand to render this brave woman so arbitrary and so unconcerned.

His admiration burst out in spite of his discomfiture and critical position――

“Well, you’re a cool one!” he exclaimed, in accents of mingled vexation and approval. “A cool one and a stunner――I’m blest if you aint!”

“I am not afraid of you, Charles Peace,” she returned――“why should I be? You are now in my power.”

“Are you, then, mistress of this establishment?” inquired our hero.

“I am, and have been so for some years. What more do you desire to know?”

Peace seemed all of a sudden to be under a spell, and while he acknowledged its strength had no power――nay, had no wish to resist its influence. What had come over him?

He felt almost pleased to know he was at her mercy, and yet she treated him like the dirt under her feet.

“The mistress of this princely establishment――why, Bessie?”

“Don’t call me Bessie, if you please, sir. It is my husband and my intimates who have the privilege of addressing me by my Christian name.”

“Well, I’m knocked silly,” exclaimed our hero. “I’m sure I beg your pardon.”

“That is the very least you ought to do. You must understand most clearly that I cannot permit you to rob this establishment. Return my jewellery at once, if you please.”

“I did not know it was yours, or I should not have taken it.”

“Much obliged to you for your consideration,” said the lady.

“But I say,” observed Peace, in a wheedling tone, “don’t be so grand and distant. We’ve not met for years, and at one time you knew well enough that I doated on you.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she cried, holding up her hand in a deprecating manner. “We have not met for years. I only wish we had not done so to-night, because it only causes me pain and sorrow.”

“Oh, I dare say it does, but I’m knocked over. Hang it all, do tell me something about your past life――I mean that portion of it since you left Bradford, when you were――――”

“Cease, sir. If you do not behave yourself in an orderly and respectful manner I solemnly declare that I will show you no mercy, but will hand you over to the officers of the law without pity or remorse.”

“I do not desire to say anything that may offend you――indeed I do not.”

“My husband would never forgive me if he knew I held parley with a burglar and a convicted criminal.”

Peace hung down his head.

“Your husband!” he ejaculated. “Then you are married?”

“Of course I am, to as good and kind a husband as ever woman could wish to have. He’s very rich, of a good family, and has not a blemish on his escutcheon.”

“I’m knocked silly. There’s no mistake about it――you might double me up with the blow of a mere straw. This beats all. I’ve heard of sorcery, and I’m blowed if there must not be something of the sort here.”

“Before you proceed with your agreeable discourse,” said the lady, “you had better put every one of my trinkets in its place.”

Peace at once proceeded to replace the jewels in the case. The other articles he had possessed himself of were also rendered up to their owner without hesitation.

“There, will that satisfy you? It is not at all likely that I should attempt to rob you. I have returned everything.”

“That is well, and now――――” she hesitated.

“Well you have thrown down the ladder, but I can get clear off.”

“Do so then at once.”

“Ah, but you must tell me how all this has been brought about. I promise never to molest you again――never to trouble you, but how, in the name of all that’s wonderful, have you managed to become a lady of fashion, for such I presume you are?”

“Your surmise is a correct one.”

“How has it been done? That’s what I want to know.”

“By moving in good society in the first place, and in the next becoming the wife of an honourable and wealthy gentleman.”

“Good society――how was that managed?”

“Easily enough. We had a good introduction.”

“We. Who do you allude to besides yourself?”

“Mrs. Bristow, to be sure.”

“What! John Bristow’s wife?”

“Certainly――none other. She came into a fortune.”

“Oh, came into a fortune, did she? I see, that accounts for it in some measure. And what has become of her?”

“She is all right.”

“And has she got a worthy and honourable gentleman for a husband?”

“She has.”

“And now before I go――we shan’t see each other again, I expect, not this side of the grave――do answer one or two other questions. How did John’s wife become possessed of a fortune? Did she inherit it?”

“I suppose so.”

“But all her relatives were poor――so I always understood.”

“Most of them were, but that’s not to the purpose. Mrs. Bristow, as I have already intimated, had enough to support an establishment at the west end of the town. She did not like living by herself, and I became her companion. Is your curiosity now satisfied?”

“Yes. Where is she now?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Bristow.”

“I do not deem it expedient to answer that query, for I am perfectly satisfied that she has no desire to see you. Oh, Charles Peace, let me beg and entreat of you to alter your course of life. What will be your end if you don’t――think of that? Have you no thought of the future?”

“Have you ever had any thought about me?” cried Peace.

“Certainly I have. I sent a remittance to you to be handed to you at the expiration of your term of imprisonment.”

“Did you send that?”

“Yes, and would most gladly, most cheerfully, assist you if you would become a respectable member of the community.”

“Oh, gammon and all, I’ve tried the respectable dodge, but didn’t find it pay.”

“I’ll say no more. Go your way. You will never be wise or discreet, I suppose. Are you in want of money at the present time?” she said, drawing out her purse, and opening it. “Because if you are――――”

“If I am I should not accept anything from you,” he cried, with some asperity. “Put back your money and keep it to serve a better purpose. I can be as proud as you when I choose.”

“Enough, sir, we will say no more upon the subject, then.”

“This appears to me to be more like a dream than an actual reality. You mistress of this grand establishment, assuming all the airs and graces of a lady of fashion. Confound it all, I am knocked completely silly――there’s no mistake about it, I’m dead beat. You Bessie Dalton!”

“I am not Bessie Dalton, Mr. Peace, and I must request you to be more guarded in your observations. A wide gulph now separates us――a gulph which nothing can bridge over. Go your ways, and leave me for evermore unmolested.”

“I am done, there’s no denying that――a gone coon, but after all I see no reason for regret, none whatever. I am pleased to think that you have been so fortunate, madam――that the sun of prosperity shines upon you,” said Peace, with something like sarcasm in his tone. “We are separated, and a wide gulph, as you very properly observe, lies between us, but for old acquaintance sake――――”

“For old acquaintance sake I would do anything that lies in my power to serve you,” said she――“anything to turn you from your evil courses,” she added, after a pause.

“Rubbish! Don’t preach morality to me,” cried the burglar, “because I aint in a mood to listen to it――certainly not from you――or from anyone else, for the matter of that.”

“As you please. I do not desire to hold further parley with you; and now――――”

“Well, what?”

“I must devise some means of getting you away without attracting the notice of any of the servants.”

“You devise? I’ll act for myself,” cried Peace. “There will not be much difficulty in the matter.”

He made towards the window, threw it open, and passed through. He hung for a moment by his hands from the window sill, and then dropped on the gravel walk below.

Bessie Dalton, or, more properly speaking, Mrs. Metcalf, looked out in some alarm, for she feared the burglar’s daring escape would be attended with serious consequences.

In this, however, she was mistaken. She observed Charles Peace safe and sound in the grounds at the rear of the house.

He did not speak, but waved an adieu with his hand, and in another minute was lost to sight.

All this had taken place in a much shorter time than we have taken in describing it. Mrs. Metcalf closed the window, fastened it, and then stood irresolute for some little time.

She was aroused from her reverie by the entrance of her maid, Ethel.

“Goodness me, ma’am, how pale and troubled you look,” cried the girl. “Whatever is the matter?”

“What has kept you all this time?” said her mistress, in a tone of anger. “I’ve been waiting anxiously for your return, you giddy, thoughtless girl.”

“If you please, ma’am, it aint my fault. As I was coming home, Mrs. Fowler’s servant stopped me, and said her mistress was so ill that she was going for the doctor.”

“Well, what has that to do with the matter?”

“I just looked in, and saw Mrs. Fowler, who would not let me go till Ann came back.”

“You had no right to look in there. You could be of no use in such a case, besides you know perfectly well that you were keeping me waiting. I want to retire to rest. A pretty time of night truly for you to be gallivanting about――you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

The girl had not confined herself strictly to the truth. Female domestics who hold midnight audiences with life guardsmen seldom do; but part of her story was correct enough.

She had called at Mrs. Fowler’s house and seen that lady, but she did not remain with her for more than five minutes at the outside.

Ethel, who was a cunning little puss, sought to change the subject, and an admirable opportunity occurred for her doing so.

She caught sight of the shattered jewel-box, and immediately uttered a faint scream.

“Oh, missis, something’s amiss. What has happened?”

“A burglar has entered the house,” returned her mistress, “and I might have been robbed and murdered.”

“A burglar!” cried the girl. “Oh, mercy upon us, and what has become of him?”

“He has made his escape. I caught him in the act of abstracting the jewels from the case, and at the sight of me he sprang through the window and made off. I have reason to be thankful that no worse has happened.”

“Well, I never heard of such audacity!” exclaimed Ethel. “The daring scoundrel!”

“That will do. I don’t require any further remarks. I am weary, and shall be glad to seek repose. When you are ready I am.”

“Oh, dear me, ma’am, of course I am at your service now. Dear me, my heart’s in my mouth, and I come all over with a cold shiver. A burglar! I never heard of such audacity. I am so sorry, ma’am.”

“Hold your tongue, do,” said Mrs. Metcalf. “I will go to bed at once, if you please.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CV

THE TWO DETECTIVES――CAPTURE OF A SMASHER――PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DETECTIVE.

Charles Peace, as he wended his way homewards after his escapade at Mr. Metcalf’s house, was almost bewildered with the singular adventure that had taken place.

He could not in any way account for the altered position of the girl whom he had been so intimately acquainted with years before at Bradford.

He could not fail to understand that she was altered in every way. Her manners did not appear to resemble those of the mill-hand who was at one time his constant companion.

How the metamorphosis had taken place, and how she was able to assume the grace and demeanour of a well-bred woman to such perfection, was a matter he could not account for.

He felt ashamed of himself, if he ever had any shame in him. The better term would perhaps be that he was deeply mortified.

He had been foiled by a woman. He had let her have it all her own way, had given up the stolen property without a murmur or even so much as a feeble attempt to retain possession of it.

This he did not so much regret, for after all it was but the loss of a few trinkets.

He was too great an adept at his art to repine at being baffled in this instance, but he was very much chagrined at being looked down upon by one whom he had considered at an earlier day as an equal if not an inferior.

“She’s done the trick, the saucy jade――done it to rights,” he ejaculated. “How she has managed it is another question. Well, I’m regularly queered, but I suppose I shall never know the rights of it――never.”

He was of course in a terrible bad humour when he returned to his habitation in the Evelina-road, and half regretted not having returned with Bandy-legged Bill, for he would have given almost anything rather than have encountered Mrs. Metcalf.

It was gall and wormwood to him to see her under the circumstances, but it was too late now――he could not recall the past; he had seen her, and the worst was over. He determined upon avoiding such another reincontre.

Peace, as we have intimated more than once, had very little feeling in his whole composition, but he was at times a prey to jealousy, and he was most certainly both jealous and envious in this case――he was envious of Mrs. Metcalf’s superior position.

As far as the woman herself was concerned, he cared perhaps but little about her; but he did not like to be lorded over――he did not like the tone of superiority she assumed, and it is likely enough, under any other circumstances, he would have hurled at her a perfect shower of epithets and virulent abuse. He was, however, unable to do so; upon meeting her in her own house, to use his own expression, he was regularly “floored.”

Upon arriving at his own domicile he at once made for the stables. He found “Tommy” properly stalled, and the valuables he had purloined carefully secreted by the gipsy in the place he had named.

So far all was satisfactory, and after seeing to this he retired to rest.

The history of the two women――Mrs. Bristow and Bessie Dalton――is in many respects a romantic one. We have not taken note of them for a long time, but doubtless those who have perused these pages will remember that a number of Bank of England notes were found secreted in a looking-glass――behind the plate and back-board of that useful piece of furniture.

The notes represented in the aggregate many thousands of pounds.

When Mrs. Bristow and her faithful companion and friend, Bessie Dalton, arrived in London they changed their names, as they had changed their condition in life.

Mrs. Bristow, although the wife of a working engineer, was tolerably well connected, certainly better than most women in the same walk of life.

She took an elegant suite of apartments in Brook-street, Grosvenor-square, and having ample means at her disposal, she lived in good style, and in the due course of time contrived to get introduced into society, as it is termed――that is, she became acquainted with people who moved in the upper circles.

Bessie passed as her younger sister, and as time went on they both improved, became more polished in their manners, dropped provincialisms as much as possible, and really turned out very creditable specimens of unostentatious gentility, and were pretty generally liked, for their kindliness of heart and unobtrusive manners and demeanour.

They were introduced to Mr. Metcalf, a rich city merchant, and frequently paid visits at his house at Greenwich.

He was seized with a sudden fit of illness――a virulent fever.

Bessie Dalton volunteered her services as nurse, and her attention was so unremitting, her gentleness was made so manifest on many occasions, that it laid the foundation of a deep and endless love which found its way into the heart of Mr. Metcalf.

The result of all this was an offer of marriage, and Bessie Dalton became the wife of, as she told Charles Peace, an honourable gentleman.

Soon after this Mrs. Bristow found a husband in the person of an obese widower, with two daughters.

This is a brief account of the factory hands who rode to rank and fortune upon a bundle of bank notes found in the looking-glass of a deceased miser.

The history is a romantic one, but not more so than we find in the affairs of every day life. Life is full of romance to those who have the wit to see it, and the one we have been describing is based on fact. This the writer could prove beyond all cavil.

But our scene shifts to other characters in this veritable history.

Mr. Shearman, who had so industriously and cleverly ferreted out the murderer of the American planter’s daughter, was, as a matter of course, much chagrined when he heard of Doctor Bourne’s suicide.

Justice had been baffled and baulked. It is true the end would have been much the same――with this difference, however, instead of coming by his death from the effects of prussic acid, the doctor would have had to meet his fate on the public scaffold.

Mr. Shearman, in common with the majority of his countrymen, had a certain amount of respect, or, it might be said, admiration for the mother country; he therefore embraced the opportunity afforded him of seeing something of London life before he returned to the United States. He was, as we have already seen, on the best of terms with our old friend Wrench, and at the latter’s instigation he had put up at Sanderson’s Hotel, where, it will be remembered, Peace sojourned for a short period after his leaving Broxbridge. The buxom widow, Mrs. Sanderson, made the American and the persons he had under his charge――these being the witnesses in the Bourne case――as comfortable as possible, and Mr. Wrench generally dropped in on those evenings upon which he was disengaged to have a friendly chat with Shearman.

To all appearance the American detective liked the old country so well that he was loth to leave it. Anyway he remained as long as circumstances would warrant.

The day, however, was drawing nigh upon which Mr. Shearman was destined to take his departure.

“The best of friends must part,” said he, as Mr. Wrench dropped in on the evening before the appointed time. “I’ve enjoyed myself and seen more of the old country than I ever expected to do this journey, and I have to return you many thanks, Wrench, for all the trouble you have been at on my behalf. If you should ever have to come to the States the first person you will inquire for, I hope and trust, will be me.”

“That you may rest assured of.”

“It’s turned out a bit of a frost this business, but it can’t be helped. Confound old Bourne for making away with himself, say I.”

“He’s gone to that bourne from whence no traveller returns,” observed Wrench, with a smile. “Excuse the pun.”

“I’d excuse anything in you; but now you have come we’ll make a night of it, as possibly it may be the last we shall be able to pass together for one while.”

“Can’t be done just now,” returned Wrench. “Have a little matter on hand.”

“The devil! What――something particularly urgent?”

“Rather so.”

“What might it be, if it’s a fair question?”

“I’m after an old scoundrel whom I hope to take to-night――he’s a well-known thief. We’ve got one or two cases against him.”

“What’s he been up to, then?”

“Oh, his old caper――smashing.”

“Are you going to pull the string this evening, then?”

“Yes, in less than half an hour.”

“And after then?”

“Oh, well, then I shall be at your service.”

“Very good then, I’ll wait here for you――shall I?”

“Just as you like; or you may go with me, if you prefer it.”

“I should much prefer it――very much.”

The two detectives in a few minutes after this sallied forth from Sanderson’s hotel in quest of the “smasher.”

“He’s an old hand, I suppose,” said Mr. Shearman.

“Old hand, bless you, yes; he’s been a thief all his life, but he’s a stranger to me, or rather was, but a few days ago. I saw a chap yesterday, who had six years’ penal servitude; met him by chance in the street. He is leading an honest course of life now, and has been doing so for some years. He’s one of the few that have reformed. Well, this old scoundrel, whose arrest for smashing I am bent on I did not know much about. Well, as I was saying, I met the other one, whose name is Kedge. I asked him if he knew anything about my ‘smasher.’”

“Know? Of course,” said he. “Why you know who he is――don’t you?”

“Well, no, I can’t say that I do.”

“He had ten years for breaking into a public-house in Oxford-street sixteen years ago. Well, after his return from transportation, he goes to the public, calls for something to drink, and as he stood in front of the bar he asked the landlord if he kept the house sixteen years before. ‘No,’ says the landlord, ‘I did not.’ ‘Sure on it,’ says Hardy――that’s his name, though he calls himself Mr. Dawes――‘sure on it?’ says he.”

“Quite sure,” says the landlord, “who, I fancy, suspected something was wrong.”

“Well, then, I b’lieve you’re telling a thundering lie. Do you remember charging a man with burglary sixteen years ago?”

“No, I do not,” says the landlord. “I never charged anyone with burglary in all my born days.”

“I’m glad on it,” said Hardy, “for if you’d been the man as got me convicted of burglary, I’d have had yer life――that’s all.”

“You see, Mr. Wrench,” said Kedge, “Hardy wasn’t sartin about his being the same man, and it’s likely enough the landlord saved his life by declaring he was not the person who kept the house sixteen years before. Of course he was greatly altered in his appearance――so much so that the returned convict did not know him.”

“It was lucky for the bung,” observed Shearman.

“Very lucky, for he’s a desperate old scoundrel is this Dawes, as he now calls himself, but I shall be able to prove several previous convictions against him, I’ve no doubt, but let me make sure of my man first.”

Mr. Wrench made the best of his way to Drury-lane. In one of the narrow turnings, which led from that place to Great Wild-street, the smasher resided, and it was to this turning that our two detectives were bending their steps.

It was the resort of thieves and all sorts of disreputable characters, many of whom were well known to the police. They had got about twenty yards or so down the court or alley, when Mr. Wrench was accosted by a woman who was a native of the Emerald Isle.

“Ah, good luck to ye, Mr. Wrench,” said the woman, making a curtsey, “An’ it’s right ye are this time if any jintleman iver was. Oh, sure, now aint he fast asleep in the front room, and a snorin’ like a dozen fat hogs?”

“He’s in his room, Winny, is he?” cried Wrench.

“Didn’t I see him myself wid my own precious eyes not a moment ago? Oh, bedad, he’s a waitin’ for ye, and no mistake at all at all.”

That’s all right, then, Winny; we’ll pay the gentleman a visit.”

“Oh, the thief of the world; but he’s a dirty circumvinting blackguard, mek the best av him. But arrah don’t ye be afther saying a word about me, or maybe he’d be a little rampageous like.”

“I won’t mention your name――depend upon that,” said Wrench. “We never do that in cases of this sort; besides, you know, there is no occasion.”

“Thin, I’ll be afther going, or maybe he might suspect something. Oh, but ye’ve jest come in the nick of time. My duty to ye, Mr. Wrinch, and good luck to ye.”

The old Irishwoman at once disappeared from the scene. Whither she went Mr. Shearman had not the faintest notion; neither did he take the trouble to inquire.

The detectives now arrived in front of a miserably dirty and dilapidated habitation; indeed, it was so covered with filth, and such an offensive odour came from the place, that Mr. Shearman half regretted having set out on the expedition.

Mr. Wrench went into the passage, opened the door of the front room and entered. He was followed by the American. On a dirty mattress which was on a ricketty bedstead, an old man was stretched――that he was sleeping soundly was evident enough.

Mr. Wrench nodded significantly to Shearman.

“Your man?” whispered the latter.

“Yes, that’s my gentleman.”

The room was dimly illumined by a gas lamp in the court, the feeble rays of which found their way through the dingy window panes. There was, therefore, light enough to distinguish the features of the sleeping man with tolerable distinctness.

“Now then, wake up, man! you are wanted,” cried Mr. Wrench, in a loud voice.

The sleeper uttered a kind of sigh or groan, and then, opening his eyes, he beheld those of an officer looking into his own.

“Curses on you, what brings you here?” cried the “smasher.” “Get out――will you? Leave me alone.”

“Come, come, Dawes, you’re wanted, and you are my prisoner.”

“What for? I aint done anything. It’s a lie, I aint your prisoner, and don’t intend to be.”

He sprang out of bed and glared round the room like a wild beast.

“Get away, will you?” cried he. “If you don’t――” he paused suddenly, and made a hideous grimace, which he intended for a look of defiance.

“Wall, stranger,” said Shearman, “it’s no good hollering. You’re cornered――aint got a ghost of a chance. The game’s up, you’d better go quietly.”

“Who are you, I should like to know; and what business have either of you here?” cried the “smasher,” making a hideous grimace, which he intended to be a look of defiance.

“If you are going to ride rusty,” observed Mr. Wrench, “say so, and we shall know what to do.”

“Perhaps you will first of all tell me what you have come here for? I aint done nuthin’ as I know of.”

“Well, that is a matter of opinion. You are charged with passing bad money――with ‘smashing,’ and you are my prisoner.”

“It’s a lie. I aint passed any bad money for ever so long, and so you may take your change out of that, Mr. Wrench.”

“I am not here to take any change, as you term it, but I shall have to take you, and you had better put on your coat and hat and come along with me to Bow-street.”

Mr. Wrench had observed upon his first entrance a sort of trap-door in the centre of the room. The boards had been cut away so as to afford a place of retreat for the “smasher.” Had he succeeded in passing through this into the cellar below, he would doubtless have succeeded in making his escape, but our detective had the forethought to stand on the trap while he was interrogating the man, Dawes.

“You see,” he said, with admirable coolness, addressing himself to the smasher, “there is no chance for you to effect an escape, so come on at once. The game is up.”

“Curses on you!” exclaimed Dawes. “You’re a meddling dirty crew, the whole lot of you, and if I had my way you would have been sent to kickereboo long ago.”

“Oh, I dare say――but you see fellows of your class are not permitted to have it all your own way. Now then, man, look sharp. Put on your coat and hat at once, or otherwise I shall have to take you as you are.”

The man was only partially dressed, having on only his shirt and trousers.

In appearance he was a ruffian of the very worst type, and had there been a chance he would have offered an obstinate resistance, but he was taken by surprise and did not see very clearly any way of getting out of his present difficulty.

“Vell,” he said, in a sulky tone, “if yer vants me, which I ’spose yer do, I’d better put on my togs and be off with you.”

[Sidenote: No. 56.]

He went to a corner of the room, drew forth a coat and waistcoat, which he put on in a leisurely manner; then he drew on a pair of highlows and, lastly, his hat. When this had been done he made a sudden rush towards the door in the hope of making his escape, but Mr. Wrench, who had been watching him, was prepared for this; he tripped his man up――and as he lay on the floor clapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, and then told him to get up.

Dawes was by this time completely cowed; he rose to his feet, cast a malevolent look upon the American and Mr. Wrench, and then walked towards the door, held firmly the while by the English detective, who conducted him safely enough to Bow-street, where, after the charge had been entered, he was locked up till the morning, when he would be taken before the magistrate.

“He was disposed to be nasty,” said Mr. Shearman to his companion, after they had left the police station, “and is a sort of gentleman I fancy who wouldn’t stick at a trifle.”

“Oh, dear me, no――a regular bad un. Wouldn’t mind what he did if he only had the chance.”

“Is the evidence fully clear?”

“It is. We’ve got him as straight as an arrow. There’s half a dozen cases against him. Oh, he’s safe to be convicted; he knows that well enough. He is a most daring and determined ‘smasher.’ Just to give you an idea how these fellows carry on their business I’ll tell you of one case. A shop was opened a few days ago in the neighbourhood of Oxford-street. It was a publication and cigar business, which was left in charge of a young girl, the niece of the proprietor. On the day it was first opened one of the smashing fraternity went into the shop and bought half a quire of note paper. He tendered a florin, which the girl changed. Half an hour afterwards another of the same respectable body of men purchased some tobacco. He also tendered a florin, which was changed. Six florins were taken in the course of the day and five shillings. Upon the proprietor of the establishment coming home in the evening he was delighted to find that there had been so many customers; but, alas! upon his looking over his money he found that the six florins and five shillings were all bad ones.”

“And where do the rascals get all these bad coins from?” inquired Mr. Shearman.

“They are sent up in boxes or cases from one or more of our provincial towns, and bought by the ‘smashers’ for next door to nothing. The man I have just ‘quodded’ has been following the calling for years.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CV

AT “SANDERSON’S HOTEL”――RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AMERICAN DETECTIVE.

After a little further conversation the two friends reached “Sanderson’s Hotel,” where Mr. Wrench spent the remainder of the evening with the American.

“I like the old country after all,” said Shearman, “though a good many of my countrymen run it down, and, as far as expert thieves are concerned, you beat us into an almighty smash.”

“That’s a very doubtful sort of compliment,” observed Wrench, with a smile, “but I will not attempt to deny the statement. I believe we do. A London rough is a match for any one in brutality.”

“By the way,” said Shearman, “what became of that horse-stealer, the gipsy, you were in search of? Did you ever find him?”

“No. Well, the fact is, I have given up the search. The gentleman from whom the horse was stolen don’t care about prosecuting now.”

“Why not?”

“He don’t――that’s all I know. The fact is, he was persuaded to do so by Bourne, and now the doctor’s dead he’s disposed to let the matter drop. He says Rawton is not so bad as he has been painted.”

“What’s your opinion?”

“If I am to speak the truth I am of the same opinion. It was nothing but spite, revenge, or whatever you may please to term it, that made Bourne so bitter with the gipsy.”

“’Twas a nice article to give himself airs and graces, and do the virtuous.”

“Yes, particularly so――wasn’t he?”

“I had one scrimmage with a horse thief which I shan’t easily forget,” said Shearman. “He was a resolute rascal, surely. I’ll tell you all about it. Light up another cigar before I begin.”

Mr. Wrench did as he was bid.

“You must know,” observed Shearman, who was never so happy as when recounting one or more of his adventures, “that I had been furnished by an Omaha express firm with the means to ferret out a horse thief, by whose operations they had lost some ten animals. Being persuaded by information, too tedious to detail, that the purloiner had gone to Silver Creek, on the Pacific Railroad, I proceeded to that unknown settlement, and immediately commenced operations.

“The man and his habits were so familiar to me from repeated description that I felt certain of identifying him in some of the many faro establishments of the place; or, failing in them, in one of the multitudinous fire-water dispensaries.

“One night I visited all the gambling banks unsuccessfully. The next I proceeded to inspect the drinking places. The first one was a large frame house, which I entered, and, while drinking, quickly scrutinised every face and incident.

“In the middle of the room, upon a huge barrel, stood a red-faced, broad-shouldered Irishman, in his one hand a bottle, in the other a glass; on the floor, close to the barrel’s base, crouched an ill-looking mastiff who eyed around savagely.

“At the bar was a tall man waiting the replenishing of his flask. His hat concealed half his face, and a scarlet handkerchief wound round his neck buried in its greasy folds a mass of matted, gipsy-like hair.

“I caught him glancing furtively at me when entering, then saw him turn his back; so I kept my eye brisk for any suspicious incident.

“Suddenly the Irishman, who all along had been afternately singing in his native dialect and absorbing spirits, fell headlong upon the dog, whizzing the glass and bottle across the floor with a crash.

“Simultaneously with his fall out went the light. The reeling man had clutched and wrenched the fixture from the ceiling. Now it was confusion with a vengeance.

“The different card-playing groups, deprived of light, rose from the tables, and each gainer or loser struggled for the little heaps and balls of money.

“Noises from shouts and loud curses from the hard breathing through the clenched teeth of combatants filled the room; and in this pandemonium I nearly gave up all hope of nabbing my man.

“In the midst of the confusion the door opened, the dear moonlight streaming in. Stepping across the sill I saw the man with the red kerchief.

“Ere this I had decided that this one was no other than the thief I was after; so I made a spring towards the door, but came to the ground stunned and bruised. Rising, with bleeding face, I saw that I had fallen over the prostrate Hibernian. I rushed out and ran to my horse――he was gone!

“Clattering hoofs, gradually lessening in sound, told me that the thief had outwitted me――gone on my own horse. I chafed considerably at the discomfiture, but only for a moment, detectives having little time for sentiments of any kind.

“Without any exact purpose, I started off in the direction of the decreasing sound, and suddenly came upon a team of mules.

“In predicaments necessitating immediate action, we sometimes hit upon expedients which at other times might seem ridiculous.

“So now with me; I cut the breeching and traces of the saddle mule, vaulted on his back, and scampered after the appropriator of my horseflesh.

“I knew well that my horse was too fagged for much riding; and as the animal I bestrode was fresh from the stable, I was pretty sure of making my captive, if it was to be determined by speed alone.

“Moreover, my mule being miraculously void of the attributes of his race――obstinacy and slow gait――warmed to work, and gradually the thud of the hoofs ahead became more distinct.”

“Ah, you are a good rider, I suppose?” observed Wrench.

“Pretty well――aint you?”

“Nothing much to boast of.”

“Ah, but a fellow must know how to ride in America well.”

“In twenty minutes, on the moon-lit road, one-fourth of a mile ahead, I saw the man mounting a hillock at a far less rapid pace than mine. At last I come so near that I discerned two pistols stuck in his belt.

“I disengaged my own weapons, but did not fire, the rascal’s irregular motion――darting in and out of the skirting woods――excluded the possibility of hitting him.

“I called him to halt, at forty yards, levelled, and then let fly at him; a strange, agonising cry arose at the report; galloping through the smoke, I came upon a prostrate horse, no man.

“A crunching of crisp leaves among the trees betrayed the quick footsteps of the fugitive. Dashing into the woods, at three paces came a shot from the forest gloom, laying my mule stark dead, I leaping off just in time to escape a crushed limb.

“I whipped behind a tree, straining to see my assailant, but I heard and saw nothing; so creeping cautiously back, I found my horse dying and the mule dead. Being a good distance from town, I had no choice but to camp out or foot a weary journey home.

“Mounting a low tree, I espied, far in the woods, a bright fire, which I knew was a camp of railroad labourers.

“After a two-mile walk I entered a circle of gambling, smoking, low-talking men of different nationalities, receiving a rough welcome.

“To my inquiries I found they had heard the shots, but such things were too common to notice; and about ten the most of the camp fell asleep.

“I entered a small log tenement belonging to the boss, the hospitality of which was tendered me by that worthy himself; and the company not being very assuring of safety, prepared to take a watchful sleep.

“The boss, however, was, as he told me, above the generality of his class as to family and education, having come out of the States for the sake of adventure.

“He sat up late, playing with a large, glossy Newfoundland; talking over the topics of the day, and relating many anecdotes of the stirring life in the Western land. Inspired by some excellent punch, I told him my whole adventure, describing minutely the man who had so miraculously eluded me.

“He listened thoughtfully, then said he doubted of my ever capturing him, because of the many desperadoes swarming along the line of the roadsmen――who held law officers as foes to the death, and who would espouse the cause of any rascal against them.

“Finally we both fell asleep, after I had bargained with him for a horse. Aurora had just arisen from her gray couch, as a shout and bustling without made us both leap from our slumber.

“A violent beating at the door, nearly shaking it from its fastening, accompanied by vociferations for the boss, impelled my host to begin rapidly drawing the door bolts, but I clutched his arm and told him to stop, for I had distinctly heard my name pronounced without. We listened; a savage voice yelled:

“‘Sind the blackguard out; it’s Shearman, the detective, an’ shure he’s afther Scrubby, the spalpeen! Sind him out, or be jabers we’ll have both av ye out, ye bloodsuckers!’

“A pick came hurling, and thrust its four inches through the door; a huge missile fell violently upon the roof, almost coming through. Terribly serious was it becoming. The boss commanded them to desist, but was greeted by a tornado of rocks, spades, &c., thudding over every inch of the edifice.

“Two bullets now buried themselves in the doorpost, three inches more and they would have entered the superintendent’s heart. Seeing nothing but our death would allay their drunken rage, the boss declared his intention of fighting to the last.

“We grasped hands and then piled all the available moveables against the door; and then charged the three rifles and four revolvers we had.

“We both ascended into a low loft over the room, the eaves of the roof forming a narrow opening near the floor. We knelt down and peered out. About thirty men, most intoxicated, armed with excavating tools and firearms, were grouped a little way off, gesticulating and reeling at a terrible rate.

“Though divested of his scarlet kerchief, I recognised my horse-thief. Communicating my discovery to my companion, he said that when I first described the rascal he thought he knew him, for his name was entered on the work-list yesterday when he came from Omaha.

“‘And depend upon it,’ added the boss, ‘he has escaped some criminal penalty in other settlements than Omaha.’

“The lull in the human tempest was now accounted for. Part of the crowd were now engaged in belabouring four Chinamen who had refused to join in the assault; the rest were hilarious witnesses of the performance.

“At last, the luckless Celestials being punched into speechlessness, attention was turned on us. Not to betray our refuge, the boss slipped down the ladder and ordered our assailants once more to desist, as we were prepared to kill, if necessary, and determined to rather die than surrender. A renewed bombardment of projectiles inconceivable was their response.

“‘Now Shearman,’ said the boss, “use your weapon well, for the way things look, I dont think we could procure life assurance policies on any terms. However, we can stand a siege if fire is not enlisted on the enemy’s side. We have provisions and water below for a week, and half a cwt. of bullets and powder. But, by Jove, this roof will never stand such missiles as the one that Irishman is picking up; and it is not proof against the balls of that crack rifle your friend of the scarlet kerchief is loading; so we’ll put these planks along this side, and keep them from bringing fire to the door――that would be death. See him! look!

“The Irishman was drawing back to hurl that death and ruin-dealing rock when the boss fired; the man dropped in his tracks, the heavy stone falling on his face.

“The wild drunken crowd rushed at the door with yells of drunken madness. Four small puffs and flashes issued from under the eaves; the rabble drew back pell-mell, leaving three stretched upon the ground.

“Our precise locality being thus discovered, the bullets came thick and fast, and the efficacy of the planks was proven――a dozen balls perforated the roof, but lodged in the stout boards.

“Suddenly I saw the horse thief partially slip from shelter and poise his deadly-looking rifle. I was aware that its contents would pierce our barricades, and not being able to pick the fellow off in his position, I sprang aside, dragging the boss with me.

“Hardly done ere whizz went the ball through a spot of the plank where my brain was the preceding instant, and buried itself in the noble Newfoundland’s heart.

“With a mournful cry of agony the brute sprang up, and fell across his master’s knees. The boss stroked his glossy coat, then a strange gleam flashed in his eyes.

“We both fired at the slayer――he dropped, then sprang up, and savagely laughing whipped behind a tree.

“By this time, from continual battering, the door hung loosely on its broken hinges; nevertheless, our fire kept the mob from attempting the breach, and finally they retreated far back in the forest, giving us a respite to refresh and contemplate our begrimed and bruised faces, our arms discoloured, and trembling from violent exertion, for we had begun the struggle at dawn; it now wanted one hour of noon.

“Suddenly a wreath of smoke curled up from the tree; firing and shouting again were rampant; and we got a glimpse of the horse-thief darting from tree to tree, at last bringing up behind a huge oak, exactly in front of which and opposite our citadel grew a tall, flexible sapling.

“The man clutched a roaring brand, and I saw his hand cautiously creep around the tree trunk toward the sapling. Then I fired at his huge palm; but he drew it back too quickly. When the smoke cleared away, we saw the sapling bent behind the tree――the man, unseen, busily attaching something to the branches.

“We wondered at these proceedings, but the mystery soon cleared up; the sapling bent back, touching the ground, then sprang forward with elastic violence, and from its branches, like a meteor, darted a glancing, hissing brand, lodging on our frail roof with an ominous thud. In unison came a joyful shout from the villains, who made a rush for the door.”

“My word, you were hardly pressed,” exclaimed Wrench.

“Ah, it’s nothing to what followed. It was a smartish piece of business――take it altogether.

“Pell-mell, firing, &c., on rushed that mass of brutal, drunken strength, thirsting for the lives of us two men. A well-timed volley drove them back, less by four; but on the forest-edge stood the horse-thief, exultingly pointing to the blazing roof.

“The solar rays of noon, the roof in a whirlwind of flame, and the dense smoke made the house a suffocating oven; hot cinders fell upon us, and the floor below in perilous proximity to the powder; glowing coals fell upon our bare breasts, and put us in momentary agony.

“Death stood at our shoulders, and Hope did not accompany him. Seconds now were priceless.

“We dashed down the ladder as a heavy beam fell from the roof, and left the loft open to the shots of the enemy. Quickly the boss pulled up a trap from the floor, pushed me down, sprang in himself, and shut and bolted it.

“The rapid tramp of feet overhead teld our escape was none too soon; we heard the reckless fiends tearing away the barricades, shouting in expectant revenge.

“I followed the boss along a narrow, low, excavated passage, till coming into a sort of cellar, which he said was the storage place for the spirits, he exclaimed, hoarsely――

“‘Take this pick, and dig for your life, through the wall, upward; after bursting the spirit-barrel, I will do the same.’”

“What a position to be in!” observed Wrench.

“Well, I can’t say I have ever had anything so hot as that.

“Neither should I care for such another dose. Of course you understand that I was in uniform, and serving my country as a volunteer at this time.”

“No, I did not quite understand that.”

“Ah, but I was; although a mere detective, I could handle a rifle with the best of them.

“Well, I need not tell you that I worked as I never worked before――the axe tore down the earth in masses――the darkness, the perilous mystery in that I was doing, the faint-heard shouts of the wretches above, storming about the burning house, the flames roaring, the wood crashing, wrought me up to a herculean frenzy.

“The spirit-cask was now staved; ankle deep in the fiery contents we both worked, like Gog and Magog of yore; suddenly a huge lump of mould rolled down, light and air pouring in upon us. Tear! wrench! a fissure sufficient for human egress presented itself; quickly dragging ourselves through, we stood in a thick clump of low rose bushes, where we lay peering out towards the roaring mass of flame, and through the smoke endeavoured to get a sight of the murderous rascals who ran riot amidst the flames.

“Hark! The riot lulls; a thud of hoofs, a regular monotonous clanking――ah, we knew those sounds. Rushing out of the bushes, we came upon a cavalry squad, holding at bay the drunken crowd.

“We shouted to the officer in charge to order a surround, which was quickly done; then followed explanation. In the excitement of the scene I had almost forgotten the man with the scarlet kerchief; now I thought of him.

“Looking sharply around I espied him creeping off towards the place where the boss’s horses were tethered.

“There is the ringleader, Dan Whipple, the horse-thief; in the law’s name, lieutenant, I order you to help capture that man!’

“Saying this, I threw myself on the nearest horse, followed by four soldiers; but he had reached the tetherage, and we saw him galloping through the woods, far ahead, saddleless, and managing his nag with a mere halter.

“Our horses and his were about the same mettle, and we gained nothing on him. The soldiers told me they had left Silver Creek in search of this Dan Whipple, who, in the open street, had stolen a mule from a team about to set out with a colonel’s camp furniture; that on the road they had come upon a dead horse and the stolen mule with a bullet-hole in his head, being at a loss to account for it; however, they had pressed on in hopes of capturing the outlaw.

“They had not gone far before they heard shots and saw smoke, and after a sharp ride came upon the camp.

“I did not enlighten them in regard to the mule, but kept a look-out for the fugitive. Although during the civil war the popular estimation of Government horse flesh was not very great, nevertheless these Western war steeds were not at all despicable, for they brought us near enough to get a sight of our prey; but just then the mare whisked into the woods and was invisible.

“An ejaculation of a soldier caused me to turn my head, and, fifty feet right behind us, came on the horse the rascal had two minutes before bestrode.

“We looked at each other astonished. One man secured the horse, and I ordered the troops to proceed with me to the place where the thief had darted into the forest. We scrutinised every bush and hollow closely; for the moves of the man were so sudden and unexpected that I looked for a fatal shot from every corner.

“In apparent despair, I ordered the men to face homeward as our prey had certainly escaped us. We had not gone far, however, before I signed them to keep on slowly, while I lightly dismounted and made a large circuit, until I stood hidden in the bush, ten paces from a certain large tree I had noticed.

“Yes, the branches swayed in a manner not at all natural. First a limb rather high up moved queerly; then a lower one; now one farther down; and so the strange motion was communicated till the legs of a man appeared beneath the lowermost branch. I cocked my pistol.

“Gradually the body of the veritable Dan Whipple came down till he hung by the hands. Now was the time. Wishing merely to disable him, I aimed for his legs.

“‘Ping, ping,’ went those barrels. He tried hard to draw himself up into the tree. Then hung by one hand, with the other endeavouring to detach a weapon.

“But it was too much for him. He dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. I pounced upon him, held him by the throat, my knee on his chest, shouting for the soldiers.

“A cavalryman detached from his saddle a pair of iron cuffs, originally intended for the appropriator of the luckless mule, and the unenviable ornaments speedily enveloped the captive’s wrists. The wound not seeming serious, we placed him astride his last booty and started for camp.

“To conclude, suffice it to note, that the rioters were liberated with the exception of a few of the most prominent, who were sentenced to some months’ labour at the garrison in Silver Greek.

“There was no convenient penitentiary in the locality; besides men were in demand by the P. R. R.――therefore they were set at large. As for Dan Whipple, it was found necessary, after surgical examination, to amputate his wounded limb; but his thiefship obstinately refused to undergo the beneficial operation, and three days after his capture he died miserably from the effects of gangrene; thus preventing me from taking him to Omaha, to be subjected to lawful justice by the injured express firm――my employers.

“In justice to the departed purloiner of other people’s horses so as to obliterate from his record at least one crime, I explained to the military authorities the abstraction of the mule from the team, and was cleared of all intention of joining the profession, of which Mr. Whipple was such a prominent member.

“The labour superintendent, since these adventures were shared, has often met me, and we have undergone the same perils over and over――in words.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CVI

A GLANCE AT BROXBRIDGE――THE ROBBERY AT NETTLETHORP――A VISIT TO MOTHER BAGLEY――A STRANGER AT THE FARM HOUSE.

We must beg of the reader to accompany us once more to Broxbridge, which has been the scene of so many important events in connection with our history. Since our last visit to this place time has made many sad alterations.

Old Mr. Jamblin has passed away from the living things of the earth, and his daughter and son-in-law are in full possession of Stoke Ferry Farm. The old rascal with the scythe, forelock, and hour-glass, has dealt mercifully with the noble earl at the Hall; nevertheless Lord Ethalwood gives unmistakable indications of advancing years.

He does not shoot or hunt so much as he used to do of yore, his fine frame is a little bent, and his step has lost a something of its elasticity; but despite all these drawbacks he is a fine specimen of England’s boasted aristocracy, and it is pretty generally admitted that there is not such another aristocracy in the world.

Think of the American honourables, and spit from nausea as they do from fashion; think of the Continental counts, who are as numerous and as dirty as the paving-stones of a London street.

An English nobleman has the breeding of a French marquis before the Revolution, the majesty of a Spanish hidalgo, the phlegm and equanimity of a German baron. He can show you a pedigree which has no beginning, for its roots are buried in the obscurity of tradition, and which will end only with the world itself. He can show you his name crowned with fresh laurels in each fresh generation, and then he can show you himself――brave and loyal as his ancestors, should his services be needed for his country or his sovereign.

It has been said that we live in degenerate times, that the age of chivalry has passed, and that the English aristocracy are not the proud and noble race they were. And it cannot be denied that some members of noble families are frivolous, enervated, and deficient in mental power, but they are the exceptions, not the rule.

Lord Ethalwood, as we have already intimated, was a fine sample of his order. His leading fault was his indomitable pride and his undisguised contempt for the lower classes.

When his daughter was divorced from her husband he seemed for some time to have taken a fresh lease of his life. As a matter of course the Lady Aveline was surrounded with admirers, and the greater portion of her time was spent in London.

Mr. Jakyl, like his master, was falling into the “sear and yellow leaf,” but he had the same soft, unobtrusive, respectful manner as of yore. As to the radiant footman, Henry Adolphus, he got sick of service, and yearned to be his own master.

He jilted the young female he was engaged to, and paid marked and persistent attention to Nell Fulford, whom Peace had been smitten with in an earlier day, and who afterwards became the mistress of Philip Jamblin.

These circumstances, however, did not appear to have any great weight with Henry Adolphus, who, in the course of time, made up his mind to pop the question. At first he was refused, but as he was a man not to be easily cast on one side, and chose to press his suit again and again, he was ultimately accepted, and he led Nell to the hymeneal altar.

After his wedding he started in the green-grocery line, had a big plate-glass front put into the old shop, originally owned by Nell’s aunt, and drove a very prosperous trade; he served the hall, Brickett, and a host of the surrounding gentry and tradespeople; and it is but justice to him for us to signify that he made Nell an excellent husband.

Brickett still kept the “Carved Lion,” and would often, when in a contemplative mood, wonder what had become of Charles Peace, but it was only to his particular cronies that he would broach the subject, for Peace by this time was looked upon as a daring and hardened offender, and the more discreet portion of the villagers forbore from mentioning his name or making any allusion to him.

Let us now take a glance at Stoke Ferry Farm. The external appearance of this English homestead we described in a preceding chapter.

Now there is seated on the roughly-hewn bench before the front door, a bright-eyed, dimpled-cheeked young woman twittering to a baby which she holds in her arms, the female in question being none other than she whom we have known as Patty Jamblin. She is now Mrs. Richard Ashbrook.

She caresses the child――she talks sweet gibberish to it with her lips; doubtless the words she gave utterance to were but a mere sound to the child, but, to all appearance, it is a pleasing sound, for the little thing “rears its creasy arms” and smiles, and sometimes the young mother, sustaining her offspring with one arm, would stroke its face with her fingers, which were soft and delicate.

And ever and anon she would look down the long white road, which was only lost to view among the dark and distant woods.

She was evidently expecting something or someone, for her glance was earnest and frequent.

Presently her eyes brightened, and she tossed the baby gaily in the air, the infant uttering loud and rapid screams, which no one but a mother or one who had been accustomed to children could have understood to be demonstrations of delight.

The black dot in the distance had now become a man on horseback, who galloped towards the farmhouse enthroned in a cloud of dust.

“It is Richard,” cried Patty. “I knew it by the manner he rode――it is he.”

She was right enough, it was her husband, who upon arriving at the front gate called lustily out for Joe, the same Joe who had been so intimately connected with the discovery of the murderer of Philip Jamblin. He was still retained on the establishment.

His master gave him injunctions to rub the mare down well.

“I’d no business to put her out to such a pace, especially as there’s a bit of a hill. However, she’ll be none the worse for it if she’s well looked after. A horse should always go cool into the stable――rub her down. I’m desperately behind to-day, there’s no doubt about that, but she went along bravely though, and is as good as gold to any man.”

“She’ll be all right,” said Joe. “I’ll see to that; don’t you concern yourself about her.”

“Dear me, you have been a time,” cried Patty. I thought you would never come back; but here you are――and that’s enough.”

She placed her hand upon his broad shoulder, and rising on tiptoe kissed him tenderly.

He took her in his arms and they kissed each other repeatedly. Oh, it is a pretty sight these meetings of husband and wife after the day’s work is done.

When they have been separated for a few hours they greet each other with the warmth which follows an absence of years.

They have carried each other’s photographs in their mind; having cherished the emblems all day long, they spring to each other’s arms with transports which the forethought has prepared.

What a contrast these two persons afford to the matrimonial life of Mr. and Mrs. Bourne――the one is unalloyed happiness, the other supreme misery.

“And now, sir,” said Patty, endeavouring to call up a frown, “what have you to say for yourself? How is it you have kept your wife waiting in this way?”

“Couldn’t help it, dear.”

“And why not?”

“Well, in the first place, I had got to start ’em right with their sowing for the spring wheat, and after that I made over to Oakfield.”

“To Oakfield, eh?”

“Yes, one of my chaps told me John was not at all the thing, and I was a bit anxious, you see.”

“And how did you find him then?”

“Oh, only middling――very middling one might say. He don’t seem to ha’ a bit a life about him.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Oh, no; but Maude, poor gell, troubles herself a goodish bit. Well, it aint to be wondered at. He gets such strange notions in his head. I must go over there for a day or two, and give him a good talking to, else――hang me, if he won’t go melancholy mad or summat.”

“However, let’s hope he’ll mend. I suppose dinner’s pretty well cooled by this time, eh?”

“It won’t be too hot, I dare say, but the girl has set it down before the fire.”

The husband and wife went into the front parlour, where dinner was served. Richard Ashbrook was as hungry as a hunter, and did ample justice to the repast set before him.

“I’m sorry to hear so poor an account of John, though,” observed Patty. “Very sorry, but he mustn’t give way.”

“No, of course not; half his ailment proceeds from the mind. The doctor says he’s a――hip――adriach, or summat of that sort. I aint quite got hold of the right word, but I dessay we shouldn’t be much the wiser if I had.”

“It’s a longish word, aint it?”

“Oh, yes; an’ you’ve got to jolt it out if you want to make anything of it; but I say, old gell, I’ve got some news to tell ’ee――summat as ’ill surprise ’ee.”

“Lor! Out wi’ it, then; tell us what it is.”

“Why, I dessay you remember carroty-head Nettlethorpe, him as you used to be spooney on before you were silly enough to marry me.”

“Spooney on Nettlethorpe! Get out with you.”

“Well, we won’t dispute about that.”

“Don’t be so foolish, Richard!” cried Patty, pouting.

“There, don’t be crabby. I was only joking, you know that well enough.”

“Go on with what you were about to say.”

“Old Nettlethorpe’s been robbed.”

“Never! Why it will kill him.”

“Oh, you may well say that. He’s been robbed, house broken into, strong-box opened, and all the money he and his amiable sister had stinted themselves of, for I don’t know how many years, gone in one night. Think of that.”

“Well you do surprise me,” returned Patty. “Poor fellow, it is cruel though, most cruel of anyone to take a man’s all.”

“It is, you are quite right; but do you know people――a goodish many――say that it serves the beggarly screws right? They starved themselves, and worse than that starved their servants and watered the men’s beer at harvest time.”

“So father used to say.”

“Yes, and he was right; they gave the men shorter wages than any other farmer, and when there was a holiday given all over the land made ’em do work the night before, and that they did, too, and ploughed by moonlight.”

“But suppose there was no moon,” said Patty, with a laugh, “did they find the men rushlights?”

“Ah, you may make light of the matter, missus, but it’s a fact nevertheless. Still I don’t wish Nettlethorpe any harm; he’s a pinch-and-starve farmer, it is true, but that’s no reason for his being robbed, for after all it can’t be less trouble to them to lose what they came by hardly and honestly than it is for folks as be more open-handed, and we oughn’t be glad that mischief is done to a neighbour, whatever that neighbour may be. ‘Never rejoice at nobody’s downfall,’ my old father used to say, and a good saying it be.”

“You are quite right――it must be a hard blow for them, and it must be harder to find that people are glad because of it. But how did it occur? Whoever could have been wicked enough to commit such an act?”

“Oh, there are plenty who are wicked enough if they only had the chance――you may depend upon that; but I haven’t heard the particulars. I tell you what we’ll do.”

“Well――what?”

“Presently we’ll go up to old mother Bagley’s, and she’ll be sure to know the whole history of the affair by heart――trust her for that.”

“Excellent thought; we’ll pay a visit to the old dame then.”

Soon after this Mrs. Ashbrook went upstairs to put on her things, for the purpose of paying the visit agreed upon.

Upon coming down again she found her husband waiting at the front door, when he scolded her good-humouredly for having been so long with her bonnet and shawl.

This is by no means an uncommon complaint with husbands.

She gave him back his jokes transformed into repartees, and thrust her wrist through the loop of his arm.

They walked along the bare white road for about a mile and a half. As they proceeded along Ashbrook said――

“I tell’ee what it is, Patty――it’s my belief that Charles Peace ’as had a hand in this business. People say he’s the most desperate and determined burglar out.”

“Oh, Richard, dear, be just,” returned his wife. “It don’t seem fair to accuse a man without the faintest scrap of evidence against him.”

“Well, I dunno as it is, but it’s just like one of his tricks.”

“But he has not been seen in the neighbourhod for years.”

They presently turned aside through a gate which opened on a footpath which led to Mother Bagley’s cottage.

This humble habitation stood in a field, with no safeguards from solitude but a walnut tree, hollowed by lightning, a pair of apple trees, a microscopic garden of cabbages and potatoes, and a high untrimmed hedge, in which bloomed, side by side, the last convolvoluses of summer and the first berries of approaching winter.

The cottage was small and compact. It did not ramble over a fraction of an acre as most cottages do, and its appearance made one believe that it was not the home of a common peasant.

In point of fact, Mrs. Bagley was the relict of an old servant of the earl’s.

When her husband died Lord Ethalwood made her a present of the habitation in which she now resided, and in addition to this he settled on her a small annuity, which sufficed for all her wants.

The earl never let any of his dependents come to want, and this was only one instance out of numberless others of his kindness in this respect.

Mrs. Bagley lived a secluded, almost solitary life, and yet contrived to acquaint herself with every tittle of parish gossip. She knew everything, and anybody wanting information need only to consult her.

Whenever there was a mystery it was to old Mother Bagley that the cronies of the village resorted, as if she had been a sibyl or a priestess of the oracle of Delphos.

The interior of her house was remarkably clean and neat, the articles of furniture were so many varied mirrors, her tiny poker, tongs, and shovel were as bright as a set of surgical instruments, and the very smoke seemed to go carefully up the chimney, curling and twisting and rolling itself into the smallest possible compass, as if doing its best not to leave any soot behind.

Mrs. Bagley was a character in her way――one of those oddities one seldom meets with nowadays. She possessed a Bible, prayer-book, a pair of spectacles, and a snuff-box.

With these she amused herself all day long, or, to speak more correctly, during that portion of it upon which she was not otherwise engaged, for, being a lady of gregarious habits for all her solitary life, she had innumerable droppers in, who were, of course, village gossips.

Like most old peasant women, she was an inveterate tea drinker, and her favourite beverage was always brewing by the fireside.

The teapot was a round, red, little thing about the size and shape of an apple dumpling, with a spout like a baby’s finger, and the lid made fast to the handle with a silver chain.

This cleanly old woman took snuff, it is true――of the light yellow pungent species――for she was a victim to headaches, the natural result of incessant twankay or souchong, but she took it without permitting a grain to fall upon her Bible or her dress.

When Mr. and Mrs. Ashbrook entered her unpretending dwelling, she was sitting like “Simon, the Cellarer,” in her high-backed chair, enjoying the faint warmth and rosy light of the fire, and bestowing a glance every now and then upon a baby which reposed in a cradle by her side.

Patty saw this cradle as soon as she opened the door, for it was a sight which was pretty sure to attract the attention of any young mother.

She gazed upon the tiny creature with evident interest.

It was a sweet little infant about six months old. Its hair was already dark, and promised to be black as the raven’s wing; silky eyelids fringed the pearl-white lids, and its skin was as delicate and soft as satin.

“I say, missus,” cried Ashbrook, “what’s the meaning of this? What have you been up to? Going to turn baby farmer, eh?”

The old woman laughed good-humouredly.

“No, Master Ashbrook; thanks to his lordship I don’t need anything of that sort. The little thing belongs to one of my neighbours. They often bring their children here for me to take care of when they go to work or to market, or anywhere for a day. But won’t you take a seat, sir, and you as well, madam?”

“You are very good, I am sure, to take charge of your neighbour’s children. What a sweet little thing it is!” observed Mrs. Ashbrook.

“A very nice child, and so good-tempered, too――don’t give any trouble,” said Mrs. Bagley, rising and wiping with her apron two chairs, which she placed at the disposal of the visitors.

“Thank ye,” said Ashbrook. “You are looking just the same as ever, Mrs. Bagley――not a bit altered since I last saw you――not a day older.”

“Ah, Master Ashbrook, I be older, and, what be more, I find it out. My back is so weak at times that I hardly know how to hold myself up; but I haven’t any great reason to complain, all things considered.”

“You are happy and contented――that’s the chief thing.”

“Well I do hope as I never was one of the complaining sort, poor dear Bagley used to say.”

“Oh,” thought the farmer, “if I once let her loose on that string, we shall have to listen to her for heaven knows how long.”

He therefore interrupted her with a sharp query.

“We have called here, being in the hopes of learning something about the robbery at Nettlethorpe’s. Do you know anything about it?” cried Ashbrook, all in a breath.

“Aye, Master Ashbrook; I know something about it.”

“Well, then, tell us――there’s a good soul.”

“It went this way, Master Ashbrook. You must know that, four or five days it might be――I couldn’t swear which it was――two men came a drivin’ round the country in a gig; I saw ’em myself――one a rare big black-mouthed-looking fellow as ever you’d wish to see.”

“Or, rather, wouldn’t care about seeing on a dark night in a lonely road――eh?”

“That’s more like it, master. Well, the other was a poor weazened bit of a chap as ever you’d set eyes on in a day’s travel. The pair on ’em were goin’ about like bagmen with japanned tea-trays; but instead of going to the towns and doing business only with the shops, they went round the country and called at the houses themselves, and among others they went to farmer Nettlethorpe’s, not to sell trays (for everybody, yourself among the rest know that Master Nettlethorpe aint the man to spill money over such like things), but to take the measure of his kitchen window with a piece of tape.”

“Goodness me, is it possible?” exclaimed Patty, in a tone of alarm.

“It be the solemn truth, mum, as sure as I be a speaking to you this very minnit. They not only measures the window wi’ tape, but they take the shape of his lock wi’ a bit of bread paste.”

“Never!”

“Oh, we knows this, because the sarvint caught one man at the window afore he’d quite done, and found a bit of bread crumb in the lock that same evening, but she being a poor silly morsel of a field wench, didn’t think no harm ’ud come of it.”

“She must have been a born idiot. That’s what she must be,” cried Ashbrook. “Well, what followed?”

“Harm did come, as we all on us know, for last night the house was broken into by the kitchen window and the passage door; the master and missus were gagged and bound wi’ cord a by two men wi’ crape on their faces, and wi’ pistols in their hands, and every farden in the house was robbed right away.

“Oh! but I be very sorry for poor Mr. Nettlethorpe and his sister. They say as how she was senseless for hours, and the doctor had a hard job to bring her to at all.”

“I am sorry for both of them, but I tell ’ee that there’s summat more to be said in the business. It was only yesterday as farmer Cheadle met me out riding, and he told me about a couple of impudent fellows as had driven up to his house, and one on ’em had got out and come into the kitchen, and asked his housekeeper, Dorcas, if she wanted any tea-trays, and she said ‘No.’”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes, and then they told her to go in and ask her master if he wanted any trays, and she said she knew he didn’t, because she had bought one for him not long before that, and she had the control of these things herself; and she declared that she wasn’t going to trouble her master for nothing. When they saw she wasn’t to be got out of the room, they did abuse her frightfully, and she did not stir for all their bullying. Oh, she’s a tartar, and no mistake.”

Mrs. Bagley heard the farmer out so far, on the chance of picking up some additional gossip, under which circumstances alone she consented to listen to anyone’s tongue but her own.

Ashbrook having told his story, she fired away again, and related to him, at full length, all the burglaries which had been committed in the neighbourhood and the surrounding districts for years past.

“Well, I’m much obliged to you for the information you have given us, Mrs. Bagley, and that be all I can gi’ ye in return,” said Ashbrook, rising, and preparing to take his departure.

“I don’t want anything else――nay, not even that――for you are quite welcome, and I be glad to see ’ee and miss――I beg pardon――Mrs. Ashbrook as is, and Miss Jamblin as was.”

“But I say,” cried the farmer, “your hedge wants trimming; it’s the only untidy thing about the place. I’ll send a man up to do it for ’ee.”

“I am sure you are very kind, sir,” said the old woman, dropping a curtsey. “It do mek me wild like, when I ses it, but I aint strong enough to do a job like that, and the earl, if he were to pass by, I know he’d be more annoyed than what I be myself. ’Course, he’s a very particular gentleman, and so kind I’m sure I ought to pray for him, for he’s been that kind.”

“Oh, no doubt, he is to all his tenants, dependents, and, in short, everybody,” said Ashbrook sidling towards the door, and nudging Patty to follow him.

“I’ll send round one of my people, either to-morrow or next day, depend upon that,” cried Ashbrook, as he passed out of the house. “Good-bye.”

The farmer and his wife returned home.

“I tell you what it is, Richard,” said Patty, “we had best be on our guard, for probably these tea-tray men may pay us a visit――who knows?”

“Oh, we none of us know. The burglary committed at Oakfield House years agone has proved to be almost a curse――certainly it has been attended with fatal effects to one member of our family.”

“Fatal! To whom?”

[Sidenote: No. 57.]

“To poor Jane,” said Richard Ashbrook. “And it has not ended with her death. John is no longer the same man. I think, of all men in the world, the Ashbrooks have reason to dread any attack of that nature. So, as you say, we’ll be prepared――to be forewarned is to be forearmed. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Patty.”

“Well――what?”

“I’ll just step round to Brickett’s for half an hour or so. I shall learn more about this business at the ‘Lion.’”

“Very well――only don’t stop late, Richard.”

“I’ll take good care of that.”

“It being market-day there’ll be a goodish many people there, I expect.”

“Likely enough I may pick up some information.”

Richard Ashbrook sallied forth, and in a few minutes’ time he was in the snug little parlour of the “Carved Lion.”

The room was full of people, many of whom were very well known to the farmer, who was a special favourite with the frequenters of the room.

A young swell, who was a stranger to all present, was holding forth to the yokels. To all appearance he was a gentleman. There was an air of refinement and condescension about him which seemed to indicate that he was of gentle birth.

He affected to commiserate with the person who had been the victim of the burglars, and assumed such a high tone of morality that all present were under the impression that he was a person of great rectitude.

But Ashbrook was not furnished with much more information than he had already gathered from Mother Bagley.

Nevertheless, he remained for some time listening to what the people had to say. As he was about leaving the stranger rose also, and made his way towards the bar. By this time it had commenced to rain in torrents.

“A most wretched night, it must be confessed, sir,” said the stranger, addressing himself to Ashbrook.

“Yes, sir. I thought we should have it before morning, but didn’t expect it to come on so suddenly.”

“This is very awkward,” remarked the stranger to Brickett. “Are you sure you cannot accommodate me?”

“I’m sorry to say I’m quite full. This is market day, and I have got more than my average number of visitors. Every bed in the house is engaged.”

A magnificent black horse was brought by the ostler in front of the “Carved Lion,” and the stranger mounted. It was at this time pouring in torrents. Brickett, who was holding a horn lantern, seemed much annoyed that he could not find the rider a bed.

“Do you know of any other house where I am likely to meet with the accommodation I require?” said the stranger.

“Well, there’s the ‘Frighted Horse’ about two miles and a half down the road, but it’s not a place I should like to recommend,” returned Brickett.

“What does the gentleman want?” cried Ashbrook. “A bed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you surely are not going to turn him out such a night as this?”

“It goes against the grain for me to do so,” said the host of the “Carved Lion,” “but there’s no help for it as I can see.”

“Have you far to go, sir?” inquired the farmer of the stranger.

“Well, that depends upon what luck I have,” answered he, with a winning smile. “I’ve a good horse, and don’t much care about a soaking, and must take my chance, I suppose.”

“Dall it all, but it seems cruel, Brickett,” cried Ashbrook, rubbing his head in a puzzled manner. “Look at the night.”

“It seems like cruelty, I admit.”

“I tell ’ee what ’ee can do――I can give you accommodation for one night, at all events.”

“I am sure you are extremely kind, sir, and I hardly know how to sufficiently thank you for the offer, but I should not like to intrude upon a stranger.”

“Oh, ye be quite welcome, for the matter of that,” said the good-natured Ashbrook. “I expect you are a stranger to these parts.”

“Yes, quite a stranger. I am from London.”

“Aye, well you mustn’t go back with a bad account of the hospitality of the pipple of Broxbridge――must he, Brickett?”

“I hope he won’t do that, Master Ashbrook,” said the landlord.

After some further discussion it was eventually arranged that the gentlemanly young man from the metropolis was to become the guest of farmer Ashbrook.

He was conducted by his host to Stoke Ferry Farm, and upon arriving there Ashbrook told his wife to see the things were well aired, and everything got ready in the spare bedroom.

Patty did not quite like the presence of a stranger under the circumstances, but in the course of a quarter of an hour or so she found him so courteous and pleasant-spoken a gentleman that she became more reconciled.

Richard Ashbrook, who was hospitable to a fault, conducted his guest to the spare bedroom, wished him good night, and the inmates of Stoke Ferry farmhouse then retired to their respective chambers.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CVII. THE STRANGER IS COMMUNICATIVE――BREAKERS AHEAD

To the farmer’s surprise the stranger was up and stirring by early morn; he professed to be a lover of the country, who liked to see the sun rise.

When Ashbrook and his wife had seated themselves at the breakfast table they were informed by their newly-formed acquaintance that his name was Mr. Eric Fortescue, and that he was spending his four weeks’ leave of absence from the red tape and parchment of a fashionable Government office to which he belonged.

All this appeared to be natural enough; he had the appearance of a gentleman attached to some such establishment, and the farmer and his wife were duly impressed with the respectability of their guest.

Mr. Fortescue was loquacious and confidential――he said he was fond of riding. Besides his two hours’ ride in Rotten-row, between five and seven in the morning, it was his custom to take a long journey on Sunday through the Middlesex meadows, sometimes as far as the hop-fields in Kent, and to spend his annual holiday upon the saddle, with no luggage but the carpet bag, which he strapped upon the pommel, and with no companions but the feathered choristers in the fields and the sweet odour of the wild flowers and the music of his horse’s hoofs.

Ashbrook thought him a jolly sort of fellow enough, genial and companionable――indeed, he was charmed with his discourse.

He abounded in anecdote, and revealed to their astonished mind much of the arcana and interior machineries of polite society, which are hidden from the uninitiated by a spangled but impenetrable veil.

He knew, or affected to know, a number of notabilities whose names had reached Patty through the medium of her friends, Lady Aveline and Lady Marolyn, and she was therefore under the full impression that Mr. Fortescue was intimately acquainted with many of the leading personages who figured in the fashionable world.

His manner was engaging, and he was scrupulously polite and respectful.

He hastened to assure his host and hostess that he was ignorant upon many subjects in which they were well versed, by asking them about farming and housewifery, and listened attentively to their explanations. In an incredibly short time he became on excellent terms with the master and mistress of Stoke Ferry, and they would not hear of his leaving on that day or the next.

Joe Doughty was sent round to the “Carved Lion” for the gentleman’s horse, and it was stalled at the farmhouse, carefully groomed, and got ready whenever its master needed it.

Thus matters went on for some days until at length a tacit agreement became established between them that Mr. Erric Fortescue should spend his holidays at Stoke Ferry Farm.

He appeared to be quite charmed with the establishment into which he had been by chance thrown. He went to bed with the linnet, rose with the lark, and breakfasted on fat bacon and home-made bread and butter at half-past seven. His life was one round of pleasure and happiness――so he averred.

After breakfast the horses would be saddled and brought round to the door by Joe, and Mr. Fortescue and Ashbrook would ride over the farm together.

Now ambling along the fallows and watching the progress of the plough――now cantering along the greensward by the road side――now taking a flight of hurdles or a five-barred gate――little matters which the Londoner achieved, to Ashbrook’s astonishment, with a seat as firm and a hand as light as his own.

Fortescue was not much of a hand at a gun; he said he did not shoot, but that it always gave him pleasure to see the sport, and often he would take a big stick in his hand and do as tidy a day’s beating, so said Joe Doughty, “as e’er a man on the farm.”

It certainly was most remarkable how he accommodated himself to the ways of Richard Ashbrook. On market days the latter was quite proud of him.

He would take his seat about half way down the table, and before the first quarter of an hour had passed he would contrive to be on good terms with every farmer at the ordinary.

In short, he was a general favourite.

When dinner was over and glasses round was the war-cry of the knights of the plough, he told them stories till they clapped their hands to their aching sides, and spluttered in their glasses as they vainly strove to drink.

“He was a right-down proper sort of gentleman,” the yeomen declared. “There warn’t no mistake about that.”

He was popular with all classes.

“He comes from another breed nor most Cockneys,” said one man. “He aint one of those starchy sort of customers. Dall their rich and stuck-up ways; they’s too proud to look at we poor folks, and when we touches our hats to ’em their heads seems as if they were made of ice. But there aint no pride in this gentleman, ne’er a crumb or morsel.”

So Mr. Fortescue was looked upon as a right down good fellow on the farm and premises――with all but one.

This was the maid servant, or household manager, Kitty, whom the reader may probably remember as the same serving wench who waited upon old Mr. Jamblin when he spoke his mind so freely to Richard Ashbrook in respect to his daughter Patty.

Kitty had remained in the same establishment after the death of her old master, and she was now chief domestic to his daughter and her husband.

She had watched the stranger from the very first time he entered the house. He read in her eyes that she hated him by instinct.

These antipathies are common enough with women, and are very difficult to conquer.

It touched his pique, and he resolved to wage war against her, for he knew that she was prejudiced against him, and that to remove any such prejudice in a woman of her class was next to an impossibility.

He addressed her at first with those silly compliments which are omnipotent with most girls of the lower class, because they are mysterious. These she spurned with a contempt which appeared to be genuine; so he changed his tactics and treated her with diffidence and reserve.

Soon, however, his aims were turned to another quarter.

He had liked Patty Ashbrook during the first few days as a pretty and agreeable woman, but of the two his senses had been captivated by the tall, athletic servant girl, whose arms, full of strength and symmetry, resembled those of the Amazons of old, and whose eyes seemed to flash real fire when they encountered his.

But one day he caught Patty looking at him, and in the languishing expression of these beautiful blue eyes, in that language which the eye alone speaks and is never false, he read that she admired him. This was enough, for he was vain, and, we might add, unscrupulous.

It was this look which showed him that she was lovely, that she was a prize which kings might have knelt to obtain.

He wondered how it was that he had not admired her before, as one wonders how one has passed the tuft of grass without detecting the nestling place of the sweet and hidden violet.

This look was also a reminescence. He now remembered the dear little child who had so often tried to conceal his faults, and who had given him innocent kisses when he was a boy.

All these things seemed to strengthen him in his admiration for the sweet and gentle farmer’s wife.

Once this feeling took possession of him it grew with such strength and rapidity as to be almost overwhelming. His mind very shortly afterwards became filled with this woman.

He would sit in long reveries, dreaming to himself that he held her hand in his, and that she was whispering to him and caressing him tenderly, and at night, when the house was hushed to rest, when all was silent within and without, when the cries of the night birds were heard no more, when the moon was shining brightly and covered him with her pale light, visions more voluptuous still would seize him in their grasp――visions so powerful and intense that they made him rise trembling, almost shrinking from his sleep. And when he awoke he would find that it was yet dark night, and that he was alone, and he would press his hands to his burning brow and sigh, as men sigh when evil spirits are wrestling at their hearts.

Beneath the dark mantle of the night he conceived and plotted a most diabolical design. It was to destroy the happiness of two fond hearts, whom the roses of youth and love had twined lovingly together.

But roses soon wither when touched by a poisoned hand. In this world thorns alone are those which do not die.

And to gratify a whim this wretch would lead a poor woman, in the one weak moment of her life, from peace, from innocence, from happiness for ever! Oh why are men so wicked and women so weak? Why is it that the good are the victims of the bad, and that the foolish bear all the sufferings of the world upon their breasts?

But Mr. Fortescue was under the surveillance of one who had from the very first looked upon him with eyes of suspicion and mistrust――this was the girl Kitty.

From his fits of abstraction, from the clouds which constantly gathered on his forehead, and from her own indefinable misgivings, she learnt that there was something on his mind, and began to watch him with the eyes of a lynx.

“He’s quite the gentleman, and has most charming manners, that everyone acknowledges,” said Mrs. Ashbrook, to her serving maid, “and is so greatly interested in farming matters.”

“He knows a great deal more of farming and things of that sort than people suppose,” returned Kitty. “Don’t ’ee mek any mistake, missus――he aint the greenhorn you imagine.”

“I never said he was a greenhorn, you foolish girl,” said Patty, a little petulantly.

“Well, mum, it aint no business of mine; but I think――――”

She paused suddenly.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I shouldn’t like to say.”

“And why not?”

“Ye might be a bit offended. But I don’t think as how he’s the man you and master tek ’im to be――’scuse my plain speaking.”

“Ah, you are prejudiced, and don’t understand people of his class. It is not at all likely you should be able to do so.”

“I’ve got eyes, and plain common sense, I ’spose?”

“You don’t like Mr. Fortescue――why or wherefore, I cannot imagine; he’s always behaved well enough to you.”

“Perhaps he has; but I tell ’ee plainly, I don’t like him. I should be telling a lie if I said I did. We can’t help our likes and dislikes, none on us; and he isn’t one of my sort.”

Mrs. Ashbrook broke out into a laugh.

“You foolish girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Ashbrook. “You are both unjust and unfair.”

“I don’t like his ways, mum, and I think sooner or later you’ll be of my opinion, but, as I said afore, it beant any business of mine, so I’ll say no more about your newly-made friend.”

Patty Ashbrook was greatly annoyed and troubled by these observations, but she deemed it advisable not to press the question further, and so the matter dropped for some little time, but she afterwards remembered all that her maid had said.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CVIII. KITTY’S SUSPICIONS――HER RENCONTRE WITH FORTESCUE

Matters went on smoothly enough for some days after this, and no reference was made to the visitor at Stoke Ferry. Ashbrook made him his companion as heretofore, and his popularity had not in any way diminished.

One morning the farmer said in a tone of banter, “Come Patty, dear, what have you been about? The tea isn’t made, and the cloth isn’t laid, and I’m half famished. Has Mr. Fortescue got into your head, or what?”

“Mr. Fortescue!” exclaimed Patty, colouring. “What could induce you to make such an observation as that? Mr. Fortescue, indeed!――’taint likely.”

The farmer laughed.

“There, don’t ’ee lose yer temper――I didn’t mean to offend ’ee,” said he.

“Oh, you don’t offend me, Richard, but I should say that he’s more in your head than in mine.”

“That’s true enough, old gell, quite true. But hark’ee, Kitty don’t think much on him――does she?”

“I believe not.”

“Ah, so I thought. Lord bless us, what a funny world it is, to be sure. She says that she’s quite sure from his face that he’s no good, and that he must ha’ given us a false name, because the initials on his linen aint E. F., or anything like it.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, that’s what the gell sez, and she aint often mistaken. When Kitty meks up her mind to do a thing I’ll back she’ll stick to it, but I don’t think it at all likely that he would give us a false name.”

“Neither do I. I’m glad to hear ’ee say so, wife,” returned the farmer. “Very glad. The gell must ha’ gone stark crazy, I do believe. Why, a better fellow than Fortescue never breathed――there’s no man can hold a candle to him for jokes and stories.”

“I believe him to be a very good fellow, and should be sorry to find myself mistaken.”

Mr. Fortescue entered at that moment――he was looking pale, and his eyes were gentle and almost pathetic.

Richard Ashbrook was a handsome man enough, but there was something so unmistakably physical about him. His face was red, and streamed with that which is praiseworthy and even scriptural upon the brow of a man who works for his bread, but which is certainly not poetical.

Then his hair was ruffled, and his garments, the offspring of the village sheers, were clumsily put on.

Patty looked at their visitor, who, with features so distingué, with clothes that fitted him like a glove, with perfumes encircling him, appeared to her like the genii of a romance.

The contrast between him and her husband was most marked, which no one could fail to notice.

Mrs. Ashbrook loved her partner quite as much, if not more, than women are accustomed to do, but it must be confessed, however, that she was not insensible to flattery and attention.

The visitor at Stoke Ferry was scrupulously polite and respectful in his manner towards the farmer’s wife.

It was his purpose to lure her from her fealty to her liege lord by slow degrees.

Patty had at all times displayed a disposition before her marriage to flirt with those of the opposite sex. She never for a moment thought there was any harm in this, for in the main she was a true-hearted, honourably-disposed woman. Nevertheless, she did give ear to the fulsome flattery bestowed upon her by Mr. Fortescue.

The farmer had full confidence in his wife, and would have trusted her with anybody, but he did not calculate with anything like exactness the viper he was cherishing in his household.

“You’re looking a little pale and jaded, Mr. Fortescue,” said he. “Leastways, it strikes me so――I hope I’m mistaken, sir.”

“I’m tolerably well, thank you,” returned the visitor. “But I could not sleep well last night;” here he glanced at Patty.

“That be a bad job,” cried Ashbrook. “When a man can’t sleep there must be summat the matter wi’ him.”

“Oh, I shall be all right in an hour or two, I dare say,” returned Fortescue, with a laugh. “It’s no use giving way to idle fancies.”

“Not a bit on it, none in the least. Tek a mug of beer wi’ your breakfast and come over to Cheadle’s farm wi’ me. They’ve got an ingin there.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Yes, ha’ another there, and a crust of bread and cheese; then if you’re done up you can come back here while I walk over the farm.”

“All right, my friend, I will do so.”

Long before they had come in sight of Cheadle’s farm they heard a low humming sound like the music of a jew’s harp, and as they drew nearer the rattle and clanking which formed a deafening accompaniment.

Then they saw a stream of smoke curling over the trees, and on reaching the yard found themselves close upon the thrashing machine itself.

A huge machine with revolving wheels and high narrow funnel and a great iron belly, out of which rolled sheaves of straw.

These the men and women standing by caught on their pitchforks and piled into a rick.

“What do ee’ think of it?” cried Ashbrook. “You don’t see that sort of thing every day――do’ ee?”

“No, I can’t say that I ever did see one before――it’s a wonderful sight. Do you use it on your farm?”

“Not I,” replied the farmer, contemptuously. “I’m one of the old-fashioned sort, and stick to flail and barn door. My men hold to me in the summer when men are gold――so I keep work for them in the winter when work is scarce, and the best on ’em are glad of a job just to keep the pot boiling.”

“Ah, and it’s a very proper course to adopt. These machines must be bad things for the labourers?”

“Yes, I ’spose they are, but it don’t so much matter as far as the thrashing goes. Ye see farmers were drove to hire or buy these ingins――why? Because they couldn’t get the thrashing done without. The men round here would sooner be thrashed than thrash any day. Barring my own men, you won’t find three flails for miles around. Thrashing indeed! Why if everyone hereabouts had to thrash his own corn, there’s many as ’ud have to eat their’n in the straw.”

“And how about reaping machines?” said Mr. Fortescue.

“Well, they do take the bread out of the poor men’s mouths; for you see at harvest time a poor man counts on getting the money to put something on his back and feet. It’s all a man with a family can do to buy bread and pay his rent with what he gets a week; but farmers don’t like to use machines, and don’t do it when they can get men. There’s very little difference in the expense, and I always will believe that a man with a head on his shoulders can do his work cleaner and better than a great iron thing with a lot of teeth and wheels.”

“Machinery is now made use of for almost every purpose,” said Fortescue; “but I had no idea the population was so thin in the country.”

“Ah, but it is miserably thin. If we go on as we have been within the few last years our ‘bold peasantry,’ as they’ve been termed, will disappear altogether, and I’ll tell ’ee why. There’s fresh commons enclosed and bits of waste lands constantly taken into cultivation, arable lands increases every year, but the population don’t; it drops behind. The young men go to London to be mechanics, or to market towns to learn trades, or to Australiay or Californee to mek fortins――heaven help ’em――and the girls go to service. You can’t get girls to field work now, or if you do by chance she comes with a big hoop on, as if she was agoin’ to a party. Ugh! I like to see a field wench as she ought to be――in a smock and leather gaiters, not dressed like a milliner, and moppin’ and poppin’ about as gay as the first lady in the land.”

“Oh, certainly, that’s right enough,” said Fortescue, “but the question is whether it is to the advantage of women to go to field work?”

“I dunno as it is,” said Ashbrook, drily. “It meks ’em dirty, and their homes dirty, and their children are left all day to themselves, and their clothes be soon spoilt. The little they do get is fetched out of the foire like.”

Fortescue affected to be deeply interested in the subject. He asked question after question, and Ashbrook replied with oration after oration, for he was never tired of discussing upon farming matters, and was an oracle in his own particular way.

He little thought, however, where his companion’s thoughts were wandering all the while.

“A man must have his head screwed on in the right way to be a successful farmer,” observed Fortescue, thinking thereby to please his companion.

“You’re right, it does――there beant any mistake about that. Many pipple think any fool is fit for a farmer, but they are deucedly mistaken though, and so many of them find out arter they ha’ tried their hands at the business.”

“But after all it’s a healthy pleasant sort of life.”

“Aye, it be that――all that.”

The two companions walked for some distance together over the ploughed fields.

Presently Ashbrook glanced at his companion in a furtive manner, and said in a tone of something like commiseration――

“Ye beant looking at all the thing this morning, and seem to ha’ overdone it in the way of exercise. I think ’ee had better go home and see what the missus can do for ’ee. She’ll tackle your complaints better than I can. I know more about physicking horses and dogs than human critters, but she finds all the neighbours in medicine――she do.”

“Oh, I have no desire to return.”

“But ’ee must. Enough’s as good as a feast, and you had more than enough, I guess. Go back, Mr. Fortescue, and keep yourself as quiet as possible.” They walked together as far as the front gate, then Ashbrook pressed his hand warmly, and gave his visitor kind words.

The villain’s conscience, seared as it was, felt a momentary pang, but it was only momentary. He walked slowly till a high hedge hid him from the farmer’s sight; then he ran at full speed towards the house.

He entered through the kitchen. There he found Mrs. Ashbrook standing over a deal table with a rolling-pin in her hand, a heap of paste on one side, and a dish of apples pared and sliced on the other. Her plump white arms were bare above the elbows, and her fair hair was parted across her forehead and gathered up in a thick cluster at the back of her head. She looked more charming and captivating than ever――so her visitor thought.

She started as Fortescue entered.

“So you’re come back, eh? said she.

“Yes, Mr. Ashbrook did not think I could bear any further fatigue, and he advised me to return.”

“Oh, well, I hope you are better for your walk, sir, but I fear that our early hours and rough fare do not agree with you.”

“It is not that which prevents me from sleeping,” he murmured, in a low plaintive voice――“not that,” he replied.

“Oh, indeed!” She glanced at him curiously, and saw something in his look which made her avert her eyes.

There was a pause. Presently the farmer’s wife said――

“Oh, I dare say you’ll be glad when you get back to London.”

“Indeed, I shall not,” he returned quickly. “I don’t care about the metropolis now, and shouldn’t be sorry if I never saw it again.”

“Why, Mr. Fortescue, what can you be thinking about to say such a thing? You would never be able to submit to the humdrum of a country life.”

“I should if I were near you,” he answered.

Her face wore a puzzled expression.

He placed his hand on hers, which she suddenly withdrew.

“Mr. Fortescue,” she cried, “You don’t seem yourself to-day; I don’t know what to mek of you.”

At this moment Kitty who had been at work in the back kitchen came in. She took up a pail of water which was standing near the door and went out again as if she had not noticed them.

Mrs. Ashbrook had looked uneasy, and had shrunk back a little when she entered.

The scoundrel saw this, and his eyes shone triumphantly.

“I should like to make pastry as well as you do,” said he, following her to the table, and standing close beside her.

He pretended to assist her, and sometimes their fingers met, and sometimes his hand encountered as if by accident, her soft bare arm. A faint colour, the harbinger of a blush, tinged her cheeks, and her eyes were lowered upon the table.

She was in a state of trepidation, but did not know very well how to get rid of her tormentor.

“I hope I am not in your way, Mrs. Ashbrook,” he said, in a respectful tone.

“Oh, dear no,” she returned, “not at all; you will be away the whole of Saturday.”

“I’m getting tired of the market people,” he answered; “but how can I avoid going unless I fall ill, or something of that sort?”

Her face became crimson, but she made no reply.

“You will not be angry with me if I was to fall ill,” he asked, in a whisper, and placing his hand caressingly on her shiny soft hair.

“Mr. Fortescue,” she cried, in evident surprise. “I do not understand your meaning――angry! In what way can your movements concern me?”

Kitty came in again.

She darted a panther-like look at Fortescue, who received it with a face of marble.

“I have been showing Mr. Fortescue how to make pastry,” said Mrs. Ashbrook to her servant.

“Is the gentleman going to take a situation as man cook, then?” said Kitty, sarcastically.

Mrs. Ashbrook was greatly chagrined at this last observation.

“You are a funny girl,” cried she.

“I think it very funny that a Lunnon gentleman should be pushing his nose in a farmer’s kitchen,” observed the maid. “I dunno what to mek on it,” and with these words she darted out of the apartment.

“That girl is a great deal too forward――takes too many liberties to my thinking,” said Fortescue.

“She will speak her mind,” returned the farmer’s wife. “But you know she is privileged――she has been here for so many years that she looks upon herself as one of the family.”

Mr. Fortescue smiled and shrugged his shoulders, and deemed it best under the circumstances to beat a hasty retreat. Nodding to Mrs. Ashbrook he left the kitchen.

“I wish you’d not be so ready with your tongue before strangers,” said the farmer’s wife to her servant. “You see what you’ve done.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why, you’ve offended Mr. Fortescue.”

“Oh, is that all?” cried the girl with an impudent toss of her head. “It’s a good job if he is offended.”

“Of that I am the best judge.”

“Well, I doan’t care for ’un, and never shall. I could take my Bible oath that he be a false man.”

“Go along wi’ ye――do.”

“Well, I’ve sed it, and mean to stick to it. He’s no good――I be sartin sure of that. His ways are not like those of an honest man.”

“Kitty, for shame!”

“Ye mayn’t loike to hear it, ’cause you and master be taken so much up wi’ him; but it don’t alter my opinion.”

“Nobody asked you for your opinion. Go away and attend to your business.”

Kitty left, but she was heard muttering to herself in the wash-house for some time after this.

Contrary to his usual custom, Mr. Fortescue sat up till late that night reading.

His candle died out in the socket, he had no matches in his pocket, and was, therefore, obliged to feel his way up in the dark.

As he passed Kitty’s door he saw a light shining through the keyhole.

This he thought was a strange circumstance, and urged by curiosity more natural than refined he bent his head and peeped in.

She was seated on the bed half undressed busy with some work in her lap.

“Oh, female vanity! female vanity!” he soliloquised. “The new ribbon for the Sunday bonnet, or the worked hem for your Sunday petticoat, is sufficient to impel you to almost fabulous exertions; to work your fingers to the bone; to rob you of your needful sleep; to make you burn your master’s candles. As men labour to increase their wealth, so women will to decorate their persons.”

Filled with these sage reflections, he was about to withdraw his eye from its post of observation, when, to his surprise, the girl placed her work on one side, and rose from her seat.

She proceeded to disrobe herself, and was evidently preparing to go to bed.

“She’s a fine woman――that is evident enough,” cried Fortescue, who was, however, afraid to risk staying any longer――so he crept up to his own room again. “She hates me and mistrusts me, and will baulk me if she can. She is no contemptible enemy, it must be confessed――is self-reticent and watchful. But I hold a trump card in my hand which she little suspects. Well, we shall see. When you draw your sword, Miss Kitty, you will find that you have only a feather in your sheath.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CIX. A YOUNG WIFE’S DANGER――THE DENOUEMENT

Mr. Fortescue managed to sleep pretty soundly, despite his plans and machinations. He was such a consummate scoundrel and hypocrite that he was enabled to carry out his infamous project with the utmost coolness and address.

He had neither pity nor remorse for the friend who had cherished him in such good faith and in such unshaken confidence.

He rose early, in the hope of enjoying half an hour with Patty before her husband returned to breakfast. He had met her thus the day before, and had told her that he intended to rise earlier the next morning.

To this she replied with one of those looks which women use when they wish to accord favours, but fear to betray themselves by words.

In a few minutes he heard footsteps outside the door; he ran to it before it was opened and said――

“Good morning, Mrs. Ashbrook.”

“It is not Mrs. Ashbrook,” replied a stern voice. Kitty confronted him.

“It is not Mrs. Ashbrook,” she repeated.

He shrugged his shoulders, but beneath this apparent non-challenge he prepared himself for a duel. He saw that the crisis was come, and that his opponent was not to be despised.

“I’m glad we’ve met,” said the girl. “Very glad.”

“Indeed, and why, pray?”

“Because I’ve a serious word to say to you, sir, and the time’s come to say it.”

“A serious word, my girl. Well, I’m all attention. Say it, then, without further ado. Something strictly confidential, I suppose?”

“I dunno about that; but harkee, Mr. Fortescue, or whatever may be your name――”

“That is my name. You are particular. One would suppose you were a lawyer about to open an indictment. Go on, Kitty.”

“Ye mean to act basely towards my young mistress――that’s what ’ee mean to do. Oh, none of your lying looks and lifting of hands at me. I be only a common country gell, but I can tell what it is as shines in your eye when you see her, and trimbles in your voice when you speak to her. I can tell what it is as meks you sit thinkin’ by day and wander about your room by night. I can tell what it is that’s plottin’ in your hard black heart as well and better than a lord’s lady or a squire’s wife.”

“Can you?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Upon my word you are an astonishingly clever girl. I should not have given you credit for so much penetration. You can read my thoughts, can you, and see into my――my――‘black heart,’ as you are pleased to term it? I don’t know which to admire most――your perspicuity or your politeness.”

“It won’t do, Mr. Fortescue. I won’t be put aside by foine words.”

“You take my advice, my excellent and sagacious friend. Look after your pigs and poultry, and don’t attempt to meddle in matters which don’t concern you.”

“Not consarn me! not consarn me! Don’t it, indeed? Do you suppose I am likely to stand tamely by and see a white dove carried off by a ravenous kite? Don’t it consarn me to see the dear lady I’ve known from a child on the edge of being ruined for this life, and for the next, too, maybe?”

“Your similes do you great credit,” said Mr. Fortescue coolly, paring his nails with his penknife――“very great credit, especially the white dove and kite. I am the kite, I presume, and your mistress is the white dove. Anything more?”

Kitty became furious. She could not stand the fellow’s cool impudence and sarcasm.

“Harkee, Mr. Fortescue; if you aint out of this house by to-night’s dusk or afore then, I’ll tell Mr. Ashbrook, and he’ll pitch ’ee out; aye, and I’ll help ’im, too. D’ye see this arm? it’s bigger than your’n, and it’s stronger than your’n, and it’s thrashed a better man than you, for all your fine beard and cloth clothes and women’s scents.”

Mr. Fortescue was perfectly unmoved. He looked languidly at the speaker, and said, carelessly――

“You are a brave champion, I admit; but you are a silly girl, nevertheless――a very silly girl. I have no intention of acting badly towards your mistress; dismiss such a thought from your mind.”

“I won’t believe it. Be out of the house by the shank of the evening, or Mr. Ashbrook shall towel ’ee till your white skin’s black and blue, my London gentleman.”

He clenched his teeth, and approached her. Revelling in her vast strength, Kitty waited for him with her bare brown arms folded on her chest.

He poured a fierce whisper in her ear.

She became pale. “Oh, no, no,” she cried. “He is dead, and there has never been a breath agen him yet.”

He saw her weak point, and attacked her like a fiend.

“Don’t tell me,” he cried. “I know the whole history. Mr. Philip Jamblin, who was murdered in Larchgrove Lane, had another sweetheart besides the one who gave evidence on the trial. I know who that was.”

“It is false,” she cried; “but even if he had, what has it to do with you? Do what you like wi’ me. Pelt me, put me in the pillory, but not a word agen him.”

He went up to her, and said in a soft voice――

“Do not be afraid, Kitty――I will not betray you. I have a secret of yours――you have a secret of mine; let us be friends.”

She did not answer him; he left the kitchen, contented with his morning’s work.

Matters after this went on much the same as usual at Stoke Ferry Farm for some few days after the altercation between Kitty and Fortescue.

One morning, however, there was a change in the aspect of affairs. Richard Ashbrook was moody and discontented. It was easy to perceive that he was ill at ease, and that something troubled him. What this was his wife was at a loss to divine.

“You seem to be out of sorts,” said Patty; “you have scarcely touched your breakfast. Richard, dear, what ails you?”

He did not answer at first. When he spoke it seemed as if there was something in his throat choking him.

“Matter, indeed!” he ejaculated. “To my thinking there’s a deal the matter. I’ve heard bad tidings, and it’s upset me.”

“Goodness me, what is it, then? Tell me all about it. Is anyone ill?”

“No it beant that. Everybody as we know seems to be well enough. It’s not a matter of sickness or disease, nor yet of bones breaking, nor crops failing, nor cattle dying of the rinderpest. It be worse than that I’ve heard to-day, Patty. I’ve heard to-day that the man I trusted most in the world――the man I loved loike a brother as one may say――the man I treated as one of my own kin and my own blood――――”

He ceased suddenly, and drew his hand across his eyes.

“That man is trying to ruin me――to rob me of all I hold best in the world――that while my bread has been in his mouth, and my words of welcome in his ear, he has been jeering at me in his heart, and setting snares to betray me and mine.”

“Ah, Richard, how very dreadful; but are you sure of this?”

“Quite sure,” he returned――“Quite sure.”

“Ah! I do hope you are mistaken.”

He strode across the room, and gripped her by the shoulder till she winced with pain.

“I tell ’ee there aint any mistake about it,” he ejaculated. “If ye had nursed a worm in your bosom till he had turned a viper what would ye do? Would you let the reptile crawl away, alive and strong as ever, to sting other hearts, or would ye crush his head beneath your heel, as ye’d crush a weazel or a stoat? Wouldn’t ye crush the varmint? Answer me, Patty――speak, wife.”

“You are so excited, so moved, that I hardly know what answer to make; but, Richard, be careful――keep within the law.”

“I’ll keep within the law, never fear,” he answered, with a terrible smile. “But the law, my gell, is hard upon such men as he; and I intend to be hard upon him, or my name’s not Richard Ashbrook. The soft-spoken, circumventing vagabond!”

Kitty now made her appearance. She was very pale, but her voice was firm.

“Your horse is at the door, master. Ye’ll be late for market unless you are off at once.” And she added some words in a hoarse whisper.

The farmer mounted his horse and rode off.

His wife was seriously concerned about him. She sat by herself, thinking and trembling. She had never seen him in such a fluster before, and he had not told her who it was that had behaved so ungratefully, nor what it was that he had tried to do. She was greatly puzzled. Who could it be? She could not determine. Possibly he would give her the whole particulars when he returned from market. Any way, she must rest contented for a while――that is, as contented as she could be under the circumstances.

In a few minutes after Ashbrook’s departure, Mr. Fortescue came down stairs. There was an expression of anticipated triumph in his face, cloaked by precaution.

At first Patty’s manners were absent and restrained. She was thinking more of her husband’s violence than of the fascinating young gentleman who was endeavouring to make himself so agreeable. Mr. Fortescue was a little disconcerted at her indifference, the reason for which he could not very well comprehend; but he strove to hold her engaged, and he succeeded so well that in the course of half an hour of his mellifluous conversation all thoughts of her husband were banished from Patty’s mind.

Still she had no idea of doing anything actually wrong. She reasoned to herself that she was fond of being alone with Mr. Fortescue because she liked his conversation, and when her husband was present they talked so much about farming and so little about the world. The association with the Lady Aveline had given her a taste for the gaiety of London life; this, however, had in a measure passed away. She was well satisfied with her present sphere of action; nevertheless, she liked to hear the scandal and gossip which floated about respecting those who move in fashionable society. Mr. Fortescue abounded in anecdote, and seemed to be deeply versed in the movements of great personages. As may be readily supposed, he drew largely upon his imagination, and did not confine himself to the truth. She listened to his discourse, and was charmed. In other words, she wished to gaze into the depths of a horrible abyss, and had invited a murderer of women’s souls to lead her to the brink.

Fortescue soon guided the conversation to topics of fashionable life, and with consummate art drew a sketch of matrimonial intrigue――a sketch in which he took care to introduce none of those dark and terrible tints which form the background of such pictures in real life.

She remembered having heard similar narratives fall from the lips of persons she met with in London, when she sojourned there with Lady Marolyn and Aveline, but these were pure and innocent――no comparison to Mr. Fortescue’s.

And, as an experienced huntsman does not frighten his quarry by riding straight towards it, but rides round and round, gradually lessening the circle, till the deer having become familiarised with the dangerous object, no longer heeds it――so by imperceptible gradations he approached this foolish deer, who sat listening to all his wicked nonsense with open ears and wondering eyes.

I do not wish to analyse the infernal art with which he excited the senses of an innocent and guileless woman; many who read these pages might take that as a guide――others would refuse to accept it as a warning.

Mr. Fortescue presently poured into her ear a passionate declaration of attachment, which she ought not to have listened to. He hung over her, he placed his arm round her waist, and before she was aware of it, his lips met hers. She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and said――

“Mr. Fortescue, release me. This conduct is unpardonable. Pray――”

She ceased suddenly, for a dark shadow fell across the room, and they both looked up. It was Richard Ashbrook standing on the threshold.

“I am glad you have come,” cried his wife.

He made no reply, but with one hand gestured for her to leave the room.

She crept past him with her head bowed upon her breast.

For a few brief moments the farmer stood still as if to reflect. His face was white, but very calm. Presently he made towards the door, locked it, and thrust the key into his pocket; after this he drew down the blinds.

Fortescue, who was perfectly astounded at the sudden appearance of the farmer, was at no loss to comprehend that he was made a prisoner. Trusting to bravado to save him he hummed an air from the last new opera.

“You infamous, deceptive scoundrel,” cried Ashbrook; “I’ve half a mind to shoot ’ee as I would shoot down a fox or a wolf. It would be no more than you deserve.”

“Indeed, and why so?”

“You came here a stranger,” said Ashbrook, endeavouring as best he could to command his temper for a while; “I gave you a night’s rest unasked; for several weeks I have made you live with me, and have treated you to the best of my poor power; I have made my home your home――I have made my friends your friends.”

“I do not deny all this,” said Fortescue. “In point of fact, I admit it. But then, my honest yeoman, consider the honour of having a gentleman in your house. I have to return you many thanks for your kindness and hospitality.”

“A gentleman!” cried Ashbrook; “God keep me from such gentlemen! A blackguard, you mean――a gambler――and a thief!”

“Have a care, Mr. Ashbrook, as to what you say. There is such a thing as indicting a man for defamation of character.”

“Character! you’ve none to lose, you sneak. You’ve deceived my wife,” said the farmer, raising his voice; “ye’ve deceived me, poor fool that I have bin; ye’ve tried to disgrace us both for life.”

[Sidenote: No. 58.]

“That I deny. Assertions are one thing and proof is another――remember that, Mr. Ashbrook.”

“I call ye a coward and a dirty, contemptible hound, but I don’t intend to let ’ee off with hard words――I mean to give ’ee a few hard blows. You won’t forget Stoke Ferry, I’ll dare be sworn, for many a long day.”

“Ah, you are pugnaciously disposed, are you? Well, we can easily arrange matters. I have a pair of new trigger pistols upstairs, and am ready to give you satisfaction wherever and whenever you please.”

“Satisfaction, ye call it, you audacious varmint. Ah, ah! That’s a queer sort of satisfaction. Because you’ve done me wrong I’m to be shot at with a pistol. No, no, my man――I know a trick worth two of that. This is what I call satisfaction, you impudent monkey.”

He sprang to the fireplace and snatched down a stout ash stick which hung over the mantel-shelf, and which he made whistle a sinister melody.

“One minute, sir, if you please,” said the wretch, who soon began to tremble for the first time. “You accuse me of being a coward and a scoundrel because I have flirted with your wife. Pray may I inquire if you knew Mr. Philip Jamblin――he was murdered in Larchgrove-lane?”

“What if I did? Don’t ’ee say anything agen him.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes. What of that?”

“Did he flirt with anybody? Answer me that.”

“Dall you, if you speak a word agen Philip, I’ll have your life, you cowardly dirty scoundrel. He aint here to take his own part, but I am here, and that’s just as well. Dare you speak of a murdered man to me his bosom friend, by all I hold most sacred, before you leave this room, you shall pay in part for the pain ye’ve made me bear.”

Mr. Fortescue was at no loss to divine that the farmer was in earnest. He whirled round the stout ash stick in a most menacing manner. The London gentleman sprang towards the window, which he endeavoured to open, but the farmer was too sharp for him. He caught Fortescue by the collar of his coat, and with herculean strength dragged him from the window, then he belaboured him most unmercifully with his stick, with which he rained a series of terrible blows on his back and shoulders.

Fortescue flew to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. On the instant he received a terrific blow on the wrist, the poker dropped from his hand, which by this time had been rendered powerless, and then another series of blows followed in quick succession.

If any man ever had a sound thrashing, Mr. Fortescue was the man.

“Get out of my house and never darken my doors again,” cried Ashbrook, opening the parlour door, and thrusting his visitor forcibly out. The latter did not want a second bidding. He made his exit without further ado. As he was passing the back kitchen which abutted out from the farmhouse, the girl Kitty, who had been watching for his appearance, flung a paii of dirty water over him.

“Take that, you dirty conceited puppy,” said she.

Dripping with wet and aching in every limb, Mr. Fortescue flew over the fields as if pursued by some wild animal, and was soon lost to sight.

“Joy go with him!” cried Kitty, “the dirty lying blackguard. I dont think it likely we shall be troubled with him agen, master.”

“I hope not,” said Ashbrook. “I fancy he’s had a pretty good dose.”

“And one as ell last him a long time,” observed the servant, retreating into the washhouse.

Patty Ashbrook remained sad and silent upon a seat in her own chamber, her face distorted with terror as she listened to the sound of heavy blows and the cries of the man who but a few moments before had been whispering loving words into her ear. She despised him now, but not more than she despised herself. For now she remembered every little act, every word of kindness her husband had ever bestowed upon her. Now she felt that she was an ungrateful wretch, that she deserved to be driven from her home, even as Mr. Fortescue had been.

This last thought flashed upon her like a flash of fire, and dried up the last glad warm drops of blood in her unhappy heart.

Oh, what a horrible fate it seemed to be――compelled to leave the house in which she had been happy from her earliest infancy――in which she had lived with those whom she loved and honoured most in the world!

She glanced tearfully round the room, as if to engrave everything it contained more firmly on her memory. Perhaps she might never enter that room again.

All was silent below. Then she heard the door open and shut; then the voice of Kitty; then another interval of silence.

There were then minutes of terrible silence. She heard a slow and solemn footstep upon the stairs. She held her breath; her tears ceased to flow.

She flung herself into a chair, and raised her eyes full of repentance to the pale calm face of her injured husband.

“I’ve got rid of un for good and for all; heaven be praised for that,” said Ashbrook.

“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed Patty; “beat me; beat me heavily, for I deserve it, but do not drive me from you. I could not live away from you.”

“I hope not,” returned he, placing his broad brown hand upon her shoulders. “Nobody would wish it――leastways not me.” His voice was gentle with love, tremulous with pity.

“I say I have got rid of that viper whom I ha’ bin foolish enough to cherish. I ought to be set down as a born idiot for my foolishness. But we are none on us wise at all times.”

“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed his wife. “You ought to blame me――which no doubt you do. I have been more to blame than you have; but can you forgive me, my dear, honest husband?”

“Can I forgive you?” cried Ashbrook. “You ha’ bin a good wife for me for five long years, Patty. You have worked hard for me by day and by night. When I’ve come home weary, and oftentimes, it may be, a bit ruffled in temper, you ha’ always had a sweet word and a kind kiss for me; and do you think, my lass, that I ha’ any right to forget all that, and let a silly, foolish hour or so blot out the thoughts and memories of five good years? No, no, my gell. We’ve been both to blame; I ha’ bin more foolish and blind than what you ha’ bin.”

He took her in his arms and cradled her on his manly breast.

“Oh, Richard,” she ejaculated――“my own dear, good Richard!”

“It was more my fault than yourn,” cried Ashbrook――“a deal more my fault. I know that now. I put faith in this――this deceivin’ varmint. I left him with ’ee. I gave him good chances to pison your mind, and to draw your love from me to him for a little while. More fool me. But your love’s all come back agen now――aint it, lass?――and stronger and warmer and truer than afore, if that be possible, which somehow I doant think it can?”

She did not answer him. Her head was upon his shoulder, and her face was covered with her beautiful brown hair. She was still weeping, “but now her tears were tears of joy.”

“My dear Patty,” cried the farmer. “Heaven be praised! you’ve bin saved from the teeth of the wolf.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CX

MR. ERIC FORTESCUE AND HIS RESPECTABLE ASSOCIATES――THE CHALLENGE, AND THE RESULT.

Mr. Eric Fortescue, alias Alf Parvis, alias Mr. Algernon Sutherland, smarting with pain, and foaming with rage, made the best of his way to London after he had been ignobly expelled from Stoke Ferry farmhouse. He was in a terrible plight――was saturated with the dirty water which had been thrown over him by the girl Kitty, and his back and shoulders were black and blue from the blows that had been so mercilessly showered upon him by Ashbrook, but he contrived to reach the metropolis. For three days he preserved a moody silence, and shut himself up in one room from morning to night.

On the evening of the third day he sent for Laura Stanbridge. He made her acquainted with all that had passed at Broxbridge. She laughed at him, and this made him perfectly furious.

“You make a jest of my misfortunes,” cried he. “It’s just like women――they are always pleased when they hear of a friend’s mishap. I am sick of the world――sick of you and of everybody.”

“I dare say you are, but who have you to blame but yourself? You imagine every woman must of necessity be smitten with you. You shouldn’t be so vain, my young spark.”

“Don’t preach to me, you fool. I’m not disposed to listen to your lectures. I have had enough of them.”

“Very well, that being so, “I’ll make no further observations,” replied Miss Stanbridge, with perfect composure.

“What am I to do?” he inquired, after a pause. “Tell me what I am to do. How can I be revenged?”

“I am not able to tell you,” said she.

“Confound it, Lorry, you appear to be most indifferent about the cruel treatment your old friend has met with.”

“I know not what advice to give you. The whole affair I look upon as a piece of folly. This is the second time you have been thrust forth with cuffs and hard words from Stoke Ferry house. The first time you were not so much to blame, but the last time you were much to blame. I don’t know that you deserve much pity,” she added, scornfully.

“Hang your pity!――I want none of it. But you’ve got a good head-piece of your own. Can’t you advise a fellow in this business?”

“You must be badly off, indeed, to come to a woman for advice,” she rejoined. “When you want to rob a house, do you ask me how to pick the locks? And now that a lusty farmer has insulted you and given you a good drubbing, you ask me what to do. Throw off your fine clothes and your finnicking airs. Alf Purvis, I am only a weak woman, but I need no instruction when I wish to be avenged. Ah! you do not know how sweet it is to be revenged.”

She became frightfully pale as she made this last observation, and cast upon him a look as venomous as a viper. He remained silent for some minutes. She watched him eagerly.

“Your friends have been more successful than you have been,” said Laura Stanbridge; “they managed to get into Nettlethorpe’s house, and carried off all the valuables in a regular business-like way. They were clever, but you are not.”

“I am much obliged for the compliment,” returned her companion; “much obliged. This is a fitting time to indulge in taunts and sneers. You compare me to the Smoucher and the Cracksman――a low-bred pair of rascals as ever darkened the doors of an honest man’s house. I tell you what it is, my lady, you are not the same woman to me that you were, not by a long way.”

“That is most surprising――isn’t it?”

“It’s a fact that I know full well.”

“Are you the same? As long as you were an outcast, a poor wretch, wandering about the streets without a home or a friend, you were civil and tractable enough; but now――――”

“Well, go on, Lorry, go on, finish the sentence.”

“Now you are vain, haughty, and unmindful of those who have befriended you.”

“It is false. I never was unmindful of past favours, but I intend to alter my course of life――to reform, and, if possible, to live honestly.”

His companion laughed.

“I mean it,” he added――“mean what I say, but I must commit one crime more. I will not rob this man, I will not steal his money, I will rob him of a treasure he holds dearer than his gold――I will take his wife. Thus my heart shall be consoled and my hate revenged.”

Miss Stanbridge looked at the speaker in a state of bewilderment.

“You love her then?” said she, as her eyes scintillated sparks of fire.

The young man nodded significantly. “I love her,” he repeated, “and will go abroad and take her with me.”

“Excellent device!”

“She shall never leave me.”

“She will always hate you.”

“And I shall always love her. All that the mind of man can conceive, all that the powers of man can execute, I will employ to gain her love. But she shall be mine, I swear it.”

Laura Stanbridge writhed as she listened to these words, after which she became very calm.

“You must have taken leave of your senses, my very excellent young friend,” she murmured. “You always love her!”

“Yes, always.”

“Bah! you are mad.”

“Am I? Well, that’s a matter of opinion,” said he, running his hand through his auburn locks.

“You are vain――that you will admit, I suppose?”

“Nothing of the sort――never was so in my life.”

“And ape the manners of your betters.”

“Anything else?”

“Which, to say the truth, do not in any way become you.”

“Ah, you are jealous,” cried he, with asperity.

The face of his companion flushed up.

“Jealous of you, my beauty!” she ejaculated, in a tone of contempt. “Don’t flatter yourself, Alf, by such a supposition. We know each other by this time. If we don’t, we never shall. Jealous of you, indeed!”

“Well, there’s no occasion to be petulant or spiteful, Lorry. Don’t lose your temper. Every gentleman must have his private amours, and I like you none the less because I have been carrying on a little innocent flirtation with the farmer’s wife.”

“Love me! I wonder you can make use of such a term,” cried Laura Stanbridge, with something like indignation in her tone.

“We don’t want to quarrel. It wouldn’t answer either of our purposes to do that.”

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and to Fortescue’s “Come in,” the “Smoucher” and the “Cracksman” entered.

“Oh, you’ve got back from Broxbridge, then?” said the latter, in a familiar and half-sneering tone.

“Yes, I have,” answered Fortescue, alias Alf Purvis.

“You’ve bin having a fine time of it, captain. Enjoying yourself like anythink, I s’pose?”

“That’s my business and not yours, my tea-tray friend.”

At this he and the Smoucher burst out into a loud laugh.

“We worked it to rights――did the trick as clean as a brand-new whistle. Got off wi’ the swag, and nobody any the wiser. I suppose you’ve heard the whole history from your old friends at the farmhouse?”

“I’ve heard all about it. Mr. Nettlethorpe is half crazy, and they say he’ll never recover the loss he has sustained.”

“Oh, what a pity, poor chap! Everybody is so fond of him, you know; that must be a great comfort to him. It was a good joke, though, your taking up your quarters at the next farm; jolly good that was. I hope as how you’ve enjoyed yerself?”

“Yes, I have, very much; but don’t you trouble yourself about me or my pleasures and enjoyments. You’ve got to look after yourself.”

“Why, captain, you’re rather short and sharp with an old pal. Something’s upset you.”

“Yes; I’m vexed and annoyed.”

“What about?”

“Oh, many things.”

“Can either of us help you?”

“I don’t think you can.”

“He’s lost his heart,” observed Miss Stanbridge, with a merry twinkle in her eye.

The two scoundrels burst out into another and still louder laugh.

“Why, that’s nothing new, missus,” said the Smoucher. “The captain is easily knocked over by a pretty face. He’s so werry susceptible.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, you fool,” cried Alf Purvis, in an angry tone.

“Oh, I’ve done. Sorry I spoke, for the matter of that.”

“But there’s an old saying,” observed the Cracksman, “and may be it’s a wise one――‘the course of true love never did run smooth.’”

All present laughed again, all but Alf, who turned away with disgust.

“I’m not disposed to stand any more of your chaff,” said he, “and so if you’ve nothing better to talk about, the sooner you take your hook the better.”

“Well, I’m blest,” cried the Cracksman, “you are riled about summut, that’s quite sartain. I never knew you to be so short in temper as you are to-day.”

“I don’t want any more of your sneering observations, and I’ve business to attend to.”

“Oh, that’s it, eh?” said the Smoucher――“we’ll be for making tracks then――come along, mate.”

And upon this the two men wished their superior good-day, and beat a retreat.

“You were very sharp with them, Alf,” observed Miss Stanbridge when the two had gone; “they meant no harm.”

“They are a pair of vulgar common brutes, and I don’t choose to give them too much latitude. I am glad to be rid of them.”

“And I suppose you will be glad to be rid of me?”

“I don’t say that, Lorry; you I can bear with, but I can’t bear those fellows when I am perplexed and troubled, which I happen to be just now.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” said the deceitful woman, placing one arm round his neck in a loving manner.

“Yes, I tell you what you can do.”

“Out with it, then.”

“I wish, as you go home, you’d call upon young Bradley, and tell him to come here as soon as he possibly can.”

“I will do so with pleasure. Say you wish to see him?”

“Yes; upon particular business.”

“All right; it shall be done, Alf, dear. Done with the greatest pleasure.”

The woman took her departure, and in an hour or two after this Mr. Bradley, the young man in question, made his appearance.

He was a genteel, good-looking fellow, of about eight-and-twenty, and was one of Alf Purvis’s most particular friends――if friendship can with propriety be applied to such a connection――for, like Purvis, he was a loose fish, a lawless character. He, however, affected to be very partial to Mr. Algernon Sutherland, and was just the sort of man he needed to perform the office which he was about to assign to him.

The greeting between the two was a cordial one, for Mr. Bradley had not seen his young friend since he rusticated at Broxbridge.

Alf at once proceeded to put his friend in possession of all those circumstances which have been described in the preceding chapter.

He, however, passed lightly over the thrashing and his ignominious expulsion from the farmer’s house.

“A nasty, spiteful, objectionable, old agriculturist,” cried Mr. Bradley, after the narrative had been brought to a conclusion. “He rode rusty――did he?”

“That he most certainly did.”

“He’s a hog――a swine――a low-bred, vulgar fellow.”

“Very low-bred.”

“Oh, so I should imagine. But we’ll find some means of serving him out. Wife’s a pretty little woman, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear me, yes.”

“And a great deal too good for such a pig?”

“Much too good. But we will not discuss that question now. I am in need of a confidential friend like yourself.”

“Certainly, old boy. I am at your service.”

“I have left my portmanteau and things at the farmer’s, also my horse. I want you to run down to Broxbridge and demand them.”

“Good. That I’ll do without a moment’s hesitation. You must give me a note, of course?”

“Yes――a note requesting him to give them up to you, and at the same time I purpose sending him a challenge.”

“Oh, Jerusalem! a challenge, eh? Capital! That I am to deliver, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, what a lark! Nothing could suit me better. It’s quite in my line. By-the-way, you’d better say the bearer of your challenge is your friend, Captain Bradley.”

“I will do so. Captain Bradley, of the Horse Marines.”

“Or the Fall Backs. There’s magic in the word ‘captain,’” said Bradley, rubbing his hands together with great glee. “By-the-way, I ought to put on spurs, and wear a military coat.”

“It would be all the better.”

“I will do so, and at the same time assume a military bearing. I’ll astonish old Mangold Wurtzel; give it him hot and strong, without sugar. Egad! I’ll astonish his weak nerves.”

Mr. Eric Fortescue, as he called himself, wrote a dignified epistle, in which he demanded all that he had left at Stoke Ferry. This he supplemented with another, challenging the farmer to mortal combat.

Both these precious documents were given to Mr. Bradley, who was quite delighted with his mission.

“You must remember that on this occasion I am Mr. Eric Fortescue; that is the name I gave when I first made the acquaintance of this rustic. Don’t forget that.”

“I’ll bear it in mind; of course I do not know you by any other. I shall say that my friend Fortescue has directed me to wait on you, &c. You can imagine the rest; leave it all to me. He won’t accept the challenge, I suppose?”

“I should say not, but press the question. Put the matter home to him.”

“I will.”

The next day Mr. Bradley put himself in the train, and made the best of his way to Broxbridge. He had been told by his friend to call at the “Carved Lion” before proceeding to Stoke Ferry farmhouse, as possibly he might pick up some information at that respectable hostelry, but John Brickett was as silent as the grave, and studiously avoided referring to the circumstances attending Fortescue’s visit to Mr. Ashbrook.

It was a scandal he was in no way desirous of making more public than necessary, and hence his reticence.

Mr. Bradley had therefore no other course than to fight his battle single-handed. He presented himself at the farmhouse, and inquired for Mr. Richard Ashbrook. Kitty, who opened the door, said her master was in the fields, but if the gentleman would call in about an hour and a half’s time Mr. Ashbrook would be sure to be in by that time.

Mr. Bradley, upon this, contrived to kill time by a stroll round the neighbourhood. When he returned the farmer was at home, awaiting the stranger’s appearance, in the very same room in which he had chastised his ungrateful guest.

The girl announced Captain Bradley, who was at once shown into the parlour.

“Ah! your servant, sir,” cried the captain; “Mr. Ashbrook, I presume?”

“Aye, that be my name. What may your business be?”

“It is a delicate and in some respects a painful one,” returned Bradley.

“Oh, indeed, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, I am deputed by my friend, Mr. Eric Fortescue, to wait upon you. In the first place I am directed by him to demand the things he left here, together with his horse, which I am to take back to his town residence.”

Upon this he handed the farmer the first letter.

“You can take ’em wi’ you at once, the sooner the better,” said Ashbrook, after he had perused the letter; then thrusting his head out of the front door, he called out, “Joe, Joe.”

Joe Doughty made his appearance.

“Go upstairs and bring down Mr. Fortescue’s portmanteau,” said Ashbrook.

Joe did as he was bid, and in a few seconds returned with the article in question.

“There it be,” said the farmer, addressing himself to the false captain. “Now, Joe, let this gentleman have the black horse――him as is owned by Mr. Fortescue.”

“Anything else, sir?” said Ashbrook.

“I am sorry to say that there is. I have another and more important letter to deliver. Its nature I am very well acquainted with. Sir, I must inform you that Mr. Fortescue has been grossly insulted, and I have further to declare that he is a gentleman who never tamely submits to an insult.”

“Doesn’t ee, though?”

“No, sir. In short, he cannot pass over the indignities to which he has been subjected. No gentleman in his position would be warranted in doing so――not if he had any desire to maintain his status in fashionable and good society. I must, therefore, beg of you to read this second missive. It is a challenge, Mr. Ashbrook. You cannot consistently refuse to give my friend that satisfaction which one gentleman has a right to expect from another.”

Richard Ashbrook perused the document curiously; then he burst into a loud laugh.

“Do not treat the matter with unbecoming levity, sir. If you do I shall have reason to feel offended. It is not a time for jesting, Mr. Ashbrook. I therefore demand an answer. Please to name some gentleman who will officiate as your second, so that I may confer with him. That is the usual course we adopt in cases of this sort.”

“Do ’ee tek me for a fool, my brave young spark?” cried Ashbrook; “or what?”

“I decline to inform you what I take you to be. All I require is an answer. Name your conditions.”

“Conditions! I aint a goin’ to mek any conditions wi’ the loikes of ’ee, or your friend, as you term him――a circumwenting, deceitful varmint!”

“Have a care, sir. Have a care as to what you say. I will not stand tamely by and hear my friend, Fortescue, reviled.”

“Get out! don’t ’ee think to bullyrag me. If ye gi’ me any more of yer nonsense, I’ll chuck ’ee forth, and send ’ee about yer business. Take the fellow’s things, and be off while ye’ve got a whole skin.”

“What! threats?” cried Bradley, putting himself into a military and defiant attitude. “Mr. Ashbrook, I am surprised. I will not depart without an answer.”

“An answer to what?”

“Respecting the proposed hostile meeting. But I pardon you――you do not understand the usages of polite society. Permit me to explain.”

“I want none of yer explanations. Don’t care to listen to such rubbish. So ye’d better be off.”

“Then am I to say you decline to meet my friend Fortescue?”

“Fortescue!” cried the farmer, with a sneer. “He’s no more Fortescue than I am. Don’t ’ee come here wi’ any more cock-and-bull stories. Why, he’s a thief, and the p’leece are arter him. If I were to appoint a place of meeting, he’d be collered and clapped into gaol. Do you see that, my brave captain?”

Mr. Bradley was rather taken aback at this speech. He also had the honour of being well acquainted with the police, and he thought that it was therefore quite time to lower his tone. He assumed for the nonce an air of injured innocence.

“Mr. Ashbrook,” said he, “I put it to yourself as an honourable man whether you think it the right thing to cast aspersions upon a gentleman when he is not here to answer you. I do hope and trust that you have not so bad an opinion of me as to suppose for a moment I would lend myself to so dishonourable a proceeding as to espouse the cause of a disreputable character. In common justice you ought to offer an apology, and express your sorrow for making such indiscreet observations.”

“Look ’ee here――you can go back to London, and tell this friend of yours that he is found out. His real character is known here. The p’leece will gi’ee more information respecting him than I can. He’s a bad egg if there ever was one, and as to this, well, there――”

He tore up the letter which contained the challenge into a hundred pieces, and threw them in the grate.

“Now Mr.――or captain――you had better be off, or, may be, you and I shall quarrel.”

“I hope not, I’m sure,” returned Bradley. “I have not done anything to offend you that I am aware of.”

“There be an old adage, ‘Ye may know a man by his friends,――and if Mr. Fortescue, as he choses to call himself, is a friend of yourn――well, I wouldn’t gi’ much for ’ee; that be all I ha’ to say.”

“You are complimentary, Mr. Ashbrook,” said Bradley, with a sneer.

“Horse be ready, master,” cried Joe Doughty from the yard.

There, your――or rather his――horse be ready. Ye’d better mount and be off, or may be we shall find out something about you. What regiment are you captain of?”

“What regiment? oh, the 3rd West Middlesex.”

“Oh, you’re in the volunteer service?”

“Ahem! yes.”

“Well, captain, I wish you may arrive safely back in London. Your horse is ready.”

“And you decline to return any answer?”

“Look ’ee here. If that young scoundrel comes in this neighbourhood he will very soon find himself in one of her Majesty’s prisons――so ’ee may tell him that from me. And now, if ye’ll take good advice, which I think it, just as well to offer ’ee, you’ll just mek yerself as scarce as possible, or maybe ’ee may find yerself as deep in the mud as he be in the mire.”

“I shall not condescend to have any further discourse with you,” said Bradley, assuming as high a tone as possible at parting. He went out into the yard, mounted his friend’s black horse, and directed Joe Doughty to take the portmanteau round to the “Carved Lion,” handing him half-a-crown for his trouble. He then trotted off, very much dissatisfied with his visit to Stoke Ferry Farm, which he considered to be a most miserable failure.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXI. THE SURPRISE AND ESCAPE――A DRIVE FOR LIFE

Peace, after his encounter with Bessie Dalton, abstained for a short period from his predatory excursions.

The scene in the rich merchant’s house at Blackheath had made a deep impression on him, and it is just possible that he had some slight compunctious visitings; but these were of course of short duration.

His house in the Evalina-road was, as we have already intimated, exceedingly well furnished. On his removal from Greenwich a large amount of plate and a considerable collection of pictures were not transported openly in the van he hired to remove the rest of his goods; they were forwarded secretly from Greenwich to Peckham.

It was generally understood in the neighbourhood that he was a retired gentleman possessed of a modest competence, which enabled him to live quietly without business cares, and to indulge his little whims in scientific inventions, in which indulgence he had lost thousands.

The mixed family, as we have already seen, did not live in harmony.

Mrs. Thompson, it has been said, was rarely without a black eye, and shrieking and swearing were not uncommonly heard proceeding from the house. Yet Peace gave himself the reputation of a humane and moral man with a character to maintain, who must not be familiarly accosted by milkmen, greengrocers, and other people who resorted to public-house bars in the morning.

Peace was very rarely seen till late in the day. People in the vicinity who gave the matter any consideration supposed he was busy with his scientific pursuits, of which he was fond of talking in an effusive manner.

He occasionally invited his neighbours into his house to take something, and by all accounts he was a jovial host.

He was possessed of seven or eight guitars, and almost as many violins. When he came outside the gate in the afternoon and took a look at the weather he was communicative and critical to whoever was passing that knew him, and he especially delighted in a chat about crime and criminals with the unsuspicious policeman of his district.

In conversation he had an odd habit of digging his hands deep into his pockets and twisting himself round in the pantomimic contortions of a clown. Social visits he never paid, and he did not encourage unexpected visits to his house.

At Peckham he formed a menagerie of pets, which was certainly extraordinary for so unpretentious an establishment; but being “a gentleman devoted to science” his neighbours thought he might be allowed to indulge a hobby for zoology.

That he should be fond of animals is strange, seeing the traits of his character have been disclosed, which indicate that he was cruel and selfish to the last degree.

Some of his pets he had learned to execute tricks wonderful enough to earn a showman his living. His pony especially showed marvellous obedience to his command.

At a word this faithful animal would rear up and remain standing on his hind legs, and at another word he would lie down as if dead.

“Tommy” seemed to have been trained as a silent but faithful partner in burglary.

The custom of Peace was to go out during the day with Mrs. Peace, his son, and Mrs. Thompson in his trap, himself driving, and taking a survey of mansions he intended to rob during the night, and arrange about the destination to which he should convey the plunder.

He had two methods of attack. He went out early in the evening, when the family of the house to be plundered were all down stairs, then he robbed the rooms above, or late in the evening, or far on in the morning, when the family were all upstairs in bed, then he roamed through the lower regions, and abstracted the heavy articles of plate and pictures, with all valuables that were portable and transmutable into money. In most cases he proceeded alone in these expeditions.

The pony went out from Peace’s stables at most unseemly hours, and sometimes the neighbours woke up when it returned.

One night the driving up to the gate was so furious that the gig knocked over the gate. The noise attracted the attention of a policeman who was on the threshold of a discovery, but he suspected nothing.

Peace had unquestionably just returned from an expedition with spoil, but when he saw the officer he blandly invited him in, although it was one o’clock in the morning, and lifting up the lid of a long box he explained to him that he had been engaged in perfecting an invention for the purpose of raising sunken ships, which he and Mr. Brian were about to patent.

“And you know it would not do to let people know about this in the daytime,” added Peace, upon which the policeman drank his health, hoped he did not intrude, and helped to readjust the gate on its hinges.

Peace, as we have already signified had described himself to the new sphere of respectable neighbours among whom he at this time moved as a “gentleman of independent means,” and he was looked upon as one who had done well in the world, but there were more burglaries in the neighbourhood, and Greenwich became almost as noted for these classes of depredations as Lambeth had been. But there was this difference――that whilst the “middle class” people of Lambeth dare not report their troubles to the police and were not allowed the privilege of complaining to the columns of the dailies, the Greenwich “whitebaits” would not sit down so calm with this disgraceful state of things.

Night after night the houses of leading residents in the locality were broken open and quantities of plate, jewellery, and valuables of that description were stolen.

The “gang” who did it were evidently good judges, and selected very carefully before removing anything. Then the police became indignant――the public blamed the police――letters to editors were freely penned, but still the depredations continued.

Then came a lull――Peace, the single-handed perpetrator of all these daring robberies, had taken time to consider, and had decided to again change his residence.

But he had grown in riches, the result of his six months’ robberies, and he decided upon taking a better house――one with a more substantial look of respectability about it, and hence it was that he deemed it advisable to remove to the residence which we have already described――namely, the habitation in the Evalina-road.

It is not easy to calculate with anything like exactness the mischief which a scoundrel like Peace has done by his daring exploits.

Man is a creature of imitation, and after the capture and condemnation of our hero, other rogues endeavoured to imitate him.

The evil which Peace did seemed to live after him.

No sooner had the public experienced a sense of relief at having got rid of him than a successor turned up to carry on the business on the same system which he had introduced.

The new candidate for the honours of murder and burglary combined, however, shifted the base of his operations from Blackheath to Hampstead-heath. He was discovered prowling about the grounds of Roselyn House by a constable of the S division.

The policeman on demanding of the man what he wanted there, was answered with a threat, to the effect that if he approached he would blow his brains out.

He, however, did approach, and while attempting to close with the miscreant, received a pistol shot, which would probably have killed him, had it not fortunately struck the bull’s-eye of his lantern.

He was slightly wounded, and in the struggle which followed was struck on the head by his assailant with some blunt instrument.

Notwithstanding this he gave the would-be assassin chase, and coming up with him again, closed with the robber, but was too much exhausted to succeed in his commendable efforts to effect a capture.

The man accordingly escaped, and no doubt congratulated himself upon the success which so far attended him in his attempts to follow in the footsteps of the prince of scoundrels whose nefarious career he had endeavoured to shadow forth.

Doubtless many of our readears will remember the case to which we refer, since it was reported in all the London and provincial newspapers.

We sincerely trust that the loathsome memory of Charles Peace will not breed a contagion of burglary.

That crime, however, is infectious was shown by the garotte epidemic from which London suffered some few years ago.

The best preventive against the prevalence of a possible plague of housebreakers is undoubtedly to be sought for in efficient police surveillance.

A stronger force of mounted patrols is wanted in the suburban districts.

That a policeman should be left to encounter an armed burglar single-handed on Hampstead-heath in the dead of the night shows that this particular part of the metropolis at any rate is not properly protected.

In such a place the police should go in pairs, or, if one man is deemed sufficient to guard it, he should be provided with some better protection than a bâton against the chances of losing his life through being assaulted by wretches of Peace’s calibre.

It appears to us that the police on night duty are distributed very unfairly. In many streets, for instance, where persons are constantly passing all through the night more police than are necessary are to be found, but in some suburban retreats the midnight quietude is seldom disturbed by the constable’s measured tread.

You may walk through the leading thoroughfares of the West-end or the tenantless streets of the City at any hour of the night, and meet with a score of policemen, but on a tour of the same distance in the suburbs where all or most of the burglaries are perpetrated, it frequently happens that not a single guardian of the peace is to be met with. There is evidently need for alteration here.

But none of Peace’s imitators, or rather those who strove to carry on their nefarious practices after his fashion, ever succeeded in reaching the same acme of perfection, if it can with propriety be so termed, in any degree comparable to our hero.

Peace had been leading a sort of cat and dog life for some time past with his two female companions in the Evalina-road. He knew perfectly well that he was like a man who is at the top of a dangerous precipice; the slightest mishap, one false step, would precipitate him into the dark chasm in which sooner or later he was to be plunged.

He, therefore, strove as best he could to keep a tight hand over the woman he most dreaded. He did not care what amount of money he expended in ministering to her wants, with this proviso, that she was to remain in doors. So Mrs. Thompson had her “drops” at home.

She had a weakness for strong drinks, and was an inordinate snuff taker, and, according to Peace’s own account, she cost him a pretty penny.

His weakness in respect to women is perhaps the most remarkable feature in his character.

After ruthlessly slaying the ill-fated Mr. Dyson, which crime he perpetrated not for gain, for it was clearly established that the unfortunate gentleman met with his death from the hands of his murderer simply because the latter had a sort of mad infatuation for his (Mr. Dyson’s) wife.

And, stranger still, immediately after the commission of the foul deed, he took up with another woman, whom he afterwards had good reason to be in dread of.

Nevertheless, despite all these circumstances, he perseveringly and persistently followed his nefarious calling, even while the sword of justice was almost hanging over his head.

He had at this time perpetrated two murders. He had sent Police-constable Cock, of Whalley Range notoriety, and Mr. Dyson, to their account; and yet he professed to be a moral man in his new home in the Evalina-road.

It would be impossible to follow Peace’s footsteps throughout his extraordinary career while engaged in his various depredations in the suburbs of London, but it will be necessary for the purposes of his history to glance at some of the well-recognised events which are, so to speak, almost public property.

It was not likely he would remain long quiet in his suburban retreat――excitement was a necessity with him. He could not sit himself down with his two female companions like other “gentlemen of independent means”――he must be up and doing.

So, early one afternoon, the gate was thrown open and Charles Peace passed through in his pony trap. He had to call on a friend, so he averred, but on this occasion he had with him the lad “Willie Ward.”

He was going to give him a ride for a short distance, and purposed dropping him at the “Bricklayers’ Arms.” Willie was then to return home either by omnibus or the marrowbone stage――whichever he choose――but he was not to go further than the appointed place with his patron and stepfather.

As far as Willie himself was concerned, Peace had no reason to complain, for he was in a measure attached to his relative, and was at all times faithful and obedient to him.

An animated conversation was carried on between the two for the greater part of the journey. The lad would have liked to remain in the trap just to see what the driver thereof would be after, but he durst not express any wish to that effect; so, when the “Bricklayers’ Arms” was reached, and Peace brought the pony to a halt, Willie jumped out and retraced his steps without a murmur.

Peace drove on.

He was, as the reader has doubtless already guessed, on one of his marauding expeditions. It was as yet early in the evening――so early, indeed, that few persons would expect burglars were abroad.

Peace, in the due course of time, arrived at Sydenham. He pulled up in front of a roadside inn, gave the pony-trap in charge of the ostler, and said he had to wait upon a gentleman in the neighbourhood, and would return in about an hour.

He was not a man, as we have before observed, who was addicted to drinking, but he thought it just as well to go to the bar and have a small modicum of brandy and water; then he left, bag in hand; the inference being that he was about to deliver some goods at one of the neighbours’ houses.

He walked leisurely along till he arrived at a villa residence, built in the Gothic style of architecture. With the greatest possible effrontery he opened the gate and passed into the garden by the side of the house. Nobody appeared to be about, and seeing a bay window half open he crept through, and found himself in one of the back rooms. He peered forth, and seeing the coast clear he ascended the stairs. Somebody at this time was playing on the piano in the parlour, and the noise of the instrument, which was most unmercifully pounded at, effectually drowned the noise of his soft and cautious footfalls.

He found in the upstairs room a number of valuable and profitable articles, such as watches, jewellery, and the like; these he at once possessed himself of. The whole proceeds occupied but a small space, and were carefully disposed of in the capacious pockets of his coat. As he descended the pianist was still rattling away at the instrument.

When he reached the passage he found on a dumb waiter several silver spoons and forks; he snatched up these, passed through the bay window by which he had effected an entrance, and got off without being observed by a solitary individual.

The family were out for a drive, and there was nobody in the establishment besides the eldest daughter, who was taking a lesson of her music mistress, and the servants, who were in the kitchen busily occupied in preparing the dinner.

The astonishment of all, when they discovered the robbery, can be readily imagined. Notice was given to the police, inquiries were made, but Mr. Charles Peace laughed in his sleeve, and got clean off; but his evenings work was as yet not over.

He bent his steps in another direction, and after walking about three-quarters of a mile, or a little more perhaps, he came in sight of another house he had “spotted.”

In front of this was a conservatory. As on the previous occasion he opened the gate, and entered the grounds.

Then he passed along till he came to the conservatory. He looked through the window, and saw that it was filled with the choicest flowers.

But he suddenly withdrew his head as he heard the sounds of voices, which evidently proceeded from the parlour or dining-room.

He was at no loss to divine that the family were at dinner, and to judge from the number of voices he was under the impression that there were several guests present.

He hesitated for a moment, being in some doubt as to his mode of action. His object was to gain the upstairs rooms, lay his hands on all within his reach, and then make off.

But this did not appear to be so easy a task as he had at first supposed. Probably the servants were passing to and fro, and in such a case discovery would be fatal.

But the greater the danger the greater appeared to be the fascination to a man of Peace’s temperament.

He passed along the side of the house and found the back door wide open. He looked in and saw no one. With unparalleled audacity and assurance he crept into the passage, flew upstairs, and inspected the apartments above.

He filled his bag with the most valuable and portable articles he could lay his hand on, and up to this time had been undisturbed, but the question was how he was to get clear off.

If he dropped from one of the upper rooms the chances were that the noise of his descent would attract the notice of some one, besides which the windows were so high up that to descend from them was no easy matter.

“I shall have to risk it, I expect,” said he; “go down the stairs and take my chance. It is quite clear they are all of them pretty well occupied in cramming and guzzling. So here goes.”

He descended the stairs as quickly as he could, and was making for the back door when he was suddenly confronted by a buxom, red-faced, red-armed servant girl, who gave a start and a faint scream as she caught sight of a strange man.

[Sidenote: No. 59.]

Peace was perfectly calm and self-possessed.

“Don’t be alarmed, my girl,” said he, in his softest accents. “Is the governor in?”

“Yes,” she said, in the greatest possible state of surprise.

“Ah, that’s all right,” cried Peace. “Can I see him?”

“He’s at dinner just now,” returned the maid, completely thrown off her guard, “but I’ll tell him you are here if it’s anything particular.”

“Only a message from Mr. Woodward.”

“From who?”

“Mr. Woodward.”

The girl had never heard of such a person. It would be strange if she had, seeing Peace had given the first name that had occurred to him.

“I’ll go in and ask if he will see you,” replied the girl.

“Do, please,” cried Peace.

The maid went into the dining-room to make the inquiry.

This was Peace’s opportunity, of which he was not slow to avail himself. He flew out of the house, jumped over the garden fence, and then ran off as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Tell him to wait――I’ll see him presently,” said the master of the establishment, when the girl announced that a stranger wished to speak to him.

The girl was astonished when she discovered that the stranger was no longer visible. She went out into the garden, looked about in every direction, but could not, of course, see anyone.

She went into the kitchen and made her fellow-servants acquainted with the circumstance. The footman said no doubt the “fellar” was going to call again, and that she, Jane, was a little fool.

She retorted, and for a few minutes there was an intestine war in the kitchen. However, after this was over, and the strange man did not put in an appearance again, matters did not look so rosy. The servant girl was seriously concerned. What could it mean? The affair had to be explained to her master, who was, of course, very angry, and till up to this time no one had suspected that a robbery had been committed, and it was quite an hour before the discovery took place and then there was, of course, a fine hue-and-cry. But Peace long before this had reached the roadside house where he had left his pony trap. But his evening’s adventures were not nearly over as yet.

After he had cleared the fence and got far away from the scene of his depredation, he decreased his speed, for he had become winded, and therefore contented himself with walking at a moderate pace. This he continued to do till the public-house was reached. When this had been done, he thrust the bag containing the valuables underneath the seat of his gig and gave the ostler a handsome gratuity.

But now a new danger threatened him. Just as he was getting into his gig he heard a voice exclaim in a tone of surprise,

“Look at that fellow. I do believe it’s that scoundrel, Charles Peace.”

The voice proceeded from one of the alcoves which were situated in the gardens of the public-house he was about to depart from, and Peace knew the tones of the speaker, who was a Sheffield detective, with whom he had been formerly acquainted. The celebrated exclamation of the Duke of Wellington of “Up, guards, and at them!” did not carry greater dismay to the enemy than did to Peace the words spoken by the Sheffield police-officer.

Peace endeavoured, successfully enough, it must be admitted, to alter the expression of his countenance as he stepped into the gig, but he was panic-stricken nevertheless, and for the moment all his fortitude appeared to desert him. He heard a movement, a shuffling of feet, a ringing of glasses proceed from the alcove in the garden. He did not wait to hear or see any more. He urged on Tommy, who answered by going at a rattling rate; the wheels flew round so fast that you could not see the spokes. Presently the driver came in sight of a steep hill, he turned round and observed in the distance two horsemen urging on their steeds to the utmost; they were enshrouded in a cloud of dust.

Peace grew sick and faint.

“Curses light on them!” cried he; “they are giving chase. One is Stackhouse as I’m a living man.”

There was no help for it; the pony had to be put out to the top of his speed.

Peace urged him on with a few sharp cuts of his whip and then by his voice, which had a much more powerful effect. The faithful creature seemed to comprehend that the hour of danger and trial had arrived, for it tore up the hill like a mad thing. The pursuers were perfectly astounded at the speed at which Peace was going.

“But we shall have him yet, Clayton――have him as sure as a gun.”

“My brute is panting and roaring like a blast furnace,” observed the party addressed. “I don’t think he’ll hold on if we come to another such a hill as this. Confound it, there doesn’t appear to be a level piece of ground in this locality.”

“Can’t be helped. We must have him.”

“Ah! if it be Charles Peace, which I am very doubtful about.”

“It’s him safe enough. Do you suppose he would go at such a pelting, killing pace unless he knew he was pursued. I am pretty sure about it’s being Peace, though he is a bit altered. But there, he’s got a regular indiarubber face. He can do pretty much as he likes with it――twist it up in all sorts of ways――I know him of old.”

“I am glad you do, and hope you are not mistaken. Lord, how this beast of mine does bump one! He’s like a great elephant.”

“Put him along――never mind his bumping,” cried Stackhouse, in the greatest state of excitement. “We shall soon be up with my gentleman.”

Peace knew every inch of the ground, while his pursuers did not. Had this not been the case, the probability is that he would have been captured, for Stackhouse was bent upon having him if he could compass it by any possibility. Neither of the detectives was well mounted; they were on hired hacks, which rebelled against being put to an inconvenient pace. They had not been accustomed to gallop up hill, and resolutely refused to accede to such an unreasonable proposition. Stackhouse’s horse became restive, and had he not been a good rider the chances were that he would have come to grief; but the urgency of the case demanded desperate efforts on the part of the detectives.

Peace, when he reached the brow of the hill, turned sharply round into a narrow bridle road. He traversed this, and then took another turning, at the end of which were three cross roads.

Upon reaching this point, which he had done without attracting the observation of those who were giving chase, he took the road which led direct to Forest-hill.

Now he put Tommy out again to the fullest extent of his speed, and, looking back, he could nowhere perceive the two detectives.

He had succeeded in doubling upon them; they did not arrive at the cross roads till long after he was out of sight.

“He’s done us,” cried Clayton――“given us the slip in a most knowing, clever way. There’s no telling which road he has taken, and, to mend matters, my horse is as lame as a cub and as obstinate as a mule.”

“He’s the very devil himself, I do believe,” said Stackhouse. “Why, what a pony he must have to be sure! But it’s no use hesitating――which road had we better take?”

“I leave that to you, my friend. I should say, the one which leads direct to London; he would be sure to go that way.”

“All right――then on we go.”

They did go on, as fast as their two hacks would take them. But mile after mile was covered, yet not the faintest trace could they find of Charles Peace.

Clayton was rather nettled.

“And suppose after all he is not the man. A pretty pair of fools we’ve been making of ourselves,” said he.

“We’ve had a pleasant evening’s ride.”

“Pleasant you call it――I can’t see it in that light myself.”

“It won’t do either of us any harm.”

“Well, we shan’t find him now wherever he may be.”

“I’m afraid not. So here is a roadside house, we’ll give it up then and dismount.”

The two officers went into the house and partook of some refreshment. Meanwhile Charles Peace had been urging on Tommy, who never relaxed his speed till Forest-hill was reached.

It then became painfully evident that the faithful little creature was greatly distressed. He stumbled two or three times, and Peace observed, with the deepest concern, that the pony was all of a tremble.

“My poor Tommy!” he ejaculated. “I fear I’ve asked too much of you. Hang it,” he said, in continuation, “but the pony is bad――can’t hold itself still.”

The animal in question was in a complete lather, and was snorting and panting in a manner that was painful to behold. Every now and then it gave a cry of pain which went to the heart of its master.

“Ah, my faithful friend,” mused Peace; “you have saved my life; but at what cost? and I dare not risk remaining here, though I have every reason to believe that these bloodhounds are no longer on my track.”

He had at this time come to a halt, and listened intently to ascertain if there were sounds of coming horsemen. All was, however, quiet, and he had every reason to believe that the danger was over. He therefore let the pony trot along at an easy pace, but even while doing this he found that he every now and then staggered and appeared to be in danger of falling from sheer weakness, so that it was a hard job for him to reach the Evalina-road.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us