Chapter CXL
THE SURPRISE――CHARLES PEACE’S NEW PANTOMIME TRICK. HIS UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE ON THE SCENE.
While Professor Mainwaring had been relating the foregoing adventure, Lord Fitzbogleton and Arabella Lovejoyce had strolled through the suite of rooms, engaged in close converse.
The young nobleman, who was greatly taken with the lovely Arabella, evidently desired a tete-à-tete with the fascinating creature.
It is true she cared but little about his attentions――indeed she did not in any way offer him encouragement, and felt more disposed to view the matter in a humorous light than otherwise; but she was like most women――pleased at being made much of by one who seemed to be an admirer.
His lordship could not at present be looked upon in the light of a lover, though it must be confessed that he appeared to be fast approaching that delightful and beautiful state of existence.
He was evidently spooney on Miss Lovejoyce――that is the correct term――albeit it may be a little too expressive.
They sauntered from room to room, roved like butterflies from flower to flower――discoursed on the several articles of virtu which came upon view as they passed along, and being a great admirer of the products of nature, Lord Fitzbogleton, naturally enough, was attracted by a choice collection of exotic plants which were displayed in such admirable order within the conservatory abutting out from the furthermost apartment.
It was equally natural also that he should wish his fair companion to admire the choice flowers as well as himself.
Lord Fitzbogleton had not a very strong voice; indeed, it might be said to be weak. He had, moreover, a slight lisp. This is rather pleasing than otherwise in a female, provided she be young and pretty, but it cannot be deemed a recommendation to one of the sterner sex.
But, despite all these little drawbacks, his lordship was a thoroughly good-natured man, and good-hearted as well, and this is saying a great deal just now, seeing how few possess either of these qualifications.
When the young people had gained the conservatory Lord Fitzbogleton, after passing his remarks on the plants before him and discoursing on their various properties, and which country they were indigenous to, he looked into the face of his companion.
He intended to convey by the look unutterable things, but its eloquence was lost upon his companion.
“Now, I don’t know what you think, Miss Lovejoyce, but I call this the most pleasant part of the day. I have never felt so happy as at the present moment.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” observed Arabella, looking intently, with the eye of a connoisseur, at the magnificent bloom of a cactus.
“You are? By Jove, that’s wery wemarkable! I hope and trust the feeling is wecipwocal. Indeed, I feel assured it is.”
“Oh, certainly, I hope so,” returned his fair companion, who, however, had great difficulty in suppressing a smile.
“Well, you know, I am not much of a fellow for argument and all that sort of thing, you know, and I can’t for a moment pwetend to tell stories and anecdotes like our fwends in the other room; still, I can appweciate a good tale if it’s well told, and like to hear fellows hold forth, but I much pwefer being alone with a cweature like――well, like yourself, Miss Lovejoyce. You understand my meaning, eh!”
“Oh! certainly, my lord――indeed, I quite understand you.”
“I hope we shall soon understand one another better,” he returned, looking into her face admiringly.
Miss Lovejoyce made no reply; she appeared to be still engaged in admiring the cactus.
“Confound it! What is there in that flower to attract so much attention?” observed her companion.
“It is very beautiful,” she returned, carelessly.
“I do not deny that. I know a fellow who grows these sort of things――takes a delight with ’em, you know. He would tell you the name and properties of any plant in the whole creation――thinks of nothing else, I do believe.”
“He is an admirer of nature’s products, doubtless, and is a man of taste, I suppose.”
“Oh, dear me, yes, but you see some how or other I pwefer animated nature.”
“Both animated and inanimate nature have their respective charms,” returned the lady.
“I dare say, but why will you be so pewerse?”
“Perverse! I do not understand you.”
“Well, now, just look here. I want you to give more attention to me. Don’t you see?” cried his lordship, glaring at her through his eyeglass.
She smiled, and replaced the pot containing the cactus in its original position.
“There,” she ejaculated, “will that satisfy you? I am all attention.”
“Oh, Miss Lovejoyce, you are a charming cweature,” said he, taking her jewelled hand within his own.
“I am afraid you are a flatterer.”
“Oh, so Lady Marvlynn said half an hour or so ago, but you are both mistaken, I am no such thing. If there is one thing, I plume myself upon more than another, it is my sincerity.”
“That is a quality which, to say the truth is rare, my lord, and therefore cannot be too highly prized.”
“You think so?”
“Most certainly, I do.”
“I am glad to hear you say so.”
“Why?”
“Because it gives me hope.”
“Hope?”
“Pwecisely; hope and confidence, for, to say the truth, as a rule I do not posses much of the latter.”
“Are you wanting in confidence then?” cried the lovely Arabella, with a wicked smile. “That is most unfortunate.”
“Yes, I admit it is a misfortune. I know a lot of fellows who have the audacity of a highwayman’s horse. Sometimes I wish I had my share of the same.”
“I don’t like men who are of too demonstrative or of too pronounced a character.”
“No more do I,” returned her admirer, “but still, you know, a fellow can’t get on in the world who is too retiring.”
“No, certainly not. It is the happy medium which is most to be desired. But what is so engaging your attention just now, my lord.”
“I was looking at this charming wing. It is very chaste in design.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes I do, indeed,” he observed looking intently at the ornament on one of her fingers. “I admire it immensely, even as I do its wearer.”
Miss Lovejoyce looked down at the tesselated pavement of the conservatory, but she made no reply.
“I’m going to beg a favour of you,” said he, after a pause.
“A favour?”
“Yes. Will you grant it?”
“I must first know what it is.”
“But you would not wefuse me?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“The nature of the request you have to make.”
“Well, I was about to say, and, ahem, it may as well be said at once. Don’t you think so?”
“Most certainly I do. Proceed, my lord.”
“Ah, yes, I will. Well, you know, it’s just this――I’ve got a wing which has been worn by the Queen of Spain. It is a rare jewel――a trinket of the choicest quality.”
“Indeed! I should like to see it.”
“I not only desire you to see it, but the favour I was about to ask is that you will accept it from my hand, and――――”
“And what――the other conditions?”
“That you will wear it in remembrance of me. Do you now understand?”
“Oh, I comprehend; but at the same time, you must pardon the observation, my lord, but I do not see how I can consistently accept it as a gift.”
And why not, Miss Lovejoyce――I mean Awabella? You must let me call you Awabella――you weally must. Miss Lovejoyce seems so stiff and formal.”
“Well, call me Arabella if that pleases you better.”
“It does please me, and so it’s a bargain.”
“What’s a bargain?”
“That I am to call you by your Christian name.”
“Agreed then. It is a bargain.”
And now about the wring? You must――you will accept it.”
“I have not said so.
“Not as yet, but you intend to do so.”
“You are arriving at a hasty conclusion, my lord.”
“Not at all. So, now don’t turn away. I hope I have not offended you.”
“Oh, dear me, no; but still, at the same time, I think it would be very indiscreet on my part to receive a present from you.”
“By no means. I shall be very much hurt if you refuse. Nay, more, I won’t take a refusal.”
“For a gentleman who is so wanting in confidence your tone is somewhat dictatorial,” said she, with a merry laugh.
“It is for you to dictate, and for me to obey,” returned he.
“Very good――very good, indeed. I quite agree with you.”
“If you agree with me, I shall consider the question settled.”
“What question?”
“The wing.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, my dear friend, you must allow me some brief space of time to consider the matter over. You know, my lord, we must be governed by the rules of etiquette, and, it is, therefore, for me to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion as to what is seemly and proper in a case of this sort.”
“Upon my word, Awabella, you talk more like some old sage than as a cheery and fascinating young girl. I don’t care to argue questions of this nature. Arguments are altogether out of place in――ahem――in affairs of the heart, you know.”
“In affairs of the heart, my lord?”
“Certainly. Now don’t you be so pwovoking. I do declare that I have a mind to stop your mouth with――――”
He drew her towards him and kissed her passionately.
“My lord, pray don’t. What can you be thinking about?” she ejaculated.
“I think only of you, my darling Awabella――only of you,” he replied.
“I am really very sorry you should be wanting in confidence,” she returned, pouting.
“Well, I don’t care. You’ll dwive me to despewation――that’s what you’ll do.”
“It appears to me that you are half way there at the present moment. Do not be so demonstrative. Pray release me.”
He had his arm round her waist at this time, and did not seem disposed to comply with her request.
The sparkling champagne he had imbibed seemed to have endowed him with a courage which surprised both himself and his fair companion.
“I think we had better return to the concert-room,” observed Arabella.
“Ah, by no means,” said he, “we are far better here.”
“But I’m positively afraid of you, my lord. Let us return, I pray.”
“I can’t for a moment consent to such a course. No-no, my dear Awabella; you have said I might call you by that name――this is elysium. The concert-room is but earth.”
“Pray, don’t be metaphorical or poetic, for it would be more than I could bear just now.”
“You are the most tantalising, charming, bewitching creature I ever met with in the course of my life. Oh, Awabella, tell me, dearest, if you have any wegard for me?”
“How can you ask such a ridiculous question?”
“Widiculous, my charmer!” ejaculated Lord Fitzbogleton. “You surely do not for a moment imagine I am jesting?”
“I don’t know what to think; you have taken me so by surprise.”
“Ah, ah, endeavoured to carry the fortress by storm, as our friend Smithers Smythe would say, but you must allow me the privilege,” and here he snatched another kiss.
“It’s very wrong and altogether improper,” cried Arabella. “If you don’t desist I shall be offended――indeed I shall; and when I am once offended I must tell you frankly I am not likely to forget――I won’t say forgive, but certainly I shall not forget.”
“Now you are angwy.”
“I am not very well pleased with you, I candidly confess.”
“You do not like me, then?”
“I have not said that. You will please me better by being a little more reasonable. I do not care about so much ardour and impetuosity, and for this reason I doubt its sincerity. Now don’t be angry――I do not mean to offend you.”
“You cannot do that. I love you too much.”
“Love me?”
“Yes, that is what I said.”
“Well, my lord, I am bound to believe you.”
“And what say you?”
“At present I do not choose to say anything. So let that pass.”
“Not say anything?”
“No, certainly not. I am a free agent and reserve to myself the right of placing my affections on the man I deem worthy of them.”
“And am I not worthy of them?”
“I do not say you are not.”
“But you will not say I am. Is that what you mean?”
“As time goes on I shall be better able to judge. A fortress may be carried by storm, I suppose, but it would be indeed a vain attempt to gain the heart of a woman by any such means――certainly not my heart. I only speak of myself.”
“I have no desire to attempt such a course of action,” observed the young nobleman, in an altered and more subdued tone. “Pardon me. I ask your pardon,” he ejaculated, falling on one knee before his companion.
“Rise, my lord, pray rise; you would not like to be caught by any of the company in this supplicating position.”
“I will not wise until you tell me you forgive me,” cried he.
“I do forgive you. Be satisfied with that declaration.”
Lord Fitzbogleton found out that he was no match for his fair enslaver, whose force of character was far beyond his own. He arose and looked a little foolish. Most men do when they meet with a reproof or a rebuff under similar circumstances.
“You are weally most exacting and hard-hearted,” said he, “but, possibly, I have been to blame; but I am sure you will take a merciful view of the case. Now tell me, dearest Arabella, if you feel disposed to take compassion on me. Hang it, but I am a poor hand at pleading my own cause――don’t you think so?”
“I hardly know what reply to give to such a question,” she observed with a witching smile.
“I am sure you think so, only you don’t like to acknowledge it. Come, dearest, let us be friends.”
“We are friends, and true ones I hope.”
“That’s kind of you to say that. I mustn’t, of course, I mustn’t. I mean I must keep at a respectful distance――eh?”
She laughed again. “I cannot be angry with you, my lord. Indeed, there is no reason for my being so, seeing that you are so candid――and at the same time so very affectionate.”
“Hang it all!――don’t chaff a fellow. Nobody likes to be made a fool of, you know.”
“Certainly not, my lord; and I am not likely to attempt such a thing. And, indeed, I feel perfectly well convinced that I should not succeed if I made the attempt. I both esteem and admire you.”
“You admire me――eh?”
“Yes, I see many things to admire in you.”
“What are they?”
“Well, in the first place you’re remarkably good-natured, and you have, I believe, a good temper; in addition to which I believe you are sincere――at least I hope so.”
“Say you are sure of it,” he cried quickly.
“As far as I am able to judge at present, I feel assured of it. Will that satisfy you?”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
The conversation was continued for some time after this, but we must for the present leave the young people to themselves to pay a visit to one of the upper apartments of the widow’s house.
While Lady Marvlynn’s guests were engaged in conversation in the concert-room, and Lord Fitzbogleton was engaged in whispering soft nothings into the ear of the fascinating Arabella Lovejoyce, a far different scene was taking place in a chamber above.
James Jabez Jones, her ladyship’s footman, was sent up by one of his fellow-servants for his mistress’s fan, for her ladyship by this time began to feel the heat oppressive. She had had a day of considerable toil and anxiety, and was consequently in what might be termed a state of flustration.
Now, when Mr. Jones ascended the stairs, in search of the fan in question, he was a little surprised at hearing a sort of subdued noise in one of the upstair rooms.
James Jones was a cautious, careful man――so when the sounds, which were altogether new and strange to him, fell upon his ears, he came to a sudden halt and listened more intently.
Some one was evidently moving about in an adjoining apartment: of that he felt perfectly well assured.
Who could it be? was the very natural question he asked himself. Not any one of the visitors, for they were all below――probably it might be one of the maid servants. The door of the room was partially open, and through the crevice of this he peeped in. He then saw the figure of a man moving about in what he deemed a stealthy manner.
Mr. Jones was surprised――indeed, it might be said astounded.
From what he could make out, the person in the room was a short elderly man, with a long coat and a sort of wide-awake hat.
“Haint up to no good, I fancy,” murmured James Jones; “leastways that’s my ’pinion. Who the devil can he be, and what brings him here?”
He peered through the crevice of the door, and saw the suspicious-looking party lay his hands on some trinkets, and place them in one of the capacious pockets of his coat.
“Well, I’m blowed,” murmured the astonished footman, “if this ere don’t take the wind out of me entirely. Why, hang it, the fellow’s a thief or a burglar, as sure as my name’s Jones! I’m blest if he aint and no mistake――the audacious circumventing scoundrel!”
It was as plain as a pikestaff――the man was possessing himself of what property he could lay his hands on; that was too evident.
Mr. Jones was a man of Patagonian proportions――he was tall, and proportionately stout, with a broad pair of shoulders, and unexceptionable calves.
In point of fact, he considered himself to be one of the chief ornaments of the household; but despite his stalwart frame and athletic limbs, he was what one might term “knocked silly” for a brief space of time.
The situation in which he found himself was altogether an exceptional one.
He was calmly contemplating a burglar or professional thief at work, and James Jones was, as a matter of course, for the moment dumfounded.
The audacity of the man was beyond all bounds.
How he had contrived to effect an entrance into the apartment in question was a matter the puzzled footman could not determine, but it was plainly demonstrated that he was there.
“Well I never!” exclaimed Jones. “It seems altogether impossible, and surpasses all belief, the contemptible, despicable little thief.”
The reader will doubtless be in no way surprised when we signify that the robber to whom the footman alluded was none other than our old acquaintance, Charles Peace, who, taking advantage of the family gathering at Lady Marvlynn’s, had crept into the house to do a little business on his own account while the festivities were at their height, and had it not been for the little incident of the fan would in all probability have escaped notice, and got clear off without anybody being the wiser. As it was, however, the chances were against him.
Mr. Jones opened the door and entered the apartment.
“Now, then, sir, what are you doing here?” he suddenly exclaimed.
Peace, whose back was towards the speaker, turned round and looked at the footman.
“You audacious thieving scoundrel!” exclaimed the latter.
“Stand back!” cried Peace. “If you don’t, it’ll be the worse for you!”
As he uttered these words he drew from his pocket a life-preserver, which he held menacingly forward.
James Jabez Jones was a brave man. To be threatened and insulted by a contemptible little wretch like Peace was more than he could stand.
He rushed at once forward and laid hold of the burglar, who deftly slipped from his grasp, and then with a cat-like spring made for the half opened window of the bedroom.
Jones, who had not been prepared for this show of activity uttered a growl of dissatisfaction, and in his turn flew towards the window.
Once more he laid his hands upon the culprit. Peace, who was at this time kneeling on the sill of the window, preparatory to springing out, now found his situation a desperate one.
He struck out with his life-preserver, but from the position he occupied was unable to use it with anything like effect. With one hand James Jones fairly grasped the collar of Peace’s coat, and with the other he held the wrist of the burglar to prevent him from inflicting any more blows with his weapon.
A determined struggle now took place, and our hero, much to his chagrin, found that he was in the grasp of a formidable and powerful antagonist.
“You just let go, you d――――d fool,” cried he, foaming with passion.
“Not if I know it,” returned James Jones. “No, my little beauty, don’t think to get off, because it’s time your game was put a stop to. So you are the chap as has been committing all these robberies. Glad to make your acquaintance. There’s a good many as will be glad to see you.”
“Are there?” cried Peace. “Are there, you ugly dirty flunkey.”
He hardly knew what to say bitter enough, but he was determined to run any risk rather than be taken prisoner, and had he happened at this time to be possessed of his revolver, the chances would have been that James Jabez Jones would have received the contents of one or more barrels: but he was without that useful weapon, and bitterly deplored this fact.
Jones stuck to him like a leech, and the burglar found it impossible to flee himself from his grasp.
Below him was the roof of the conservatory, in which Lord Fitzbogleton and Arabella Lovejoyce were conversing, altogether heedless of the scene that was taking place above them.
Peace threw his legs off the window-sill, electing to trust to chance. He then hung suspended therefrom, held only by the powerful arms of the footman, who strove to lift him up and drag him on to the sill.
This, however, he found to be an impossibility. Still, he was not disposed to give up the struggle as hopeless.
Peace kept twisting and turning about, in the hope of wearing out his tormentor, and, to say the truth, Mr. Jones soon gave symptoms of distress, as they say in the sporting world; but, to his infinite credit, however, he stuck manfully to his colours, or rather his “man.”
Peace placed one of his knees against the wall of the house, and then threw the upper portion of his body backwards.
This had the effect of forcing Mr. Jones partly through the window. Indeed, he was nearly coming through bodily, so sudden and artful had been his opponent’s movement.
It aint no good, you spiteful little reptile,” cried the footman. “You aint a going to get off――so don’t think it.”
“Aint I,” sneeringly returned our hero, making such a hideous grimace that the flunkey felt perfectly disgusted, “aint I, Mr. Yellowplush? We’ll see presently. Oh, Lord, I wish I had――――” he paused suddenly.
“Yes, I dare say you do wish you were on the top of a Brixton bus――eh?”
“Don’t you be so cheeky, Mr. Yellowplush, “cause you see I aint accustomed to give in to the likes of you.”
“Aint you?”
“No, I aint, old ugly mug,” returned Peace, making a still more hideous grimace.
“You’d do very well to grin through a horse collar, you would,” remarked Jones. “Why don’t you try it? It’s a much more respectable line of business than prigging, I should say.”
Mr. Jones found his strength giving way. He did not like to leave go――nevertheless he called out for assistance.
At this particular time a grand piece was being performed by Signor Maronski and two of his pupils, and it was of so furious a character that the dulcet voice of James Jabez Jones was drowned thereby.
Nevertheless, when our hero heard the footman shout out he was perfectly furious and driven almost to desperation.
He placed both knees against the brickwork and gave his body a sudden and violent jerk. The effect was magical.
James Jabez Jones lost his equilibrium, and he and the burglar fell together in a deadly grasp.
A crash followed immediately; the glass of the greenhouse was shivered into a thousand fragments, and two men fell upon the tesselated pavement. In their passage pots and flowers were upset, and worse than all the hat worn by Lord Fitzbogleton was forced over his eyes, where it remained like an extinguisher, his lordship at the same time being knocked over by the concussion, and a scene took place which I shall find it difficult to describe.
In the first place Arabella Lovejoyce, who was under the impression that a thunderbolt had fallen, uttered a series of piercing screams. The company in the further room rose from their seats and rushed pell-mell towards the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, and in a moment the green-house and the adjoining room were filled with people with anxious and inquiring faces.
The charming Arabella fainted in the arms of Major Smithers Smythe; on the hard pavement of the conservatory lay Charles Peace, stunned and motionless, and at a short distance from him was the prostrate form of James Jabez Jones, with pieces of glass sticking in his unmentionables, and his white stockings stained with blood from the same cause.
Poor fellow, his appearance was rueful in the extreme, but he was not reduced to a comatose state, albeit he was terribly bruised, and was aching in every limb.
Lord Fitzbogleton was making desperate efforts to get his head out of his hat, but at present had not been successful. The broken flower-pots were strewn around in confusion, and the wreck was altogether perfectly appalling.
“For mercy’s sake, gentlemen, do tell me what is the matter,” cried Lady Marvlynn. “What dreadful accident has occurred? And my poor dear Arabella,” she murmured, as she caught sight of her protegee; “pray bring her into the house, major, and let the dear girl be attended to. Oh! merciful heaven, but this is indeed dreadful.”
Arabella Lovejoyce was carried into the house, and placed upon one of the couches, where restoratives were applied.
Lady Marvlynn returned to the conservatory.
“What is the matter?” she again cried, in a beseeching tone. “For mercy’s sake do speak, some one of you, and explain this dreadful business!”
“My dear Lady Marvlynn,” said Lord Chetwynd, “we none of us are able to explain the meaning of this disaster――for such I take it to be.”
“Will somebody help me off with this hat?” cried Lord Fitzbogleton, his voice sounding like some pantomimist behind a mask, only a little more muffled.
Two or three gentlemen hastened to the unfortunate nobleman’s assistance, and after several efforts the hat was removed.
“Now, then, we shall be able to learn something about the accident,” said Captain Crasher.
“I know nothing about it, no more than you do,” returned Fitzbogleton.
“James,” said Lady Marvlynn, “what is the meaning of this? You are wounded and bleeding.”
“Yes, my lady; I am cut about terribly.”
“So he is, poor man. Oh, how very dreadful!” chorused half-a-dozen fair beauties.
“Dweadful indeed,” said Fitzbogleton. “It’s a mercy I’ve escaped with my life. As it is, I am not at all sure my head is still on my shoulders. But where――oh, where is Awabella?”
“In the next room. Go and see how she is――there’s a good man,” said the hostess.
His lordship went at once.
“Now, James, tell me how this occurred――but you are bleeding, and perhaps seriously hurt.”
“It’s the glass, my lady, but I’ve picked out all the pieces I could find. And who is this strange person?” said his mistress, glancing at Peace.
“He’s been the cause of it all, my lady. He’s a robber, a thief, a burglar, and I caught him taking a lot of jewellery from one of the upstair rooms. I rushed forward and collared him, then he threw himself out of the window, and I had a hard job to hold him.”
“And did you let him go after that?” inquired Crasher.
“No, sir, I wasn’t likely to do that. I stuck to him and he pitched himself backwards. I lost my balance, and we both fell through the conservatory.”
“Well, I never heard of such a thing――a burglar in the house, a ruffian of this nature in our midst,” ejaculated Sir Eric Batershall. “But you’ve done your duty and deserve the highest possible praise.”
Peace, who had by this time partially recovered, heard the latter part of the conversation; he deemed it prudent, however, to remain as if insensible.
He had a large bump on the back of his head, and was in great pain, but he bore this without even a groan or sigh.
“You had better have your wounds dressed, James,” said Lady Marvlynn, “after which you will be able to give us a more lucid and detailed description of all that has taken place.”
A medical gentleman who happened to be one of the party made an examination of Mr. Jones’s injuries, which he said were fortunately but of a superficial nature. When this had been done he turned his attention to the other patient.
Charles Peace was lifted up and placed on his legs, whereupon he uttered a deep groan.
“Perhaps he is mortally wounded, poor fellow,” cried Miss Fagg.
“Poor fellow, indeed!” exclaimed several. “A scoundrel like him is not worthy of sympathy.”
But Charles Peace, beyond the bump on his head and divers and sundry other bruises, was not so very bad after all, but he pretended to be at death’s door.
This was done in the first place to excite sympathy, and in the next to gain time.
“We shall have to attend to this man,” said the doctor. “After which you will hand him over to the officers of justice, I presume.”
This last query was addressed to Lady Marvlynn.
“Oh, yes, of course. I suppose so.”
“You have no other alternative, my lady,” said Sir William Leathbridge. “The case is clear enough against him. Some of the articles he has purloined have been taken from his pocket.”
“Ah, just so. Dear me, what an extraordinary thing that a burglary should have been carried out while so many persons were in the house.”
Peace had a plaister put upon his head by his medical attendant, and pretended to be so seriously injured otherwise that he could scarcely walk.
He was left for a few moments in the conservatory, in which were two or three young ladies of the company, who remained, possibly, to have a good look at so celebrated a character, for they felt certain he was celebrated, although none present had the faintest notion who he was.
He crept towards the door of the conservatory, unfastened it, and then flew across the grounds, in the rear of lady Marvlynn’s house.
“He’s gone!” cried the ladies, “gone! We thought he could not move.”
“Gone!” exclaimed James Jones. “The scoundrel!” And away the wounded footman went to give chase to the fugitive.
Peace soon convinced his pursuer that he was fleet of foot. He ran round the grounds and made for the side gate.
Jones, who soon guessed his intention, sought to intercept him――which he succeeded in doing before he gained the gate.
Chapter CXLI
THE VALIANT FOOTMAN AND THE DESPERATE BURGLAR――THE PRISONER IN THE STABLE――UNEXPECTED RELEASE.
Lady Marvlynn’s guests were doomed to experience another alarm.
It was soon made apparent that the wounded burglar had attempted to make his escape, and some of them were under the impression that it did not much matter if he succeeded in doing so, while others were most anxious for him to be brought to the bar of justice upon public grounds.
Some of the gentlemen volunteered to give chase, and sallied forth, and of course took the wrong direction.
One energetic young man, partly owing to his haste and partly to the darkness, was brought suddenly to a standstill by his neck coming in contact with a clothesline which ran from wall to wall in the back garden.
His neck came with considerable force against this, and he hit out right and left with his clenched fists at some antagonist who, he believed, was endeavouring to garotte him. His appearance was so comic, as well as the circumstances, that his friends could not refrain from a hearty laugh at his expense, and he afterwards declared that he fully believed that some one was garrotting him, and that he was fighting for his life.
Meanwhile, while this and a number of other incidents were taking place, Mr. Jones had come up with Charles Peace, who was once more in the valiant footman’s grasp.
Peace now fought like a tiger; he threw himself down and kicked his assailant unmercifully, and the chances were that he would have got the better of Jones had not the stableman come to the rescue.
“He’s the most determined little brute that mortal man ever set eyes on,” remarked James Jones. “He is the very devil himself, I do believe.”
“We’ll devil him,” returned the stableman. “The best way to serve a chap of this sort is to prevent him from doing further mischief. He’s a kicker, you see, and wants the kicking-strap put on.”
And with these words the man fastened Peace’s legs together with a strap, after which he pinioned his arms with a rope.
When this had been done, he said――
“Now, Jem, we’ll carry him into the stable, and lock him in till we get a bobby or two to look arter him.”
“You cowardly scoundrels!” exclaimed Peace, in a paroxysm of rage, “you shall suffer for this.”
“Go on, guv’nor, take your fill of abuse,” returned the stableman. “Did your mother have any more of your sort?”
Peace was carried into the stable and bound to a post. Then the stable door was locked on him, and he was left to his reflections which were anything but of an agreeable nature.
Now, all this had been done in an incredibly brief space of time, and Mr. Jones considered it very cleverly done――all things considered, for, smarting as he was from the cuts and bruises he had received in the recent conflict, he very naturally enough bore our hero no goodwill, and it would have caused our footman great mortification of the little scoundrel, or devil as he termed him, had succeeded in getting clear off after the trouble he (Mr. Jones) had been at.
He returned to the house and made his mistress acquainted with all that had happened.
“Dear me!” said Lady Marvlynn; “but upon my word, James, I hardly think you were justified in binding the man.”
“You should have seen him kick and fight, and even try to bite. What could we do with such a――devil?” he was going to say, but he substituted ruffian instead.
[Sidenote: No. 76.]
“Well, I confess I do not understand these things,” returned her ladyship. “I hope and trust it is all right. It has so completely upset me that I hardly know what I say or do.”
“I am going to send Peter for a policeman, if you please, ma’am.”
“Oh, indeed, eh――for a policeman.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Oh, very well, perhaps that is the best course. We can consult the constable when he comes, and take his advice in the matter.”
“It rests with you, my lady.”
“Of course, certainly. Well do as you say――send for a policeman. How are you now? Do you feel better?”
“Oh, yes, I am a little shaken of course, but am thankful that I escaped as well as I did.”
“Yes, certainly, we are all thankful. I have reason to be grateful for the energy and courage you have displayed. It will not be forgotten, believe me. Neither is it likely to go unrewarded; but more of this hereafter.”
James Jabez Jones bowed and took himself off. As Lady Marvlynn was about returning to her guests she was met by Aveline.
“This ruffian is locked up in the stable, dear, and is not likely to trouble us any more, I hope,” said Lady Marvlynn. “I know you will be glad to hear that.”
“Oh yes, certainly,” stammered Aveline. “I suppose all will be glad.”
“Why what’s the matter, dear? You seem troubled.”
“I have a word or two to say to you in private.”
“Of course, my darling pet. Come into this room.”
She led her companion into a small apartment which had not been placed at the disposal of the general company.
“This man whom you are about to give into charge for――burglary――for housebreaking――――” she paused.
“Well, what of him?”
“Do you intend to charge him?”
“Do I? Well, I suppose so. You heard what the gentlemen said but just now. I was bound to do so on public grounds.”
“There are private reasons for your not doing so.”
“For my not doing so? You surprise me, Aveline. Name them.”
“He is known to me.”
“I am astounded. Known to you?”
“Yes,” said Aveline, with something like sadness in her tones. “Years ago he did me a service.”
“Impossible.”
“It is a fact. He was mainly instrumental in throwing a light on the dark and, at that time, impenetrable mystery which hung over the house of Ethalwood. He it was who gave Mr. Wrench the information which led to his discovery of me.”
“His name is then――――”
“Charles Peace. Oh, Lady Marvlynn, I have every reason for believing him to be a bad man, but I frankly confess I was quite unprepared for this. I did not think he had sunk so low――that he was so callous――so debased――but that is but little to the purpose just now. I have one favour to ask.”
“What is it?”
“That you let him go about his business. Do this for my sake. I cannot explain all the circumstances which lead up to this, but I say again let him go.”
“You must be mistaken, my dear. It cannot possibly be the man to whom you allude.”
“I am not mistaken,” said Aveline. “I saw his face distinctly as he stood in the greenhouse. Time has not improved its expression; but it was too familiar to me years and years ago for me to make a mistake, but if you doubt it I will convince you.”
“How?”
“Simply by our both going to the stable together.”
“We will do so, by all means, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it. I desire to do so most earnestly.”
“Your word is law with me,” cried Lady Marvlynn, who at once left the room and summoned Mr. Jones.
“I wish to see the prisoner, James,” said she; “give me the key of the stable.”
“You would not go alone, my lady?” said the footman.
“I am not afraid of this man; give me the key.”
The sagacious flunkey was surprised, but he handed his mistress the key without any further observation.
Lady Marvlynn returned to Aveline.
“Now, dear, we will proceed thither at once; that is if you are not afraid to face this tiger,” for such Jones calls him.
“Oh, dear, no, I am not afraid.”
The two ladies hurried along till they had reached the temporary prison-house of Charles Peace. The lock was turned, the door opened, then they entered, closing the door after them.
Lady Marvlynn, who had taken the precautions to provide herself with a flat-glass lantern, now turned its rays full upon the features of the imprisoned man, who was, as already stated, tied to a post, having been previously bound hand and foot.
Peace at this time looked the most miserable dejected wretch it was possible to conceive, and those who were not very well acquainted with his features would have found it impossible to recognise him, but Aveline, or rather Lady Batershall, at once saw that the wretched criminal was the same person she had known in the earlier period of her life.
She started back, and exclaimed in a subdued tone――
“It is he; but oh, how strangely altered!”
At the sound of her voice Charles Peace became deeply moved, albeit he strove to maintain an air of bravado.
“And has it come to this, you unscrupulous abandoned man?” said Aveline. “A common robber――a disgrace to society.”
“I’m ill――have been cruelly treated――and don’t care what becomes of me,” whined Peace, in a cringing tone. “Taunt me and upbraid me as you please. I am powerless, and am at your mercy.”
“Yes, at our mercy,” said Lady Marvlynn, turning towards her female companion and regarding her with an enquiring look. “Poor wretch, he is at our mercy, and is, moreover, in a sorry plight.”
“I don’t know you, madam,” observed Peace, “but I think if I am to judge from appearances, that you are kind and tender-hearted. The other lady I know perfectly well, and she owes me a deep debt of gratitude, and ought not to upbraid me.”
“She does not do so,” returned Lady Marvlynn.
“She does not? Well perhaps I am mistaken. But you will admit that it is hard to be treated in this merciless cruel way. Let Aveline Gatliffe speak for herself.”
“She is no longer Mrs. Gatliffe but a lady of title.”
“I know that, and who caused her to be recognised as a lady of title? People in this world soon forget past favours.”
“I do not, sir,” cried Lady Batershall, with something approaching to hauteur in her manner, “be less personal in your observations. I find you here a criminal, a thief, an outcast, but at the same time I am ready and willing to render you whatever service lies in my power. Gracious heaven, how terrible is all this! Tell me what you desire me to do.”
“I want to be free. If I am given into custody, I am a ruined man, but if you let me free――――”
“Well, what then? Will you promise me to abandon your present course? Oh! for mercy’s sake tell me that you will reform and lead a new life.”
“I will――I promise,” cried Peace, in a hypocritical whining tone, “I hereby solemnly swear――――”
“Do not swear――there is no need for that,” interrupted the gentle Aveline. “Give me your word and keep it――that is all I need.”
“I do give you my word. Oh, my lady, have pity on me! My only hope is in you. Remember that mercy is one of the most divine attributes which a woman or a man possesses. Think of my poor wife――of my family, and all who belong to me. You cannot find it in your heart to bring ruin and disgrace upon me and mine.”
“I am very sad, and cannot express to you my feeling of sorrow and the miserable state of dejection all this occasions me, dear,” said Lady Batershall, not taking any heed of Peace’s words, but addressing herself to her companion. “This man I knew years and years ago. At one time he was a respectable member of society――at least so I deemed him. Judge my horror at this night’s proceedings――a common robber, a ruffian! It is almost incredible.”
“It’s no use going on like that,” whined Peace. “You don’t know how I have been tempted――what troubles I am surrounded with. What’s the use of talking of the past, or saying what I was and what I am? Do you think I want to hear about my former life? It is over. I am as you see me just now, in the depths of trouble. If you can serve me, which I very well know you can――do it for old acquaintance sake. There, that’s plain enough, aint it?”
“Oh, you bad, wicked man!” exclaimed Lady Marvlynn; “but there, I won’t say any more upon that head.”
“Are you the mistress of this house?” inquired Peace.
“Yes, I am.”
“Very good; and do you intend to give me in charge? Say yes or no, that I may know what I am to expect.”
“For the sake of this dear lady, I will not give you in charge unless I am forced to do so.”
“Forced! Who is likely to force you?”
“No one, I hope.”
“And I hope the same. You need not be afraid. I intend to reform if you will only let me have a chance of doing so.”
“Are you sincere?”
“Of course I am. I’ll lead a new life after this. I’ve seen the error of my ways, and promise to be as straight as an arrow for the future; only take compassion one me and release me from this miserable bondage. I ache in every limb, and my head goes throbbing like anything. Do cut the cords that confine me; you’ll never regret it. My dear good creatures, have compassion on a miserable wretch who appeals to you, and will for the future be as honest and upright as the day. No time is to be lost if you wish to save me, which I feel assured you do. Hesitate no longer, or it may be too late.”
“Indeed there is some reason in what he says, dear,” observed the kind-hearted Lady Marvlynn.
“I will hesitate no longer,” cried Aveline. “Come what may, this man must be free.”
Without further ado Aveline at once proceeded to unbind the rope which confined Charles Peace, who in a minute or so was freed from the post, the strap was then removed from his feet, the cord which confined his arms was undone, and once more he had free use of his limbs.
“I shall remember this act of kindness to the last and latest hour of my life,” said he. “Oh, my good angels, for such indeed you are, accept my most sincere and heartfelt thanks.”
“Now go, say no more in the way of grateful expression. Time presses; hence away at once without further hesitation,” exclaimed Lady Batershall, “and remember your promise.”
“Be assured of that. I shall never forget it.”
Aveline opened the stable door, and Charles Peace passed through. The garden gate was flung open, and the burglar ran at the top of his speed down the lane which skirted Lady Marvlynn’s palatial residence. Both ladies listened intently to the sounds of his retreating footsteps, and when these were no longer heard, Lady Batershall pressed her hand to her side and exclaimed, in a low breathless tone――
“Heaven be praised, he is free!”
“Ah! my dear,” said her companion, “I know this has been a sore trial for you.”
“It has――I freely confess it,” was the quiet rejoinder. “I am quite unnerved, and scarcely know what I am doing.”
“The horribly debased, lost man!”
“But he will reform――I do not think there is any doubt about that.”
“I hope so. I wish I could feel assured of it.”
“I feel it difficult to believe that he could have sunk so low as this.”
“Do not take on so, dear. Let us hope for the best. I should never have forgiven myself if I had been constrained to hand him over to the officers of justice, but I expect we shall be censured by our friends.”
“I expect so too,” returned Aveline, “but that we must submit to with the best grace we can. Ah! we shall be censured――there is but little doubt upon that subject.”
A loud ring at the bell was now given by somebody outside, and upon the mistress of the house opening the gate a policeman presented himself.
“Ah!” exclaimed Lady Marvlynn, “you have come.”
“Yes, my lady. There has been an attempted robbery――a burglary in your house, I understand?”
“Ahem, yes. A very unfortunate affair indeed.”
“Where is the prisoner?” was the next question.
“He was confined in the stable, but has escaped.”
“Escaped!” cried the constable. “How long since?”
“Oh, some little time back, but come in.”
The policeman entered, and glanced in every direction as he did so.
“How did he contrive to make his escape, and which road has he taken I wonder; but we’ll soon hunt him down.”
“One moment, if you please,” said Lady Marvlynn. “This man, the burglar, I have let go free, as under no circumstances whatever should I have charged him. I am sorry to have given you needless trouble――regret this very much, but as I did not intend to prosecute, well, you see, I let him go.”
“Umph! Well, you know best, my lady, but I think you will have reason to regret it.”
“I hope not, but we will talk this matter over presently. Come in and have some refreshment. James Jones will be able to give you all the particulars.”
“Who is James Jones?”
“My footman.”
“Oh, I see; but had I not better see if I can recapture the scoundrel?”
“No. Do as I bid you. Come into the house.”
Lady Marvlynn led the way, the officer of the law following. He was presently conducted into the servants’ hall, where he found a well-spread table.
He thought the circumstance a little singular, and could not very well account in anything like a satisfactory manner for the release of the culprit, but he was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself――to hear, see, and say nothing.
CXLII. CHARLES PEACE RETURNS HOME――THE BARRISTER’S STORY
Charles Peace, after his release from the stable, succeeded in getting out of the neighbourhood without attracting the attention of any officious or inquiring policeman.
Used as he had been throughout his lawless career to dangerous escapes and alternations of fortune, this last adventure appeared to make so deep an impression on him that he was quite unnerved.
This is saying a great deal, seeing that he was a man of so essentially a callous nature that the better instincts of his nature were submerged beneath an amount of guilt and atrocity, which, to a casual observer, would appear to be almost incredible.
He could not fail to acknowledge to himself that he had a desperate struggle and a narrow escape. Had Lady Marvlynn elected to give him into custody he knew perfectly well that the hangman’s halter awaited him, for Lady Batershall knew perfectly well who he was, and she was too truthful by nature to screen him by any false statements.
He did not for a moment doubt that she would have every wish to do so, but it would become an impossibility if he had been sent for trial.
The world would then know that the respectable elderly gentleman in the Evalina-road, who passed as Mr. Thompson, was the murderer of Mr. Dyson, of Banner-cross.
As Peace thought of this he turned pale and trembled for the future.
He looked at this time a most pitiable object――his head throbbed with pain, and in addition to this his legs and shoulders bore upon them many severe bruises, the result of his fall through the conservatory.
He was, however, not much injured by the broken glass, as his antagonist, the stalwart footman, was the first to fall through the roof of the conservatory, nevertheless he was in a most dilapidated condition, and felt dispirited and sick of heart.
When he had got out of the neighbourhood he betook himself to a small coffee-shop. Here he had some refreshment, and begged permission to go into one of the bedrooms to wash himself, alleging as an excuse that he had been engaged in a fight with some one who had insulted him.
Whether the coffee-house keeper believed his story it would not be so easy to say; however, he affected to do so. The house he kept was not of very good repute, being, in fact, one to which thieves resorted.
Peace, after a wash up, together with a plentiful application of cold water to his head, felt a little better, and after swallowing his coffee and muffin, once more proceeded on his journey.
He was now passable in his external appearance, so much so as not to attract attention; so in the course of half an hour after he had left the coffee-shop he went to the bar of a roadside public and swallowed two stiff glasses of brandy and water.
As we have already indicated he was never at any time a drinking man, but, as he afterwards declared, he was so “limp” on this occasion that he was fain to have recourse to stimulants to wind himself up.
We need not follow his footsteps further――it will be enough to note that he reached his residence in safety. Lady Marvlynn and Aveline returned to the grand room, in which the guests were assembled.
An inquiry was made by several with regard to the prisoner, and a general expression of astonishment very naturally followed, when they were informed by the hostess that he had been set free.
“What!――let the scoundrel go?” exclaimed Colonel Snappe. “I never heard of such a thing. Why, my dear Lady Marvlynn, what could you have been thinking about?”
“He was contrite, and pleaded for mercy,” said her ladyship, with a shrug. “I suppose I have done wrong, but I could not find it in my heart to detain him.”
“Well, I am indeed astonished,” said Lord Chetwynd. “It is positively most reprehensible.”
“I expected you would all censure me,” observed Lady Marvlynn; “but it is done, and can’t be helped now.”
“But the scoundrel knocked my hat over my eyes, and would have killed me if I’d given him the chance,” exclaimed Lord Fitzbogleton. “He’s a wetch whom hanging is too good for. I am sowwy you have let him go.”
“So am I; so are we all, I expect,” remarked Major Smithers Smyth. “What say you, Mr. Quirp?”
Mr. Quirp was a solicitor of Furnival’s-inn, Holborn.
“I always regret hearing of the escape of a robber,” said he. “It but too frequently happens that men belonging to the criminal class escape through their victims declining to prosecute. There are many reasons for this. In the first place the duty which falls to the share of a prosecutor is at once an onerous and unpleasant one. It is attended with great inconvenience, loss of time, and in some cases considerable expense, and hence it is that so many object to the task.”
“Clearly so,” observed Mr. Tangle, another of the company, a barrister in the Temple. “It has always been so. People do not like to be hanging about police-courts, but it is essential in the interests of society that persons should sacrifice their own personal comfort for the public good.”
“I dare say Lady Marvlynn has made use of her good sense and judgment in this case,” cried Sir William Leathbridge, coming to the rescue. “It may be against the dictatorial opinions or views of our legal friends, but I am quite sure no one ought to blame her or any other woman for leaning to the side of mercy.”
“Hear, hear,” cried several of the company.
“I would not for a moment presume to dictate,” observed Quirp. “It would not be right and proper for me to do so; still, at the same time, I frankly confess I see much to regret in adopting such a course. If you knew how many hardened ruffians, how many habitual thieves escape from this cause, you would, I think, endorse the opinion expressed by myself and Mr. Tangle.”
“I am sure they would, and, what’s more,” chimed in the other lawyer, “there are hundreds and thousands of men in the metropolis and elsewhere who calculate with the greatest possible coolness the chances of detection and conviction, and it is only the reliability and certainty that punishment follows detection that we can hope for any beneficial effect therefrom as a deterrent from the commission of crime.”
“Ah, there is not the slightest doubt of that,” returned Sir William; “but, of course, there are exceptional cases.”
“Very few, I fancy.”
“But the wretch knocked my hat over my eyes,” cried Lord Fitzbogleton.
“Do be quiet, and leave the other gentlemen to discuss the question,” observed Arabella Lovejoyce.
“Oh, if you wish it, I will remain silent.”
“I do wish it.”
“Weally, Awabella, you are vewy pwovoking.”
“And very unjust as well, my lord,” remarked Quirp. “The fact of his knocking your hat over your eyes is an additional reason for his not having mercy shown to him.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Lady Batershall, “it is not much use discussing the question now. Make yourselves as happy and comfortable as possible, and forget that a burglar has disturbed the harmony of the evening for a brief period.”
“Well said,” cried Sir William Leathbridge. “I move that we adjourn the discussion sine die. How say you?”
“Agreed,” cried several.
“And so to change the subject,” said Mr. Tangle, “I will just recount for your delectation a case that came under my notice.”
“That’s right,” cried Major Smithers Smythe.
“Every man has something interesting to tell of his experience in life, and none are more prolific in that way than you gentlemen of the legal profession.”
“I am not about to discuss some knotty point of law,” observed Tangle. “I leave that to its proper arena――a court of justice.”
“I know as much about law as a Hottentot,” returned Smythe. “Still, although ignorant, I’m willing to learn.”
“It was in the earlier days of my career,” said Tangle, “and briefs were like angels’ visits, but few and far between――in fact I had begun seriously to contemplate emigrating to British Columbia, or to some equally distant and desolate locality.
“Fortunately for me and society generally, which sooner or later must recognise my distinguished merits by placing me on the bench, I abandoned the idea of British Columbia, and went to Reading; a beneficent fate rewarded me for my courage in the shape of a big brief with a small fee, to defend two men for conspiring to cheat a young gentleman with more money than brains, by gambling with him and using loaded dice.
“It was a case that had excited a good deal of interest in the neighbourhood, partly from the very remarkable way in which the cheat had been discovered by a stranger who happened to be in the room where the play was going on, and who, suspecting that all was not right, had with a large carving fork pinned the hand of one of the conspirators to the table.
“Underneath it, sure enough, were found the loaded dice, which he had manipulated up and down his sleeve so skilfully that the verdant youth found himself some five hundred pounds to the bad.
“As counsel for the defendants, the aspect of the case was far from inviting, and as the very beery solicitor who instructed me observed, ‘It looked uncommon fishy.’
“In that remark I entirely concurred, and folded up the papers with a hopeless sigh, cursing the ill-luck that always brought me the deadest cases.
“In the present instance there was little for me to do but to sit by and hold my tongue――a process, by-the-way, anything but satisfactory to one fond of hearing the sound of his own voice.
“Apart from professional regrets, I could not help feeling that this precious pair of rascals thoroughly deserved all they were likely to get, and the longer they were shut up, the better for the community at large.
“The trial came on in due course, and the two prisoners were placed at the bar. As I looked at them, I was much struck with their gentlemanly appearance and dress, but then I remembered that, all that was part of the stock-in-trade of persons of their class, and turning to my brief, prepared to do battle.
“As this is but a subsidiary portion of my story, it is unnecessary for me to linger over the details of the trial. They say that lucky fate often follows on the footsteps of rogues, and in this instance, by some unpardonable carelessness on the part of the constable, the loaded dice which had been found under the hand of one of the prisoners were not forthcoming, and after a great deal of wrangling with the counsel on the other side, the learned judge said that the prosecution in not producing it had, in his opinion, failed to make out a sufficient case to go to the jury, and that he must therefore direct a verdict for the acquittal of the prisoners.
“They were as much astonished and overpowered as myself by the unexpected turn things had taken, and with admirable celerity disappeared from the dock.
“Some four years afterwards I received a very pressing invitation from my old Eton friend, Charlie Forrester, asking me to run down to his place in Devonshire, and spend a few days with him.
“Master Charlie, whose lines had fallen in exceeding pleasant places, and who at twenty-one had come into a very nice estate and some five thousand pounds annually, after tantalising all the marriageable girls in the county by refusing to go to balls and croquet parties, with invitations for which he was pertinaciously pestered from morning till night, had finally taken himself abroad, no one knew whither, and there remained between four and five years.
“When he returned home again he brought a wife with him, a proceeding on his part which excited general discontent and disapprobation.
“But Charlie cared very little what the country folks thought about him.
“He was passionately fond of his wife, and consequently devoted to home, while he occupied his time in regulating the affairs of his estate and improving the breed of pigs. In short, he found within the limits of his park fence all the amusements and society he required.
“His attachment for his wife was not surprising, for she was indeed a most lovely and charming woman, full of intelligence and good sense, and in every way fitted to preside over a household.
“When she and Charlie first met at Pau she was the governess in an English family that was staying there; their courtship lasted but a few days, and one fine morning they met by appointment, and walking together to the church, were married before breakfast.
“Violet Danvers had no idea of the position, pecuniary or otherwise, that attached to Charlie, but her life had been full of troubles, and all she knew was that he had been very kind and good to her.
“Friends and relations she had none,” she said; and then, as she rested her head against his breast, and looked up into his eyes, Charles felt that Heaven had sent her for him to love and cherish.
“He told her of his past life, and his wanderings in distant countries, and sought to engage her confidence in return; but she always seemed to avoid all reference to her own past, and would hurriedly turn the conversation into quite another channel.
“Charlie was not of a suspicious nature, and had far too much love and confidence in his wife to fancy that she was concealing anything from him.
“And so Violet came to her new home――to the old home in which generations of Forresters had lived and died.
“It was not so very long after they had taken up their abode at ‘The Lions,’ that I received the invitation before alluded to; and as the long vacation had already commenced, and my pecuniary resources were not in a condition to stand a trip even to the sea-side, I thought the best thing I could do was to accept the hospitality that my old friend offered me.
“A few days more found me comfortably installed at ‘The Lions,’ thoroughly enjoying the fresh air and strong exercise that followed, in pleasing contrast to the heated atmosphere of close courts and continuous sitting in dingy chambers.
“I found Mrs. Forrester a most charming and amusing companion, though I could not help being struck by an air of constraint and reserve that at times settled upon her. A very brief acquaintance satisfied me that there was some mystery attaching to her which she dared not reveal.
“One morning at breakfast, Charlie, after reading a letter he had just received by the post, informed us that it was from an old Paris friend of his whom he had met in his traveller days, and who, in pursuance of a long-standing invitation, had written to say that he proposed coming on a visit to ‘The Lions,’ and would, without waiting for a reply, put in an appearance that very evening.
“Charlie was delighted at the prospect of seeing his old acquaintance, and in the course of a walk over the farm he informed me the name of the coming guest was Murray, and that he was blessed with a great deal of more ready wit than ready cash.
“‘Though he is a bit of an adventurer in his way,’ said Charlie, ‘he is a capital fellow, and the best company in the world.’
“It was very late when the expected guest arrived. Mrs. Forrester had retired to bed some time before. As for Charlie and myself, we kept the new comer company while he supped, and when he had done ample justice to the good things before him, it being already in the small hours, bed was voted and carried unanimously.
“I was very sleepy, and beyond uttering a mere commonplace or two had taken little or no notice of the stranger; but when he came across the room and held out his hand, which, oddly enough, was encased in a light-coloured glove of some sort, to bid me good night, as I looked him full in the face, he seemed to start for a moment.
“Although his features were hidden by a heavy moustache and huge beard, there was something about them that appeared familiar to me. Where on earth could I have seen him before?
“When I got upstairs into my bedroom, I puzzled my brain with inquiries, but all in vain; I could connect the face with nothing, and nothing with the face, and with that I got angry with myself, and went to sleep.
“The next morning I awoke early, and feeling a strong inclination for a walk before breakfast, tumbled headlong into my cold tub, and in a very short time after had completed my ‘toilette,’ and was out in the glorious fresh air.
“An hour’s stroll brought me back to the window of the breakfast-room, which opened into the garden, and with the appetite of a tiger I was on the point of entering when my step was arrested by the sound of Mrs. Forrester’s voice, trembling with emotion, exclaiming, ‘Say it is not true!――for pity’s sake, say it is not true!’
“What could this mean? Being of a curious turn――my conduct may have been disgraceful, but hereafter I hope to stand excused for it; I moved into a position where I could see into the breakfast room without being seen, and hear all that was said.
“In an arm-chair by the table, her face buried in her hands, and her elbows resting on her knees, Mrs. Forrester was rocking herself to and fro in a way that showed her to be labouring under deep emotion.
“Close to her, in a strangely cool and insolent attitude stood the new comer of last night, stroking his moustache with his gloved fingers.
“‘Upon my word, my dear Violet,’ he replied to her entreaty, with a measured slowness of speech that made me long to kick him, ‘I regret to say that it is true; Arthur Bernard is no more dead than I am. Like Norval’s father, he at the present moment feeds his flocks, not, however, upon the Grampian Hills, but in the neighbourhood of the great city of Otago.’
“‘But they told me he was dead,’ almost shrieked Mrs. Forrester; ‘the people who were with him when he died wrote to me.’
“‘Wrote to you!’ interrupted Murray with suspicious eagerness. ‘Have you got the letter?’
“‘No, I dared not keep it,’ she replied, ‘lest it should fall into my husband’s hands. Listen,’ she continued, hurriedly; ‘he knows nothing of the past――not even of my first marriage; I have kept it all, everything from him; for pity’s sake leave this place, where, save for the thought of that, I have been so happy, and let him remain in ignorance still.’
“‘Gently, Violet, gently!’ responded the man, unmoved in the least degree by her appeal. ‘Firstly, let me observe that, having promised myself a short stay in the country, I can hardly terminate it so abruptly as you desire me; in the next, as in addition to the agreeable change of air, I have met, quite unexpectedly, with an old companion for whom I have been searching ever so many years, and to whom I have a good deal to say, it would be quite impossible to do as you wish.’
“She made no response, only kept her face still buried in her hands as he went on. ‘At last, Violet Bernard, the game is in my hands. You laughed at my love, jeered at my protestations of devotion for you, curled up your proud lip at me, and dismissed me from your presence with contempt when I asked you to be my wife. I have not forgotten that, and never shall――never, never! But sooner or later you must hear me; mark, you must! Else――――’ He paused an instant, and continued, ‘I won’t threaten, but remember Arthur Bernard lives!’
“At this juncture Charles entered the room, but not before Mrs. Forrester had had time to collect herself; while Murray, without appearing in the least disconcerted, went on making some commonplace remarks about the weather.
“As for myself, this interview, of which I had been an unseen spectator, had naturally aroused varied emotions, and before putting in an appearance at the breakfast table I thought it best to take a walk round the garden to indulge in a few moments’ reflection.
“The confession is somewhat humilating, but I have always been rather fond of interfering in other people’s affairs, and in the present instance, having seen and heard all I had, I felt exceedingly reluctant to let the matter drop. The mystery attaching to Mrs. Forrester was not very difficult to unravel――at least in its main feature.
“As for this Murray and the influence he seemed to possess over her, I had long since made up my mind that he was a villain who would stoop to any device, however contemptible, to ensure the success of any evil enterprise in which he might be engaged.
“I determined to use every endeavour to defeat him in his present scheme, though let it not be for a moment supposed that any heroics were mixed up in this resolve.
“I looked upon the whole matter rather as a game of chess, in which by hook or by crook I must checkmate my adversary.
“When I reached the breakfast room, the trio seemed on the best possible terms one with another――Charlie cheerful and unsuspicious as ever, Mrs. Forrester playing nervously with a tiny piece of toast, which she made pretence to eat, but never touched, and Murray eating and talking with equal earnestness.
“‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as I came in, ‘your wife and I, Charlie, have discovered that we are old acquaintances. Curious, isn’t it?’ Wheels within wheels! What fools we are to fancy our world to be such a huge place!’
“I looked at his face as I sat down at the table more closely than I ever had before, and again the old thought of last night came back to me.
“Then my eyes involuntarily settled on his hands; they were still encased in light gloves.
“I do not know what it was that prompted me, but, joining in the conversation, I said――
“‘You are right; I often tumbled across people I never expected to see again――mere passing acquaintances. Do you know,’ I continued, ‘last night when you arrived I fancied we had met before, though then you had no beard and moustache?’
“I could have sworn, and did to myself at the moment, that his hand trembled as he raised his cup to his lips; but a moment after, as he set it down again, he was perfectly calm and cool, while in a nonchalant tone he replied――
“‘I must say you have the advantage of me, as I am not aware that we ever met before; indeed, I am quite sure that we never did. Besides, I have worn a beard and moustache ever since one or the other would grow.’
“‘Why, when you were in Paris you were as clean shaven as a priest on a feast-day,’ burst in Charlie, quite innocently; but Murray, without taking any notice of the observation, turned to Mrs. Forrester, and commenced talking to her about something quite different.
“Slowly, but surely, a conviction was growing upon me that made me pay considerable respect to my impressions of the night before, and determined me to be more watchful than ever.
“My only fear was that Mrs. Forrester, in the weakness of her terror, would take some desperate step, when after all, as I firmly believed, there was not the slightest ground for alarm.
“In the course of the next twenty-four hours, by dint of pertinacious listening and watching, I found that Murray’s protestations of affection cooled in proportion as he ingenuously hinted that his silence may be purchased for a reasonable sum――a suggestion that his victim caught eagerly at, only to be the more crushed by the revulsion of feeling that followed when she reflected how utterly impossible it was for her to obtain the two hundred pounds he modestly asked.
“He was treading on dangerous ground, this same Murray; even as he stood there I might have handed him into the custody of the nearest constable on a charge of endeavouring to extort money by threats and menaces.
“Looking at it from a legal point of view, this would have been an excellent course to adopt; but it was the exposure that was to be avoided, and, therefore, it was necessary to adopt different tactics.
“For three days I watched――with what a trial to the patience can readily be imagined――this human spider torturing the poor fly he had got into his web: he cool, courteous, and insinuating as he worked out his scheme; she growing weaker and weaker, and losing all strength and courage, only to find it again to take one last desperate step, and thus for ever put an end to the torture she was suffering.
“Yet all this while her husband seemed to notice nothing amiss with her, though her eyes were often red with weeping, and her face wore a settled look of melancholy and despair.
“Not that he failed in affection or tenderness, only he was one of those men who, in the goodness of their own digestions and the smoothness of their life-stream, look upon dyspepsia as a popular delusion, and cannot understand why any one should be unhappy.
“It was the evening of the fourth day since Murray’s arrival, and after dinner I had left him and Charlie discussing a bottle of ’54 Chateau Margaux and their old Paris days, and was wandering down a side-path that led into the plantation, when I suddenly trod on something.
“Looking downward, I saw that it was a pocket-book, of somewhat bulky dimensions. There was only one thing to be done――namely, to pick it up, unclasp it, and examine the contents――which, I need scarcely add, I faithfully did.
“This investigation having been satisfactorily accomplished, I placed the pocket-book in my pocket, and strolled on into the plantation, again to reflect what my next move with Mr. Murray should be. I knew the game was in my hands “now;” my only puzzle was, how to play it without making a disturbance.
“Still, what was to be done must be done quickly. As I came to this determination I found myself standing by a small lake that lay in the midst of the plantation; almost at the same moment I heard a groan, as of some one in distress.
“Turning eagerly to the direction whence it seemed to come; through the dusk which was now growing into darkness, I saw the flutter of a white dress near the head of the lake. I know not what possessed me, but a thought seized me that sent me tearing through the bushes and brambles with frantic speed.
“A few seconds more, and I had caught Mrs. Forrester by the wrist.
“‘What would you do, woman?’ I exclaimed, breathless.
“She made no answer――only fell fainting at my feet.
“When I got back to the house I found Murray alone in the dining-room, paying the closest attention to a second bottle of the ’54 Chateau Margaux, to better appreciate which the lamp had been brought in, so that he might examine the marvellous beauty of its colour.
“Charlie was closeted in the smoking-room with his farm bailiff; in short, the opportunity of an interview alone with Murray, that I so much wanted, presented itself. I was not slow to take advantage of it; and, flinging myself into an arm-chair close to him, poured out a glass of wine, and settled comfortably to my task.
“It was pretty plain that he was anything but pleased at the prospect of a tete-a-tete, and seemed not altogether easy in his chair.
“‘I was thinking of taking a stroll in the garden,’ he said, half rising from his chair.
“‘A pity to leave such excellent tipple,’ I replied; ‘besides, it’s rather chilly. ‘Do you know,’ I continued, ‘I have been thinking of that observation you made the other night, when I said we had met before, and, upon my word, I believe I was right after all. I have such a capital memory for faces that I cannot imagine myself mistaken.”
“‘Indeed,’ he laughed, roughly, ‘you seem to have great confidence in yourself; unfortunately, as I told you, in this instance you are mistaken.”
“‘Well, perhaps I am,’ was my answer, as I drew my chair a little nearer to his. “The strangest part of my error was that I fancied you were one of two men I defended at Reading some four years ago, for conspiring to cheat a young undergraduate out or his money by playing with loaded dice.’
“He was far too much on his guard to make any sign; he only said, with a smile, ‘You certainly paid me a great compliment.’ But I saw that he was drawing away his right hand, which had hitherto been resting on the table. ‘It was a remarkable case,’ I continued, ‘chiefly from the way in which the roguery was detected. The hand of the man who was manipulating the loaded dice was, as yours might be, on the table, to all appearances, in the most innocent manner possible’――with that, as if to give him ocular demonstration of the way in which the cheat had been effected, I took hold of his hand and held it on the table――‘when a stranger, who had been sitting at the further end of the room, came quickly to the side of the rogue, and in an instant more had pinned his hand with a carving-fork to the mahogany.’ I felt that I had carried the play on long enough, and quickly inserting my finger at the top of his glove, I tore it down the back. He jumped to his feet, and so did I. “You are the man,’ I said, ‘whose hand was so pinned to the table, and that scar is the evidence I should call, if it were necessary to prove it, Therefore, sit down and hear what else I have to say.’
“He glared viciously at me, lifted his fist as if he would have struck me, and then sank into his chair again.
“‘A man who could try to rob a poor silly boy by such disgraceful means,’ I continued, ‘could bardly be expected to have any pity on a helpless woman; but, fortunately, I have been a witness of your endeavours on more than one occasion, by threats and menaces, to extort a large sum of money from your host’s wife, and that by representing to her that her first husband was alive, and at Otago, New Zealand, when you knew as well as I do that he was dead, and has been so these two years.’
“‘He is not dead,’ growled Murray.
“‘He is dead,’ I replied, ‘and your own pocket-book proves it.’
“As I said this, I held up to him the wallet that I had tumbled upon in the plantation walk, in one of the pockets of which, among a number of other exceedingly suspicious-looking documents, I had found a certificate of the death of Arthur Bernard.
“But as I have been a very long time in telling my story――barristers are proverbially long-winded, you know――I must hurry to a conclusion.
“The morning following our interview, Murray, with many excuses and regrets, found himself unavoidably compelled to return to town.
“As he got into the phaeton that was to take him to the station he kindly whispered in my ear, ‘I’ll live to pay you out for this yet!’ a promise that I somehow or other fancy he will fulfil some day. Till then I am content to forget all about him.
“As for Mrs. Forrester, the clouds upon her horizon have lifted; she has buried a sad and painful past, and lives in a present, loved as dearly and tenderly as ever by Charlie, who knows nothing, and who never shall, unless she, as I have advised her, has the courage to tell him all, even to the extent that her first husband, Arthur Bernard, was the co-conspirator who stood at Murray’s side in the felon’s dock.
“I have every hope that she will do this, for the confidence between husband and wife should be as clear as the day at noon.”
“Well, Mr. Tangle,” said Lord Chetwynd, when the barrister had brought his narrative to an end, “it is a most interesting story of real life, and I expect you gentlemen of the long robe are the possessors of secrets of a similar character, which, in many cases, you are, for various reasons, not permitted to divulge.”
“Yes, we are at times the recipients of many a domestic drama or tragedy.”
“And did Mrs. Forrester ever make known to her husband the history of her first unfortunate marriage?”
“I believe not. Certainly not that I am aware of. It was a matter I did not choose to interfere in beyond giving her a word or so of advice. No man has a right to interfere between husband and wife, you know.”
“He was a base scoundrel,” observed Quirp, “and for such men we should have no pity; one hardly knows what punishment such a fellow deserves.”
“Solitary confinement,” cried Major Smythe. “That’s the way to bring a fellow to his senses. If that doesn’t succeed nothing will.”
“Well, you see,” remarked Quirp, “solitary confinement is so terrible that it cannot be resorted to with safety; after a time it has been found to drive prisoners mad.”
“Drive them mad――eh?”
“Dear me, yes. Didn’t you know that? It is the most fearful of all punishments, and has been tried in the penal prisons of this country and elsewhere. I will give you an account of a prison I visited while this punishment was in operation.
“The prison I am about to speak of was in Philadelphia, to which city an important will case once necessitated my paying a visit. Let me premise here that the solitary system was, at that time at least, practised in American prisons with far more rigour than in English gaols, and sometimes lasted a lifetime, or ended in the madness of the prisoner.”
CXLIII. A VISIT TO A PRISON――SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
“Why, Mr. Quirp, have you been in a prison?” inquired Lady Marvlynn.
“I am sorry to say I have been in a good many, my dear madam,” returned the lawyer. “Not as an inmate――don’t imagine that.”
Upon this the company burst out into a loud laugh.
“No, only as a visitor,” added Quirp. “That is all, and from what I have seen of the internal accommodation of those places I have no desire to dwell therein even for the space of, say, four and twenty hours.”
“You are afraid the air would not agree with you?”
“Exactly so. I am quite sure that neither the air, the food, nor the sleeping accommodation would suit me. But I will give you an account of what I saw.
[Sidenote: No. 77.]
“I had visited a large number of prisoners, when the warder of the Penitentiary said to me, just as we reached the door of a cell whose outward appearance was even more gloomy than those we had visited:――
“‘This is the cell of the prisoner I was speaking about――Dick Malden. I have no time to wait at present, but, if you would like to converse with him, I will lock you in the cell, and call for you, say in half an hour.’
“The warden, in his practical way, was accustomed to allude to his prisoners in much the same manner as the keeper of a menagerie would refer to his living specimens of natural history.
“After all, I thought, there was more reason in this than appeared at the first glance; for no doubt many of the human hearts which were caged in those impenetrable walls of iron and stone, throbbed with fiercer passions and more savage instincts than ever inspired the breast of any wild beast of the field.
“I had become so used to the warder’s manner that, before I assented to his proposition, I was on the point of making inquiries regarding the tameness of the animal within; but I checked myself, and merely signified my assent.
“The door was partially opened, and, by a strange sort of turnstile arrangement, I was inducted alone into the cell.
“‘Scientific visitor for No. 46!’ cried the warder in a loud voice from the outside; then the iron door crashed between us; thud went the shooting bolts, and I heard his echoing steps retreating down the vaulted corridor.
“The cell in which I stood was about ten by fifteen, larger than the ordinary dungeon, and was well lighted by a small grating high in the wall opposite the entrance.
“It contained a small iron bedstead, a small iron table, a small iron chair, and a young man seated on a stool, engaged in pegging shoes with such rapidity that it seemed his life must depend upon completing a gigantic taste in an impossibly short space of time.
“But upon my entrance, he threw down his work, and rushed up to me with an eagerly extended hand, and a wild joyous blaze in his eyes (they were very fine eyes――large, gray, lustrous, and expressive), as if I were a brother or a near friend from whom he had long been separated.
“I noticed that the young man was very handsome, even in his degrading prison dress. His frame was lithe and sinewy, his hands and feet small and delicately shaped.
“His face was smooth and beardless as a woman’s, his features regular, and singularly handsome, and the contour of his closely cropped head was noble and dignified; yet, with all these redeeming characteristics, there was the inevitable stamp of the born criminal over all.
“His physiognomy was one of those strange, rarely encountered specimens, where, through the mask of good nature, shines forth the glimmering of a depravity so natural to the possessor as to render even him totally unconscious of its existence. But I liked the intensity of feeling with which he grasped my hand.
“‘Take a chair,’ said he, pushing up the single chair, and seating himself on the side of the iron bedstead. ‘I hope you will pardon my vehemence, sir, when I say that yours is the only human face I have seen for, I judge, eight months.’
“‘Are you in earnest?’ I exclaimed in amazement――for, much as I condemned the system of solitary confinement, I was not aware that it was carried to this extent in America.
“‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the prisoner, Dick Malden. ‘You will perceive, by the peculiar construction of that door, that I cannot even see the face of my gaoler when he brings me food. Even in the chapel, on the Sabbath, our seats are so arranged that we can neither see each other nor the face of the chaplain who preaches to us. We used to have some relief by being able to speak to each other through the water-pipes of the necessary here,’ said he, pointing to the apparatus, just below the small grating; ‘but they found it out, and now even that avenue of communication is obstructed. They have got us solitary enough now!’
“As the young man said this, a wan smile crossed his lips.
“‘What is the term of your sentence?’
“‘A lifetime.’
“‘And your crime?’
“‘Murder!’
“There was something terrible in his calm, even tones, and I instinctively shrank back at the dreadful word. Perceiving that the gesture pained him, however, I continued the colloquy by asking――
“‘Pray how many times have you been in prison, Mr. Malden?’
“‘Call me Dick, sir,’ said the prisoner, laughing, but evidently gratified at my civility. ‘I have been in prison――in this same prison――five times, when they “copped” me on this last go; I had a pretty sure thing of it, however.’
“‘I suppose if you were released to-morrow,’ said I, ‘it would not be long before you would be back again?’
“‘Very likely,’ he replied, nodding his head meditatively.
“Then, perceiving the mingled curiosity and incredulity in my countenance, he continued――
“‘If you care to hear it, sir, I don’t mind giving you some particulars of a thief’s story. The last man I saw, about eight months ago, was a sort of a tract distributor, who asked me a great many silly questions about religious matters, of which he himself was as ignorant as that spider on the wall there. He was one of your d――――d canting hypocrites, without enough brains to call a congregation into a God-shop, and without pride enough to work for a living, so I turned my back on him at the start. I see nothing but pleasant sympathy in your face, however, and would like the most of my half-hour with you.’
“I gladly assented, and the prisoner-for-life began his story as follows:――
“‘I never knew my mother, and my father was a professional thief――at least, he was when I first recognised him as my father. He brought me up as a thief, and I soon proved a wonderful adept, but, in his drunken moments (he was seldom sober) he beat me so cruelly that, when fourteen years of age, I ran away from him, and came from the western city, in which we lived, to this city.
“‘I was an accomplished thief for one so young. There was nothing in that queer Latin of the thief’s lexicon that I was not thoroughly conversant with, and, being acquainted with all the secret signals, I was enabled, at almost every point of my journey, to form any variety of acquaintance in my now peculiar life.
“‘I could “fake” a “wipe,” or “crib” a “spoon,” with the best of them, and was not long in teaching the swell-mob of the eastern coast more than they knew, and, moreover, what was not imported from foreign countries either.
“‘But, somehow or another, I was not naturally inclined to the profession, and, accident befriending me, I became a lawyer’s clerk in Philadelphia.
“‘My employer had a very extensive library, and so much did I enjoy reading, that I remained with him for a number of years, improving my mind, and robbing my employer so moderately it was imperceptible.
“‘I dressed well, and moved in decent circles, but, when eighteen years of age, I overstepped my modesty, robbed my master of two hundred dollars, and fled, for I knew he would not forgive me.
“‘He pursued, arrested, and imprisoned me. This sealed my fate. Allow me to say to you sir, that I know it to be both wrong and impolite, to steal; but in some cases I can convince you that it can’t be helped. My imprisonment was of brief duration, but it was sufficient to confirm me as a villain and a wretch.
“‘This system of solitary confinement can never reform a criminal. I have tried it for many years, and I ought to know.’
“The prisoner-for-life paused contemplatively, and I could not help wondering at these unusual comments from such lips.
“‘No,’ he continued, ‘they will never succeed in reforming the world that way; I am certain of it. Look at it yourself from my point of view, and you will see it in the same light. Here am I, say, arrested for theft. Grant the crime――what’s the use of denying it after you’re judged?
“‘And I will credit the law by saying this much, that I was never imprisoned unjustly in my life. I am suddenly picked up from the street, and, after a brief trial (I would willingly dispense with that, because my word goes for nothing, and I have no friends), placed in solitary confinement for six months, a year, or two years.
“‘No person, sir, who has never undergone the punishment, can even imagine the slow agony of solitary confinement. You could not stand it a year. I, who by this time, should be pretty well used to it, will be able to stand it ten or twelve years longer, when my life-imprisonment will be at an end. Save in the case of such visits as yours, no human face is seen by the prisoner.
“‘You probably wondered, when you entered this cell, why I worked so hard. When we first come here, we are given the choice of doing nothing or working. We always prefer the former at first; but not many days of thought――wild, mad, wearing, eternal, lonely thought――are required to drive us to the latter alternative, and we work so hard, so incessantly, in order to forget ourselves, that the authorities make much more out of us than they could out of honest workmen.
“‘You see, sir, we must forget ourselves, and that is what we try to do when we work so hard.
“‘Well, suppose my term expires, my cell door opened, I am conducted downstairs, change these striped clothes for those relinquished upon entering the prison, and am shown into the street――free to do as I will.
“‘Imagine my sensations. I have not seen a human face for years, perhaps, and now, suddenly, I see thousands.
“‘I am just as if I were translated into another planet――or like Rip Van Winkle after his thirty years’ nap. My clothes are out of fashion, houses have been built where I remember nothing but empty lots. The faces of men and women in the streets seem unreally vivid and distinct.
“‘The roar and rumble of the street confuse my brain. I am bewildered, lost. The few dollars I have earned through overwork in the prison are speedily expended for necessities. I am penniless in the world. It is difficult to obtain honest employment.
“‘Credentials are almost always required; and who would employ a convict? The only acquaintances whom I meet in the populated streets are those whom I knew of old――fellow-thieves. From these alone I receive the cordial smile of welcome, the warm handclasp of friendship. However deeply I may have resolved upon reformation, my old unprincipled feelings repossess me.
“‘I borrow money of thieves, visit the old cribs mostly frequented by thieves, meet and become intimate with women――often very pretty girls――who are thieves, and whom I have known before. This is my only sympathy in the world.
“‘There is nothing intentionally false or down-dragging in their smiles and their welcomes, because I belong to their tribe, and know that they are really glad of my release from the Penitentiary.
“‘Well, thieving is the only legitimate occupation I have. A few weeks’ dissipation serves to render me forgetful of my prison experience, hard and bitter as it may have been.
“‘My trade is a precarious one――from day to day, from hand to mouth. If the hardships, the danger, the necessary and never-ceasing anxiety of a life of pillage could be presented to the infant mind, I think there would be no thieves.
“‘It is terrible, and yet, to one who has been initiated into the wicked mysteries, there is a fascination which cannot be resisted.
“‘It is all luck――I may run a day, a week, a month, a year; but, sooner or later, I am sure to feel the cop’s accusing grip upon my shoulders――and the eternal dread of this is what gives the wandering glitter which you may have noticed in the thief’s eye, and which renders his life a torment of restlessness and fear.
“‘Well, after a while, I find myself here again, and immediately pitch in to drown my wretchedness in hard work.
“‘The magistrates know me, and treat me as an old customer; and here, in the prison, they regard me as an erratic boarder (permanent enough now!) who will be sure to return again.
“‘This is the routine of my own life, and may answer for that of many of my class.
“‘I will relate to you the circumstances of my last arrest――and my final one, for I firmly believe that I shall never again quit these prison walls alive.
“‘I had just finished a term of four years, and, after praying to God very sincerely, and reasoning with myself very strongly, and come to the determination to lead an honest life, if within the scope of possibility. Fortune favoured me, and I obtained a subordinate position in the office of a prominent lawyer.
“‘He knew my history. I told it all to him, and threw myself upon his generosity. He extended his hand nobly to me. For a long time I did not repay his kindness with ingratitude. I suffered more than he thought in my endeavours to be honest.
“‘Every day I would encounter the sneers of my comrades in the street, and frequently their curses, but still remained firm in my good resolutions.
“‘My employer was an old bachelor. His office was in the front part of his dwelling, which was presided over by his housekeeper, Mrs. Stanton, an eccentric, but kind-hearted old lady. I noticed, casually, that my employer never banked any of his money, and, at the same time, very seldom had much of it upon his person, so out of mere curiosity (I assure you, sir, it was nothing but curiosity), I set myself to find out what he did with it, until one day I discovered, while accidentally traversing an upper hall in his house, that he secreted it somewhere in an old bureau, in his own bedroom.
For several days after this I could not help thinking what a shrewd old fellow my employer was, to deposit his money in such an out-of-the-way place, instead of letting all the world know its whereabouts by the presence of the usual massive and cumbrous iron safe.
“‘Well, sir, one bright morning, Mr. B――――, my employer, sent me to collect a bad debt for an inconsiderable amount, and, as I left the office, I noticed that the door of the dwelling-house was wide open.
“‘I was pretty sweet on Polly, the cook, or she was on me, which was better yet, and I thought it wouldn’t do any harm just to run into the kitchen and give her a good-morning kiss. As Satan would have it, Polly wasn’t in the kitchen, and there were signs of her having just gone to market.
“‘I glanced into the little sitting-room, which Mrs. Stanton nearly always occupied when she was in the house, and, to my surprise, there were signs of her having also just gone to market.
“‘Greatly marvelling that such a nice house should be thus left all alone, I thought I would just take a look around the premises, out of mere curiosity. To make a long story short, I found myself presently in Mr. B――――’s bedchamber, gazing very curiously at that old bureau, somewhere in which I knew he kept his money. At first my curiosity was genuine, but I gradually began to think how many nice things I could buy if that money was mine.
“‘I was sadly in need of a suit of clothes, and was also very fond of dress. I hadn’t been on the spree for a long, long time, and, just at this unfortunate moment, my mouth began to water for the wine-cup.
“‘Well, sir, it is hardly worth while for me to describe the various phases of temptation which led, step by step, to the evil deed. I was almost as much surprised at myself as any stranger would have been, had he seen me, when a few minutes later, I found myself rummaging through the drawers of that old bureau, in the most nervous and excited manner.
“‘I was engaged in this manner when I was startled by a loud scream, and wheeled on my heel to perceive the housekeeper, Mrs. Stanton, looking at me. The thought of my position flashed upon me so strongly and vividly that, for a moment, I was incapable of action.
“‘I was too old a bird, however, to be paralysed by fear for more than an instant of time. Her screams continued.
“‘In my wild alarm, I sprang upon her and clutched her throat.
“‘As I did so, a thousand thoughts flashed through my brain. The consequences which would fall upon me should my employer discover any attempt upon his property――the judge’s face, stern and relentless――the words of the prosecuting attorney――the stolid jurymen, with prejudice and hatred imprinted upon their foredooming faces――and then the walls of this accursed prison rose before me, with their stony hopelessness augmented fifty-fold. I continued to choke down her accursed cries more vigorously as these terrible thoughts fleeted through my head.
“‘At length she ceased struggling, and, slowly relinquishing my grip, I laid her upon the floor. I then bent over her, with a cold, icy horror at my heart, never experienced before; for I perceived that the housekeeper was dead.
“‘I had no control over myself after that, sir. In my wild excitement I rushed to the nearest police-station, hurriedly confessed my crime, and was arrested. At the subsequent trial I was found guilty of murder in the first degree, and sentenced to be hanged. In view of the extenuating circumstances, as they called them, my sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life, and here I am.’
“‘Good-bye, sir, and may God bless you! I hear the warden at the door.’
“Tears stood in his eyes as he extended his hand to me, and grasping it warmly I quitted the cell. After the door was closed I heard a great hammering going on within, and I knew that the prisoner-for-life was forgetting his loneliness in the monotonous hum-drum of shoe-pegging.”
“Poor fellow,” said Lord Fitzbogleton. “What a dweadful punishment it must be to be impwisoned for life!”
“Yes, it is a most melancholy state of existence without doubt,” said Smythe: “and, to say the truth, it appears almost miraculous how prisoners are able to bear so severe a punishment, but in most cases they deserve what they get. The wonder is that there are not more escapes, seeing that so many are driven to what one might call a desperate condition.”
“When I was in the United States,” said Captain Crasher, “escapes and attempted escapes from prison were frequent occurrences, but here in the old country, as our Transatlantic cousins term it, the chances for prisoners freeing themselves from bondage are but few and far between. Nevertheless, even here successful attempts at escape do take place, despite the surveillance kept over the unfortunate denizens of a penal prison. When I was in America many of the convicts of Clinton prison strove to be again on their travels. No less than thirteen tried to escape within the space of two months. Whether this was caused by the neglect of the officers, or the insecurity of the prison, I will not intend to say, but as we are discoursing on prison life, I will just give you an account of the rascals at Clinton, and how they managed to escape, or, at least, tried to do so.
“First, two of their number made their exit from the forge during the night, which is closely guarded inside and out by several of the most efficient guards of the prison.
“Strange to say, these same two escaped from the same place last summer.
“Their names were Samuel Tweed and Henry Austin.
“After leaving the prison they proceeded to a barn in the vicinity, where they procured a horse and waggon, with which they managed to reach the village of Saranac, some six or eight miles distant; but there finding their great enemy, the snow, had not left the premises, and as they were unable to use the waggon any further, the snow being so deep, they concluded to tramp it on foot, and to their sorrow, for they were quickly followed by officers Christian and Hagerty, who succeeded in first capturing Tweed; but, Austin being somewhat of a more daring character, attempted to fight it out, paying no attention to the word ‘halt’ given by Mr. Hagerty.
“Seeing that Austin meant to try his speed, Mr. Hagerty discharged his revolver over the convict’s head, which, as intended, brought him to bay. Finally they were once more secured in their old quarters, and now wear a heavy log chain as a reward of their escapade.
“Not the least daunted by the failure of his brother convicts, William Wallace (no relation of the Scotch chieftain), who was employed as engineer at the rolling-mill, took it into his head to vamose; so, by playing possum with the keeper, he succeeded in leaving the prison.
“He could not have scaled the stockade before the alarm was given, but, alas! the bird had flown, and was not caught for some days aterwards, and then by chance, he being hidden in the woods, heard a gun discharged close by, and, thinking he had been discovered, took to his heels and ran.
“Those who fired the gun were not in search of escaped convicts, but for pleasure, and pleased they were when they saw fifty dollars within their reach, and which they received for the capture of the said William Wallace, who now works in his old shop, but is not engineer, unless he may be called an engineer in a small way, for I suppose it is a matter of engineering to walk with the large shackle and chain which he wears without injuring his ankles.
“So far I have only recorded escapes and recaptures. Now I come to a trial escape (which is a very rare occurrence).
“It was on Sunday, a day of rest (but not for the prison-keepers), that as usual two convicts were sent from their cells to feed the hogs, but instead of laying out the usual quantity of food for the hogs, they laid out an unusual quantity of food for themselves, contemplating beforehand that they would need it on their travels.
“Travels, I say, for travel they did over the pickets, and God knows where, for they were not seen again for ten or twelve days after. One of them, by name Tanner, happened to come across an old acquaintance of his in the shape of the sheriff of the town he was convicted in.
“The sheriff, knowing his term had not expired, at once arrested him and placed him in gaol, there to await an answer from the prison-officers, concerning the escape of Tanner.
“One of the ex-officers of the prison, Mr. John Thompson, who had been sent in that direction in expectation that Tanner would seek his former acquaintances, was soon at the gaol and immediately recognised him.
“From certain information received from Tanner, in regard to the whereabouts of Yates, his confederate, Thompson and the sheriff proceeded some miles further on in hopes of effecting Yates’s capture.
“In the meantime, Tanner thought he would try his luck once more; so with very little trouble he succeeded in breaking out of the gaol, since which neither he nor Yates has been heard of.
“Probably Mr. Thompson and the sheriff will learn to profit by that somewhat stale proverb, that ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’
“Next comes another escape from that stronghold, the forge. Strange to say, among so many guards, a convict could not be seen to leave his fire and ascend to the roof, from there through a sky-light, as Patrick Curly did, not many nights before, but the fortunate was doomed to misfortune, as it proved, for he succeeded in getting no further than Cadyville, where he was captured and brought back, and by two boys, both younger than himself.
“He now wears the reward of his failure in the shape of a heavy chain fastened to the leg, and it is to be hoped he will learn that the way of the transgressor is hard.
“It was on the evening of the 28th of May, some half-dozen of convicts were employed in the foundry (a rather unusual thing, i.e., after six o’clock, p.m.), in charge of three guards, each having charge of two men; but it seems that one of the guards, a Mr. Burdick, was cross-eyed, which enabled him to see both ways; but unfortunately for his reputation, and I have no doubt for his position, he did not see the way that William Shea and Patrick Foley made their exit, and it was not for some time after they had gone before our friend, Mr. B., became aware of the fact.
“When he was told of it he remarked: ‘Yes, they are gone, and so is my 75 dols. a month gone.’ He being a keeper, was of course at once discharged for neglect of duty.
“Shea, after three days’ hard travelling, became so exhausted, that he concluded to give himself up, which he did to two men, for which they received the usual reward of 50 dols.
“Foley, it seems, was somewhat the toughest, for he managed to stay away two days longer, and after travelling, as he says, about a hundred miles and more, he met two men of whom he inquired how far it was from Canada, which they undertook to show him by bringing him back to the prison, which was somewhat about twelve miles distant.
“Foley participated in the joy of the two men who effected his capture, for on entering the prison-gate, being tied down to a waggon, he looked up and exclaimed ‘How are you, Canada?’
“The usual reward was received by all parties――viz., 50 dols. for the capture of each――and the captured received their reward by having their head shaved in the shape of a cock’s comb, dark cell, and ball and chain; that man-killing machine known as the shower-box being abolished by an act passed by our State Legislature.
“Nothing must do but the Sabbath must be broken, also, the prison windows (which by-the-bye are made of cast iron), by two desperadoes known as James McManus and Washington Roxford.
“The circumstances are as follow:――It seems that when the convict Curly escaped, Charles Richardson, principal keeper, received the information that the said McManus in some way or other assisted him, which justified Richardson in keeping McManus locked up.
“Some time previous Roxford had committed a breach of prison discipline, for which he also was locked up and wore a chain.
“It seems they contemplated to repeat the Sing Sing tragedy, in bucking and gagging the guards, for the material for so doing was found in their rooms; but luckily for Charley Gray, who it seems they intended to select for their victim, they pursued another course, which was to cut their doors, and with a heavy sledge hammer break the cast-iron windows, which they succeeded in doing about nine o’clock a.m.
“While the Sunday school was being held they succeeded in going through the window, but to their surprise they were confronted by several of the guards, who it seems had been on the alert, expecting this for some time. No doubt Charley Richardson rewarded them as they deserved, both being ‘hard cases.’
“It is a strange thing that in this enlightened age one of the State prisons should be as far behind the times as to have doors and windows made of cast iron, which is well known to be utterly useless as a safeguard against convicts’ escapes, and the convicts know it, too.
“It is to be hoped that some means will be found to make the new prison now in contemplation more secure than the one at Dancmora.
“His Excellency Gov. Hoffman paid a visit to the prison some time since, which was not intended as an official one (he being on a pleasant trip to the trout lakes in the vicinity), but the convicts made it one for him, for out of 500 and odd men there nearly one-half wanted to see him, but of course could not, his stay there being but short; but those that did see him were received very kindly, and those who deserved it, I have no doubt, heard from him in a short time, for he had already pardoned two.
“He had no sooner left the prison than three of the convicts took the notion that they would leave too; but thanks to some of the guards they did not go any further than the main sewer, where they had hidden themselves.
“Their names were Obastio (coloured), Whitehead and Howard; all belonging to that unruly school of boys known as the ‘Nail Factory.’
“The guards were aroused in the night, or in the morning, for it was about three, and that, too, on a Sunday morning, by the report of a pistol which was discharged at the convict Hughes, who attempted to break the window with a hammer; but the night-guard, Mr. Kimball, being on watch for such things, quickly made him drop the sledge and cry for quarter. He was not shot, though it was no fault of the guards, for they were determined to make an example of some of those gaol-breakers.
“The convict, Thomas Kelly, was indicted for murder in the first degree, subsequently, for the murder of his fellow-convict, Lorenzo. He was tried at Plattsburgh, the witnesses being mostly convicts.
“A convict there, named Mulligan, a noted river pirate, under sentence of fifteen years, attempted suicide by opening an artery in his arm, and was only saved by the prompt arrival of the prison physician, Arthur S. Wolff.
“Several attempts have been made, of late, in the prisons, upon the lives of officers. In a great many of them they are provoked assaults by the officers, I have no doubt. At least, one came to my notice during my stay.
“It was between a convict named Morrow and Officer Moore. This Moore was a very brutal man, and uses at all times the most abominable language towards his men; and it was a wonder to me that such a man should be allowed in the prison as a keeper.
“Charley Richardson knew this man’s character; why did he not take such steps as would cause his removal? On the same day convict Flaherty attempted to cut Officer Cartwright without any cause whatever.
“What is the use of officers carrying firearms, if they have them in such a position that it takes them so long before they can get at them? I have known about six or seven keepers in one prison who could have prevented the beatings they have received by the timely appearance of their pistols, which they keep slung on a belt around behind them, and in a case, which is kept buttoned.
“Convicts know this; so, when they attack an officer they know they do it without chance of being shot. Never do I remember of one case where a convict was shot in attempting to strike an officer, which was getting to be an every-day occurrence.”
“Gentlemen,” said Lady Marvlynn, “I do hope and trust you have enjoyed yourselves. We have had, I am sure, a most charming and sociable evening. I can speak for myself. The amount of information and interesting matter which many of my guests have kindly furnished us with has been specially acceptable both to myself and many others of the company. There has of course been one circumstance which has broken up the harmony and flow of conversation for a brief period. I allude to the presence of that lawless man whom many of you censure me――and, I admit, with justice, perhaps――for suffering to escape; but at the same time――――”
“Say no more upon that subject, my lady,” interrupted Sir William Leathbridge. “The fellow has had a respite――is far away by this time. The best thing we can do is to forget that he was present here to-night.”
“But he knocked my hat over my eyes, and be hanged to him,” cried Fitzbogleton, “and sent Miss Awabella Lovejoyce into hysterics.”
“Miss Lovejoyce will forgive him, I dare say,” observed the baronet.
“Oh, dear me, yes,” returned the fair Arabella, “most willingly.”
“I felt assured of that,” said the baronet. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are, I take it, all agreed upon one point, this being that our kind friend and hostess has acted with her usual discretion, and, all things considered, it is just as well, and it may be a great deal better, that we are rid of the scoundrel.”
“Certainly, quite right, Sir William,” cried several. “We endorse your opinion most willingly.”
“And so this matter being settled,” observed the baronet, “and seeing also that we have had a long sitting, and however pleasurable the evening may have been, which it has been to all of us――(hear, hear)――nevertheless, as it is now drawing to a close, before we break up I have one toast to propose, and I am sure, speaking from my own personal experience, and the experience also of most――and indeed I may say, all persons present――that you will join me in doing justice to that toast. I will not tell you how many years I have had the honour of knowing Lady Marvlynn, because you see by so doing I should have to go back to the sunny days of my youth, and this would lead up to the unpleasant fact that I might probably be no longer young――in fact, it might be said that I am getting old. (“No, no,” and cheers). Well, we will not dwell upon such an objectionable subject. Her ladyship is the same bright, kind-hearted creature whom I knew, say for the nonce a dozen or so years ago. Time has not changed her, and, as far as I am individually concerned, as years have flown by, my friendship for her ladyship has been strengthened rather than diminished, and I may add that it is a deep and lasting friendship, which I am perfectly well convinced will only end with my life; and, so you see, this being so, I have felt it a duty incumbent on me to propose the health and happiness of Lady Marvlynn. May her future life be one of unclouded sunshine, each day fulfilling the promises of yesterday, still promising to morrow. My friends, Lady Marvlynn!” cried the baronet, raising his glass.
The company stood up and drank the toast with enthusiasm.
Signor Marouski sang a sort of benediction in choice Italian, which was doubtless very fine, but nobody understood it.
This did not much matter, it was very effective, nevertheless.
Other speeches and toasts followed, and shortly after midnight the guests began to take their departure.
Lord Fitzbogleton was the last to leave. He still lingered by the side of Miss Lovejoyce.
“Your carriage is at the door, my lord,” observed the lady.
“I know it,” he answered petulantly. “I am perfectly well assured of that important fact. What does it matter? I am master of my own time――have no wife or babies waiting for my return. Hang it, don’t be in such a hurry to get rid of a fellow.”
“I am in no hurry, my lord.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, and now about the wing. I swear most positively I will not go till I’ve got your pwomise.”
“What promise?”
“What pwomise! Why, that you will consent to accept the wing as a token of my esteem.” He was going to say love, but substituted the other word in lieu of it.
“Your esteem?”
“Certainly. Confound it, Awabella. I intend to always call you Awabella, you know.”
“Well, yes, that, I believe, is an agreement.”
“It is, and you won’t depart from the letter of the law in this respect.”
“There is no reason for my doing so.”
“Well, what was I saying? Where was I? Oh, I know――about your pwomise.”
“We will talk about that when we next meet.”
“Indeed, we will do no such thing. We will talk about it now. I will not leave this house till you have given me your word that you will accept the wing as a token of fwendship and esteem.”
“That is your determination?”
“It is.”
“Then, of course, as you are so persistent I have no alternative. Be satisfied with the assurance that I will accept the gift.”
“I am the happiest of men,” exclaimed the young nobleman. “Farewell for the pwesent, dearest Awabella. You are an angel――that’s what you are.”
“Am I?” she exclaimed, bursting out into a laugh.
“There you go again,” ejaculated her companion. “You are so fond of looking at things in a widiculous light. A fellow don’t like to be held up to widicule. No fellow likes that.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“I have not attempted to hold you up to ridicule,” said she, pouting.
“No, no, I didn’t mean to say that. Pardon me, my charmer, I could not find it in my heart to blame you. You are faultless.”
The champagne and other sparkling wines, together with the excitement of the day, had produced a visible effect upon Fitzbogleton, whose utterance was a little thick.
“We part good friends,” said he. “Say that you are not offended.”
“Goodness me, no!” cried Arabella. “How can I possibly be offended?”
He would not leave go of her hand, but strove as best he could to explain himself. He was a little foggy, and Miss Lovejoyce thought he would never go.
“If he is often like this,” she murmured, “he must be rather a troublesome man.”
At length he made a movement towards the door, and after bidding a final farewell, betook himself to his chocolate-coloured chariot, and was driven off.
And so the festivities at Lady Marvlynn’s were brought to a close.
CXLIV. A GLANCE AT STOKE FERRY FARM HARVEST HOME
For some days after Peace’s return to the Evalina-road he was in a furious savage state. He did not tell anyone of his escapade at the residence of Lady Marvlynn, but those about him were at no loss to divine that something had occurred which not only roused his temper, but made him as sharp and snappish as a rabid dog.
Mrs. Thompson, who had been putting an enemy into her mouth, incurred his displeasure. With brutal ferocity he struck her mercilessly about the face and head. So violent was his attack that one of the unhappy woman’s eyes was closed, in addition to several other bruises, which she received at the hands of her brutal companion; the only wonder is that she consented to remain with him so long.
It was in vain for Mrs. Peace to interfere, for she knew that the chances would have been that she would have been subjected to a similar course of treatment, for Peace ruled his two female companions with a rod of iron.
Bill Rawton strove to pacify the tyrant. He was a man who never at any time of his life treated one of the opposite sex with unkindness, and Peace’s conduct towards the “ladies” of his establishment met with Bill’s unqualified disapproval.
As time went on, however, the owner of the home in the Evalina-road toned down, and it is said that he expressed his regret for his barbarity――anyway, he became more considerate towards those who might at any given moment have handed him over to the officers of the law.
But we must leave the brutal burglar for a while, to take a glance at some of the other characters, who figure in this history.
In the succeeding chapters it will be our purpose to chronicle the career of our hero, with something like an unbroken course of action.
It is, perhaps, needless to say that Mr. Algernon Sutherland dodged the police; he did not present himself at the police-court, where the second examination should have taken place, and the magistrate, Mr. Kensett, felicitated himself upon the fact that the young man had contrived to give his enemies the slip.
Many months had passed over since the capture, and fresh examination of Sutherland took place, and the affair had by this time been nearly if not quite forgotten.
It was autumn, and the harvest time was over, the fields were no longer forests of waving corn, but bare and yellow stubble; the yards of the farmers were filled with portly and imposing sacks of corn, warm and sweet beneath thin roofs of pale clean thatch.
Harvest time is the holiday of country labourers――one of hard work and high wages, which is the best holiday of all.
At harvest time men and women, who in some parts of England are still preferred to machines, earn the chance of buying for themselves and families new corduroy trousers, cotton gowns, and nailed boots for the ensuing year.
But there are few (however temperately they may have lived during the other months of the year) who do not spend a great deal of their money on filthy debauches over poisoned beer. This is called the “harvest drunken touch.” With some it lasts no longer than one night; with others a week, a fortnight, or even longer. It is one of the sacred impurities of our forefathers, which descend from generation to generation, fathers and grandfathers industriously setting the bad example.
I have to describe a jovial and a far happier scene, and to take you to a Plat or orchard, belonging to Stoke Ferry Farm. John Ashbrook was, as we have already seen, a most prosperous man.
It was a bright day for him when he left Oakfield House to take to Stoke Ferry Farm, and to espouse its then owner’s charming daughter.
Very different was it with the other brother.
Richard Ashbrook, who had married the girl Jane Ryan, seemed to go from bad to worse after his brother had left him, and his wife died.
He seemed to lose all heart, and the consequence was that his farm was neglected, for the simple reason that he did not appear to care about anything. The result may be easily imagined. Richard was as unprosperous as his brother was flourishing.
Nevertheless, when the harvest festivities were about to take place at Stoke Ferry, John insisted upon his brother and sister doing honour to them by their presence.
It was a goodly gathering. Brickett was present, as were also old Nat, whom the reader will doubtless remember as one of the parlour customers of the “Carved Lion;” Mother Bagley, the personification of spotlessness in dress, and sedateness in demeanour; and Master John Ashbrook, puffing out his cheeks like the sides of a red balloon, and rubbing his broad brown hands, and Patty as loveable and charming as she had ever been.
There were sports to be played at, and prizes to be contended for; pole-climbing, jumping in sacks, wheelbarrow races blindfold, hurdle jumping, ball throwing, and quoit throwing were the order of the day.
These games occupied the whole of the forenoon, and when six brawny fellows took their places, the whole of their bodies being encased in sacks, with nothing but their heads visible, there was a roar of laughter, and peal after peal followed in quick succession as one or more stumbled, and frantically strove to rise upon his legs again.
When these sports were over, they adjourned to the barn, and commenced an onslaught upon brown loaves, Cheshire cheese, and a barrel of home-brewed beer.
After lunch it was announced that the lamb race was to come off.
Heralds in corduroys spouted it forth with their voices, loud and brazen as trumpets; ballmen cleared the course with their wands of stout ground-ash.
“Come, Kitty,” said John Ashbrook, “Why be dull a day like this? Brighten up, lass, brighten up, there’s plenty of sun behind the clouds yet, though, for my part I cant see any clouds at all.”
“There be clouds, nevertheless, master,” said the young woman. “I be thinkin’ as how he be dead and gone. The clouds are in my heart, where it’s not for the eyes of man to see.”
“It may be so, that be true enough, I dessay, lass, but ye see it beant o’ no manner o’ yoose for a lad or lass a settin’ their minds to be for ever a mournin’. Look at my brother――he can’t forget, poor chap, the one as be dead and gone. Don’t ee follow his example. Look at Joe――he’s the honestest and truest lad in the hull county, and he’s bin after ee ever so long, but you won’t speak to un, though all the maids be a dyin’ for un. Don’t ee like him, Kitty?”
I like him well enough――I could not help doing that there, if it were only for his fondness and attachment to Mr. Phillip, but I couldna marry him.”
“And why not?”
“I couldna without a tellin’ him, and I wouldna do that to save my life.”
“Ye be a strange gell, self-willed and wayward, I’m thinkin’. I dessay, if the truth may be spoken, Joe knows all about what you ha’ to tell him.”
“Does he? Well may be as how he does.”
“And so ye see, lass, there beant no yoose your being so obstinate. You must say a kind word or two to Joe or else――――”
“Or else, what, master?”
“Well, maybe you and I shall fall out.”
“We ha’ never done that as yet, anyhow.”
“Noa, an’ I hopes as how we never shall.”
“Tell him what you like then, it won’t alter his love, you foolish hussey; and now go and have your thumbs tied.”
“What, run for the lamb!” she cried, shrinking back a little.
“Aye, run for the lamb. Ye’re the straightest-limbed girl in these parts, and the strongest. Joe Doughty is the Lord of the Harvest, and so, gell, you must be the Lady of the Lamb.”
The lamb race, as it is termed, is thus regulated. A young lamb is run for by the young maidens, who have their thumbs tied behind their backs. Whoever succeeds in first seizing the lamb with her mouth, retains it as her prize, and receives the title of the Lady of the Lamb.
The custom is an ancient one――the relic, perhaps, of a less refined age than the present――and it cannot be considered a very elegant performance. Nevertheless, it generally affords amusement to most persons who witness it.
Ten young women had already stood forward as candidates.
It fell to the sweetheart of each to tie her thumbs for her. If by chance any one of them did not happen to have a sweetheart, one of the young men volunteered to perform the amorous duty; and this was perhaps the prettiest part of the sport.
Sometimes there was a little confusion when a belle happened to possess more than one recognised lover.
They would stand watching her with their sheepish eyes, and she would be compelled to choose once for all which of the two she would keep company with for the future.
When Kitty appeared the girls looked at each other anxiously, for they recognised in her a formidable antagonist.
All the young men made way for Joe Doughty, who went up to her and asked her if he might tie her hands for her.
“As well you as any other,” was the answer.
She exceeded Ashbrook’s expectations, and the forebodings of the other candidates were verified.
Kitty, open-jawed, and as agile as a young leopardess, had soon pounced upon the lamb, and won the prize with her teeth.
Whether she would have been a match for the female acrobat who recently astounded the frequenters of a London music-hall, with the tenacious power and strength of her teeth, is another question, but she took the shine out of all her rustic competitors, and her master, Mr. John Ashbrook, felt proud of the victory she had obtained.
Now the old wives were marshalled into a line to run a race for a pound of tea.
Mother Bagley, who indignantly refused “to beneath herself by joining in such a rabbling concern,” condescended, however, to drink hot tea against other dames who worshipped the refreshing beverage.
The scalding twankey brought the tears into her eyes, but comfort to her heart.
Snuff had now become her staff of life, the prop of her old age. To be out of snuff was to be snuffed out――a dead charred wick instead of a bright and constant flame.
A tub of water was brought out and placed in the centre of the plat. Apples were called for, the largest that could be had.
The boys immediately formed themselves into a procession, and proceeded to wassail the orchard, or to go apple-howling, as it was otherwise termed.
[Sidenote: No. 78.]
One of them had a cow’s horn, from which he extracted horribly discordant notes. Then they marched to one of the apple trees and encircled it, chanting a prayer for the next year’s crop.
Stand fast, root――bear well, top―― Pray the Lord send us a good heavy crop. Every twig apples big―― Every bough apples enow: Hats full, caps full, Full quarters, sacks full.
They shouted in chorus with the cow-horn accompaniment, rapped the trees with sticks, which each bore in his hand, and concluded the ceremony by knocking down three monster red-cheeked pippins, which were soon floating in the tub, ready to be mouthed for by the youngsters, who endeavoured to earn them under the same conditions as the lamb race.
Indeed, the sports and pastimes on this occasion were singularly varied and amusing.
Old Mr. Jamblin had, throughout his life, taken great delight in keeping up the old English customs of his forefathers, and John Ashbrook proved a worthy successor, in this respect, to his father-in-law.
At six o’clock they sat down to the harvest dinner, which was spread and served on a table of fabulous length in a corner of the plat, where the grass had been mowed for the purpose.
It was still warm enough for al fresco repasts――at least, on such an evening as this, when the air was fragrant, when the nightingale was singing, and when the last rays of sunlight fell goldenly and gloriously upon the scene.
As soon as the sirloins of beef and huge plum puddings had disappeared from the table, and pipes with tobacco had taken their place, a low whisper ran backwards and forwards, and more than one voice cried audibly for Joe Doughty.
Joe had earned the rank of the Lord of the Harvest by reaping more corn than any other labourer on the farm. It was one of the duties of this nobleman to propose the health of the reapers.
He was, like a good many more, unaccustomed to public speaking. So he rose and said――
“Pr’aps as Master Cheadle was the vice, sitting opposite to Master Ashbrook and all――――”
“Strike me into brandy pop, you’re a coming it strong, young man,” said Cheadle, with affected sternness, “Don’t go puttin’ your pack upon other pipple’s shoulders.”
“There, that’s just like my Joe,” cried Doughty’s mother. “He knows I want him to speechify, and he’s a tryin’ to get out of it on purpose to worrit me.”
“All right, mother,” cried Doughty, “you shan’t be worrited. I aint much of a hand at speechifying, but I dunno as I ought to shirk my duty; so you see I shall ha’ to cut the matter as short as the stubble in the whate-fields. I’m a goin’ to ax you to drink the health of the most considerate and kindest of masters as ever mortal man had. From the first drop of the dew-cup to what we are drinking now, when ha’ we had to ask for beer and couldn’t get it?”
Chorus of voices: “Never!”
[The dew-cup is the first draught of beer given to reapers before they begin harvest work.]
“We’ve had kindness always, and beer always, and money always when we have earned it, sometimes afore that wi’ some on ye, and to-day we’ve had sports and prizes as we don’t get every day in England; so I ax ye to drink the health of Master Ashbrook.”
The health was drunk with wild enthusiasm.
“And, now,” said Doughty, “let’s hear you join in wi’ me in the harvest song, and we’ll sing it in the good old style.”
When the harvest song (which has appeared too often in print to need further recording) was concluded, John Ashbrook rose and thanked them, and then, without sitting down, sang a song in praise of the “Lord of the Harvest.” All rose while Doughty remained seated. At the end of the song Joe commenced a song in praise of the head carter. The company rose again and joined him in the characteristic chorus, “With a halt, with a ree, with a wo, with a gee;”――then the carter sang to the shepherd, the shepherd to the thatcher, and so on.
All these little musical arrangements had been decided on weeks before the appointed day, and it had taken some of the vocalists months to learn their parts.
By the time their complimentary songs were ended it was quite dark. A large camphine lamp, which occupied the centre of the table, supplied the place of the moon, and half a dozen candles played their parts of fixed stars.
“Who’s to be knocked down for the next song?” roared the wood-cutter, in his stentorian voice. “It’s my call――and I calls on――calls on――――”
“Come, say it, and ha’ done wi’ it,” said Nat, peevishly. “It rouses my corruption to hear a growed-up man hogglin’ and bogglin’ like that ’ere.”
“Then I calls on you, Nat.”
The rustics laughed, and sang, “Poor old hoss――poor old hoss!”
“Don’t ee be fools,” cried Joe. “I aint a-going to let ee sing that to-night.”
“Spiff a song, ould un, and don’t be ranty tanty――coom.”
“I bean’t ranty tanty,” said Nat, “but it meks me rankled to think as we ha’ no fitchet pie for supper. We allers yoosed to ha’ it, and I can’t sing wi’out it, nother.”
“We used to ha’ fitchet pie, sartinly,” said the old wood-cutter, “but we didn’t yoose to ha’ such good meat nor such fine plum puddings as we’s had to-day, and there’s no lack o’ beer. Pour him out a noggin and then he’ll sing.”
“There’s something better than that coming. My eyes alive, look ee here.”
“Buckle-my-buff, and a gallon on it,” shouted an enthusiastic clown.
“There’s another coming,” said the girls, as they set it down upon the table.
The beer mugs were speedily emptied, and sent in half-dozens to the bowl, before which a servant lass, ladle in hand, laboured without ceasing.
“My blessing to all on you,” cried Nat, with a devotional expression of countenance.
“Yes, that’s all very well, Nat, but we want your song first, and your toast afterwards.”
“I doesn’t care a dump for yer wants; I’ll sing when I has a mind to, and not afore.”
“Well, there’s plenty as can if you can’t.”
“Can’t. Who says I cant sing? I’ll sing e’er a man here for a pint.”
And he broke out into the following pastoral:――
THE GAY PLOUGHBOY.
Come, all you merry ploughboys, and listen to my song; A tale I have to tell you, which doth to love belong. He that doth rise up early to lead his team with joy, And so bravely does his duty like a gay ploughboy. Like a gay ploughboy.
Says the mother to the daughter, “You seem to love him well―― It seems as if your tender breast all on his head could dwell; Young lads they are so rakish, young maids they do decoy, And some day we’ll see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.” Of a gay ploughboy.
“Oh, no, oh no,” said Jenny, “he’s just the lad for me; With him I could live happy, his heart’s so gay and free, And he does rise so early to lead his team with joy, And he bravely does his duty, like a gay ploughboy.” Like a gay ploughboy.
Young William in the evening, returning home from plough. He showed to me a gay gold ring, how could my tongue say No? “Oh, take this ring, dear Jenny, and the parson we’ll employ, And they may see you on the knee of a gay ploughboy.” Of a gay ploughboy.
’Twas so they were united, and William goes to plough, And Jenny rises with delight to milk her spotted cow. Down in a lonely cottage, where none can them annoy, Ah, who so happy as Jenny and her gay ploughboy? And her gay ploughboy.
“Where’s measter?” said a cowboy, addressing himself to the multitude. “Here’s the fiddlers coom, and wants to know whether they may stop or no.”
“Yes, they may stop,” said Nat, in a confident tone. “I’m head man here.”
“You’ve got bit by a barn-mouse already――aint you?” inquired the wood-cutter.
“Or bin to Hatcham Fair and broke both his legs,” said Joe.
“That’ll be first-class if we ha’ a dance, won’t it?” said a young lady, with an elegant motion, which was probably intended for a pirouette.
“Dancin’!” cried Nat, scornfully. “Drat it, what d’ye want to be got at dancin’ for We be very well as we are, and I means to call upon the thatcher for a song, cos he and I allers bin such very partikiller friends.”
“I aint heard your toast as yet,” said the thatcher, “and I’ve been listening for it hard, tew.”
“If you’d listened harder wi them stupid ears, you’d ha’ herd me gi’ it afore ever I sung. Here’s another for ee, you darned deaf adder, ‘Two In and One Out’――d’ye know what that be? It’s in health, in wealth, and out of debt.”
“And a downright good toast too,” said John Ashbrook, who had left the company for a while and had now returned, “and an excellent toast, Nat.”
“Aye, that it be, measter.”
“But what say ee to a dance?” said Ashbrook.
“There, I knew all your pretty girls would like to dance. Tell ’em to come in, some of ee.”
Half a dozen scampered off with the glad tidings, and in a few minutes returned with three men, each of whom carried something wrapped up in green baize beneath his arm.
“I want my call answered first, though,” said old Nat, “and the thatcher he aint no true friend o’ mine, so I calls on――――”
“Be quiet, you flabbergullion, talking like that ’ere, afore measter.”
“He knows as much about civility as a fly does of a gaiter strap,” said the indignant Mrs. Doughty.
“There, when he gets into that drunken guret it aint no yoose talkin’ to him. If the angel Gibbriel commed down he’d try and push him out of the way. I never seed such an obstinate fellow in all my born days.”
“I intend to ha’ my call,” cried Nat, “and so I calls on Kitty Morgan.”
“I don’t know any songs,” said Kitty.”
“Get out! you know a wheelbarrow full,” returned Nat.
“And she can sing even as sweetly as a barley bird (a nightingale),” said the farmer.
There was no getting out of it――so Kitty tried to do her best.
“Very prettily sung, my gell,” said Ashbrook when she concluded. “Now for the dance――it will be bull’s noon (midnight) else before we begin. The Harvest Lord and the Lady of the Lamb lead off. What’s it to be, Joe?”
“‘Speed the Plough’s’ my sort, sir,” said Joe, touching his cap; “it’s one of the best country dances we have.”
“I quite agree with you, Joe――it is,” said the farmer. “Now, fiddlers, strike up for ‘Speed the Plough.’”
The musicians tuned their instruments, ran over the first few bars, and were satisfied that they were up to the mark, and then dashed off.
“Speed the Plough” was danced through and played through as country people dance and as country fiddlers play.
As far as vigour was concerned there was no reason to complain. The farmer stopped the dance out, and then left them entirely to their own devices.
This was turned to profit by the fiddlers, who had been secretly paid by him. Disguising this fact, they sent one round with a tambourine, as they were wont to do in public-houses.
On Saturday night and village revels one penny was the accustomed fee for man and partner.
“Now then,” cried the musician, going his rounds and jingling the coppers in his tambourine, “now then, for the next dance. Six down; who makes eight? Now then, mates and partners, for double lead through the next country dance. Ten down; who makes twelve? Oh, there isn’t a twelve (cheerfully); then we’ll go on as we are.”
All the other popular dances were done in due notation. “Step-and-Fetch-it,” “The Tramp,” “Lee Po,” “Hands Across,” “Six Bond,” &c.
“Want more corn vith your galop?” inquired a man, bringing the almost but never quite exhausted musicians some mugs of “Mickle my buff.”
“Ah, we shan’t hurt to-night,” they said. “It’s real fiddlers’ fare here――meat, drink, and money.”
Several single dances were next performed, such as hornpipes, “The Dunhill Parson,” “The Broom Dance,” “The Pipe Dance,” and others of the same calibre, after which a kind of cushion dance, called “Bob-in-the-Bowster,” which was provocative of much kissing and enjoyment.
In the meantime the old women were steadily drinking all the while, amusing themselves at same time with a game of cards, called “Laugh and Lay Down,” and with another game, which none but rustics can understand, and which is played by inscribing chalk lines both ways upon a table, and making spots between the squares.
Kate Morgan, the Lady of the Lamb, as she was termed on the eventful day, had withdrawn from the throng of merry-makers, and Joe Doughty, who had not ceased watching her the whole evening, followed her.
She turned and saw him. Then his heart, which had been so stout in the furrowed field, began to tremble like a timid bird.
“Well,” said his companion.
“I hope as how it is well,” he answered. “Kitty, I’ve got a serious word or two to say to ee.”
“Ha’ ee?”
“Yes, my gell.”
And what be it then?”
“In foreign seas, so I’ve bin told, lass, there’s fishes as ha’ teeth upon their tongues, and there be many a woman as can set teeth upon him which will bite a man’s life and happiness in two.”
“An’ what if they be? Has that anything to do wi’ me?”
She looked at him keenly. Poor girl, she had had bitter experiences.
“I want you to understand,” said Joe Doughty, in a serious tone of voice, “that the will of a woman has a deal to do wi’ me, for ye must know how much my future happiness depends upon one single word uttered by you.”
“By me?”
“Aye, lass, that be true enough――by you. Often and often, when alone in the field of waving corn, or it may be yellow stubble, I ha’ thought of one who had it in her power to mek or mar me. Now doant ye be shakin’ yer head, ’cause what I be sayin’ is the solemn truth, and there’s no gettin’ away from it. Indeed, it aint o’ no yoose tryin’. Where was I? Oh, I know, in the field, either a ploughin’, sowin’, or reapin’, it matters not which; but, anyway, I ha’ thought this matter over and over again, and though I ha’ not sed anything, not as yet, I ha’ felt all the deeper perhaps. Kitty, you must not look so coldly on me; indeed you mustn’t. Shall I tell you why?”
“If you like.”
“Because I love you, and none other but you. I aint rich, that you know, but I’ve saved a bit of money, for I haven’t bin like a good many others on the farm, a spending what I earn afore I earned it.”
“I know you have been careful and frugal,” she answered.
“Well, I aint afraid of work――that you know also.”
“I do.”
“An’ if so be as you consent to be my wife, which I hope and believe you will, I shall work wi’ greater energy, for I shall ha’ something to work for. A man ain’t a mite o’ yoose in this world if he be all alone, as I ha’ bin all these lonely years, and I want ee for a partner, and if I canna ha’ ee, then there be no other woman as I care about having. Answer me! Dang it all, say yes or no Kitty, without further ado.”
“Hark ee, Joe Doughty,” said the woman, with a boldness and energy that fairly astonished him.
“I be not fit for an honest man. I tell ee plainly that, years agone, when you were away from Stoke Ferry, summut happened as will for ever prevent me from becoming your wife.”
“It won’t do, Kitty; you must find some better excuse than that,” said he, placing his hands upon her shoulder. “It wunno do, lass.”
“Wunno do!” she ejaculated, in unfeigned surprise. “May be ee don’t understand me rightly. I tell ee agen and agen――I ain’t fit to be the wife of an honest man.”
“And why not?”
“Ye maun to force me into a confession. Well, so be it. I am already a mother.”
“What if ee be? Don’t ee think I ha’ considered all that. He who be dead and gone did ee a wrong, and it appears to me that ye are not the only woman as he wronged, for there’s――――”
“I know what you are going to say,” she said, interrupting him, but, if you care about me, don’t ee say a word agen Master Philip, ’cause I can’t bear that. Whatever his faults may have bin, it ain’t right and proper to be a-talkin’ about em now. He was wayward and wilful, and did not take heed of timely warning, but he be dead and gone; he met with a cruel death, and so say no more about ’im.”
“You are right――I will not refer to the subject again, seeing as how it be a trouble to ee; but it doesn’t follow that, because in a foolish hour you forgot all but your love for him, that ye’re no fit to be my wife, and I say agen you must find some better excuse.”
“I should not like to ha’ a husband taunt me wi’ the shame that has fallen on me. I should no like that.”
“And do you think, you foolish lass, that I am likely to do so? You ought to know me better――a deal better nor that there.”
“Are you in earnest, Joe?”
“Earnest! Dall it, I never was so much in earnest――no not in the whole course of my life.”
“And you mean what you say?”
“Of course I do; every word I ha’ sed.”
“And you’ll ha’ me for all that ha’ past?”
“Aye, lass, I will.”
“What be left of my heart be yours,” she cried, “and what be left of my life will be devoted to you, and so, if ye’ll tek me ye may ha’ me.”
Her lusty companion wound his arms around her, and embraced her with fervour. And so Joe Doughty and Kate Morgan were betrothed in this simple and homely fashion.
When farmer Ashbrook was informed of the circumstance, he was greatly pleased, and promised to give the bride a handsome dowry; not that Joe had for a moment been actuated by mercenary feelings when he declared his passion and besought the girl to bestow her hand and heart upon him, for he was strongly attached to her, and had never at any time flirted with any other village maiden.
Mr. Philip Jamblin, the ill-fated young man who was murdered by Giles Chudleigh, had not been altogether so circumspect as his relations and friends could have desired.
It was pretty plainly demonstrated that he had seduced two young women before he was sent to his account by the brutal Giles, and there were some evil-disposed persons still living who hinted that the young farmer had been brought to his end from this cause.
He was a free-hearted fine young fellow, who at times let his passions run riot.
Many of his betters are apt to do the same thing. This is evidenced by the conduct of Lord Ethalwood, but two blacks do not make a white, and the late Philip Jamblin was, as we have already seen, not without fault.
We have taken but little notice of Richard and Maude Ashbrook, who had been present througout the festivities at Stoke Ferry.
They had not taken a very active part in any of the proceedings, remaining for the nonce but passive spectators.
Richard Ashbrook seemed to be a completely broken-down man. He did not appear to have any relish for the sports――occasionally, it is true, a wan smile passed over his melancholy features, but that was all.
He appeared to be thankful when the sports were brought to a conclusion, and pleading indisposition he retired to bed.
For the next few days he grew worse, and it soon became manifest to those about him that his life was drawing to a close. He said he had no desire to live, and that he knew his final time was approaching. He was continually mentioning the name of his deceased wife, Jane Ryan, whose spirit, so he averred, had appeared to him on three separate occasions.
Those about him strove to disposses his mind of this idea, but, for all they could say or do, Richard Ashbrook persisted in his declaration, and so he prepared to settle his worldly affairs.
His brother John, who was almost heart-broken, agreed to take charge of his child and his sister Maude. It was arranged that Oakfield Farm was to be sold, the proceeds of the same were to be handed over to Maude; and in less than a fortnight after the harvest-home at Stoke Ferry Richard Ashbrook breathed his last.
It will be remembered by the reader that the first scene of this history was laid at Oakfield, when Jane Ryan played so conspicuous a part on the night of the burglary by Charles Peace, Gregson, and Cooney.
Chapter CXLV
PEACE’S LAST BURGLARY――A BRAVE POLICEMAN――PEACE’S CAPTURE BY ROBINSON――A VISIT TO NEWGATE.
The most remarkable and at the same time unaccountable part of Peace’s career is certainly that portion of time while he was in the occupation of the house in the Evalina-road, Peckham. It appears almost incredible that he could have remained there for so long a period without being discovered.
After the murder of Mr. Dyson the police were supposed to be on the alert.
Every effort was made, so it was stated, to hunt down the perpetrator of the murder at Banner-cross, but in spite of all this Peace was free from suspicion, and night after night committed the most daring burglaries ever attempted by one solitary individual.
Indeed, had it not been for the determination and courage displayed by Police-constable Robinson, the chances are that the scoundrel, whose deeds have so surprised the world, would be even at the present time at large and undiscovered.
It really does appear most remarkable that so many murderers should be able to elude justice. We have several instances of this since Peace expiated his crimes on the public scaffold.
The Wallaces, who went off in a cab after the death of their victim, have never been arrested.
The Burton-crescent murder――the murder of Miss Hacker, of a servant girl at Harpurhey, near Manchester, of a youth at Rotherhithe, who died from bayonet wounds, and lastly, the woman whose body was found in a tub at Harley-street, one and all remain deep impenetrable mysteries.
But Peace, who although for a time managed to escape detection, was in the end run to earth.
The last burglary committed by this lawless man, whose remarkable career we have endeavoured to shadow forth, proved fatal to him.
At Blackheath, on the night of 10th of October, 1878, a burglary was committed of a most daring character.
On that evening Peace had repaired to the house of Mr. James Alexander Burness, in St. James’s-park, Blackheath, and whilst endeavouring to add to his own riches was observed by a constable on duty, named Robinson, but Peace was not a man to be taken easily. Upon finding that he was discovered he rushed into the garden and fired four shots at Robinson, then, with a fearful oath, he, after taking deliberate aim, fired a fifth.
The shots were fired from an American revolver of the newest make.
The fifth struck the constable in the left arm above the shoulder, carried some cloth with it right through the flesh, grazed the bone, and then passing out, went through a gentleman’s drawing-room window, and after rebounding on the wall fell on the floor.
But Robinson, though injured, seized the man, and after a desperate struggle threw the fellow to the ground.
A fight took place, and the burglar attempted to draw a sheath knife which was in his pocket; but the officer, though severely wounded, did not lose his presence of mind, and gave his prisoner a few taps on the head by way of a sedative.
When examined it was found that the fellow carried a six-barrelled revolver, and that the weapon was strapped to his wrist.
Young and Brown came up as soon as possible, and the thief was secured, but not until he had been pretty smartly struck with a truncheon.
On being charged with the offence the prisoner refused to give any name or address, and as his face was stained with walnut juice he was mistaken at the time for a mulatto.
The garden was searched, but no confederates were found. Mr. Burness was away from home at the time, but his wife, who was awakened by one of the servants, witnessed the desperate struggle in the garden.
Subsequent examination of the premises by Inspector Bonney, X Division, showed that the dining-room window fastenings had been forced by a crowbar, which was found on the prisoner with other housebreaking tools; and that a hole, 5 in. square, near the lock of the door, which was locked on the outside, was cut, enabling the prisoner to put his hand through and unlock the door――the key having been left in the lock.
Plated and silver articles were removed ready to be carried away, and the prisoner had taken a bank cheque book from a drawer of a table in the drawing-room, and a letter case from a davenport in the library, which had been forced open.
Mrs. Burness said the house was securely locked at half-past eleven o’clock the previous night, and that there were two fastenings to the dining-room window, which had been broken in forcing the window open.
At this time, it must be remembered, there was no suspicion that the man was anything but a burglar, and to prove his guilt as such was the effort of the officer.
To find out his name was very difficult, but after a fortnight’s search Bonney discovered that the prisoner was a “respectable gentleman,” who at Lambeth, Greenwich, and Peckham, had passed as “Mr. Thompson.”
The last residence of this Mr. Thompson, otherwise Peace, was at Evalina-road, Peckham, a most respectable neighbourhood, the house a really comfortable one, and a good garden in front.
The inspector prosecuted his inquiries, and found thirty pawn tickets in the dwelling. These tickets mostly related to property stolen from houses in Greenwich and Blackheath――namely, silver and gold plate, together with jewellery.
The goods had been pawned by one of Peace’s “lady assistants,” under the obliging name of “Thompson,” and were recognised by those who had lost them.
Robinson, although severely wounded, very shortly recovered sufficiently to give his evidence at the magisterial inquiry.
He was shot through the fleshy part of the left arm above the elbow, but fortunately no bone was touched.
The bullets, fired from a six-chambered revolver, were afterwards found, and were produced in court. The firing of five shots before one took effect was attributed to the constable dodging behind some shrubs while he was being fired at.
The following is the description given of Peace in the daily papers at the time of the occurrence:――
“The prisoner is a repulsive-looking man, with protruding jaws and thick lips, of the negro cast, with receding forehead; in height he is about 5 ft. 6 in., but he is not a powerfully-built man. He still doggedly refuses to give his name and address, or any account of himself, but from a knife, which bears a name, being found in his possession when captured, it is thought the police will be able to connect him with a burglary committed in December last. Burglaries have been frequent in the neighbourhood of Blackheath during the past three months, the houses selected being generally those with a garden in the rear, and, although detectives have been specially employed to discover the burglars, they have hitherto failed; but it is thought the man who shot the constable is the principal actor in these burglaries, and from his mode of procedure, and the housebreaking tools found upon him, it is evident he was no novice at his work.”
EXAMINATION OF THE PRISONER.
At the Greenwich Police-court, John Ward, aged sixty――(we quote the newspaper reports; Peace, however was not fifty, although he certainly looked ten years older at the time of his capture)――who had previously refused to give his name, was brought up on remand, before Mr. Flowers, charged with burglariously entering the house of Mr. Burness, 2, St. John’s-park, Blackheath, and stealing several plated articles; and on a second charge of shooting and wounding Police-constable Robinson, 202 R.
The prisoner, who had his head and face bandaged on the first examination, was now divested of such bandages; and Edward Robinson, the constable, who had his right arm in a sling, was examined.
He stated that at two o’clock on the morning of Thursday last he was on duty in the avenue at the side of No. 2, St. John’s-park, leading to Blackheath, when he saw a flickering light in the dining-room at the rear of the house.
Thinking this was suspicious, he went to the next beat and obtained the assistance of Constable Girling, and returned to the avenue, Girling assisting him over the garden wall 6 ft. high, and they kept watch till the arrival of Sergeant Brown, 32 R, who lifted Girling over the wall, and told them to remain there while he went to the front of the house to rouse the occupiers.
On the door-bell ringing, the light used inside the house was immediately extinguished, and he jumped from the wall into the garden, breaking some glass, and Girling got off the wall and went down the avenue to the rear of the garden wall.
The prisoner came out from the dining-room window on to the lawn, and ran along the garden to the back.
He followed the prisoner, who turned round and faced him, and presented a revolver at him.
It was moonlight at the time, and the revolver being presented at his head, the prisoner said――
“Keep back――keep back! or, by God, I’ll shoot you!”
He told the prisoner he had better not do so, and he rushed at him; the prisoner discharging three shots in succession, the first two shots passing close to the left side of his head, and the third shot passing over his head.
He then made another rush at the prisoner, who took a more straight aim at him, and fired a fourth shot, when he closed with him, and struck the prisoner on the face with his left hand, guarding his head by raising his right arm.
The prisoner said, “I will settle you this time,” and then fired the fifth shot, which perforated the great coat and tunic he was wearing, and went through his arm above the elbow.
They struggled together, and he threw the prisoner on the ground, seizing him with his left hand and knees, and caught hold of the revolver, which was strapped round the prisoner’s wrist, and struck him over the head with the revolver.
Whilst on the ground the prisoner put his left hand in a pocket, and said, “I will give you something else.”
At this time Sergeant Brown appeared, and assisted Constable Girling up, and took the prisoner from him. The wound in his arm bled very much, and he was taken to the divisional surgeon, and his wound was dressed. He was still under treatment.
Sarah Selina Cooper, under-housemaid, at the prosecutor’s house, said that on the morning of the burglary, in cleaning the room, she found a shot on the hearth rug, and a hole in the window, the shot having struck the wall.
Inspector Browney said he could produce evidence as to the prisoner having been concerned in another burglary.
The prisoner said he had been informed, a quarter of an hour before being brought into court, that he would be again remanded, which was not fair, as he had never before been in custody. Mr. Flowers remanded the prisoner.
When Peace was brought to the Greenwich Station after he had been caught in the act, he presented a most miserable and pitiable spectacle. “Talk of him being taken for a half-caste,” said my informant, “he looked more like a black man than a mulatto.
“What with the rough usage he had got in the struggle and the tumbling about on the grass, he was in a desperate plight――clay all over him, his face clogged up with dirt, and the mud oozing up about his neck and stiffening the little hair he had. He was a mealy-mouthed, whining old scamp, and he was as dirty as the devil.”
This was not a very official way of putting it; but it was explicit enough for the purpose.
“Did he say anything particular?” I asked.
“Oh, he kept whining away; but the fact was he had been badly ‘punished.’ Robinson had certainly given him a stiff un on the head.”
“And who wouldn’t?” asked an approving constable who just looked in. “Wouldn’t you, if a fellow fired a revolver at you, and then searched for his knife?”
Of course we concurred, Peace having no sympathisers in the company. “Well,” continued my informant, “he had got it and no mistake. Robinson had given him sufficient to settle him for a day. Peace looked dazed and bewildered, and kept wandering in his talk, now and again moaning and crying. When we stripped him we found he was one mass of filth. His shirt was all rags; the marvel is how it hung together; everything about him was similar――he was one of the most miserable-looking scoundrels I ever set eyes upon. In fact he was in so bad a way that I felt sorry for the poor wretch. I had some hard eggs boiled for myself. I gave him one and some bread, which he ate with some difficulty.
“When he was locked up he went on in the same way.
“When I looked at him through the grating, he whined out,” said the officer, imitating his way of talking, as if his tongue was too big for his mouth, “Oh, would to God, sergeant, you would come in here and knock my brains out――I feel so bad.” He was always going on in this way――“Would to God,” and “I wish to God,” being the phrases which most frequently fell from his lips.
“A canting, whining old hypocrite,” said the sergeant to me; “and as for his face, why he was so ugly I cannot understand why any woman would look at him, much less live in the same house with him.
“He was the ugliest, vilest-looking little wretch you would meet in a long day’s walk.”
When Peace refused to give his name he was over-cunning. The police suspected that a man who would give no name must have unusual reasons for his silence.
So they set their wits to work to find out who and what he was.
When he did give the name of “John Ward” they were not disposed to accept it. The warders of the principal prisons were sent for to see if they could identify him.
When the warder of Millbank appeared Peace was asked if he knew him.
“Oh, no!” replied the prisoner, with an affectation of great innocence and ignorance. “I never saw his face before. Who is he?” He was informed.
“Ah!” continued Peace, “he never saw me before; I never was in such a prison before. This is the first time I was in such a place,” and he looked wearily round his cell with the air of an injured innocent. It was the same with all the other warders who came to look at him.
Peace’s old audacity returned to his assistance. He stood up when called, and relying upon his changed appearance――the shaving of his head, the dyeing with walnut juice, and the like――he confronted them with as much confidence as could be put on by an old convict in the presence of those who had been his gaolers.
He succeeded in deceiving all those experienced officers, but just in proportion to the success of his deception was the desire of the authorities to get behind the mask, and they did so at last――not by any sudden revelation, or undetected discovery, but simply by the capacity for taking pains in putting together the many “trifles” which at length connected the burglar Ward with the murderer Peace.
There was something superb about the audacity of this remarkable villain.
After he had somewhat recovered from the “taps” which friend Robinson had given him that memorable morning in the garden at Blackheath, he once more tried on the old canting ways which had in former days served him so well.
In prisons oft he had known the value of playing the part of the penitent, and by his good conduct had been able to get out much earlier to resume his old bad courses.
On the way from Greenwich to Newgate he was himself again.
In the prison van the inmates are divided by wire partitions, through which they can see and talk to each other if they are in the talking mood, as they usually are.
One of the prisoners had got three months for drunkenness. Peace, who was waiting his turn when this person was committed, recognised his face, and at once embraced the opportunity to put a few words of good advice.
He positively commenced to lecture the prisoner on the wickedness of which he had been guilty. “But,” remarked the officer, “you should have heard how the other prisoners let out at him.”
“They were not going to be preached at by that old canting humbug.”
The fellow who had got the three months turned upon Peace and said, “Well, you’re a nice one, you are. Here am I got three months for getting drunk; but what have you been doing? Don’t ye think I know? Why you’ve been trying to shoot a policeman, you have. They ought to hang the likes of you.”
The sentiment met with the approving plaudits of the other prisoners, and Peace did not continue his discourse, and, what with the sense of mortification at being repulsed, and the candid if cruel remarks of the other occupants of the prison van, had rather an unhappy time of it during the rest of the journey to Newgate.
Peace’s journey in the “Black Maria,” or prison-van, was by no means an agreeable one――journeys of this description can never be accounted agreeable under the most favourable circumstances, but in Peace’s case it was most disheartening.
He trembled lest his identity should become known, and, to say the truth, he feared the worst.
It seemed hardly possible, under existing circumstances for him to maintain his incognito, and discovery meant certain death.
Nevertheless he bore up as best he could, and hoped for the best.
The exterior of Newgate Gaol is not by any means prepossessing――the interior is most depressing.
On arriving within the court-yard of the gloomy and repulsive-looking old city prison, from whose debtors’ door so many have stepped to pass on to the scaffold, Peace and his companions were let out of the “Black Maria,” and conducted into a dark stone passage, and our hero was told to stand in a row with his fellow-passengers.
The deputy-governor, with two warders, received the batch of prisoners, and the constable, who had acted as conductor to the hearse-like carriage, handed over to the deputy-governor a number of papers, one for each prisoner, whereupon the names were called out, to which suitable replies were given. Most of them were “remands” or “committals.”
Peace answered to his name in a low submissive tone, and looked as if he felt deeply sensible of his humiliating position.
There was, however, no getting over the fact that he had attempted to murder a police-constable; and, indeed, at this time it was by no means certain that Robinson would get the better of his injuries. He was progressing favourably, it is true, but an unfavourable change might take place at any time.
The prison officials scanned Peace for a few moments, then upon a signal from their superior he was conducted to his quarters by a young man, who treated him with civility and consideration.
It was the first time Peace had been in Newgate, and he did not even at that supreme moment of misery realise the fact that he was driven to his last ditch, and that never again was he destined to become a free man.
Out of the many thousands who pass by this great city prison, how few there are who have any definite idea of its inner penetralia!
A brief account of a visit to the establishment in question will convey to the mind of the reader its most noticeable features.
First of all comes the lodge, as it is termed. We enter this by a door elevated a few steps above the level of the street, in a line with the Old Bailey――this, flanked by dark masses of stone forming part of the wall, which is about four feet in thickness.
This outer door has doubtless attracted the attention of many street passengers. It is about four feet and a half high, and is covered at the top with short bristling iron spikes, the open space above being farther fenced with two strong iron bars with transverse iron rods. There is another massive oaken inner door alongside, faced with iron, of enormous strength, which is only shut at night.
It reminds us of the terrible prisons in the old barbaric times, when criminals were more desperate than in our day, before Howard commenced his angelic mission over the dungeons of England and the Continent.
This door has a very strong Bramah lock with a big brazen bolt, which gives a peculiarly loud rumbling sound when the key is turned; and at night it is secured with strong iron bolts and padlocks, and by an iron chain. The great bolts penetrate a considerable way into the massive stone wall.
The lodge is a small sombre-looking, high-roofed apartment, with a semi-circular iron-grated window over the doorway, and a grated window on each side, and is floored with wood.
On our left hand is a small room, occupied by a female warder who searches the female visitors to the prison, lighted by an iron-grated window; and on our right is an ante-room leading to the governor’s office.
Another heavy oaken door, faced with iron, leads into the interior of the prison; and alongside is an iron-grated window communicating with the interior.
On the walls are suspended different notices by the Court of Aldermen in accordance with Act of Parliament.
One of them forbids liquors to be introduced into the prison, another refers to visiting the prisoners, and a third to the attorneys and clerks who should visit them respecting their defences.
The deputy-governor opened the ponderous iron-bolted door leading into a gloomy recess passage with arched roof, conducting along the back of the porter’s lodge towards the male corridor and kitchen. On our right hand is a strong door of the same description, leading to the female prison, secured by ponderous lock and bolts.
We meantime turned to the left, and came to another strong oaken door faced with iron. In this sombre passage the gas is kept burning, even at mid-day. As we passed along we saw the sunbeams falling on a stone flooring through an iron grating, opening into the interior of the old prison yard.
On passing through this heavy door, which is kept locked, the passage widens. Here we saw a long wooden seat for the accommodation of the prisoners who are to appear before the governor to have their descriptions taken.
This passage leads, on the right-hand side, into a room called the bread-room, where we observed a warder in the blue prison uniform, who is detained here on duty.
We went with the chief warder into the bread-room, which is also used to take descriptions of the prisoners, being well lighted and very suitable for this purpose.
It has a wooden flooring, and is whitewashed.
In this apartment is an old leaden water-cistern, very massive, and painted of a stone colour, curiously carved, with the City coat of arms inscribed on it, and dated 1781.
There is here also a cupboard containing a curious assortment of irons used in the olden time, as well as a number of those used in the present day, of less formidable appearance.
There are here deposited the leg-irons worn by the celebrated burglar and prison-breaker, Jack Sheppard, consisting of an iron bar about an inch and a half thick and fifteen inches long.
At each end are connected heavy irons for the legs, about an inch in diameter, which were clasped with strong iron rivets.
In the middle of the cross-bar is an iron chain, consisting of three large links to fasten round the body. We found these irons to weigh about twenty pounds.
There is also in this cupboard a “fac simile” of the heavy leg-irons of Dick Turpin, the celebrated highwayman, who plays a conspicuous part in Mr. Ainsworth’s celebrated romance, “Rookwood,” in which work “Turpin’s Ride to York” is not the least attractive feature.
The irons worn by Turpin consist of two iron hoops about an inch thick to clasp the ankle, and about five inches in diameter.
A ring goes through and connects with the iron clasp, which secures the ankle with a long link on each side, about ten inches in length, and about an inch in thickness.
These long links are connected with another circular link, by a chain passing through to fasten round the body. They are about thirty-seven pounds in weight.
It was a saying in the olden time when any body wanted to be extremely bitter, “I shall live to see you double-ironed in Newgate.”
But criminals are not so frequently manacled in the present day beyond wearing handcuffs, when it is deemed necessary for security, and in extreme cases in penal prisons by way of punishment for refractory conduct. Those, however, who work in gangs at Portland, Dartmoor, or elsewhere, are chained together, so that there should be no chance of escape. But men condemned to death are not now placed in irons as was the custom in such cases in former times.
There are, however, to be seen now at Newgate some of the old irons which were formally put on prisoners capitally convicted, which they were constrained to wear day and night till the morning of execution, when they were knocked off before they ascended the scaffold.
It was the practice at that time to hang the bodies of prisoners in chains as a warning to other depredators, but this also has been abolished.
There is, in Newgate, also an axe which was made to behead Thistlewood and the other Cato-street conspirators, but it was not used; the bodies of the culprits, after hanging the usual time, were taken down and decapitation was effected by the use of a sword, which was said to be dexterously used by a young surgeon engaged for the purpose.
The axe, which forms one of the curiosities of Newgate, is large and heavy, and weighs about eleven pounds.
There is also a murderer’s belt, about two and a half inches wide, for pinioning condemned persons when about to pay the last penalty of the law.
It goes round the body; and fastens behind with straps to secure the wrist, and clasp the arms close to the body.
There is likewise another used by the executioner on the drop for securing the legs. A number of these straps had been used in pinioning notorious murderers executed at Newgate, who tragic histories are recorded in the “Newgate Calendar,” and many of these leg-irons had fettered the limbs of daring highwaymen in the olden times, who used to frequent Blackheath and Hounslow-heath, Wormwood Scrubs, and a host of other places on the outskirts of the metropolis.
What thoughts do these memorials of the past conjure up!
The massive and cheerless City prison which contain these ghastly relics give us a glimpse of the rigid discipline of our forefathers.
In the meantime we returned to an ante-room leading into the governor’s office on the left-hand side of the lodge, lighted by an iron-grated window looking into the Old Bailey.
There is a cupboard here containing arms for the officers in the event of any outbreak in the prison, consisting of pistols, guns, bayonets, and cutlasses.
We do not expect there is any chance of any outbreak in this City stronghold, but it is of course just as well to be prepared for any emergency.
In convict prisons the governors and warders cannot be too careful, for there some of the most desperate characters on the face of the earth are congregated.
[Sidenote: No. 79.]
In the ante-room there are two very fine old paintings of Botany Bay, which are hung on one of the walls. There is also a painting of Davies, who was executed years ago for the murder of his wife at Islington.
It is roughly executed, and was done by himself before he was apprehended. It is said to be a tolerably good likeness.
His brow is lofty and full, the lower part of the face is perhaps a little sensual, but taken altogether, it is a countenance which does not in any way accord with one’s preconceived notions of the type of a murderer. But it is not possible to arrive at an accurate conclusion as to the character of individuals by their facial expression.
Along two shelves over the door of this apartment and on the top of an adjoining cupboard are arranged three rows of the busts of murderers who have been executed at Newgate.
Some of these had a most repulsive appearance and were of the most brutal and lowest type of humanity.
The deputy-governor directed attention to the bust of the miscreant Greenacre who had a very sinister appearance.
It is, we believe, not more than a year and a half ago since his mistress and accomplice, Sarah Gale, died in Van Diemen’s Land at a very advanced age.
She was transported for life as an accessory to the murder. She was nearly, if not quite, eighty at the time of her decease.
Another bust pointed out to us was that of Daniel Good, who was executed for murdering a female and mutilating the body, a portion of which he buried in a stable.
The mouth had a disagreeable expression, but his countenance was better moulded than that of Greenacre, and did not give indications of the enormity of the crime he committed.
Good, when the mutilated remains of his victim were discovered, sought safety in flight. At the time of the commission of the crime he was groom to a gentleman residing at Roehampton, but it transpired that in early life he earnt his living as a bricklayer.
He went to some remote country place a hundred miles and more from the metropolis, and obtained work. As may readily be imagined he passed under another name, and it was some months before he was discovered――indeed, it was quite by accident that he was found out.
The woman in whose house he lodged was deeply concerned at his dejected appearance and his restlessness at night.
She heard him sighing and groaning for hours, and suspected that he had something on his mind.
She mentioned the circumstance to one or two of her associates, the police were communicated with, and this led to Good’s identification.
“There,” said the deputy-governor, looking at a full-length bust, “that is Courvoisier, who was executed for the murder of his master, Lord William Russell. The counsel who defended him――the late Mr. Charles Phillips――declared, as he went into court, that he would get him off, and it was likely enough he would have succeeded had it not been for one circumstance.”
“And what was that, pray?”
As Phillips was addressing the jury in a most powerful speech, a cab drove up in the court-yard, and a woman, who was the landlady of a hotel in the neighbourhood of Leicester-square, brought into court some of Lord William Russell’s family plate, which Courvoisier had tied up in a bundle, and left at her house to be called for.
This was fatal to the prisoner. Charles Phillips saw all chance of an acquittal was over. He dashed down his brief, and said no more.
The judge summed up, and the jury returned a verdict of guilty, upon which Mr. Phillips impudently declared they were right, as Courvoisier confessed to him that he committed the murder, just before he entered the court.
Phillips never got over this, and retired from the bar, accepting an appointment offered him by Government.
Upon examining Courvoisier’s bust we found the man had a low brow, and the lower part of the face was coarse, or, it might be said, brutal, the neck was full and protruding under the ears.
The upper lip of most of the group of busts was thick, which might possibly be caused by the process of hanging. Some of them had their eyes open, and others shut.
We saw the bust of Lani, who was executed for the murder of a woman of the town in the vicinity of the Haymarket; the wretch strangled her in bed, with his bony, powerful hands, which were preternaturally large, his countenance was brutal in the extreme, and he was a most diabolical, merciless wretch.
Another bust was that of Mullins, executed for the murder of an old lady at Stepney.
This scoundrel was base enough to charge an innocent man with the crime.
He had a heartless, hypocritical expression of face, and we could believe him capable of committing the most atrocious crimes.
On leaving the ante-room, we pass along a gloomy passage, and make our way towards the kitchen.
After reaching the side of a room enclosed with glass panelling, in the centre of a large apartment, with a groined roof, we proceeded along another narrow gloomy passage, lighted with gas, and went into the kitchen, which was very similar in size and general appearance to the lodge, entering it by a small door of massive structure, furnished with looks and bolts.
Opposite to it, fronting the Old Bailey, are two ponderous doors, through which the culprit used to pass on to the drop on the morning of the execution; but the Private Execution Act has done away with this, and the extreme penalty of the law is carried out within the precincts of the gaol.
We are not at all sure that a change has been made for the better.
It is quite true that pickpockets ply their vocation even at the foot of the gallows; but it is equally true that they do so in churches and chapels at the present time, but that is no reason that all places of public worship should be closed, neither is it any reason that murderers should be strangled in secret.
In the kitchen are two coppers sufficient to cook food for three hundred prisoners.
The steam is conveyed away from the coppers by means of pipes that lead though a grated window into the open air.
On shelves were ranged bright tins for the use of the prisoners, and wooden trays to carry the food from the kitchen to the various prison cells.
Leaving the kitchen, and bending our steps to the left, we go along a sombre passage of the same character as the one described.
Passing through a door at the extremity, we enter a covered bridge leading across a court into the corridor of the male prison.
It has four galleries, surmounted with a glass roof, which presents a very cheerful appearance, very unlike the remaining portion of the old prison.
We observed a stair on the outside communicating with each gallery, which is girdled with an iron balustrade.
There is also a hoisting machine, by which provisions can be conveyed to each gallery in the short space of a minute and a half.
There is a machine for weighing the provisions in the centre of the corridor, and a dial over the second gallery.
In answer to our interrogatories, the deputy-governor gave us the following statement:――“The prisoners are brought here in prison vans from the various police courts over the metropolis, being committed for trial by the magistrates.
“The City magistrates commit to Newgate, and send prisoners for remand as well as for trial. The metropolitan police courts only send those who have been committed for trial.
“Those sentenced by the justices of the metropolitan police courts are sent to the House of Correction at Coldbath Fields, whereas those in the City are sent to Holloway Prison.
“Prisoners convicted of a capital offence remain in Newgate until they are executed or reprieved. Some are incarcerated in Newgate for short terms by the judges of the Old Bailey, such as for contempt of court, and others are sent by the House of Commons for a similar offence.”
“Newgate,” continued the chief-governor, “is a house of detention for prisoners before trial, as well as for those sentenced to penal servitude, kept here for a short time awaiting an order from the Secretary of State to remove them to the Government depots for the reception of convicts. In all cases of murder tried at the Old Bailey, the prisoners are sent here. When convicted they are given over to the sheriff of the county where the offences have been committed. If done in Essex, the murderer is removed to Chelmsford; if in Kent he is removed to the county gaol at Maidstone, and if in Surrey he is taken to Horsemonger lane Gaol.”
On the basement of this wing are the reception cells, and bath rooms, and the punishment cells.
The deputy-governor showed us into one of the cells in the corridor, which we found to be 7 feet wide, 13 feet long, and 8 feet 10 inches high, at the top of the arch. It has a window with an iron frame protected by three strong iron bars outside.
The furniture consists of a small table which folds against the wall, under which is a small wooden shelf containing brushes, &c., for cleaning the cell, a small three legged stool, and a copper basin well supplied with water from a water-tap.
On turning the handle of the tap in one direction the water is discharged into the water-closet, and on turning it the reverse way it is turned into the copper basin for washing. Each cell is lighted with gas, with a bright tin shade over it. On the wall is suspended the prisoner’s card.
There are three triangular shelves in a corner of the cell, supplied with bedding, &c., as in other prisons we visited. The floor is laid with asphalte; over the door is a grating admitting heated air, with an opening under the window opposite to admit fresh air at the pleasure of the prisoner.
Under the latter, and near the basement of the cell, is a grating similar to the one over the door, leading to the extraction shaft, carrying off the foul air, and causing a clear ventilation.
Each cell is furnished with a handle communicating with the gong in the corridor, by which the prisoner can intimate his wants to the warder in charge, and the door is provided with trap and inspection plate.
All the cells in the corridor are of the same dimensions and similarly furnished.
On proceeding to the basement we visited the reception cells, which are eleven in number, of the same dimensions as those in the corridor above, and fitted up in the same manner.
There are three slate baths, about six feet long, two feet broad, and two feet and a half deep, provided with footboards. They are heated by means of pipes communicating with the boiler in the engine-room. Two of them are fitted up in one cell, with a dressing-room adjoining.
The other bath is in a long room, where there is a fireplace and a large metal vessel heated by steam, to cleanse the prisoner’s clothes from vermin and infection. This resembles a large copper, and is about two and a half feet in diameter and three feet deep, with an ample lid screwed down so firmly that no steam can escape.
The clothes are put into it and subjected to the action of the steam for about a quarter of an hour, when the vermin are destroyed. The clothes are not in the slightest degree injured.
This vessel is heated by means of a steam-pipe connected with the boiler in the engine room. The bath is similar to the others already noticed.
The dark cells are situated at the extremity of the new wing on the basement. They are six in number, and are of the same dimensions as the other cells. No light is admitted into them, but they are well ventilated.
The furniture of each consists of a wooden bench, to serve as a bed――though it is a hard one――and a night utensil; and the flooring is of stone.
There are two doors on each cell. When shut, they not only exclude a single beam of light, but do not admit the slightest sound.
The deputy-governor remarked――
“There are very few punishments inflicted in this prison. Sometimes the prisoners infringe the prison rules by insolence to their officers or making away with their oakum instead of picking it. We have only had two persons in the dark cells for the past two years.”
Opposite the bath-room is an engine-room, fitted up with two immense boilers for heating the whole of the prison and keeping the baths supplied with hot water. The engineer informed us that, during the winter, nearly a ton of coals is consumed per day.
The pipes are conveyed into the different cells for the purpose of heating them. Along the walls are arranged a copious supply of iron tools for the purpose of repairing the different locks, &c.
Leaving the corridor of the male prison we returned to the passage across the court, covered with thick glass, where relatives and friends are permitted occasionally to visit the prisoners. On each side of it is a double grating, fenced with close wirework, of about four feet wide, occupied by the prisoners.
The relatives take their station on each side of the passage during the interviews, and a warder is stationed by their side to overlook them. On one occasion we were present when several of the prisoners were visited by their friends.
One of them was a man of about fifty years of age――a Jew――charged with having been concerned in the forgery of Russian banknotes. He was an intellectual-looking fair-complexioned man, with a long flowing beard and a very wrinkled brow, and his head bald in front.
He was very decently dressed, and appeared deeply interested while he conversed in broken English through the wire-screen with an elderly woman, who appeared to be warmly attached to him, and who was profoundly affected with his situation.
He appeared to be a shrewd man of the world. Alongside was a genteel-looking man, with sallow complexion and fine dark eye, who was visited by a tall young woman, decently dressed, who stood with a bundle in her hand. It appeared this prisoner was under remand for stealing clothes from his employers.
He looked sullen, and though apparently attached to the young woman, was very taciturn, and looked around with a very suspicious air.
A modest-looking elderly man, with silver hair, genteelly attired in dark coat and vest and grey trousers, stood with a bundle in his hand, and was busily engaged conversing with a little smart woman of advanced years, dressed in a grey dress and dark shawl.
We learned he was charged with embezzlement.
But there is one feature of Newgate’s interior a recollection of which will probably abide in the memory of the man who sets eyes on it, long after all else connected with the grim prison is forgotten――the murderers’ burying-ground.
When one reads that “the body of the malefactor was the same afternoon buried within the precincts of the gaol,” the natural inference is that there is a graveyard, that there is a spot at the rear of the chapel, very likely, set apart for the interment of those who are sacrificed to the law’s just vengeance, and that, though the unhallowed hillocks are devoid of head or footstone, there is a registry kept, by which the authorities can tell whose disgraced remains they cover. This, however, is by no means the system adopted.
The guide, unlocking a door, discovers a narrow paved alley, between two very tall, rough-hewn walls, which are adorned with whitewash. The alley is, perhaps, five-and-twenty yards long, and not so wide but that two men joining hands could easily touch the sides of it, and at the end there is a grated gate.
“This,” remarks the civil warder, “is where we bury ’em,” and you naturally conclude that he alludes to a space beyond the gate, and that he is about to traverse the alley, and open it.
Instead of this, barely has he stepped over the threshold than he points to the letter “S,” dimly visible on the wall’s surface, and, says he――
“Slitwizen, who was hanged for murdering his wife and burning her body,” and before your breath, suspended by the startling announcement, is restored to you, he lays his forefinger on another letter a few inches off.
“Ketchcalf, who cut the throat of his fellow-servant; Brambleby, who split his father’s skull with a garden spade; Greenacre, who murdered Hannah Brown and afterwards cut up her body,” and so as he keeps shifting barely a foot at a time along the face of the whitened wall, he goes on adding to the horrible list, while the ghastly fact dawns on you that every letter denotes a body cut down from the gallows, and that the pavement you are walking on is bedded in the remains of who shall say how many male and female murderers?
We are comparatively moderate in modern times in the use of the hempen cord as a remedy against man-slaying, but this was nearly a generation since, when business was exceedingly brisk in that line, and a hanging was looked for in the Old Bailey on a Monday almost as much as a matter of course as the cattle-market in Smithfield on a Friday.
Then, as now, the dreadful little lane between the high walls was the only place of sepulchre for those who passed out to death through the debtors’ door.
The very paving-stones bear witness to the many times they have been roughly forced up by unskilled hands that a hole may be dug for the reception of the poor coffined wretches who wear quicklime for a shroud.
There is not a whole paving-stone the length of the alley, and they are patched and cobbled and mended with dabs of mortar in the most unhandsome way.
“A very large number must have been buried here at one time and another,” I remarked.
“Bless you, yes sir,” replied the Newgate warder of long service, “you can’t see half the letters. They used to be all over the other wall as well, but, being whitened every year, the letters at last got filled up.”
It was not a pleasant idea, and I believe that the cracked and unstable condition of the paving-stones suggested it, but it came into my mind as I scanned the walls and made out scores and scores of ancient letters, showing ghostlike through the obliterating whitewash, what a hideous crowd it would make if those to whom the initials applied could all in a moment be recalled to life.
The narrow alley would not hold them all. There would ensue such a ferocious crushing and striving for escape that there would be murder done over again, and such work for Mr. Marwood that he would be striking for extra pay.
A hundred years ago the public executioners of the metropolis were kept uncommonly busy.
According to the Newcastle Chronicle, of July 29th, 1780, there were thirteen criminals hanged in the four days from July 18th to 21st, 1780, and of these ten had been convicted of complicity in the Gordon Riots, the remainder being for highway robbery.
One of the condemned rioters was a Jew, named Solomons. The report of the executions says:――
“Yesterday morning (July 21st), at a quarter-past six o’clock, Thomas Price, James Burn, Benj. Walters, Jona. Stacey, and George Staples, convicts, for rioting, &c., in Golden-lane and Moorfields, were called up to prayers, and about eight o’clock the three former had their irons knocked off, put in a cart, and conveyed in the same order as before to the end of Golden-lane, Old-street-road.
“At their coming out of Newgate, James Burn desired the carman not to drive so fast, which was complied with.
“On their arrival at the place of execution, the Ordinary got up into the cart, prayed with them for some considerable time, when he left them, and they were tied up――shortly after they shook hands with each other, and said, as they had lived together on earth, and died, so they hoped they should live together in Heaven――their caps were pulled over their faces, and they were launched into eternity, while the clock was striking nine.
“The cavalcade then went back to Newgate, and about eleven o’clock, Jonathan Stacey, for demolishing Mr. Malo’s house, and George Staples, for demolishing the Romish Chapel, &c., adjoining, were put into the cart and conveyed to Moorfields, the gallows being fixed directly opposite the ruins thereof.
“They arrived there about a quarter after eleven, when the Ordinary went up to them, and performed his duty, which, being finished, the executioner pulled their caps over their eyes, and they were launched into eternity.
“These poor men prayed in a most exemplary manner all the way from Newgate to the place of execution, and never once took their eyes from their books but when they lifted them to Heaven for mercy.”
Out of one hundred and thirty-five rioters who were tried, fifty-nine were capitally convicted.
The prison arrangements in the olden time were far different to the present regulations.
The author of a work entitled, “The Penns and Penningtons of the Seventeenth Century,” tells the following story of Newgate, which, as we are discoursing on the City gaol, may be interesting to our readers as a contrast to our present prison regulations.
When we came to Newgate (says the narrator) we found that side of the prison very full of Friends, who were prisoners there before us; as indeed were all the other parts of that prison, and most of the other prisons about the town; and our addition caused a still greater throng on that side of Newgate.
We had the liberty of the hall, which is on the first story over the gate, and which in the daytime is common to all the prisoners on that side, felons as well as others.
But in the night we all lodged in one room, which was large and round, having in the middle of it a great pillar of oaken timber, which bore up the chapel that is over it.
To this pillar we fastened our hammocks at one end, and to the opposite wall on the other end, quite round the room, in three stories, one over the other; so that they who lay in the upper and middle row of hammocks were obliged to go to bed first, because they were to climb up to the higher by getting into the lower ones.
And under the lower range of hammocks, by the wall sides, were laid beds upon the floor, in which the sick and weak prisoners lay.
There were many sick, and some very weak, and though we were not long there, one of our fellow prisoners died. The rest of the story is too good to be omitted.
The body of the deceased, being laid out and put in a coffin, was set in a room called “The Lodge,” that the coroner might inquire into the cause of his death.
The manner of their doing it is this. As soon as the coroner is come, the turnkeys run into the street under the gate, and seize upon every man that passes till they have got enough to make up the coroner’s inquest. It so happened at this time, that they lighted on an ancient man, a grave citizen, who was trudging through the gate in great haste, and him they laid hold on, telling him he must come in and serve upon the inquest.
He pleaded hard, begged and besought them to let him go, assuring them that he was going on very urgent business. But they were deaf to all entreaties.
When they had got their complement, and were shut in together, the others said to this ancient man――
“Come, father, you are the oldest among us; you shall be our foreman.”
When the coroner had sworn the jury, the coffin was uncovered that they might look upon his body, but the old man said to them――
“To what purpose do you show us a dead body here? You would not have us think that this man died in this room! How shall we be able to judge how this man came by his death, unless we see the place where he died, and where he hath been kept prisoner before he died? How know we but that the incommodiousness of the place wherein he was kept may have occasioned his death? Therefore show us the place wherein this man died.”
This much displeased the keepers, and they began to banter the old man, thinking to beat him off it. But he stood up tightly to them.
“Come, come,” said he, “though you made a fool of me in bringing me hither, ye shall not find me a child now I am here. Mistake not; for I understand my place and your duty; and I require you to conduct me and my brethren to the place where this man died. Refuse it at your peril.”
They now wished they had let the old man go about his business, rather than by troubling him have brought this trouble on themselves. But when he persisted in his resolution the coroner told them they must show him the place.
It was evening when they began, and by this time it was bed-time with us, so that we had taken down our hammocks, which in the day hung by the walls, and had made them ready to go into and were undressing, when on a sudden we heard a great noise of tongues and trampling of feet coming towards us.
By-and-bye one of the turnkeys, opening our door said――“Hold! hold! do not undress; here is the coroner’s inquest coming to see you.”
As soon as they were come to the door (for within it there was scarcely room for them to come) the foreman who led them, lifting up his hands, said――“Lord bless me, what a sight is here! I did not think there had been so much cruelty in the hearts of Englishmen to use Englishmen in this manner! We need not now question,” said he to the rest of the jury, “how this man came by his death; we may wonder that they are not all dead, for this place is enough to breed an infection among them. Well,” added he, “if it please God to lengthen my life till to-morrow, I will find means to let the king know how his Subjects are dealt with here.”
The Sessions House adjoins Newgate prison.
The older wing is uniform with it in appearance, and was the original Sessions House.
There are seven doors entering into the old court-room; two of them on the side next to Newgate, one of them in the area being for witnesses, and another more elevated being a private entrance for the judges.
On the opposite side there are two doors, one for the jury and counsel, and the other a private entrance for the judges and magistrates who take their seats on the bench.
There is another door behind the bench, by which any of the judges are able to retire when disposed; and on each side of the dock there is a door for the entrance of the witnesses, solicitors, and jury.
The court-room is lighted by three large windows towards Newgate, and by three smaller sombre windows on the opposite side.
The deputy-governor of Newgate informed us, that all classes of heavy offences are tried at the Old Bailey Criminal Court, which is the highest in England. The prisoners are brought from the prison of Newgate and placed in cells under the courts, until they are called to the bar to be tried.
They are then brought into the dock to answer to the criminal charges brought against them. The indictments are read over to each of them, and they are asked by the clerk of the arraigns if they are guilty or not guilty. If they plead guilty, they are ordered in the meantime to stand back.
If they plead not guilty, they remain at the bar until all the pleas are taken of the other prisoners at the dock.
After this is done the jury are called into the jury-box, to proceed to investigate the different cases. The prisoners can object to the jurymen before being sworn.
If the prisoner at the bar is found guilty, he is sentenced by the judge, and removed to the prison. If he is declared not guilty, a discharge is written out by the governor, and he retires from the bar.
In the case of a murderer, he is taken to the court in custody of an officer. He is arraigned at the bar in the same way as the other classes of prisoners. If found guilty he is taken back to the condemned cell, where he is watched day and night until he is executed, which generally takes place within three weeks thereafter.
The deputy-governor stated:――I find the murderers to be of very different characters. Some are callous and ruffian-like in demeanour, but others are of more gentle and peaceable disposition, whom you heartily pity, as you are convinced from all you see about them, that they had been incited to the commission of their crime through intemperance or other incidental causes, foreign to their general character.
We find those to be worst who premeditated their crimes for gain. There have been few murderers here who assassinated from revenge.
I have seen twenty-nine criminals executed in front of Newgate, and was present in the court at the trial of most of them. Palmer was one of the most diabolical characters among penal offenders I ever saw in Newgate, and Mrs. Manning the most callous of females. Palmer was a gentlemanlike man, educated for a surgeon.
By giving himself up too much to gambling and field sports he was led to the murder of J. P. Cooke to repay his losses. He was executed at Stafford, and was only temporarily under our custody here. In person he was strong built, about the ordinary height, and had very strong nerves.
Mrs. Manning was a very resolute woman, but her husband was a very imbecile character, and had been dragged into crime through the strong mind of his wife, who had formerly been lady’s maid to the Duchess of Sutherland.
The deputy-governor informed us he had taken notes of the executions in Newgate since 1816, when criminals were hanged for cutting and wounding, burglary, forgery, uttering base coin, &c.
The law was changed in the year 1836 in reference to capital punishments, and the sentence of death is now restricted to murder and high treason. In 1785 nineteen persons, and in 1787 no less than eighteen were executed at one time.
When females are convicted of murder they are asked by the Clerk of Arraigns if they have anything to urge why sentence of death should be passed on them. The matron who sits in the dock beside a female culprit, asks if she is in the family way. A curious case took place in 1847.
Mary Ann Hunt, being convicted of murder, was asked by the Clerk of Arraigns if she had anything to urge why sentence of death should not be passed upon her. She replied through the matron in the dock that she was with child. An unusual step was here taken. A jury of twelve married women were summoned to court, who on being sworn, examined her.
After they, were absent for some time, they returned into the Court, and stated that she was not with child. She was afterwards examined by the medical officer in Newgate, and found to be pregnant. She gave birth to a son on the 28th of December following. When before the Court she must have been eight months gone with child.