Chapter XVII…

Chapter XVII

THIEVES IN THE LOCK UP――A HORSE-STEALER TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.

There were an unusual number of charges to be heard at the court on the day in which Peace was examined. A gang of poachers were charged with an attempt to murder a gamekeeper in the neighbourhood. The prisoners who had been committed were therefore removed from the cells to make room for the fresh arrivals.

Peace, Mr. Green, and five others were conveyed to a lock-up which was situated at about two miles distant from the court. They were to remain there till the prison van returned to take them to the county gaol.

The lock-up in question has long since undergone demolition, and indeed at the time of which we are writing it was only occasionally used as a temporary and supplementary prison-house for offenders.

It was part of a large building originally erected as a receptacle for fraudulent debtors.

Peace and his companions were safely deposited in the prison van which conveyed them to what was in reality only a wing of the substantial-looking building.

They were conducted into a large lofty stone-room, with windows near to the ceiling, much after the fashion of Millbank prison.

In front of these were strong iron bars.

A long massive table stood in the centre of the cheerless apartment, and around this were arranged a number of chairs.

A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and in front of this ran some strong iron bars as high as a man’s chest. These were supported and braced by iron uprights.

When Peace and his fellow-prisoners entered this place they found several other offenders already assembled therein.

The massive door, studded with iron nails, was slammed to and looked from the outside.

“What do they mean by bringing us to a crib like this when we are committed to the county gaol?” said Mr. Green, in a tone of disgust. “I shall enter an action agen them for unlawful detention.”

“You are particular,” cried a man seated at the corner of the fireplace. “You’ll be taken to the gaol soon enough, but it won’t be till after the rising of the court.”

“You seem to know all about it,” returned Mr. Green. “Thank you for the information.”

The batch of prisoners who had but just arrived now possessed themselves of the requisite number of chairs, and arranged themselves in a group apart from the others.

There was a dead silence for some time after this.

Peace was moody and thoughtful, and every now and then regarded his companions with a furtive glance.

He did not recognise any person with whom he had been previously acquainted.

“You all of yer look confoundedly down in the dumps,” said the man who had been charged with horse-stealing. “It’s no use giving way. Make your miserable lives as happy as you can――that’s my motto.”

The man who gave utterance to this speech was about thirty-five years of age, and five feet seven in height, with a remarkably firm-knit frame.

His face was bronzed, his hair and eyes were jet black, the former hanging in ringlets over the latter; his mouth was coarse and sensual; his legs were slightly curved, which added to the general strength of his figure.

He wore a sloped-cut, dark-green coat, with metal buttons, a striped vest, which hung half-way down his thighs, over which were broad-striped corduroys, buttoned over the top of the knees, with loose cloth leggings, having gilt buttons to match.

On the whole his appearance denoted a groom possessing great muscular power, and a bully of ferocious determination, who would not hesitate a moment to carry out any undertaking in which he had embarked. For the rest he did not appear to be depressed by the situation in which he found himself placed; he was cheerful and loquacious.

“Listen to me, mates,” said this personage, rising from his seat. “If, as our friend has said, we are to remain here till the rising of the court, we shall, I’m afraid, find the time hang heavily on our hearts.”

“If we do, there’s no help for it,” said Peace, looking hard at the speaker.

“Right you are, my lad,” returned the other, who then proceeded with his discourse. “I was just a-thinkin’,” he observed, “which among us has the honour of being the biggest rogue. We’ve all been guilty, gentlemen, of doing something which has brought the wrath of our enemies down upon us. I myself am here for taking an airing on a pad one fine moonlight night. Now, I say, I wonder which is the biggest rogue in this batch of injured gentlemen?”

“Oh, shut up; that will do,” said a voice from the further end of the room. “What does it matter?”

“Well,” returned the other, “as far as that goes, I don’t know how it does much matter; but it aint in my nature to sit still like a dummy when in such good company as I now find myself. Let us relate to each other our own lives and doings. It will amuse some on us.”

“You begin with yours, then,” said Peace. “You’ve got the jawing tackle on, and won’t stand still for want of words, I dare say. I’m quite willing. What say you, gentlemen?”

There was a murmur of many voices, and some of those present expressed their willingness to listen to the story.

“Good, then; here goes to keep the game alive. I can say I am not related to any of the hupper classes; leastways not as I knows on――my impression being that I was born under a hedge: I am a gipsy: this I dare say you have already guessed. Well, let me tell you a gipsy’s life is not without is charms. I believe I was cradled on a horse or a donkey, but this is what I’ve heard other people say.

[Sidenote: No. 9.]

“My earliest recollections bring to my view seven or eight hooped tents on the skirts of a common, eight or ten stunted sorts of horses, and five or six donkeys with here and there a fire on the ground, kettles hanging over them hitched on a cross-stick, supported by others fixed in the ground.

“Myself with four or five other children of my own age might be seen rolling on the grass just washed and refreshed by the morning dew.

“There, aint that a picter? But, Lord love yer, them days are passed, and the honourable race of gipsies are rapidly passing away before modern improvements, as they are termed――and be hanged to them.

“Aint it a picture――a gipsy encampment, I only ask ye that?”

“It is, without a doubt, quite a picture,” said Peace.

“I see you are a sensible man, sir,” remarked the gipsy; “but let me proceed with my story.

“As I grow up I was reckoned the best climber and runner in the camp. My elder brother, Ralph, undertook my edication.

“‘Will,’ ses he, one day, ‘come along with me.’ He took me to a pond at the remote corner of a common when he laid me down on my face across the edge of the bank.

He then covered me with briar, and giving me proper instructions went and drove the geese all that way, quietly to the spot where I lay.

As they waddled to reach the water, I, from under the boughs, grabbed at their legs and secured two on ’em. Didn’t I have a tuck-out when I got home off one of the geese?”

There was a roar of laughter at this part of the narrative.

“After this I got on fast in life; new scenes every day opened to me, and horse-dealing and horse-stealing became part of my business.

“We attended races and fairs, where the girls of our camp told fortunes, the old women set up togs for the children to throw at three shies a penny. My brother and others followed the thimble and garter rig, while I and father at times skirted the towns and villages to job swap horses.

“Sometimes I was sent off with a horse fifty miles away from his former acquaintances, there to await the arrival of our clan.

“When I was fifteen years of age I could ride and leap a ’oss with any jockey in the kingdom. A ’oss I liked better than anything in the world, and a prad has got me into my present difficulty; but it can’t be helped.

“It happened one day, as my brother and I were taking four chopped ’osses to a fair (we never ventured into a market with a prigged prad), a pack of hounds crossed the road, and presently a lot of swells came leaping over the hedge arter them. One of the last of these, togged in a scarlet coat, came rolling over the ’oss slap at Ralph’s feet.

“‘Hallo!’ said Ralph, ‘a regular spill.’

“Over went the ’oss on the t’other side into the field. ‘She’ll gallop home,’ said the huntsman.

“‘No she won’t,’ said I, and away I goes with my pony arter her. Well, I had a good chase, but I nabbed her, and getting into the saddle slap, I gallops back and took the hedge and ditch like a good un into the road where Ralph was rubbing down the swell.

“‘Good lad,’ said the huntsman. ‘Why he can ride a bit.’

“‘Ride,’ said Ralph; ‘I believe you, master.’

“‘Try her again,’ said the swell.

“So I puts the mare over the hedge and back agen, like a buck in full chase.

“‘Well done, excellent; you’re a brave boy,’ exclaimed the swell cove. ‘Do you want a place, my lad?’

“‘I could do very well with one, sir,’ I answered.

“‘Very well; if you do come to my stables,’ said he, and with that he handed me his card.

“Well arter he had gone I thought of what he sed, and the next day I ran over to the gentleman’s stables, when I met a chap cleaning a curb chain.

“‘What do want here?’ said the man.

“‘I want to see your master,’ I replied.

“‘Do you?’ he returned, with an impudent mocking laugh.

“‘If you take my advice, youngster, you’ll just hook it.’

“‘I shan’t do nuffin of the sort,’ ses I.

“He laid hold of a long riding whip, and told me to be off.

“‘Don’t you think I am afraid of you, big as you are’ I ses.

“With that he aimed a blow at me with the whip.

“I dodged on one side, and caught hold of the lash.

“We had a tussle. I wrested the whip from his hand, and gave him a sharp blow over the legs with the butt end of the weapon.

“Arter this we had a set-to. I floored him twice, when up comes my new master.

“‘Leave the lad alone,’ said the swell, addressing himself to my antagonist. ‘You’re a deal too fast.’

“‘He tried to break my leg,’ answered the man.

“‘I’ve seen the whole affair from the garden. You were the aggressor,’ said the gentleman, who then bade me follow him into the house.

“He took me into a fine room in which were seated several gentlemen, I s’pose they called themselves; and found them to be a fast lot. But I was a little surprised to hear them ‘my lord’ my master, and he ‘Sir Edgar’ and ‘Sir Thomas’ them.

“Well, the upshot of it was that they made bets that I would lick the groom, whom they called Andrew.

“We had a set-to. The fight lasted over five and twenty minutes, and I was declared victor.

“After this I had a chair among the swells, and drank wine out of a tumbler, and the footman brought me some sandwiches, while they talked of a lot of things in slang that puzzled me.

“I understood, however, that horse-racing, steeple-chasing, and dog fighting were the main subjects of their discourse.

“‘You give a rare account of the aristocracy,’ said Peace.

“‘I’ve had pretty much to do with them,’ returned the gipsy. ‘Well, the first night I went to bed in my lord’s house I couldn’t sleep a wink, the bed was so soft and uncomfortable. I got up early, and cleaned out the kennel. About eleven o’clock my lord and his friends came down the yard.

“‘Well,’ ses he, ‘have you had a look at the stud yet?’

“‘No, my lord,’ says I; ‘your chaps wouldn’t like that.’

“‘They’ll have to learn better manners,’ said my lord. He then had ’em all turned out――eight or nine on ’em there were. ‘Harkye,’ said he to the men, ‘this is my training groom,’ pointing to me; ‘so for the future attend to his orders as coming from me. Put up the bar, and bring out Redfern, Curband, and Beeswing. We are going to have some leaping. Now,’ he said, addressing himself to me; ‘there will be some crack steeple horses here presently, and you must see what you can do with them. Jump up, and give these a breathing before the others arrive. Have the saddle put on which you like.’

“‘I don’t want a saddle, my lord,’ ses I; and up I jumped on a grey horse, named Custard, as I afterwards learnt.

“After I had made a few leaps, I placed shillings between my knees and the ’oss’s sides, and the same under my seat, and to their astonishment cleared the bar without displacing them.

“My lord was evidently delighted. He drew me on one side, out of earshot of the rest, and said, in a whisper, ‘You shall be my steeple-race jockey, but mind, don’t show all you can do at present.’

“‘All right,’ says I.

“‘I had no idea Custard could do so much till you rode him.’

“‘Why, my lord,’ said I, ‘I knowed the grey horse when a baby. I could win all the steeplechases in the country with him.’”

“Why, how came you to know the horse?” inquired Peace.

The gipsy looked at the questioner with one eye only.

“Why, Lord bless us,” he answered, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “father and I knowed every ’oss as was worth knowing in every country we travelled in, and got money by carrying information about ’em from place to place.

“Well, a great race was to come off soon after this. My lord had taken the field twenty to one over and over ag’in against Custard for the steeplechase which was to be run on the following week, so he stood to win eight thousand if I could bring Custard in a winner, and that I felt I could make sure of.

“But I must tell you, however, that my lord and I, after being so nutty upon one another, all of a sudden on this morning began to wrangle. First he began teaching me how to ride. Well, I couldn’t stand that nohow.

“I’m for commanding a ’oss light in the mouth, riding him as with a silken rein as fine as a hair, and which you feel afraid to break. My lord, who was a yokel in the management of ’osses, though he was good at a-getting money on ’em, as you shall hear presently, always gave his lads instructions to hold their ’osses tight in racing.

“Now, if a ’oss bears on his rein in running it makes him open his mouth, and pulls his head up, which frets him, and causes him to jump with his forelegs open, and run stag-necked, locks his wind, and soon tires him. ’Osses that run sprawling, with a part of the rider’s weight in their mouth, can never win a race if at all matched. I, however, likes to keep a ’oss together with a good bridle hand, being careful not to pull on the rein, or he can’t rise to the fence when he gets up to it.

“Arter a deal of argufying for sometime, his lordship gave in, and told me I had better ride as I liked.

“Well, I did have my own way, and the consequence was that I won four races with Custard, and a rare swag of money did my lord make.

“He was entered for the fifth race. Well, you must know that a few days afore this came off a great bull-headed man, who was a bruiser by profession, and a scoundrel by nature, come and ses to me――‘Look here, Will, can’t Custard and you lose the race that’s coming off? It’s all right; you are to lose it――so his lordship says.’

“‘Oh, indeed; that’s to be the little game――is it?’ says I. ‘I can’t give you an answer at present, my noble.’

“So I goes to my lord, and blows the pumping, and all about the losing game.

“‘Well,’ said my master, ‘whatever the gentleman’――he meant, of course, the bruiser――‘tells you to do you must consider as my orders. You will be well paid.’ I didn’t like the task, but there was no help for it, I was bound to obey. But Custard didn’t seem to see it, and he would have run the race; so at the last leap but one I tumbled off and left him to do as he liked, and of course he lost it.”

“What a dirty piece of business!” said the man by the fireplace.

“Disgraceful!” exclaimed Mr. Green. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“It wasn’t nice,” said the gipsy, “and went against the grain. When I was limping across the field as if I was hurt, didn’t my lord swear at me like a good un afore everybody? He called me every name he could think of, but I bore it all like a lamb.

“I always thought my lord looked shy at me after this, and never treated me on the same footing as before.

“The truth is, if you once make yourself a rascal to serve a rich man he never likes to see you under his nose any more.

“About a month after this the ‘bruiser,’ whom I had never seen before the race, sends a gig over for me from the next market town, and when I gets there, ‘Well,’ says he, ‘my lord is going to sell his stud, and bids me say that he shall not want your services any more. He has sent you fifty pounds as a present.’ He handed me a note for that amount, which you may be sure I collared.

“‘Well, I am sorry he’s going to part with his stud,’ said I.

“‘It’s a pity a young fellow like you should lose a good berth,’ observed the ‘bruiser.’ ‘I am, however, glad to say that I’ve got you a situation in one of the first breeders’ establishments in the kingdom.’

“Then, pointing to a thick-set man in the room, he said, ‘This person will drive you to the place with this letter, and you’ll be all right――better off, indeed, than you were in your old place.’

“I assented, and he placed me in charge of the little man whom he called Jim. He was a well-known tool of the ‘bruiser’s.’

“‘What sort of a shop is this you are a takin’ me to?’ said I to my companion.

“‘Oh! it is as right as the mail,’ answered he in a cheerful tone. ‘Good as gold――that’s what it is. If you mind what’s said to you, and keep your eye on the main chance, you will be made for life. You’ll find it far better than serving a lord.’

“I did not like to inquire any further, but made up my mind to wait patiently till I knew more about matters, but could not help thinking, however, that there was something in the wind. The next day I went with him about fifty or sixty miles off to my new situation, which I was told was a topping establishment――the biggest one there was in the sporting world.

“‘What will be my duties?’ I inquired of Jim.

“‘Well, you see, old man,’ he answered, ‘you’ll only be engaged as helping groom; but what of that? The guv’nor he’s a liberal sort, he is, an’ he’ll make it up to you, so that you’ll find it as good as the situation you have just left.’

“Well, I was installed in my new office, and found things comfortable enough. I had not been there more than a fortnight when Master Jim again made his appearance. He was mighty friendly, took me and treated me to a rattling good dinner, which I washed down with a plentiful supply of wine.

“He asked me if I wanted money, and said, at the same time, that I might, whenever I fancied a horse, have part of a bet in his book; in fact, I found him most amiable and considerate. But I wasn’t a born fool, and knew perfectly well what the pretended friendship of betting men was worth.

“He kept the game up all the winter, and came to see me frequently till the spring meetings came on at Newmarket.

“I expected something was up, and I was not mistaken.

“My master had a colt and filly bred of the best promise of the season.

“He was a big card in his way, and went in heavily for betting.

“When I got to Newmarket with the colt and filly there was Mister Jim all honey and butter as usual, and now came out the murder.”

“You may well call it murder, you vagabond,” exclaimed one of the prisoners. “I know all about the villainous transaction, and lost my fortune by that and other swindles of a similar description.”

“Well, don’t fall foul of me, master,” cried the gipsy, who eyed the speaker curiously. “There’s no call to use hard words now, seeing that we are here in limbo together.”

“Go on,” said the other prisoner. “I acknowledge that it was not your fault, but those who bribed you. Go on; I will not again interrupt you.”

“Well, as I said, out comes the murder,” said the gipsy, in continuation.

“Jim followed me when away from the stables like my shadow, till late one evening he got me into a by-lane.

“I saw something was a coming from the expression of his countenance, and I was not mistaken.

“‘I want to say a few words to you upon business matters,’ said he.

“‘All right,’ ses I; ‘fire away. I’m all ears.’

“‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘this is a queer world, and there are a lot of queer people in it. Some on ’em are fools, and some are rogues. If you try to live honestly you are doomed to remain a beggar, or next door to one.’

“‘I found that out a long time ago.’

“‘Did you? Ah, I suppose so. I think we shall be able to understand one another.’

“‘Ah, I dare say we shall――leastways, I hope so. I aint too particular, you know.’

“‘I have brought with me a hundred pounds. You may have it upon one condition.’

“‘And what might that be?’ I inquired.

“‘Your colt and filly!’ he replied, with a meaning look. ‘In my pocket are six balls. I want one given to each of them to-night, one to-morrow morning, and one again to-morrow night.’

“‘Oh!’ I ejaculated, for his proposition had almost taken my breath away. ‘That’s it, is it? You want me to poison the poor brutes.’

“‘No, no,’ he quickly answered; ‘not poison――only opium; the animals will be all the better for it――their legs will be saved. They will go down in character for this two thousand stake, but come out another day low in the list, to the surprise of the knowing ones.’

“‘I don’t like the job,’ I exclaimed, ‘that I tell you plainly――I don’t like it at all.’

“‘That may be, but you’ll do it――you must!’

“‘When am I to touch?’ said I.

“‘Immediately after the race comes off. Our people are honourable, and just in all their dealings.’”

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed half a dozen of the prisoners, simultaneously.

“In a manner of speaking,” returned the gipsy. “That’s what Jim wished me to understand. He said he would take their word for thousands.

“Well, I took the balls――the colt and filly ran like cows, and I got the coin.

“Three times afterwards I did the physicking game while in my employer’s service. I believe he suspected something, and discharged one man after another, till it came to my turn, and I was sent adrift without a character.

“‘And serve you right, too,’ said Peace. ‘What else could you expect?’

“I had no right to expect anything else, and if I had I should have been disappointed. I was now like a fettered dog, obliged to crouch before the glance of my keeper. Jim had only to say do this or do that, and I was forced to obey.

“Duplicate keys were given me to enter stables by night, and when these did not answer I broke open the doors to hocus ’osses for those who gave out their orders, till at last I and three others had a command to poison the water from which a whole stable of race-’osses were supplied. The game was now up; my employers made a fortune and escaped all danger.

“They were, however, suspected, but as they had touched the blunt and obtained credit of being down to a thing or two they were followed more than before.

“One of their tools was grabbed and had six years of it. I and two others cut our sticks just in time.

“After a twelvemonth’s hide we came back, but we could not get anything to do. Jim told us that we had managed the thing badly, and that his employers had cut him off without giving him a ‘quid’ for his trouble.

“‘Foul deeds deserve foul play,’ said the moody prisoner in the corner. ‘It is the moral law, and grievous ought to be the penalty exacted from all who take part in them. Retributive justice has overtaken you, Bandy-legged Bill. You perceive I am acquainted with your nickname. But what became of the lord, your former master?’

“‘Why,’ replied the gipsy, ‘I knowed he was in it all from first to last, and had picked me up to serve his own ends. I dogged him one morning going down to the stables.’

“Please, my lord,” says I, coming the crawl to him, ‘I am an ill-used man.’

“‘Indeed! And who has ill-used you, Will?’ he asked, as if he had been my best friend. So I took courage, and up and told him all.

“‘And who is Jim Dempster?’ said he, when he had heard me out, looking as innocent as a blessed saint.

“‘Why, the agent of your friends who belong to the big betting firm where I was after I left you. Jim is the little man you spoke to the other day at Ascot about the running of Butterfly.’

“‘My friends, you scoundrel! How dare you call those fellows my friends?’ he cried out. ‘Perhaps you, too, are a friend of mine, as you have been my groom and rode my horses. Don’t you have the audacity to speak of such persons as my friends again.’ Then turning as serious as a barn owl, he looked me in the face, and continued, ‘You have escaped the law, my man, this time. Take my advice, quit bad company, and turn to an honest course of life. But, mark me, if ever you cross my path again, and are impudent enough to speak to me, I shall give you into custody on your own confession,’ and away he strode to the stable.

“‘Hang it all, this is cheeky for a youngster, lord or no lord,’ says I. ‘I don’t think I could have done it better myself.’

“I can’t tell you how I lived for the next two or three years. It was, perhaps, something after the manner of the dog who has no master――to-day, I might be feeding on garbage; to-morrow, snatching a bone from a smaller and weaker dog; and a third time, waiting for the refuse of those who were over-gorged. Like a fly, I dipped into every man’s cup that came into my way; but, strange to say, all this time it never came into my head to look back on a gipsy’s life.”

“Shall I tell you why?” muttered the man in the corner. “There is a charm in a vagabond’s wayward life which none but a vagabond can appreciate.”

“What is a gipsy’s life but that of a vagabond state of existence?” inquired Peace.

“True,” returned the other. “Granted, but not precisely in the same degree as the one he had been following. He had known what a wayward life was in the country, but the town loafer’s life was new to him, and brought fresh charms――yes, charms, I will call them. There is positively a fascinating spell in a life of monetary casualty which is a mystery to those who are well provided for in life. Even the extreme of misery does not break the spell. Sadness oftentimes twines itself around the strings of the heart, while it releases and softens them.

“I knew a corner in a tap-room of a public-house resorted to by cadgers which was called the dead man’s corner, because numbers of decayed beggars had made it their sleeping place, and in that spot one had breathed his last. The seat was frequently at a premium among aged beggars.”

“Ah, I say, draw it mild, old man,” said several voices.

“It’s a fact,” returned the man in the corner.

No two specimen of the human species could form a stranger contrast than the gipsy and the man in the corner, or the “Croaker,” as the former designated him.

The gipsy was full of robust health, of life, and animation.

The “Croaker” resembled more the skeleton of a murdered man than a living subject.

The attenuation of his figure conveyed to the mind the horrible idea of a man just terminating his life under a sentence of starvation.

His eyes resembled dirty gray glass, and a countenance, when unmoved, adorned with features cut in marble, or moulded in cast iron, impressing those who looked on him with the idea that for once nature had made a man without feelings or affections.

Warmth, ardour, sensibility, and the sentiment of friendship had all, however, reigned successively in the collapsed breast of that frame, of which nothing was left but the bare walls, lighted by the last flickerings of the vital spark of that intellect which had brought reflection and worn him to the bone.

He was a mere wreck. Remorse for an ill-spent and sinful life had eaten like a canker worm into his heart.

Peace was particularly struck with the emaciated man who sat in the corner, and who every now and then offered some observation as the gipsy shadowed forth his career. He would have liked to learn something of his history, and indeed it was understood that he was to be the next speaker.

“Get on with your biography,” said the man in the corner.

“I’ve not much more to tell,” returned the gipsy. Let’s see, where was I?

“Oh, I was down at low-water mark, and didn’t know how to get on. One cold, dark, rainy, boisterous night, the whole of which I had passed in the streets penniless and hungry, drove me almost to desperation. It had often come into my head to knock down and rob the first person I met, but every crime requires a beginning before it can be done with ease and firmness.”

“True,” ejaculated the man in the corner, “I know it well. If Jem Dempster had put you on to poisoning the trough at starting you would have backed out; but he first put you on to hocussing, and you soon came to the poison like an old un in the trade.”

“Cease moralising,” called out several of the auditory.

“The morning was dimming the already dimmed lamps when at the corner of Park-lane I saw a chap who had been in the stables with me.

“He recognised me and spoke a few words of comfort after I had told him my story; he did more than this――he lent me a little ready cash. He informed me that he was in a good situation, being groom to a gentleman in North Audley-street. He was a right good sort and stood by me like a brick, helping me in every way he possibly could during the time I was out of collar.

“Well, to cut along story short, after this I became an ’oss dealer, in which honourable profession I remained, till one night a cunning ’oss coaxed me to put the saddle on his back, and would not be satisfied till I got into it: when he rode away with me――for which they put me in quod instead of the ’oss.

“Now, my old ourang-outang,” said the gipsy, addressing himself to the emaciated man, “let us have an account of your times when you were in the land of the living.”

“I had thought,” responded the prisoner addressed, “that I had some weeks since achieved a victory over memory and buried all recollections of the past. I had shut myself wholly in passive resignation to the future without suffering myself to revert to the bygone events of my life, the frequent reference to which had previously worn me to the object you now behold. But that man,” pointing to the gipsy, “has broken down the barrier within which I had taken shelter. He has, in a few words, informed me of the causes of my ruin. His villainies have brought me here.

“The family of which I am an unworthy member was more distinguished for its ancestors than for its possessions.”

The speaker had got thus far when the ponderous lock of the door was turned, and a police sergeant and two constables, accompanied by a prison warder, entered.

“Now then, prisoners, this way,” said the sergeant.

The culprits rose from their seats. Peace, the gipsy, Mr. Green, with several others, were conducted to the prison van, or “Black Maria,” as it is termed by criminals.

The cadaverous-looking man was abruptly cut short in his narrative.

Most persons will doubtless remember having seen the ominous-looking vehicle called “Black Maria” going to and from the various police offices and the metropolitan prisons. It is not unlike a hearse in external appearance, and is suggestive of one of the darker phases of metropolitan and provincial criminal life.

On mounting the steps of the sable vehicle Peace was ushered into a passage running up the centre from end to end of her Majesty’s carriage. A number of dark doors were on each side, through one of which he was gently pushed by one of his janitors.

He then found himself shut up in a close box on a seat, not too well ventilated nor too clean.

This was not the first time he had been inside a prison van. He had not been much impressed with its comfort on the former occasion, when he first made its acquaintance; now he was disgusted with it, for it brought to his recollection the many ignominious circumstances connected with his first conviction.

When the outer door was shut and locked the vehicle proceeded on its journey.

His companions in misfortune or crime――whichever of the two it might be――did not appear to be so depressed, so moody, and so thoughtful, as our hero.

He heard the sound of their voices in his narrow compartment.

Some were calling to each other by name, it might be said, in a jocund and familiar manner. Mr. Green’s voice was distinctly audible above the hubbub of the rest.

“He’s a sharp sort of a chap that gipsy,” murmured Peace. “I should have liked t’other cove to have time to tell his tale. Ah, this is a bad business. What a spiteful, vindictive old cat!”

This last observation of course referred to the relentless Mrs. Pocklington, from whom he could not Hope to secure clemency. He was perfectly well assured that she would “prosecute to the utmost rigour of the law,” to quote the words so often to be seen on warning sign-posts.

On arriving in the court-yard of the county gaol, the prisoners were marshalled in a narrow-vaulted passage, where they were made to stand in a row.

The deputy-governor, in plain uniform, attended by a cordon of officials, was ready to receive them. He was a tall, military-looking personage, with a broad face and a large bushy beard.

He gave a short preliminary cough, and took from the conductor of the prison van a number of papers, one for each prisoner.

He glanced at these, and then proceeded to call out the names, which the prisoners answered to, some in a jaunty, and others in a quiet tone and manner.

Having satisfied himself that the requisite number of culprits were then and there present, he folded up the papers in a mechanical manner.

When this ceremony had been gone through the new arrivals were conducted to their quarters.

The cadaverous-looking man was the first to be removed. He looked so weak, so borne down, that even the officials regarded him with something like compassion. To their credit we must record that they treated him with kindness and consideration――that is, as far as the rigid prison discipline would allow.

Peace was told to follow a warder. The bumps on his head were still very painful, and, taken altogether, he presented a most pitiable and abject appearance. He said to his janitor, as they went along, that he had been most cruelly used, and told him, moreover, that he was perfectly innocent of the charge upon which he had been committed.

The warder was so accustomed to hear statements of a similar character from prisoners that he did not take much heed of Peace’s declaration of innocence.

He merely nodded, and ushered his prisoner into a stone cellar-like place, where there were a number of small rooms with baths in them.

Peace was directed to enter one and undress. He obeyed without making any observation, knowing well enough, from his former experience of prison life, that it would be useless to offer any objection.

When he had undressed his clothes were taken from him, and underwent a careful scrutiny――the pockets in the garments were turned out, and all prohibited articles removed.

All this was done in a methodical, systematical way. An inventory of these things was taken, and Peace was told that any of his friends, on calling to see him, might take them away.

“I don’t know why I should be stripped of all I possess, but if it’s the rule I suppose there’s no use murmuring,” said Peace.

“It is the rule,” quietly observed the warder. “You are treated precisely the same as all the other prisoners. Now you must have a bath.”

“I’ve no objection to that,” cried Peace.

The bath room was scrupulously clean; the water looked as clear as crystal, and Peace plunged in.

On re-dressing, he was conducted by the warder up a flight of stairs into a large, lofty hall, on each side of which were galleries.

In each gallery was a warder in uniform. With the exception of the halls and corridors the building was almost entirely divided into an immense number of small apartments. These were homely inside, but exquisitely clean.

Prisons at this time might be said to be in a transition state. In some the old system remained in full force. The two systems vary in their aims. Under the old, prisoners awaiting their trials were allowed to mix together in wards.

In such places as these the criminals of the olden times――common thieves, pickpockets, burglars, and others――had, no doubt, many of them, in their own way, a jolly time of it.

They were supplied with provisions by their pals and relatives, and were not compelled to live on prison fare.

As many as twenty would be found at times in one of these wards under the old system, which were nurseries of crime――so it is said――the old hardened felon contaminating the young and inexperienced.

Then, as now, the prisoners did not do any labour before trial, but after conviction they were sent to correctional prisons.

Under the new system the prison is intended to be a penal hospital for the cure of diseased and contagious souls.

The one in which Peace found himself was of the latter class.

On his reaching the first gallery a number was shouted out in a loud voice by his attendant. One of the warders came forward and conducted Peace to his cell.

He was told what to do in case he wished to speak to a warder. It was pointed out to him by his custodian that everything was clean and in its place, and that he was expected to keep it so.

He was also informed that if he liked to pay another prisoner for cleaning his cell he could, by permission of the governor, have it done for him, but otherwise he would have to do it himself.

All these matters he knew, but he did not care to say so. He also knew by heart the printed list of rules to which his attention was next directed.

He said he was too ill to clean his own cell at present, and would rather pay another prisoner to do the work.

He was very clever at shamming illness, but on this occasion he really was in a weak state.

The door was shut with a horrid discordant sound, and Peace then was fairly caged, and felt miserable to the last degree.

He remained for some time moody and thoughtful. After awhile he rose from his seat, and proceeded to examine his narrow prison house. It was a stone or brick-arched room, some fourteen feet by seven; the furniture was in no way superfluous. A bedstead, consisting of the side walls of the apartment; polished steel staples were fixed in these walls, two on each side, at an elevation of about two feet and a half. The occupant’s mattress has two short steel hooks at each end, these are hooked into the staples, so he lies across his abode. A deal table, the size of a pocket-handkerchief, also a deal seat; a bright copper wash basin, fastened to the wall, with a water tap over it so ingeniously contrived, that turned to the right it sends a small stream into the basin, and to the left into a bottomless close stool at some little distance. There were three shelves in one corner.

An iron enamelled plate, a tin mug, wooden spoon, and salt box, and a piece of soap were arranged on the two lower shelves.

“How cursedly clean and staring everything is,” exclaimed Peace, in a tone of disgust. “The things seem to glare at you. Ugh! this is about the most contemtible piece of business I ever knew; but, law, they’ll never convict upon such a trumpery charge.”

He was under the full impression that he would be acquitted.

A great many people are committed by magistrates for trial that are not found guilty. There are many cases where a magistrate will not take upon himself the responsibility of deciding a case, which he prefers being disposed of by the verdict of a jury.

It does happen sometimes that a perfectly innocent man is committed for trial, and it does appear hard, not to say unjust, that he should be subjected to the many indignities and privations which prisoners have to endure.

The law holds that every man is innocent till he is found guilty, and there should certainly be some better arrangement in respect to prisoners who are awaiting their trial.

We question much whether it is advisable for them to be sent to the same prison with others who are convicted.

Many a man at the close of his trial has left the court “without a stain upon his character.” Yet he has had to pass through a painful ordeal, which possibly he will not forget for the remainder of his life. This ought not to be.

Men untried should be treated very differently from the way they are so long as they are kept secure from escape; the main object of their detention is effected. But a man who is unjustly accused, sent to prison, and afterwards proved innocent, bears with him the unpleasant reflection that some mischievous and evil-disposed person is sure to be found who will whisper mysteriously to others “So-and-so was charged with larceny, but he was acquitted.”

With some persons the very fact of having been accused would be prejudicial, but these are things the reader may perhaps exclaim, “It is not possible for the wisest of us to prevent!”

Granted; but that is no reason why every precaution should not be taken to protect the innocent man.

These observations, however, do not apply to such hardened offenders as Peace, who is included in the category of habitual criminals, or, to make use of a stronger term, professional thieves.

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

XVIII. PRISONERS AWAITING TRIAL――THE ASSIZES――PEACE’S DEFENCE

Peace, as may readily be imagined, deplored having made an attempt to enter the “Gothic Cottage” in the occupation of Mrs. Pocklington. He came to the conclusion that that was one of the most stupid things he had ever been guilty of.

His first night in the county gaol was by no means an agreeable one.

The first night in any prison is generally one of bitterness and gall to the unhappy prisoners; but our hero felt humiliated at the contemptible part he had been playing to be knocked about by an old woman until he was rendered nearly senseless, and in that state to be captured without even making an attempt to escape, was most aggravating.

The more he reflected upon the matter the more humiliated did he feel.

His sleep was broken and disturbed during the greater portion of the night.

At six o’clock in the morning he was aroused by the resonant sound of a large bell. He arose and hurried on his clothes.

The door of his cell was thrown open by a stalwart warder, who passed on to make room for the deputy governor and another warder. This last-named personage carried in his hand a large book.

“Do you wish to see the doctor?” inquired the governor.

“Thank you, sir,” returned Peace. “I do not think there is any necessity for that. I am better than I was; the bruises on my head are less painful.”

“And your cell. Do you intend to clean it yourself, or procure a substitute?”

“I’ll do my best to clean it.”

The name he had given at the police-court was now entered on the list in the warder’s book.

Two brushes were then given him, with which he was directed to polish the floor of his cell; and the warder instructed him as to the regulation mode of stowing his hammock and mattress on the shelf, and folding up his blankets and rug.

All these details are easy enough to those who have been accustomed to manual labour, but they are of course very hard to one who has been gently nurtured, or moved in a respectable sphere of life.

This is why prison discipline falls with such unequal force upon different classes of culprits. To a navigator, excavator, or labourer of any description, the treadwheel is a mere trifle in comparison to the effect upon those who have never been used to manual labour.

Every morning Peace had to go on his hands and knees and polish his cell floor, as well as wash and scrub the table, stool, basin, and every article in the room.

This was not a particularly hard task to him, while to others it would have been one of infinite labour.

When the brief interview with his gaolers was over, his breakfast was served through the little trap in the door. It consisted of a pint of gruel and a slice of bread.

A starving man will eat anything, it is said; but I expect many of my readers would have turned aside in disgust at the breakfast.

Peace devoured it with something like a relish.

There can be no possible reason for denying unconvicted prisoners the luxury of a cup of tea or coffee for their morning’s meal.

We never could “abear,” as Mrs. Gamp says, gruel under any circumstances.

But, of course, all men are not constituted alike.

After breakfast he was told to prepare for chapel.

On stepping outside his cell he was directed to turn round with his face to the cell door, to take his Bible, prayer, and hymn-book in his hands, and to hold them behind his back.

This, again, is an unnecessary piece of assumption on the part of the prison authorities when dealing with an unconvicted person――one, indeed, for aught they know, may be as innocent of the crime laid to his charge as they are themselves.

He had ample opportunity of contemplating the outside of the door, and seeing how the various mysterious appliances connected with it were worked.

Being of a mechanical and, in many respects, ingenious turn of mind, he was naturally interested.

He regarded with great curiosity the spy-hole over the trap-door, and was at no loss to comprehend how it was constructed.

It was evident enough that the inmate of the cell could not see any person on the outside, but it was equally clear that a watcher outside could command the entire range of the prisoner’s apartment.

A number of prisoners were assembled in the passage; Peace was told to join them.

Then the whole of the culprits were marched along the stone passage until they came to a large low-roofed hall.

From this they ascended a dark winding staircase, which led into the chapel.

Peace observed among the motley group the gipsy, Mr. Green, the cadaverous-looking gentleman who was about to give the history of his life in the lock-up, together with many others whose faces he recognised.

The last-named looked even more ghastly than ever.

Nods were exchanged, but not a word was spoken by any of the prisoners.

The chapel was a good-sized lofty room. In it were two large cages――large spaces parted off with iron bars.

Over these was a gallery, with a thick curtain in front, which had been constructed for the exclusive use of the female prisoners.

In one of the cages were about sixteen, who had been tried and sentenced, and were waiting to be drafted off to the several prisons or convict establishments.

All were cropped and shaven close, every vestige of beard being removed, and their hair cut down to about an inch in length.

They were clad in rough grey jackets, trousers, and vests, with coarse blue-striped shirts.

While the male prisoners were assembling the female portion were coming into the chapel by another door, and sat in their own gallery, quite out of the sight of the male prisoners. Two female warders sat behind the female prisoners, and two male warders took their station on each side of the males.

The congregation was of a very motley character: the generality of the boys were poor and ragged; some of them were very keen-eyed and restless in their manner――others were apparently the children of respectable parents.

Presently the chaplain entered in his white gown, followed by an elderly warder, who officiated as clerk.

During the devotional exercises most of the prisoners leaned forward on the seat in front of them.

On one side of the pulpit and reader’s desk was the governor’s pew, in which was seated that awful functionary. He was a tall, elderly man, with a partially bald head.

When the service was over and the chaplain had retired, the governor was the first to lead the way out. The door was unlocked by his deputy and down stairs the prisoners were marched in military order.

“You look very ill, sir,” whispered Peace to the cadaverous-looking man who was now next to him.

“Going home,” returned the other. “It matters not whether they convict or acquit me, my race is nearly run.”

“Silence,” exclaimed a warder.

Not another word was spoken. The prisoners went along with their hands behind them like so many schoolboys. The ceremony was humiliating to the last degree.

Peace was directed to cross over to a little office where the governor was standing.

He was then told to take off his boots and stand under a post with numbers on it, with a sliding piece of brass in its centre.

It was a machine for measuring his height.

This was recorded in a book by a clerk.

He was then asked his name, his age, where born, the date of his birth, trade or profession, married or single, together with a variety of other questions, which in most cases were seldom answered truthfully; nevertheless it was a ceremony which had to be gone through.

After it was over he was introduced to the chaplain, whose room was in close proximity to the chapel.

The manner of the rev. gentleman was kind and conciliatory. He asked Peace if he could read and write; the answer was in the affirmative.

“Have you got good legal advice?” inquired the chaplain.

Peace informed him that he had written to his mother to retain the services of an able advocate, and he felt quite sure that he should be acquitted, as he had no felonious intent.

“I hope and trust you may. I feel assured that you will have a fair trial,” said the clergyman, who then informed our hero that he could have any books he liked from the library in the prison to beguile the hours during his imprisonment.

“You are very kind, sir, and I have to offer you my heartfelt thanks,” said Peace, who was touched by the first words of consolation he had heard since his incarceration.

“In writing to your friends,” said the divine, “I must give you a warning. All letters are opened by the governor before they leave the prison.”

“Then I think it most unfair,” cried Peace.

“We will not discuss that question; it is a rule which is invariably carried out, and therefore I deem it my duty to inform you of it. I advise you also to destroy all letters that come to you as soon as read.”

“I will most certainly do so, sir,” returned Peace, who again thanked the chaplain most sincerely for his information and advice.

He returned to his cell in a much more composed state; he looked hopefully to the future. After all, things were not so bad as he had at first supposed.

Soon after he had returned to his cell he received a visit from the governor, who, like any other commander-in-chief, was attended by his aide-de-camp.

“They’re very attentive to me,” all of a sudden muttered our hero, as he caught sight of the governor, who inquired if he wanted anything, looking up and down the cell with a searching glance.

“I’m told I may have a few books to read,” said Peace.

“Certainly――by all means you can.”

“Then I should like to have one or two.”

The prison official nodded, and before Peace had time to make any other requests he had vanished.

Half an hour after this a number of books were brought to the prisoner to choose from.

He selected two, which he was allowed to retain, with the understanding that there were more at his service when he had perused the two volumes.

The records of prison life are necessarily monotonous. The poor prisoners find to their cost their state of existence especially so; but it is impossible that it should be otherwise.

[Sidenote: No. 10.]

We have endeavoured to give as faithful a picture as possible of the treatment of prisoners while in gaol awaiting their trial.

Many an innocent man has to put up with all the indignities we have described, and has been forced to suffer in silence, for no one seems to have much sympathy for persons who have the misfortune to be wrongfully accused.

They must get out of the scrape as best they can.

The public, however, every now and then awakens to the fact that a great wrong has been done, and then an outcry is raised, and it goes to sleep again.

We have an instance of this in the case of a clergyman who had the misfortune to be suspected of having committed what is known as the Coram-street murder.

This case is of a remarkable and exceptional character, and incontestably points to what might be termed spasmodic sympathy or charity, evinced on many occasions towards foreigners by a certain section of the people of this country, who deem it expedient to close their eyes to far more deserving cases of suffering endured by their own countrymen, while they are lavish in their subscriptions to recompense a foreigner.

Many of our readers will doubless remember the particulars connected with the tragedy in Coram-street.

On Wednesday, Dec. 25th, 1873, a dreadful murder was discovered to have been committed at 12, Great Coram-street, Brunswick-square, the victim being a woman named Harriet Buswell.

She had been seen on the previous night at the “Count Cavour” hotel, in Leicester-square, with a foreign gentleman.

The woman and her male companion left the hotel together.

It appeared that two persons, one of whom was the deceased, called at a greengrocer’s shop near to Coram-street.

On the Christmas morning she was found by the landlady of the house in which she resided dead on her bed, with her throat cut under the ear, severing the jugular vein, and there was another deep gash lower down.

Life was quite extinct.

The door of the room in which she was found was locked on the outside, and the key taken away; but, strange to say, there were no marks of blood on the door, nor on the walls or bed, as if the blood had spurted from the wounds.

The face of the victim was perfectly calm, but on the forehead there was the distinct print of a thumb, and a little lower down the mark of the palm of the hand in blood, as if, after the first wound had been inflicted, the poor creature had been held down by the left hand while the second wound was inflicted.

The appearance of the man who went home with the unfortunate woman was described by the inmates of the house, but he left without any one observing him.

Suspicion fell on a German clergyman named Hessel. The waiter at the “Count Cavour” hotel and the greengrocer at whose shop Harriet Buswell called with the gentleman who accompanied her home, swore most positively Hessel was the man who was in company with the murdered woman on the night of the 24th (Christmas Eve), and that he and Harriet Buswell called at his shop and purchased some apples.

Dr. Hessel was examined at Bow-street, and his legal adviser said that he was in a position to prove an alibi, the prisoner being at an American hotel in the east end of the town during the whole of the evening in question (Christmas Eve).

He asked for a remand of eight days for the production of witnesses.

This was granted, and on the next examination Dr. Hessel was released, the alibi being deemed a sufficient proof of his innocence.

This is a brief epitome of the case. There were, however, one or two other suspicious circumstances of minor importance, which it is now not necessary to dwell upon.

The evidence of the waiter and greengrocer, both of whom had ample time and opportunity of observing the features of the accused, was so direct and positive as to justify his detention.

Many suspected persons have been remanded upon much lighter testimony――have endured all the hardships of imprisonment without any expression of regret on the part of the executive or the public, but a loud outcry was raised at the injury sustained by Dr. Hessel.

There was a general desire on the part of the public to send the ill-used gentleman from these shores――not only compensated in pocket, but compensated in mind and feelings.

In the cruel penitentiary called the “House of Detention,” says a daily paper, at the time of his imprisonment, he was treated as a felon; and every untried man, however innocent, obtains there a sharp foretaste of the punishment that follows conviction.

Dr. Hessel gave a vivid description of a few of his experiences in the Clerkenwell torture-house.

The pens of indignant journalists were actively at work to chronicle the sufferings of the accused gentleman.

The writers for the Press suddenly discovered that the treatment of prisoners and suspected persons generally was a scandal to this country.

Our present system has been in operation a good many years, and it was therefore the more surprising that it was not assailed before, and still more so that it has not been so since.

A general feeling of regret was expressed by all classes――from the Queen to the artisan――that the doctor should have been subjected to so much annoyance, inconvenience, and indignity.

What can be more “gushing” than the following document, which was handsomely engrossed and written both in English and German, and presented to the German doctor:――

“On behalf of the committee of English and German gentlemen acting for the Rev. Godfrey Hessel, pastor designate of a German Lutheran congregation of Moniz, in the Brazils, we beg to state that he was arrested in London upon a false accusation, and after a most searching investigation――overwhelming evidence having been given establishing beyond a doubt his entire innocence of the false and cruel charge――was, on January 30, 1873, acquitted by the presiding magistrate, amidst cheers from the court, as free from suspicion. The acute and unmerited sufferings which Dr. Hessel had to undergo by a grievous and palpable error having called forth a national subscription, the amount, consisting of £1,250, is hereby offered him as the testimony of the universal sympathy felt for him by all classes, and with the assurance that the sincere wishes and prayers of many thousands of German and English friends for his health and happiness, and a long and prosperous career, will follow him to his destination.”

Knowing as much as we do of the merits of the case we cannot do otherwise than designate the above effusion as being what our transatlantic cousins would call “bunkum.”

Upon the first examination at Bow-street Dr. Hessel’s legal adviser declared that there were ten or a dozen persons staying at the same hotel as the accused, and that they were all engaged in distributing the various articles attached to a Christmas tree.

It was not a little remarkable that some of them did not come forward to give evidence on the first hearing.

Eight days were allowed to pass over, and on the second and final hearing of the case only two witnesses were produced to prove the alibi.

One of these was the night porter of the hotel, the other being a young German, who professed to be a personal and intimate friend of the prisoner.

The murderer of Harriet Buswell has never been discovered――indeed, upon the discharge of Dr. Hessel the matter seemed to drop; no attempt was made to arrest any other person.

As far as the unfortunate woman, Harriet Buswell, was concerned, her fate did not seem to affect people in the slightest degree, the only regret being that the reverend gentleman should have been wrongfully accused.

Taken altogether, the Coram-street tragedy and the circumstances surrounding it must be deemed of an exceptional character.

The sum of money subscribed on this occasion is without precedent in any case of a similar nature.

Some years before this a clergyman of the Church of England was convicted of indecent assault upon the testimony of two little girls.

He was sentenced to a long term of penal servitude for several years, was imprisoned in one of our convict establishments, and was forced to endure all the hardships, labour, and misery to which convicts are subjected.

It transpired afterwards that he was perfectly innocent. This was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. The girls confessed that they had been tutored by their aunt to give false evidence, and that there was not a shadow of truth in any of their statements.

The clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Hatch, was released, the girls convicted of perjury, and there was an end of the matter.

The injury sustained by Mr. Hatch cannot be estimated with anything like accuracy――it is incalculable; yet we never heard of a single shilling being subscribed for this cruelly used gentleman, who was as guiltless as any one of the readers of this work.

But we should bear in mind that he was an Englishman; had he been a German probably the case would have assumed quite a different aspect.

In referring to the Coram-street case, the Cologne Gazette said at the time that the English sympathy with Dr. Hessel had taken too material a shape to be altogether appropriate.

Sympathy in itself was merited, but, beyond that of repayment of costs and free fare to Brazil, no pecuniary recompense was due to the clergyman.

We expect most of our readers will endorse the opinion expressed by the German journalist.

Peace was never much of a reader at any period of his life, but during his incarceration he relieved the tedium of the hours by perusing the volumes he had selected from those brought him from the prison library.

After the Governor’s diurnal visit all the prisoners were called out, and marched off into a stone yard enclosed in iron bars on two sides――on the other by stone walls.

In this place Peace had an opportunity of having a look at his fellow-prisoners.

All grades of society were represented by the motley group, from the City merchant to the wretched street Arab.

For nearly an hour did the prisoners go round the yard in regular order, much after the fashion of soldiers. Two warders were there to keep order, and interdict any talking between the prisoners.

On certain days in the week the detectives and warders from other gaols came to take stock, and see if they could recognise any of the new comers.

Sometimes one would be called into the corner of the yard to undergo a closer scrutiny, and it was amusing to see how coy and bashful the hardened offenders looked while this ceremony was taking place; acquaintances were claimed that were by no means cordially reciprocated.

In some cases a photograph was produced by a detective and compared to its living prototype.

The moment the detectives came into the yard those whom they sought would either slink past in hopes of not being recognised, or else assume such a look of injured innocence that they thereby betrayed themselves at once. Many an “old bird” was detected by thus overdoing it.

It is customary for the detectives, before entering the yard, to have a good survey of the prisoners exercising from some unseen corner. They then mark the bearing and look of the prisoners, before they are aware that the detectives are near; on entering they note any change in their demeanour.

The new man――the greenhorn――is not aware that officers are present, for they are invariably dressed in plain clothes, but the old hand knows full well the purport of their visit, and finds it difficult to maintain his composure under such trying circumstances.

Mr. Green unfortunately attracted the attention of a tall, military-looking man, who claimed acquaintance with him, but the young gentleman’s memory was at fault; he could not and would not own to a little affair which had taken place some eighteen months back.

“I assure you, upon my honour,” said Green, “you are quite mistaken――you are, indeed. I never was at Warwick in my life.”

The detective smiled, shook his head, and passed on.

The gipsy did not appear to be recognised by anyone; neither was Peace.

Certain days in the week were visiting days. Peace was looking forward to a visit from his mother, to whom he had written. She presented herself at the prison on the next visiting day, and was conducted by a turnkey to that part of the prison where the inmates are permitted to see their relatives, who have to converse with them through wire gratings, with a space of some three or four feet between them, in which sits a warder.

The visiting goes on for an hour or more. Those prisoners who have friends come to see them stand in a row against these railings, and their friends opposite. As a matter of course, everyone is talking at once with his own friends, and the consequence is there is a constant clatter kept up during the whole of the time.

All are too interested in their own affairs to take any notice of what is going on between his neighbour and friend.

Peace exhorted his mother to procure the services of a counsel whom he named, and in whom he had great confidence.

“Be of good cheer, my dear boy,” said his parent, “I have already seen the gentleman you name, and he has promised to do his best for you.”

“That old catamaran will swear anything, I feel assured of that,” cried Peace. “But he’ll be able to bowl her out if you tell him what sort of customer he has to deal with――a she dragon, a very devil, that’s what she is.”

“Don’t lose your temper, Charlie. It’s no use doing that now you’re behind the bars.”

“I should like to――”

“Hush! don’t go on so――be patient,” interrupted his mother. “There, keep up your spirits; all will be well, I dare say.”

“They treat everybody in this place as if they were convicted felons.”

“It’s a burning shame, that’s what it is, but it’s no use making any complaint. If a fellow does that he gets worse served. I’ve done nothing against the laws, but it makes no difference. The biggest rogue gets the best of it in places of this sort.”

“Well, it is only for a short time; the sessions will soon be on, and there you’ll have justice done you, let us hope.”

“Umph! Hope told a flattering tale, mother. But, hark ye! I want to see the lawyer to give him the necessary instructions for preparing my defence. Do you hear? I must see him.”

“I’ve arranged all that. He will be here in a day or two’s time. Don’t fret or worry yourself; we are doing all we can for you.”

“I have no doubt of that; but it’s hard to be cooped up here.”

While this conversation had been taking place there was a hubbub of voices from the other prisoners and their friends.

Interviews of this nature are in many cases painful in the extreme, especially when the friends or relatives of a prisoner are introduced into the interior of a gaol for the first time.

At the expiration of the time appointed for these visits, Peace and his companions returned to their respective cells.

Soon after this he had an interview with his solicitor, to whom he explained the whole of the circumstances connected with the alleged attempted burglary at the “Gothic Cottage.”

His legal adviser took notes for the preparation of his brief, and told his client that the line of defence he purposed adopting would in all probability be deemed an answer to the charge, and that he looked forward with confidence to an acquittal, unless some further incriminating evidence was presented in the course of the trial.

“You have all the facts, sir,” returned Peace, “but of course there is no telling what that infamous old woman will swear.”

“Oh! we don’t intend letting her have it all her own way,” observed the lawyer. “She’ll be subject to a searching cross-examination.”

Peace was in much better spirits after the interview with his lawyer, who had said, in the course of conversation, that it was as trumpery a case as he had ever had to do with.

The day of trial at length arrived. The prosecutrix and her witnesses were in court when Peace was placed in the dock.

After a few preparatory remarks from the counsel for the prosecution, Mrs. Pocklington was sworn.

She deposed to the facts already known to the reader, her evidence being in substance much the same as that given before the bench of magistrates.

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins rose and proceeded to cross-examine the prosecutrix.

“When did you become aware of the fact that a burglar――as you are pleased to call the prisoner――was endeavouring to effect an entrance into your house?”

“When I opened the drawing-room window.”

“And pray, madam, what was your reason for opening your window?”

“I heard a scraping noise at the front door, and suspected there was something amiss.”

“And you saw the prisoner at the door of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Which he was endeavouring to open?”

“Certainly――so I imagined.”

“We don’t want to know what you imagined. Will you swear that he was endeavouring to open it? Now be careful in your answers.”

“It appeared to me that he was doing so. The door was partly open.”

“It was a dark night, was it not?”

“Rather dark.”

“And pray how long did you look at the prisoner before you struck him with the broom?”

“Oh! not long.”

“I should suppose not; but can you give us an idea how long it was――five minutes or five seconds, or more?”

“It was not five minutes.”

“Nearer five seconds――eh?”

“I can’t say exactly. It was not long.”

“And so, Mrs. Pocklington, you deemed it expedient to act promptly. You commenced a most vigorous assault upon the prisoner without stopping to inquire whether he was a thief or a visitor?”

“I was sure he was not a visitor.”

“How could you be sure? Did you see his face when you first struck him?”

“No, his back was towards me.”

“Is it your practice to assault persons with a house-broom?”

“I object to that question,” said the counsel for the prosecution, rising and interrupting his learned brother.

They are all brothers in a court of law.

“Upon what grounds, brother Matchley?” inquired Serjeant Jawkins.

“As irrelevant.”

“I hope his lordship will rule that my questions are relevant.”

The judge signified that question might be put.

It was again repeated.

The witness said sharply――

“No, it is not my practice to do so.”

“Then it is fair to assume that this is an exceptional case,” said Serjeant Jawkins.

“You have not told us, Mrs. Pocklington, if you heard any one calling out or shouting before you opened the window and commenced hostilities?”

“I did not hear any one call out.”

“You are quite sure you did not hear a man’s voice before you discovered the prisoner at the door of your house?”

“I did not hear any voice.”

“Is the prisoner a stranger to you?”

“I never saw him before to my knowledge.”

“Is he also a stranger to your maid-servant?”

“I believe so.”

“Really, brother Jawkins, I think you are out of order. How is the witness to know whether he is a stranger or not to the servant? Ask the young woman herself when she is in the box.”

“I thank you for your suggestion, brother Matchley. It would be the best course. I have no further questions to put to the present witness.”

Mrs. Pocklington retired, and the servant-girl was placed in the box. After she had deposed to facts connected with the case, she underwent a severe cross-examination, which took a humorous turn, eliciting laughter in the body of the court, which was, of course, immediately suppressed.

When the examination of the police was concluded, Mr. Serjeant Jawkins rose for the defence. He said――

“My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, I must confess that this case appears to me singularly weak, as far as the evidence for the prosecution is concerned――in point of fact, there is no proof whatever that the prisoner contemplated committing a burglary. The pugnacious prosecutrix came to that conclusion at the outset, and she has done her best to substantiate the charge, which, however, I submit, is in no way proved. It is my duty to inform you that the prisoner declares that he had no felonious intention whatever. According to his statement, he had, on the night in question, an appointment with a young woman to whom he is paying some attention. They walked about together for an hour or so, and he was led to believe that she was a domestic in service in one of the houses in the village. After he had parted with her he went to the “Running Horse,” a well-known public-house in the neighbourhood, where he had some ale and a game of skittles. He remained at this place about an hour and a half, or it might be nearly two hours. He then left, and bent his steps homewards. As he was proceeding along he, according to his statement, observed the door of the prosecutrix’s residence partially open. He entered the garden, went up to the door, and found it fastened with a chain, which he endeavoured to slip back, being under the impression at the time that his “young woman” was inside. He called her by name several times, but received no answer. While thus occupied he all of a sudden received a blow on the back. He turned round, and was struck again on the head. It is not at all surprising to any of us that he should lose his temper. After the infliction of a third blow from his female assailant he naturally enough became furious. He wrested the broom from her hand, and strove to get at her by springing on the balcony. Would he have done this if his intentions had been felonious? Not at all likely, I should say. He was then placed hors de combat by another blow from the housemaid’s mop. A very little more and the prisoner would have been killed outright, and you would have been spared the trouble of trying him on the present charge. Gentlemen, I submit to your consideration all these circumstances, which require your consideration. I do not believe for one moment, when you have weighed over the matter in your minds, you will ruin the prospects of this young man――blast his reputation, it may be, for life――by returning a verdict of guilty upon such a groundless and trumpery charge. There is no proof of felonious attempt――no proof whatever that he was actuated by any other instinct than curiosity in being at the door of the prosecutrix’s house. I admit that he acted in a most imprudent and indiscreet manner――so have many other young men under similar circumstances――but I emphatically deny that he had burglarious intentions.”

“Burglars’ implements were found upon him, you should remember, Brother Jawkins,” observed the judge.

“So the police aver, my lord,” returned the advocate. “Indeed, they are so prone to put the worst construction in cases of this sort, that it would not surprise me if they called a toothpick or a pencil case burglars’ tools. The prisoner denies this. He asserts that the Implements found on him are nothing more or less than tools which he uses in his business.”

“What is his trade, then?” inquired a juryman.

“From what I have been informed I am led to the conclusion that he is a sort of handy man at two or three trades――he has worked as a smith, he has turned his attention to mechanical appliances, and is the inventor of a crane of a novel description. This is his rough draught of its form.”

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins held forth a large mechanical drawing, which the judge and jury understood as much about as they did of the Sanscrit language.

Nevertheless the diagram had its desired effect.

“It is quite clear,” said Serjeant Jawkins in continuation, “that no robbery has been committed. Nothing has been stolen from the house of the prosecutrix, and I maintain that it is equally clear that no robbery was contemplated. The prisoner has been roughly and, I may say, unmercifully used by the pugnacious Mrs. Pocklington and her valiant servant-maid. But, hardly as he has been dealt with by the relentless prosecutrix, he will, I feel assured, be recompensed by an acquittal from the hands of a jury of his countrymen.”

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins sat down. He had done his best for Peace, whom he had defended with wonderful skill.

The Judge summed up in a few words. He said, after a review of the evidence, if the jury had a doubt as to the prisoner’s intentions, they were bound to give him the benefit of it.

They returned a verdict of not guilty without leaving the box.

“I knew Jawkins would pull you through,” whispered Peace’s attorney, as his client entered the prisoners’ waiting-room. “You may think yourself lucky, young man.”

“I do; and am very thankful to you for suggesting the line of defence,” returned our hero. “Believe me, I shall be for ever grateful.”

Many of the other prisoners who were tried in the same court were not so fortunate.

Mr. Green was not successful in imposing upon the judge and jury. Unfortunately for this young gentleman, he was “well known to the police.” More than one constable came into court to claim his acquaintance.

Mr. Green’s recollection failed him. He did not remember to have met the constables before. He put on a look of injured innocence, and again burst into tears. But all this display of grief and contrition had but little weight with the court.

Mr. Green was found guilty.

He was sentenced to one month’s imprisonment with hard labour.

He cried as if his heart was about to break.

The gipsy was tried on the same day as Peace and Mr. Green.

It was not clearly established that he had stolen the horse, but it was proved that he had taken it away from its owner’s stable, and rode off with it.

His defence was that he intended to return the animal, but he utterly failed to establish this satisfactorily.

He was found guilty. But as it was his first offence, or, more properly speaking, the first time he had been convicted, he was sentenced to six months only.

“It’s a lottery, quite a lottery,” observed the gipsy to Mr. Green.

“I never thought you would get more than me.”

“I’ve been very unfortunate,” returned his youthful companion. “It’s those bobbies as did it. It warn’t of no manner of use my coming the good boy business while they were in court. But I say, old man, do you know your friend is dead?”

“What friend do yer mean?” inquired the gipsy. “I didn’t know as I had any.”

“Why him as interrupted you in the lock-up.”

“Dead――is he? Poor chap.”

It was true enough. Two days before the assizes commenced the ill-fated man breathed his last. He was born and bred a gentleman, was of an ancient and honourable family, but in early life was afflicted with a fatal propensity for gambling and betting.

All the years of his life were wasted, his moral principles were undermined. He was, of course, a prey to sharpers.

He became reckless, lost his status in society, and ultimately, in the dire straits in which he found himself, had recourse to forgery.

His family, to save his reputation, paid the forged bills. Nevertheless, the man could not turn aside from his evil course. He had got into a vortex, a sort of maelstrôm, from which he could not release himself. His end we have already chronicled.

It is not easy to estimate the pernicious effects of betting in this country.

It affects all classes, impoverishes the wealthy, makes criminals of the middle and lower classes of the community, fills our gaols, and is, in point of fact, the ruin of scores of thousands of persons, who, but for this fatal propensity, would, in all probability, have continued to be respectable and honourable members of society.

Nothing tends to demoralise the youth of this country compared to the practice of betting.

It is quite time the Legislature should take active measures to suppress, as far as lies in their power, this widespread evil.

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

XIX. PEACE’S PROVINCIAL TOUR――THE “OLD CARVED LION.”

We now arrive at another phase in the history of the criminal whose career we are shadowing forth. Peace, after his release, returned to his native town, and resided for many months with his mother.

To all appearance he was a good citizen, and an industrious man enough, who managed to earn sufficient for his own requirements.

It was not known in Sheffield that he had “been in trouble.” Those who were interested in his welfare were in great hopes that he would turn from dishonest courses and taste the sweets of honest industry.

Certainly for a long time after the “Gothic Cottage” affair he was more circumspect in his conduct and general behaviour. For the greater portion of his life he seems to have lived on the border line of respectability and decent dulness, and at times appeared to settle down to an honest life.

But he deliberately chose evil for good――the old craving for adventure and excitement would come over him again, and he would plunge headlong into the realms of desperate lawlessness to re-emerge shortly in the daylight as a quiet and steady young member of society.

His single-handed self-reliant way of going to work is perhaps the most notable of his characteristics.

He trusted to himself and no one else.

Whilst this saved him from the danger of weak and treacherous accomplices, it made much larger demands upon his audacity and self-possession.

Thus it came to pass that thousands for whom a vulgar career of crime and violence has no attractions are compelled to feel some interest in a man who is almost unique in the annals of crime.

It is not so much, however, for his commanding superiority in any one department of criminal activity as for the rare combination of his various talents that Charles Peace commands attention.

He was a veritable genius, who reached a high level of excellence in many branches of his profession.

There have been more daring highway robberies and more extensive burglaries than any which he is known to have committed.

But few men have caused more widespread terror, or created more profound attention by the suddenness and the brilliant success of their exploits.

It would be a great misfortune if the boldness and fearlessness of this bad man were to blind even the most thoughtless to the utter worthlessness of his character.

In shadowing forth his lawless career we are under the impression that it will act as a warning to those who peruse these pages.

It will prove beyond all question the truth of the axiom, “That a life of crime is always a life of care.”

In nothing does his baseness more transparently appear than in his miserable apologies and self-justifications with which his religious experiences are interlarded.

Assuming, as we are anxious to do, that these pious utterances of his later days are not wilfully insincere, they nevertheless betray an utter moral blindness.

He was very willing to call his past life wicked in general terms, but for his worst transgressions he had some extenuating plea, which destroyed the validity of his assumed penitence.

If he could have been turned loose upon society again, one can hardly venture to hope that his future life would have corresponded with his edifying conduct in gaol.

The curiosity of the public to know all about Peace and his life need not be regarded with too despondent an eye.

If any adventurous and high-spirited youth sees anything to admire in our hero’s career he will do well to remember that the grandest successes of a criminal course are at the best but wretched failures.

Peace had probably a far smoother life than most offenders of equal activity.

Yet he spent some considerable part of his time in prison, and in the full noontide of his prosperity hardly reaped as much fruit from his misapplied talents as those talents would have yielded in any honest walk of life.

Peace’s strongly marked preference for the revolver was fatal to the picturesque development of his talents.

The truth is, that the particular offender had no special affection for blood-shedding.

Strong as were the fascinations of a criminal life, he chiefly had an eye to business.

In the heat of passion, or with a view to save himself, he was thoroughly unscrupulous about taking life, but he was not anxious to compromise himself by any needless slaughter.

Yet for coolness, promptitude, and self-reliance he has seldom been surpassed.

He never suffered himself to be betrayed into any acts of overwhelming fatuity and oversight such as those which have often led the most skilful to their ruin.

In him there was an assemblage of qualities such as one man rarely possesses.

Peace took great interest in carving, architecture, and works of art of every conceivable description. While at Sheffield, during the few months he remained a decent member of society, he paid frequent visits to the museums and other institutions, and he promised to compete for the prize in wood-carving in the forthcoming exhibition.

But the old feeling for change and adventure came over him, and he determined upon leaving his native town for a while. Business was not very brisk with him at this time――so he thought it advisable to shift his quarters.

He had purchased a number of cheap, showy, attractive-looking prints, together with a large collection of photographs, many of which were copyright, being reproductions from well-known pictures.

In addition to these he had a number of other photographs, which it would not have been advisable for anyone to sell, seeing that they rendered the vendor liable to imprisonment under Lord Campbell’s Act.

But this Peace did not much care about.

He felt assured that he was well able to evade the law.

Having renewed his hawker’s licence and packed up his goods in as small a compass as possible he bade adieu to his mother and friends at Sheffield and set out on his pilgrimage.

A wandering life was consonant to his general disposition and temperament.

Shouldering his pack with his stout oaken stick and his dog, “Gip,” he commenced his journey.

It was only spring time, and he had the best part of the year before him. He paid a visit to Worksop, Huddersfield, Marborough, and Barnsley, calling at several hamlets and villages of lesser note.

He made a long stay in the last-named place; he met there a young man who was a “nigger delineator,” as they term themselves in the advertisements in a certain theatrical paper. Peace found in this person a congenial spirit, and they took a commodious room in the town and gave “nigger” entertainments three nights in the week――namely, Saturdays, Mondays, and Wednesdays. The two first were the most profitable, the working class being usually more flush of money.

Peace and his brother artist were tolerably successful, playing on most occasions to a small profit. They would in all probability have continued these performances had they not been brought to a close by Peace’s companion signing articles of engagement with a troupe who visited the town on a provincial tour.

Peace, therefore, left and proceeded to the next town with his wares.

In some of the places he visited he was tolerably successful. He sold many prints and photos, and realised a fair profit.

Sometimes he put up at a roadside inn, while at others he took lodgings in a quiet, respectable cottage for a few days.

At this time his life could not be considered in any way disreputable――he was sober and industrious.

It is true that during his peregrinations he was in no way particular about disposing of prints and photos of a contraband nature, but he used a great amount of discretion in his dealing in goods of this description.

It was towards the close of a bright autumnal day that he arrived wearied and footsore in sight of a roadside inn, which stood half-way between two villages in Yorkshire. The sign of this wayside inn was the “Old Carved Lion.”

Over the facia of the establishment was a wooden effigy of the king of beasts. Who carved this hideous animal it is not possible to say――it was about on a par with others one sees in houses of public entertainment in the metropolis and elsewhere.

About thirty yards off the “Old Carved Lion” stood a handpost, with its four white arms pointing down the four cross roads.

Some few years before there had been only one handpost within four miles of this spot, and that so defaced and overgrown with moss that it was impossible to decipher a letter.

But fortunately, a nobleman who lived in the neighbourhood happened to lose his way among the dark woods which encircled it, and did not arrive home till his soup was ice, his fish rags, and his sirloin of beef a cinder.

An order was consequently passed by the bench that handposts should be erected in all the parishes under their surveillance at every cross road and turning――the expenses to be defrayed by the funds of the respective parishes.

In rural districts, before any improvements are permitted to be made or nuisances removed, a human being must die or a person of note be inconvenienced.

In the days of the defaced handpost, before railways were in vogue, the “Old Carved Lion” had been a large coaching hotel, furnished with an unbounded amount of accommodation for man and beast.

At the time we make its acquaintance the landlord had turned small farmer, and had aggrandised his stables into barns, and degraded his spare bedrooms into lumber garrets.

However, the good, dry skittle ground still remained, and the hum of voices and incessant rumbling from within proved that this scientific game did not lack supporters.

It was a low cattle-shed kind of place, with benches down the walls and at either end.

On the opposite corners were two small tables, fitted with mugs and pipes.

A portly individual in a white apron filled up the doorway as Peace arrived in front of the old village inn, in the front of which was a horse-trough, a large chestnut tree, and a post bearing at its top the sign of the house.

“Good day, friend,” said Peace to the host of the “Carved Lion.” “I’m wearied and footsore, and crave a little rest and refreshment.”

“Both are at your service, neighbour,” returned the landlord, making way for the new comer by withdrawing into the bar.

Peace entered the parlour, and in a few minutes a mug of ale, together with some cold meat and pickles, were served him, which he devoured with evident relish.

Meanwhile those in the skittle ground were busily occupied.

“Come on, lads, another ge-ame!” cried a lusty, young fellow, with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulder. “Come on, mates, one more. Ye doant mean to say ye ha don yet.”

“I doant know ’xactly what to say about it,” replied a middle-aged man, who was also in his shirt sleeves. “I tell ye what it be, ye a deal too good for me, a doubt.”

“Noa――noa, come on,” returned the other, with the mellifluity of a Whitechapel skittle sharper. “Never fear, guv’nor, luck will be sure to change. Doant be so quavery mavery over it. Let’s have one more pint for I’m jolly dry.”

“You start first, then.”

“Get out of my way some of you chaps, and make yourselves look less,” said the young man, in a voice prophetic of victory.

Taking from the ground a wooden missile in the shape of a cheese, he poised it between his fingers as if it had been a pebble, and, casting the whole weight of his body, pitched the ball towards the upright pins.

It struck the front pin on the left shoulder, and, pirouetting round the ring, knocked all down.

“Brayvo――brayvo!” cried the rustics, knocking their great mugs against the table. “A floorer.”

“That was a squiver,” said one of them. “Nothing like a flat ball to tiddle ’em over.”

“Fust hoss to Bill,” cried another, chalking down one on the table.

“You’ve got your Sunday play on to-day,” said the other, as he took the ball in his hands.

His throw was less fortunate.

Only one pin fell, which, after rolling among the others and creating a false interest for awhile, calmly subsided in the dust.

“There, I give ’ee the game and the pot. There’s no tackling ye at skittles to-night, that’s sartin; and I can’t make no how of it either.”

“Who’s next――next?” cried the victor. “Will e’er a one of ye have a shy for a pot, or wont ye? I’ll tak two to one I gets the three fronts, and I’ll take it even I floors ’em.”

“I’ll back Billy agen ’ee for a gallon, if ye like,” cried a man.

“Nay, nay,” cried a loud but not inharmonious voice; “if old Nick were here――――”

“Hoosh! hoosh!” shouted out half a dozen of the throng.

“Who cares about your hooshing? I beant afeared of no mortal thing; no immortal, for the matter of that; neither man, beast, or sperrit.”

The voice came from a young woman, who was finely, though perhaps almost too lustily, formed.

“Ye’ere all a pack of fools!” said she, giving her head an indignant shake. “A frightenen yourselves about Mother Brickett’s ghost. Who is there as has seen it, I should like to know?”

“I ha’,” said a man. “I wer a walking across the common here, when I found a somethink white and ghastly walking by my side.”

“How big was it?”

“About my height, as nigh as can be. An’ it never sed a word. An’ just as I was ready to drop, it fanished away.”

“And then we all knows,” said another, “as only t’other night her voice was heard in the passage by the tap-room where she called Brickett three times by name, and many bein’ by. An’ it was only yesternight as she came and patted the white cow while Clara wer a milkin’ on it.”

“This be very sartin,” said a tall, pale woman, with a child in her arms: “if she could come back arter she’d gone she ’ould. Her mind was all here when she died. When she was in her last hour her little darter came up to see how she was agoin’ on. ‘Mind the bisness,’ said she, quite sharp; and when Brickett came up, she sent him down pretty quickish. ‘Don’t mind me, mind the customers’――them were her last words. And she were an audacious woman after money, sure alive.”

There is hardly any country place in the United Kingdom but owns some superstitution, which many of the inhabitants have full belief in.

At all ages, and in every place, there have been found many who have entertained the belief that at certain periods the dead are permitted to revisit the earth for a brief period; and it was said in the neighbourhood that the deceased landlady of the “Carved Lion” could not rest in her grave without, in disembodied spirit, occasionally hovering about the old hostelry.

She had been a hard-fisted, money-loving woman in her time, and the frequenters of the inn were wont to talk about her ghost being seen on the common, in one of the dark lanes or elsewhere, in the “witching time of night.”

“She must have growed a good bit since she died,” said the woman, who had been called Nelly, “for she was a good deal shorter than that gawk there when she wur here. It’s all nonsense, I tell ’ee. If people goes to a better world they don’t want to come back to a place like this, and if they go to another place――――”

“Hoosh――hoosh!” exclaimed several voices.

“Get along with ’ee with yeer hooshing. It’s only the truth that I am speaking,” exclaimed the young woman.

Doubtless an altercation would have ensued, but the subject was dropped upon the appearance of a stranger.

This was Peace, who had finished his repast in the parlour, and strolled into the skittle-ground.

“Your sarvant, sir,” said one of the rustics to Peace.

“Give you good evening, friend,” said our hero. “Good evening to one and all.”

The villagers made room for him on one of the forms which ran by the side of the building, and Peace sat himself down.

“Ha’ the first drink of the new pot,” said a broad-shouldered man to a companion by his side, “an’ don’t ’ee cuss and swear. I hate to hear a man swear for nothing.”

“I’m not going to drink your froth for ’ee,” returned the other. “I’ll ha’ some. An’ you’ll find it as thick as molasses, I’ll warrant. Bricket poured a lot of beer into a barrel without clearing out the dregs, and a prutty mess he’s made of it. The way business is done here now would make his dead wife walk if anythin’ could.”

“What, yer grumbling agen as usual?” said another of the company. “Don’t be a runnin’ down Bricket, for he’s a good sort.”

“Who says he aint?” cried Nelly; “but some people are never satisfied.”

“Right you are, lass!” exclaimed several, for it was evident enough that the young woman was a general favourite.

“Aint nobody seen nothin’ of never a hat nowhere?” inquired a thin old man in a querulous voice, twisting in and out of the crowd like a ferret in a rabbit burrow.

“One ’ud think your silly old head were inside on it a wanderin’ about like that there,” said Nelly.

“Don’t ’ee say much to him,” whispered the woman with a child in her arms. “Poor Nat Peplow has aged wonderful these last three years. He don’t seem like the same man.”

“Ho, ho!” guffawed a rustic. “There aint much left of Nat now――

Poor old hoss! poor old hoss! Once I eat the best of hay, And lived in a foine stall; But now I eats the short grass As grows agen the wall. Poor old hoss! poor old hoss! Thee must die.”

“Ah! ye may laugh and sing,” said Nat, shaking his head and his voice quavering. “I mind the time when I used to troll that same ditty to grey hairs. It’s right it should fall back on me now.”

“Poor old hoss!” chanted Nelly.

“But when I wur young I was as lissom as ever a young man here. I baint so strong now as I should be, though when my feyther wur eighty years old he could carry a sack of wheat up a ladder into a granary; and my mother’s hair when she wur an old ’ooman was as black and shiny as jet, and growed over her shoulders like a wild colt’s mane.

“I don’t know rightly what mak’s me weaker than they. My arm be a’ withered up like a burnt piece of pig’s flesh, an’ my poor chest do hurt me when I breathes. I think the beer can’t be so wholesome and nourishing as it yoosed to be.”

And Nat, taking his half-pint mug from the table, peered into it and found it empty.

“Why it’s run out!” he cried.

A hoarse giggle from a sun-burnt country lad pointed out the culprit.

“All run out a’ the top, I s’pose,” he added, resignedly. “Now, Bricket, let’s have another half-pint o’ twopenny, and draw it thickish, ’cos I aint had my supper.”

Nat always liked his beer by instalments of half-pints, because he thought that he got more that way.

Sometimes he drank as many as eight half-pints, on which occasions he would chuckle gravely in his sleeve, and persuade himself that he had cheated the landlord of a noggin.

[Sidenote: No. 11.]

Peace had by this time become familiar and on friendly terms with many of those who were assembled in the skittle-ground. The young fellow who had been playing when we first made the acquaintance of this establishment, asked Peace to have a game.

“Don’t ’ee play wi’ him, master,” said Nelly; “he be’s too much for any on ’em here, and ye won’t ha’ much chance wi’ him unless you are a good hand at the game.”

“I’m not much of a player,” returned Peace, “but what matters that? We are only going to play for amusement or for a mug of beer. It don’t much matter who wins or loses.”

“Please yourself, then――it aint any business of mine.”

“Let ’em alone, Nell――there arnt no skittle sharpers here,” said a man at one of the tables. “Let ’em be, lass.”

Nell shrugged her shoulders, and sat herself down on one of the forms.

The players went to work in good earnest. Peace succeeded in knocking all the pins down at one go.

This exploit was greeted with loud bravos.

His antagonist, however, was equally successful, and the game resulted in a draw. Another game was played; this Peace lost.

“I’ve done better than I expected,” said he, “and I think I had better leave off now. I am evidently no match for you.”

“Come,” said Nell, “if ye’re done skittlin’ let us be going in doors, and ye can finish yer ale there.”

Many of them now left, those that remained repaired to the parlour.

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

XX. THE OCCUPANTS OF THE PARLOUR――A CONVIVIAL PARTY

Peace bent his steps in the direction of the bar of the establishment.

As he was proceeding along, a voice shouted out――

“Yer’re beant a goin’ to leave us, sir, be’est thou!”

“No, no, friend,” returned our hero. “I shall join you in a minute or so.”

“Aye, that be right,” exclaimed the same voice.

Peace went in front of the bar, and said to the landlord――

“I don’t want to go any further to-night. Can I have a bed here?”

“Ah! surely,” answered the host; “for as many nights as thee likes. The more the merrier.”

“Good. Then that’s settled.”

He returned to the parlour. Over the mantel-piece of this was a smoke-bleached board, on which was inscribed, in dingy yellow letters――

When first I came I some did trust, And did my money lend; But when I asked for the same They soon forsook their friend. Now my cure is no man’s sorrow―― Pay to-day and trust to-morrow.

However a scrawl of chalked hieroglyphics on the bar door proved that the practice of the publican was less resolute than his professions.

“I think I’ll ha’ another half pint,” said the old man, who had been called Nat. A little girl, who served the beer and tobacco brought in the liquor the old man ordered.

“Ye’ve travelled a greatish distance, maybe?” said one of the company to Peace, glancing at his boots, which were begrimed with mud and sand.

“Pretty well, as far as that goes. I can’t say exactly how far I’ve walked, not knowing the ground.”

“Ah! I see. A stranger to these parts.”

“Yes. I’m on a tour.”

“For pleasure?”

“Well, no, not altogether pleasure――business. I’m a picture-frame maker by trade, and deal in prints and photos. Would you like to see some of my wares?”

“Ah! that un should,” said several.

“Well, then, so you shall.”

He was about to open his pack when a noise of footsteps was heard descending the stairs, and in another moment the broad form of Farmer Wilmot filled the doorway.

“Here, my lads,” said he. “It isn’t often I give you a treat; but as I’ve sold my whate and got a good price for it, and as, moreover, this be my son’s birthday, I’ll give ’ee somthing to drink his health.”

He placed several pieces of silver in the girl’s hand, and said――

“Give it ’em out in the sixpenny, my little maid, and then what they do drink will do ’em good.”

The rustics gave a loud cheer and thanked him again and again for his generosity.

He appeared to be well known to all present, with the exception of Peace, who never remembered to have seen him before.

“Good-by, lads, and don’t mek beasts on yourselves. Ale, in moderation, won’t hurt anyone; but too much on it is good for no man. Good-night to all.”

And with these words the honest farmer mounted his gray mare, which was standing at the door of the hostelry, and trotted off in company with two friends, similarly mounted.

“I be downright glad he’s sold his whate,” said one of the rustics. “He aint all eyes and ears like some measters, and he knows how to let a poor man off his first fault.”

“He was one of us once, ye see, sir,” said another, addressing himself to Peace. “He’s bin taught to eat poor man’s bread and to do poor man’s work, and he knows what it is as comforts a poor man’s heart. It is only such as he as pities the poor. The rich and idle don’t pity, know not what hard work, nor hunger, nor sufferin’s loike.”

“Aye-that be true enough,” said Nat. “He’s as good as gold, an’ his ’art be in the right place.”

“I hope he’ll get home safe and sound,” said Peace; “but I suppose there aint many robbers about this part?”

“Lord, love ye, no――never a one,” cried several voices.

“You’ve forgotten young Measter Boucher,” quavered the aged Nat. “I be an old man, but I mind things better nor you do, seemingly. He was a drivin’ home from Bilstoke Fair, and just as he was agoin’ up a bit of a hill, with trees on both sides, he felt heavy on his chest, as if he had a fit comin’ on, only instead of a fit it was a stout rope, which two men held across the road, and tiddled him over out of his gig. And when he was down they was on him in a minnit, and plundered him of his watch and ten yellow sovereigns.”

“That’s the story he went home and told his mother,” said Nell, scornfully, “but I can pretty well guess how it was. Some of them flaunting hussies got and colly-fogled him into the booths to dance with ’em, and while he wer a thinkin’ how pretty he wer a doin’ his steps, whip! goes his money and watch out of his pocket into theirs.”

This speech was greeted with roars of laughter.

“Ah, Nell, thee beest a knowin’ one,” cried several.

A portion of the beer the farmer had paid for was now brought in by the little waitress. It was handed round in brown mugs to the company. The farmer’s health was drunk, also that of his son.

Peace opened his folio of prints, plain and coloured.

Several were spread out upon the table, and regarded with curious and inquiring eyes by the occupants of the parlour.

Peace had pictures to please persons of different tastes. Some were bits of rustic scenery, farm-yards, horses ploughing, hay-making; others consisted of highly-coloured sporting subjects, such as hunting, ratting, and deer stalking; but, as it would never do for an itinerant dealer in these commodities to confine himself to one particular class of art, he had specimens of every conceivable variety, suitable to persons of opposite tastes; pictures addressed to persons of a devotional turn of mind formed a large element in his stock in trade. The Holy Family, the head of our Saviour, together with three young gentlemen in surplices, casting up their eyes, were there in abundance; also a young lady clinging to an impossible-looking cross, her garments dripping with wet, was another. This fine specimen was called “The Rock of Ages,” the title of the young gentlemen in surplices being, “We Praise Thee, O Lord.” He had also large photos of the “Light of the World,” together with a variety of others of a similar character. These subjects went down with some of his customers, while others would not honour them with a cursory glance.

One print, entitled the “Labourers’ Best Friends,” was greatly admired by the frequenters of the “Old Carved Lion.”

The subjects represented were a substantial piece of fat bacon, a quartern loaf, half a cheese, a foaming tankard of ale, and a clay pipe.

“Ah, that be summut loike,” exclaimed several, “I call that wonderfully natural, as real as life itself; I should loike to ha’ that. How much be it, measter?”

“Cheap enough,” answered Peace, “only half-a-crown.”

“Umph, I wish it was in a frame.”

“I’ll undertake to frame any of my prints at cost price.”

“Do un, now?”

“Yes, you can have a frame from a shilling to a sovereign-according to the quality.”

“I’ll come and sit by you,” said Nell to Peace, “because you are a clever man, I’m thinking.”

“I am very much flattered, I am sure,” he answered with a smirk.

“So un ought to be,” said another of the company, “it aint many as Nell condescends to flatter.”

A young peasant and peasantess as Mark Twain would say, making eyes at one another after the approved fashion, attracted the young woman’s attention.

“Now I call that a wonderfully well done picture,” said she.

“Do you like it?” asked Peace.

“Yes, very much.”

“Well then I shall beg of you to accept it.”

The girl coloured up, not rightly understanding his meaning.

“What be hesitating about, Nell?” said old Nat, “Don’t ye understand it’s given to you as a present?”

“Oh, I cannot think of having it without paying for it.”

“But I desire you to do so――nay, I insist,” cried Peace, rolling up the print in a sheet of paper, and handing it to the young woman.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to beg it of you,” said she.

“I know that――I give it to you of my own free will; so say no more about it.”

This act of generosity produced a favourable impression on all present, and Peace became very popular. Several present bespoke prints, and after the whole of them had been inspected they were packed up and put aside for the rest of the evening.

The whole of the company then sat down to enjoy themselves, and, to say the truth, in their homely way they did so, very much more so than many of their betters.

“Ah, I yoosed to be mighty fond of picturs,” said old Nat, “but, lord, I don’t seem to ha’ the taste for anything loike I had formerly. When a man gets old and well nigh worn out he’s not so easily pleased as the young uns――be he, measter?”

“Well, I suppose not, friend,” returned Peace, “but we shall all get old and worn out if we live long enough――we ought not to forget that.”

“Now none of your croaking Nat,” said a lusty young fellow. “You’re good for many years yet. Come, jest give us a song, old man. Nat’s been a foine singer in his time,” observed the speaker in a whisper to Peace.

“Oh, I dare say.”

“Fond of music, sir?” enquired another.

“Yes, I’m a bit of a musician myself. If our friend will oblige I’ll give you a tune or two upon the fiddle.”

This seemed to have a magic effect upon the villagers, who thumped the tables till the pots and glasses danced on the board.

“Will ’ee, though? Oh, that be grand!” exclaimed several. “Now, Nat, just mek a beginning.”

“You must excuse me, sir, if I break down,” said the old man, apologetically; “I aint what I yoosed to be.”

“He’s never satisfied unless he’s telling us that,” cried a voice. “Come, old man, fire away.”

Old Nat cleared his throat with one or two preliminary ahems, and then, in a high treble, trolled a nautical ballad――the first verse of which described the loves of a youth and village maiden, who plighted their troth under a linden tree; the verse ended with a mournful refrain, which was as follows:――

Now this ere Jack he was hard-hearted, Which no true lovyer ought for to be; And this here Sall he soon desarted, All for to sail on the salt sea.

The words of the ballad described the anguished feelings of the forlorn and broken-hearted girl, who wanders about her old haunts in the village in a half demented state――for never a word does she hear from her cruel and heartless lover.

There is, it would appear, very good reason for this, for the ship in which the young man sailed foundered at sea, and Jack was cast upon a tropical island, where he remained for three years.

At the expiration of that time he was taken on board a passing vessel, and returned home to find his Sall dead beneath the turf in the village churchyard.

The pathetic ditty concludes thus. The young sailor is supposed to be addressing some villagers assembled in the churchyard:――

Says this ere Jack, with deep emotion, “In this world there’s now no rest for me; My poor Sall’s heart I’ve surely broken, All through my sailing on the salt sea.”

It was evident enough that old Nat must have had at one time a sweet and sympathetic voice, and even in his decline there was something of it remaining.

Any one who has travelled through the rural districts of England and paid an occasional visit to old roadside inns cannot fail to have been struck by the quaint and curious ditties that are trolled by the villagers.

Many of them are singularly characteristic.

Where these extraordinary specimens of musical composition all come from――for their name is legion――is perfectly surprising.

In most cases the singers never had a copy of the song they sang; and, indeed, if they had, they would in all probability have been none the wiser, seeing that they were quite unable to read the notes.

They learnt it from some one, and he or she learnt it from somebody else, and so on till the original source of the melody is lost in the deep “backward abyss of time.”

When we consider with how easy a transition we may pass from the accents of speaking to diatonic sounds, when we observe how early children adopt the language of their amusements to measure and melody, however rude――when we consider how early and universally these practices take place, there is no avoiding the conclusion that the idea of music is co-natural with man, and implied in the original principles of his constitution.

The principles on which it is founded, and the rules by which it is conducted, constitute a science.

The same maxims when applied to practice form an art; hence its first and most capital diversion is into speculative and practical music.

Go where you will, and you will see how wonderfully music and song are blended with the most laborious occupations of humble life, not only as the natural breathing of cheery thoughts and gladdening hopes, faiths, and feelings, but as giving nerve, measure, and harmony to the physical forces of men bending to the most arduous toil.

We will say nothing here of the influence of martial music on the weary battalions of an army on a forced march.

That illustration would not be apposite to the point we are considering.

Anyone who has travelled by sea and land, and visited different countries, must have been struck with the variety――the use and universality――of the songs of labour.

Who that has crossed the Atlantic, and been awakened at night by the “Merrily, cheerily,” of that song with which the sailors hoist the great mainsail to the rising breeze, can ever forget the thrill of those manly voices?

There they stand in the darkness, with the salt sea spray in their faces, and the tarred rope in their hands, holding the long and ponderous yard against the mast, until their rollicking song reaches the hoisting turn, and all their sinews are strung to the harmony of a unison to the telling pull.

Everywhere and in all ages, the week-day music of the world has been the songs of labour by men and women at their toil, and by the birds of heaven singing to them overhead and around them.

And no ear drinks with richer relish the melodies of these outside songsters――no home more safe and welcome does the swallow find than under the eaves of the poor man’s cottage.

Go through the densest courts and lanes of Spitalfields, and see what a companionship of bird life the silk weavers maintain in their garrets, even when the loaf is too small for their children.

The papers recently published a touching and beautiful illustration of the fondness which workingmen show for singing birds.

When the first English lark was taken to Australia by a poor widow, the stalwart, sunburnt, hard-visaged gold diggers would come down from their pits on the Sabbath to hear it sing the songs they loved to listen to at home in their childhood.

An instance still more interesting has been noted lately in connection with one of the large manufacturing towns in North Wales.

The men, women, and children employed in the factories, not many times a week heard the lark’s song, or the music of the free birds of heaven.

These loved the bright air and the green fresh meadows too well to sing many voluntaries in the smoky atmosphere of the furnace and factory.

Thus the cheap concerts of these songsters cost the operatives of the mills long walks beyond the brick and mortar mazes of the town.

But thousands thought them cheap at that price.

“Ah! I mind the time when I sang that very song in this room, more than twenty years agone,” said Nat.

“Aye――better than that,” said a middle-aged man. “It was on the very night that Lord Ethalwood lost his son――the last on ’em as was left. He aint bin the same man since.”

“And who might that be?” enquired Peace.

“Well, his lordship,” returned the other――“the owner of the foine estate on the top of the hill, called Broxbridge Hall.”

“Ah! a fine place, is it?”

“Yes, surely――a should think it was.”

“Well, never mind about that, his lordship aint half so happy as we are, I’ll bet a crown,” said another of the company. “Who’s for the next song? Come, Nelly, can’t you give us something soft and sentimental, eh?”

“Nay; I must be for getting home,” answered the girl, “an’ leave you men folks to yourselves.”

She was about to depart, but as Peace had commenced a preliminary flourish on his violin, she sat down again.

The violinist played a fantasia, introducing a number of popular airs which seemed to delight his audience amazingly.

When he brought this part of his performance to a close he was encored.

He then imitated the noises of animals in the farm-yard; this sent the rustics into perfect ecstacies of delight.

“They had never heard anything so perfectly natural in their born days”――so they one and all declared.

“Well, thee just does know how to handle the fiddle,” said one.

“And mek it speak like a Christian,” said another.

“It be a gift,” observed another.

Nell now rose to go, but she was not permitted to do so, until she had favoured the company with a song. In a rich contralto voice she sang the following:――

I love the shepherd’s artless rhymes, A shepherd’s joys revealing; I love the songs of ancient times, Their notes of simple feeling. They echoed o’er my native hills When last I wandered near them, And now mine ear with rapture thrills In distant climes to hear them.

When hopes that could the heart entrance, On airy wings have vanished; When all the dreams of wild romance From memory’s page are banished. Such strains the heart awhile may soothe, ’Mid foreign wilds deserted, Though all the joys that pleased our youth Have one by one departed.

Sweet as the dream of former years, When sleep the eyelids shrouded; Sweet as the star that oft appears, When all the rest are clouded. Sweet as the warbler’s latest strain, When storms the year have shaded; Or ling’ring rose that decks the plain When all the rest have faded.

“Excellent! Admirably sung!” exclaimed Peace. “I’m quite delighted with your voice and your manner of singing.”

“I must not stop any longer,” said the girl; “I expect I shall catch it as it is. Good-night to all!”

And with these words she tripped out of the room.

The landlord now entered.

“Ye be making merry to-night, friends,” said he.

“Ah, surely it’s a poor heart as never rejoices. Sit down, Brickett, we ain’t goin’ to let ee off.”

The host of the “Old Carved Lion” did as he was bid.

“Yo’ve got a bit o’ a musician here, among ye,” he observed with a merry twinkle in his eye as he glanced at Peace.

“Yes,” said old Nat; “another Paganini――that’s what the gentleman be.”

“How do you know? You never heard Paganini,” returned the landlord.

“Aint I? that’s all you know about it. I remember my poor feyther a taken me to the theatre when the great fiddler gave a morning performance, and there was a sight of people there surely――and that be a few years ago.”

“And what was it loike?”

“Oh, wonderful――never heard anything equal to it. Not but what our friend here is very good and plays a deal in his style. Any more beer to come in, Mr. Landlord?”

“Yes, the farmer’s money aint all run out. Will ye ha’ the remainder in now, or stop till you get it?”

This venerable joke seemed to be relished by the customers.

The beer was brought in, which was relished still more.

“Now, Nat,” said a young fellow. “Here’s a pot o’ beer for ’ee if yell sing another song. How will ye have it, hob or nob?”

“Hob” is beer placed on the hob to warm; “nob,” beer on the table.

“None of your warm beer for me,” cried Nat. “Dont ’ee know what my uncle used to say? When my back wont warm my bed, sed he, and when my belly wont warm my beer, sed he, it’s time I were gone, ’cos I aint no yoose to the world, and the world aint no yoose to me.”

“That’s a good saying, I don’t doubt, but pitch us a stave, old man.”

“The landlord’s got more staves than any on us here. Ask him.”

“Ah, let’s hear Brickett,” cried several.

“I aint a goin’ to make any fuss about the matter,” said the landlord; “I’ll do my best.”

“Brayvo, brayvo!”

“So here goes while my head’s hot――

Come where the heather bell, Child of the Highland dell, Breathes its coy fragrance o’er moorland and lea; Gaily the fountain sheen Leaps from the mountain green, Come to our Highland home, blithesome and free.

The red grouse is scattering Dews from her golden wing, Gemmed with the radiance that heralds the day, Peace in our Highland vales, Health in our mountain gales, Who would not hie to the moorland away?

Come, then; the heather bloom Woos with its wild perfume. Fragrant and blithesome thy welcome shall be; Gaily the fountain sheen Leaps from the mountain stream, Come to the home of the moorland and lea.

“That’s something like, Bricket. You’ve sung it better than ever, and it’s a rattling good ditty,” cried a voice. “Here’s your health, and long life to ’ee.”

A large amount of “brown October” had been consumed by this time, and some of the company were giving indications of being nearly “Three sheets in the wind.”

There had not been such a merry-making at the “Carved Lion” for many a day; this was attributable in the first place to the liberal supply of beer furnished by the farmer who had sold his wheat, and in the second by the presence of Peace, who fraternised with the rustics in a free and easy manner, which to them was quite charming.

Bricket knew pretty well when his customers had had enough, and he was, therefore, somewhat anxious for some of them to make a move.

Peace was asked to favour them with a little more music――a request he at once acceded to. When he had concluded the landlord touched him on the shoulder, and Peace followed him into the bar parlour.

“They’re a merry set of fellows,” said he, “but it’s almost time for them to give over for to-night.”

“Certainly,” returned our hero. “I’m quite of your opinion. We’ve had a very pleasant evening――let it now be brought to a conclusion.”

“They’ll never go away as long as they hear the fiddle going. I know ’em too well for that.”

“Then I wont play any more. Enough is as good as a feast; besides I’m tired, and shall be glad to get rest.

“I’ll go in and wish ’em good night, and then retire to my bedroom.”

“Don’t do so on my account.”

“No, but I shall upon my own.”

Peace went back into the parlour, and told the company that he needed repose, and was about to retire; he wished them all good night. There was a vast amount of shaking of hands, and reiterated expressions of gratitude and friendship, after which Peace was permitted to take his leave, with the understanding that he was to join them on the following evening.

In less than half an hour after he had retired the parlour of the “Carved Lion” was tenantless.

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

Chapter XXI

PEACE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH THE LANDLORD OF THE “CARVED LION.”

Our itinerant print-seller did not want any rocking that night; he had walked many miles in the course of the day, and was dead beat. He did not wake until morning.

Upon leaving his bedchamber he found his breakfast laid in a large apartment on the first floor, called the club-room.

In this place the members of two or three clubs were accustomed to hold their weekly or monthly meetings. The room was large, with a bay window at one end and a smaller one at the other. The walls were covered with pictures and prints of various descriptions in dingy and faded frames.

Peace was shown into the room by the little maiden who officiated as waitress. She was a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed girl of about fifteen or sixteen summers.

A substantial breakfast was served; this our hero did full justice to, after which he arose and examined the pictures on the walls. While thus engaged the landlord entered to pay his respects to his guest.

“The top of the morning to thee, friend,” said Brickett, “I hope you had a good night’s rest.”

“Yes, thank you, excellent,” returned Peace. “You’ve got some fairish things here in the way of art,” he added, carelessly.

“Some on ’em are not bad――so I’ve been told. My poor father took great delight in picking up pictures and such like at sales. He was a better judge nor what I am.”

“Some of them are very good indeed, and some of them, of course, but indifferent. This one must always expect in a miscellaneous collection, but the frames are little the worse for wear.”

“I’ve bin goin’ to have ’em done up ever so many times, but, lord, it ed run into money, I fancy.”

“Not much,” returned his visitor, musingly; “not a great deal, I fancy. If I stop here for a while I’d give you an estimate.”

“And don’t you think of stopping?” enquired the landlord, who was much taken with our hero.

“Well, that depends upon what business I am likely to do in the neighbourhood. I shall be able to tell you more about it to-morrow or next day.”

“Good, I hope un ’ill be successful; we’ve got a goodish many well-to-do folks about here.”

A thin, short man, in a rusty suit of black, with dark rimmed spectacles, now ascended the stairs and entered the “club-room,” as it was termed.

This personage was the parish clerk.

“Your servant, sir,” said the landlord to the new comer.

“We shall want the room on Monday next, Brickett,” said the clerk.

“It is at your disposal, Mr. Overton.”

Brickett now introduced Peace to the gentleman in rusty black, and made him acquainted with his occupation.

“From London, sir, I presume?”

“Yes, from London,” answered the print-seller. In expeditions of this sort he invariably gave people the idea that he had come direct from the metropolis. As a rule country folk paid greater attention to one hailing from the great city.

“Show Mr. Overton some of your goods. He be a judge of such like commodities,” said the landlord, who at all times displayed a willingness to further the interests of his customers.

Peace’s stock, or rather a considerable portion of it, was at once brought forth.

The parish clerk’s attention was directed more especially to the sacred subjects. He inquired the price of the large photo of the “Light of the World.” It was Peace’s practice to lay it on a bit, as he termed it, when he found the fish bite; and he did not neglect to do so on this occasion.

Mr. Overton had made up his mind to have the photo, but he shrugged his shoulders, and said he was a poor man.

“Well,” said our hero, “I want to do business. “Is there any other you would like?”

After a deal of consultation the clerk chose another.

“Well, I’ll let you have the two for eighteen shillings. That’s the lowest I can say for them,” cried Peace.

“Then I’ll have them,” said Mr. Overton.

“And would you like them framed?”

“Oh, of course I must have frames for them.”

“Of an ecclesiastical character?”

“It would be all the better.”

“I will do you the frames cheaper than anybody――that is, if I can get enough orders to make it worth my while to stop in the neighbourhood for a few days.”

Mr. Overton paid for the prints, and the framing of the same was a matter to be considered hereafter. He then took his departure.

“Bagged one bird!” exclaimed the landlord, slapping familiarly on the shoulder. “You mark my words――it’ll bring ’ee luck, an’ ye won’t regret stopping at the ‘Old Carved Lion.’

“I should like to stop as long as possible, seeing that its landlord is such a good sort.”

“You’ll do a decent stroke of business afore you leave.”

“I hope so.”

Peace now shouldered his pack, whistled to his dog “Gip,” and sallied forth. He paid a visit to some of the shops in the neighbourhood, and disposed of some prints and photos.

The prices he obtained for them were so low that he did not get much profit, but it was better than nothing, and kept trade moving.

He called at several private houses, and at some he was very successful. He returned to the “Old Carved Lion” in the afternoon, deposited his pack, and had a late dinner.

Taken altogether he came to the conclusion that matters were by no means unpromising.

Towards evening he went for a stroll to learn a little more of the neighbourhood.

As he was taking his way through a long lane he met the girl whom the occupants of the parlour had called Nelly.

There was of course a mutual recognition.

“Well,” said our hero, “how did you get on last night? Did you get scolded when you returned home?”

“No,” answered Nelly, tossing her head contemptuously. “It was only my fun. Aunt seldom scolds me; she knows I wont stand it.”

“Oh! you live with your aunt――do you? Ah! I wish I was your aunt.”

“Why?”

“Then I should have a merry, cheerful companion.”

“Get out, talking such foolishness,” cried the girl.

“I’m not joking――I am very serious.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, anything but that. But I am glad we’ve met. You’ll be able to tell me all about the people in the neighbourhood, and can be of great service to me if you will.”

“If I will. What do you mean?”

“Why, in the way of business, you know.”

“Oh, I didn’t understand you; but what does that matter? Are you going to stop here――at the ‘Lion,’ I mean?”

“I’m not going away just yet. I want to see a little more of you.”

“You are such a funny man, and tell such droll stories. Where did you come from?”

“London, my dear, from London. Did you like the print?”

“Oh, yes, ever so much.”

“You’ll like it better when it’s framed. Bring it to the ‘Lion’ and I will frame it for you.”

“What will it cost?”

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll tell you if you’ll pay for it now. It will cost just this.”

He put his arms around the damsel’s neck, and imprinted on her lips a kiss. They were ripe and ruddy, and he felt that he was amply paid.

“Oh, you wretch,” exclaimed the girl; “you’ve got the impudence of the old gentleman, you audacious fellow. I don’t like you at all, not a bit! How dare you?”

“Now don’t be angry, my pretty Nell,” said Peace, in a wheedling tone. “For the life of me I could not resist the temptation. Forgive me.”

“You’re a nasty, impudent fellow, that’s what you are.”

While Peace had been indulging in this little innocent flirtation a lusty young fellow had been watching the two from an adjacent meadow. He ground his teeth with rage, and clenched his fists in a threatening manner, but both our hero and the girl were ignorant of his being near the spot.

“Now,” said Peace, “whither are you going?”

“What’s that to you?”

“There’s no harm in the question. It deserves a civil answer.”

“It’s no business of yours where I’m going.”

“Perhaps not; but I say, Nell――I call you Nell because I don’t know you by any other name――let me accompany you for a little way.”

“I don’t want your company, and wont have anything to say to you.”

“But tell me where you live.”

“I shan’t.”

“Ah, yes, you will.”

“I tell you I wont.”

“You’re very unkind. I thought we were friends, but unhappy is the man who places trust in a woman.”

The girl looked surprised. Peace spoke in such a mournful tone that she hardly knew what to make of him.

Was he in earnest, or only jesting?

“Well,” he added, “if you won’t have anything to say to me, so be it――these things are hard to bear.”

“Get along, man,” exclaimed the girl. “What on earth are you talking about? Are you daft? I’ll go my way and you go yours.”

“So be it, then, but you’ll bring me the picture to frame. I have another and a better one for you, remember that. Good evening――good-bye, Nell.”

“You’ve got my name pat enough. Good night.”

She held out her hand, Peace grasped it with ardour, and again bade her good-bye.

She passed through the lane with rapid steps――he watched her as she proceeded along.

When she had gone a couple of hundred yards or so, he followed at a respectful distance.

“She’s a charming creature, so impulsive――so ingenuous, but I wont bother her any more just now. She’s a little nettled, but she’ll come to, I don’t doubt that. She’s not one to bear malice, or to sulk either, if I read her character rightly.”

He let her go her way, and turned out of the lane into a bridle road which ran at right angles with it.

At this time he had not the remotest idea as to who and what she was, but he knew there would not be much difficulty in ascertaining all about her, either from Bricket himself, or one of the frequenters of his house.

Peace walked about the locality for half an hour or more after the girl’s departure, and noted all the leading residences in the neighbourhood. Although but a village he had passed through, it was a long straggling one, and was more densely populated than he had first supposed.

He now returned and bent his steps in the direction of the “Carved Lion.”

When within a couple of hundred yards or so of that well-known “house of entertainment for man and beast” he was suddenly confronted by a powerful-looking rustic who sprang out of an adjacent copse.

The fellow was an ugly-looking customer, and the expression of his ill-favoured countenance denoted that he meant mischief.

“Well,” said our hero, “what might be your pleasure?”

“You be’s the man I ha’ bin a waitin’ and watchin’ for, and now I’ve got ’ee.”

“Much obliged, I’m sure; and pray, now that you have got me, as you are pleased to term it, what may be the nature of your business?”

“I’ll dall soon let ’un know that,” returned the rustic, turning up his cuffs. “I intend to ha’ it out wi’ ’ee.”

Peace was puzzled to understand the man’s meaning or his intent. He was at first under the impression that he meant robbery.

“If you are a footpad I must tell you that you are much mistaken in your man. I’m as poor as a church mouse――so let me pass without more ado.”

“Noa I wun’t let ’ee pass, not afore I give ’ee somethin’ for yerself. Ye be a pretty varmint to be a takin’ liberties wi’ my gell.”

“Now, look here, my man,” said our hero, in a much more serious tone of voice. “I’ll tell you frankly I’m not going to submit to impudence from an ignorant yokel like you, and if you don’t get out of the way I’ll mark you, big as you are. Your girl, indeed, and who is she I pray?”

“Ye know well enough. Don’t ’ee think ye can gammon me? I tell ’ee yer’re a dirty blackguard――that’s what ’ee be.”

“You’re an impertinent fellow. Are you drunk, mad, or what?” said Peace.

“I’m neither, but ’ee doen’t come betwixt me and her, not if I know it.”

“If you give me any more of your impudence I’ll chastise you on the spot.”

“Oh, oh,” exclaimed the other, mockingly, “you chastise――well dang it, that be a good un; we’ll soon see who’s the best man of the two.”

And with these words the speaker up with his fist and delivered a straightforward blow. It was as strong as a horse’s kick, and had it taken effect as the countryman intended, it would certainly have gone hard with our hero.

The blow was well meant, but like many other well-meant things it missed its mark. Peace, who had been expecting the attack, warded it off, and sprang back some three or four yards; he then ducked his head and ran with all his force full butt at the chest of his powerful antagonist.

The effect was magical; the man was sent reeling, and fell on his back full length on the hard road.

He was never more astonished in the whole course of his life.

Peace, who was wonderfully agile at this time, had given him no time for reflection, and to say the truth the rustic had never counted on this novel mode of attack.

He was partially stunned by the fall, but recovering himself a little he rose to his feet. Peace did not give him time to pull himself together, but again ducking his head and running forward with all his might he again laid his foe prostrate.

“Now then, my fine fellow, that will teach you to be a little more cautious. You are too great a coward to hit one of your own size.”

Once more the man regained his feet, but it was evident enough from his staggering that he had been seriously injured.

Wild with fury at being mastered by so insignificant-looking man as Peace, he rushed forward to annihilate if possible his active and cunning adversary.

He let fly with his right and left, but Peace was far too artful to allow him to get within reach; he again sprang back and, whirling round the stick he carried, he delivered a terrific blow therewith on the countryman’s right temple.

Peace’s dog “Gip” now sprang at the man and laid hold of one of his legs.

The countryman cried out “Murder!” several times.

“Call yer dog off――call him off! It bean’t fair.”

“If you’ve had enough I’ll call him off,” said Peace.

“Call him off then. Drat it, he’s got hold of my leg. Do’ee call him off.”

Peace did as he was bid.

Then, panting, bleeding, and fairly cowed, the village athlete stood for awhile humiliated and crestfallen.

“You’ve brought this on yourself, my fine fellow,” said our hero. “You’re a big strapping chap, but you see size and strength aint everything. Take my advice, and think twice before you commit an assault upon those who have never done you any harm, and with whom you have no just and reasonable excuse for quarrelling.”

“Didn’t you meet Nell in the lane? Answer me that.”

“I am not bound to answer every fool’s question,” returned Peace. “What if I did meet a young woman in the lane, or anywhere else for the matter of that, am I to be called to account by a fellow like you? You must be little better than a born idiot to suppose such a thing for a moment.”

“I’ll ha’ it oot wi’ ’ee some other time.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Look here, my friend,” said Peace, “you may think yourself lucky in being let off so easily this time. The next time you attempt to lay hands on me I’ll put a bullet in your brain. I’m in earnest, and mean what I say. I will shoot you if you endeavour to again assault me. So now beware.”

The man rubbed his eyes and looked hard at the speaker.

“Do you comprehend?” inquired the latter.

“I hear what you say.”

Strongly built and muscular as he was, the countryman was by this time as weak as a rat; his knees seemed to give way under his weight, he felt giddy, and was fain to cling to the gate by the side of the road for support.

He was fairly mastered.

“Why, Giles, what be the matter wi’ ’ee?” inquired two young fellows, who had seen the affray three fields off, and who now arrived on the scene of action.

“Has the little ’un bin too much for ’ee?”

“He’s a devil, that what he be――a devil!” exclaimed Giles, nodding towards Peace.

“You will understand,” said the latter, addressing himself to the new comers, “that he attacked me in a violent manner without any reasonable excuse. I never saw the fellow before in my life――have had no quarrel with him until he chose to abuse and assault me, and I desire you to distinctly understand that what I have done has been only in the way of self-defence.”

“Why, he’s big enough to eat ’ee,” observed one of the men, “and ought to be ashamed on himself.”

“Go on,” exclaimed Giles, “hit a man when he be down, it’s the way wi’ ’ee all.”

“You’re simply a blundering fool, and ought to have a month or two on the mill to tame ye,” cried Peace. “I’m not at all certain that you didn’t intend to rob me.”

“Ah, no, he aint one of that sort. Don’t ’ee think that, sir,” returned the other rustic.

“Well, I hope I’m mistaken. Let it pass. I am mistaken, put it in that way, and so good night.”

With these last words, Peace proceeded on his way, and in a few minutes afterwards was safely ensconced in the snug parlour of Bricket’s hostelry.

When the time came for the regular frequenters of the establishment to arrive, the topic of conversation was the encounter we have briefly described.

The man Giles was an ill-tempered, overbearing fellow, who was not liked by the village folk, and his discomfiture at the hands of Peace was deemed a good joke by most of them.

The only wonder was with them all, that such a slight-built little fellow could have secured so easy a conquest, and, as a natural consequence, Peace was the hero of the hour.

It was not the first time he had made use of his head as a weapon of defence.

It was a trick he had learnt in early youth――a trick he never forgot. He had, as we have already seen, great coolness and self-possession when in any situation of danger. He was always remarkably active and quick in his movements.

His victory over the village athlete was more attributable to the swiftness and suddenness of his attacks than aught else.

The countryman was as strong as an ox, but he was slow and awkward, and was knocked out of time by his agile and cunning adversary before he had time to recover from his first surprise.

Peace was received by the company in the parlour in a way which was most friendly and flattering――indeed he seemed to be a special favourite with the frequenters of the “Carved Lion,” and of course he took good care to make himself as agreeable as possible.

He told a number of amusing stories, played his violin, and was a sort of oracle in the old hostelry. Bricket was greatly pleased with him since he drew customers to his house, being, indeed, a sort of “lion” for a time.

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

XXII. PEACE’S BUSINESS ARRANGEMENTS――A VISITOR FROM THE HALL

For some days after the incidents which have been chronicled in the preceding chapter, our hero was actively employed in search of fresh customers. He was by no means unsuccessful, for in a short time he had contrived to obtain a very fair connection.

The orders for frames flowed in apace, but as yet he was not able to execute the commissions for want of a workshop.

He consulted the landlord of the “Carved Lion,” who was well acquainted with the neighbourhood and its surroundings.

“I’ve got a fairish amount of orders,” said Peace; “and it’s likely that others will follow; but there is a little difficulty in the way.”

“And what might that be?” inquired Bricket.

“I can get all my materials easily enough,” returned Peace; “but how about a place――a workshop?”

“Ah, I see, of course. You want a snug crib in the neighbourhood?”

“Yes.”

“I think I can arrange that. You know Charlie Styant?”

“No indeed, I do not.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Not by name perhaps, but you’ve seen him, an’ he knows you well enough.”

“Well, what of him?”

[Sidenote: No. 12.]

“He’s a carpenter and cabinet-maker, and has a big workshop just at the end of Dennet’s-lane. I dare say he’ll be but too glad to let ’ee have part of his shop?”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course I do; nay more I’m pretty nigh sure o’ it, and ye’ll find him a nice young fellow in the bargain. He’ll do anything he can to oblige a fellow-tradesman, I’m sartin sure o’ that. Shall I speak to him?”

“I wish you would; but I’m giving you a great deal of trouble about one thing and another.”

“Dall it, what’s the use of a man being in the world if he can’t mek hisself useful to a fellow creature? Besides, we all on us want to make it worth your while to stop as long as possible.”

“You are very good, I’m sure. Just speak to this young carpenter and see what he says about it.”

“Right you are. It shall be done this very morning.”

Peace shouldered his pack and went round to his customers.

Upon his return in the afterpart of the day his landlord informed him that he had spoken to Styant, who expressed his willingness to let part of his shop for a few shillings a week.

“And you can have a bench all to yourself,” observed Bricket.

“Nothing can be better. How far is it from here?”

“Not a quarter of a mile; but we’ll go round and have a look at it,” said the landlord, putting on his hat. “Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot is an old motto of my father’s.”

The kind-hearted landlord conducted Peace to a long low building built of wood, with a slate roof, at the end of Dennet’s-lane, as it was termed.

He introduced his companion to a young man whom Peace recognised as one of the frequenters of the parlour of the “Lion.”

“Now ye two are to be better acquainted. Just cast your eyes round, Mr. Peace, and see if this place will suit ye.”

“It will suit well enough if I am not incommoding our young friend.”

“Ye can have this bench and this end o’ the shop all to yerself,” said Styant. “I aint got so much business at present as to want the whole shop.”

“I don’t know how long I may want it,” observed Peace; “that all depends upon what orders I get, but it will certainly be for two or three weeks.”

“If it’s two or three and twenty ’twill be all the better,” observed the carpenter, with a smile.

This little matter being satisfactorily arranged, the landlord and his guest bent their steps in the direction of the hostelry.

“Yer had a tidy old scrimmage with Master Giles t’other evening, hadn’t ’ee?” observed the farmer, as they took their way along.

“Yes,” answered his companion.

“Short and sweet, wa’nt it, like a donkey’s gallop?”

“It was short, but there was not much sweetness about it.”

“About the girl Nelly, eh?”

“So he said. Is he a lover of hers?”

“Lord love you, no! not a bit on it; but he’s spooney on her, so I’ve been told. But she won’t ha’ anything to say to ’un. Nell knows too much on him for that.”

“He’s an impudent, ruffianly fellow.”

“But ye tumbled him over like a sack of whate.”

“I didn’t give him much time for reflection.”

“So I heerd,” exclaimed the landlord, bursting out in a loud laugh.

“It was as good as a play. The fellow aint liked by any o’ his mates; he’s a sulky, ill-tempered hound.”

“Is Nelly in service?”

The landlord shook his head.

“In business?”

“Partly so.”

“Does she live near here?”

“Yes; hard by.”

“With her parents?”

“Noa, she aint got none. She’s an orphan.”

“Oh! An orphan?”

“Yes.”

“Does she live by herself, then?”

“No; with an aunt. The old lady keeps a shop in the next village, and does a little in the market gardening line. She has a large strawberry ground, which is pretty well frequented during the season. Oh, she drives a tolerable trade, what wi’ one thing an’ another.”

“And Nell?”

“Well, yer see, she’s a clever lass, and makes herself generally useful; but she’s been a bit spoilt.”

“In what way?”

“Her aunt lets her do pretty much as she likes, but Nell’s a good sort and a general favourite, although she is sometimes a little uppish. Is there anything more ye want to know?”

“No――oh, no,” said Peace, colouring slightly.

The two walked on in silence for some minutes after this.

“She was a great favourite with my missus,” observed Bricket――“she who is dead and gone now, an’ she wasn’t a woman to take a fancy to everybody. It was not many as pleased her.”

“Ah! I don’t wonder at Nell being a favourite.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s something so genuine and ingenious about her manner, and she appears to me to be singularly straightforward for a woman.”

“I’m glad you sed for a woman,” observed Brickett, coming to a sudden halt and looking hard at the speaker. “I be very glad you sed that.”

It was now Peace’s turn to laugh.

“You’re a bit of a philosopher,” he said.

“I mind the time when I wanted all the philosophy I was possessed on; so would you, if you’d been in the same position as I was; but, lor’, it bean’t no use looking back. We none of us know what we’ve got to go through in this world, and it’s a blessing we don’t; leastways that be my opinion, ’cos yer see, Mr. Peace, if so be as we did we should sink down and fall as flat as stale beer afore our journey was half over. We’ve all our trials an’ our troubles, an’ arter all I s’pose happiness is pretty well distributed among us. It bean’t the richest or the most fortunate as are the happiest. Look at my lord at yonder foine estate, who’s a rollin’ in wealth; he be a miserable man――much more miserable than either on us.”

“I don’t know whom you are referring to.”

“Why, Lord Ethalwood.”

“Ah! I don’t know him.”

“But you’ve heerd on him, I ’spose.”

“No, I’ve not.”

“Well, that be strange.”

“You seem to forget that I am new to the neighbourhood and its inhabitants.”

“Ah, true, I did not think of that. At some other time I’ll tell ’ee all about him, but may be ye’ll hear from somebody else afore long.”

Having made satisfactory arrangements for his workshop, Peace sent orders to a wholesale house in London to forward him several books of gold, together with some lengths of maple wood and German gilding, which would serve his purpose for the manufacture of cheap frames. When the parcel of goods arrived he set to work in earnest; the orders he had received for the inexpensive frames were much more numerous than his commissions for the better class of goods; he, however, managed to do pretty well with both class of customers.

One morning as he was leaving the “Carved Lion” to betake himself to the workshop, he observed at the bar a powdered lacquey, arrayed in all the paraphernalia of dazzling garments appertaining to persons of his class.

Peace was struck with his appearance, as well he might be; for he was a finely formed man, over six feet in height, with a broad chest, huge limbs, and a proud bearing.

He was decked out in the most gorgeous of liveries, with plush breeches, white stockings, and a large shoulder knot and tags falling over his shoulder.

This radiant individual was conversing with the landlord, who treated him with great deference.

Peace honoured the lackey with a cursory glance as he passed out of the inn.

Upon his return later in the day, Brickett called him into the bar-parlour and said――

“Did you see our swell footman as you passed out this morning?”

“I couldn’t help seeing him,” returned our hero; “he was so big, and was, moreover, so dazzling, that it was impossible to pass by without noticing him. Who is he?”

“One of Lord Ethalwood’s servants――that’s all.”

“Humph! Well, he’s a credit to the establishment, as far as appearance goes, that’s quite certain.”

“Yes. Well, now just listen to me a moment or so. He came here this morning to order some chartreuse, some bottles of seltzer and soda, together with many other things. It appears that the servants are going to have a party all to themselves. His lordship is in London――――”

“And they take the opportunity of enjoying themselves during his absence. Quite right and proper.”

“No, not altogether that; his lordship knows of the little affair, which is to come off in a day or two――has given permission, in fact. The butler, who has been in the family for the last thirty years, is a great favourite with his lordship. The butler’s fellow servants purpose presenting him with a watch and chain, as a token of their respect and esteem.”

“Also very right and proper, I suppose.”

“Now, don’t be satirical, old man,” observed Brickett, with a smile. “Just hear me out. Henry Adolphus――――”

“Who is he?”

“The footman.”

“Ah! I see; the footman.”

“Yes. Well, as I was a saying, Henry Adolphus told me this morning that they were, in addition to other festivities, going to have a bit of a dance. But how about the band?”

“Have Weippert’s from London.”

“Hang it, don’t be so contrary! Two or three musicians will be all they will require. Will you be one?”

“Me! Most certainly, if you desire it.”

“You won’t lose anything by it.”

“Oh, dear, I should suppose not.”

“Henry Adolphus has heard of you, and asked me if you were stopping here. I sed yes, in course; and I also sed I was certain sure you would be ready when they required your services.”

“You’re as good as a father to me,” observed Peace, with a smile.

“An yer know, although they are but servants, they are big people in their way at the hall, let me tell ’ee that. And they can do a chap a good turn when un loike.”

“I shall be most delighted to make their acquaintance――of that rest quite satisfied. Make what arrangement you like with regard to me――I will do my very best to fulfil it.”

“Right you are, old man――leave the matter in my hands.”

Two days after this the footman again made his appearance at the inn; he had more orders to give to the landlord――more arrangements to make.

Brickett conducted him into the parlour and introduced him to our hero, who was at the time having his mid-day meal.

“This is the gentleman I wer a speaking to ’ee about Mr. Peace, sir,” said Brickett――addressing himself to the flunkey.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Henry Adolphus.

Peace bowed.

“I am very glad to meet you, sir,” said he.

The footman gave a dignified bend of his body, and handed our hero a card.

It was an invitation to the party to be held at the servants’ hall on the following night.

“An you’ll have no objection to oblige them with a tune or two?” said the landlord.

“Certainly not, that’s understood. Are there any other performers to be there besides myself?”

“A cornet player and a gentleman who plays bass,” answered the footman.

“I should like to see them, so that we may know what we are going to do together.”

The landlord and his visitor conversed together apart for a minute or so, after which Henry Adolphus said――

“If you see them ’ere to-night or to-morrow morning, will that suit you?”

“Yes, that will do very well.”

In the evening of that same day a pale-faced young gentleman, with weak eyes, and a military-looking young man with a heavy moustache, presented themselves at the “Carved Lion,” and inquired for Peace.

The first named was the bass-viol player, the other being the gentleman who performed on the cornet.

The three performers repaired to Peace’s workshop, where they had one hour’s hard practice. This enabled them to keep together――certainly well enough for a beginning. They had another turn at their instruments on the following morning.

The eventful evening arrived. Peace was not permitted to sally forth from the “Carved Lion” without an escort. The landlord and several of his parlour customers insisted upon accompanying him up the hill, on the brow of which was situated the noble mansion known throughout the county as Broxbridge Hall.

Brickett, who had received a card of invitation, was to come later on. He, however, went up to the great gates and lodge at the entrance, and rang the visitors’ bell. The porter made his appearance in answer to this summons, whereupon Bricket explained to him in a few words who Peace was, and the reason of his visit.

Our hero was then left in charge of the porter, who conducted him into the servants’ hall.

Peace was perfectly astounded at the grandeur and beauty of the place, which had been decorated with flags, garlands, rare and choice exotic plants, and presented all the appearance of a baronial hall of the olden time, such as Nash and Cattermole knew so well how to depict.

The place was crowded with throngs of visitors; the servants, relatives, and friends, together with a vast number of the tradesmen in the neighbourhood, formed on contingent.

In addition to these the parish schoolmaster with some of the elder boys, a few agriculturists, who rented small farms under his lordship, and last, not least, was the girl whom we have known as “Nelly.”

Peace had been under the impression that he was going to a sort of “high life below stairs,” about which he had heard so much.

He was, however, of quite a different opinion when he beheld the vast throng of gaily-dressed persons, surrounded with all the appliances which wealth and art could furnish.

He felt perfectly bewildered at the grandeur of the scene, which at this time was lighted up by the rays of the setting sun, which found their way through the many coloured diamond-shaped windows of the apartment.

Henry Adolphus, who was at the further end of the hall, caught sight of our hero as he first entered. With courtly politeness the prize flunkey hastened forward to give him welcome.

“It’s vary good of you, I’m shaw,” said that personage, after the usual greeting, “vary good to do us the ’onour of being present this hevening. Will you keindly step this way?”

Peace was conducted by his host towards one of the side tables; here he was introduced to a quiet, sedate, bald-headed, respectable-looking man, whom Henry Adolphus informed him was Mr. Jakyl.

This was Lord Ethalwood’s butler.

Had he not been informed otherwise Peace would have concluded that it was his lordship himself.

Mr. Jakyl was reticent by nature; the few words he did utter, however, were courteous and patronising enough.

The butler, however, had so many persons to see, and such a number of little arrangements to make, that he did not remain many minutes in one place.

He was constrained to leave Peace rather abruptly.

“What wine will you take, Mr. Peace?” said Henry Adolphus.

“None at present, I thank you,” returned our hero.

“You must ’ave one glass with me. What say you――champagne?”

“Thank you, yes.”

Two glasses of champagne were filled, and the burglar and the flunkey hobbed and nobbed. Presently the latter’s attention was called to another part of the room.

Soon after his departure Peace caught sight of Nelly threading her way through the throng. He hastened towards her.

“You here!” said he in a whisper, when he had reached her side.

“Me――yes. Is there anything surprising in that?” returned she, with a toss of the head.

“Well, I don’t know that it’s surprising; it’s gratifying to me, at any rate, and makes me feel supremely happy.”

“Does it?”

“Of course, you know it does. How is it you have never shown up since that night? I’ve been watching the hours.”

“There, that will do. Spare yourself the trouble o’ talkin’ like a booby. That sort o’ thing won’t go down here.”

“You are a most extraordinary girl,” returned Peace. “Hang me if I know what to make of you. At one time I thought I was a bit of a favourite, but now――――”

“Well, what are you a sayin’?”

“Now you positively flout me at every turn. Of all the persons in this assembly you are the only one I know.”

“Ye doesn’t know much on me, do ’ee?”

“Not much, but I want to know more. I wish to become better acquainted with one who has made so great, so favourable an impression on me.”

“What brought yer here if yer doesn’t know any on ’em?”

“Because I was invited.”

The weak-eyed bass-viol player and the military-looking cornet performer now came forward and offered their hands to Peace, and his conversation with Nelly was therefore brought to a premature close for awhile.

Peace discovered in the course of conversation with his two fellow musicians that an addition had been made to the orchestra――a harpist and a flutist had volunteered their services.

“But positively I tremble,” observed the young gentleman with the weak eyes.

“What at?” cried Peace.

“Well, you see, in case there should be any mistake. We certainly ought to have been introduced to the flutist and harpist, so that we might have had a little practice.”

“We shall manage well enough, I dare say,” observed the bass-viol player.

A cold collation had been spread out on the huge table in the adjoining room, into which the assembled guests were now conducted.

Mr. Jakyl was to have taken the head of the table, but he had been throughout his life a modest, unobtrusive man, and at his earnest request the village schoolmaster, Mr. Magnet, consented to occupy that place of honour.

He was supported by the bailiff on one side and the head gardener on the other.

All these arrangements had been duly weighed and considered. To many the sitting down at the table was a mere matter of form so far as partaking of the repast was concerned; there were some, however, who did ample justice to the viands placed before them.

After the meal was concluded and several toasts had been drunk, Mr. Magnet rose, and, in a sonorous voice, spoke as follows:――

“Ladies and gentlemen, you will, I am sure, give me your attention for a few minutes. I will not make any large demands upon your patience, but will explain in as few words as possible my reason for my addressing you on this occasion. I am deputed by the members of Lord Ethalwood’s domestic establishment to speak on their behalf, and my only regret is that the task was not assigned to a more efficient representative. (“No, no.” “Hear, hear.” “Can’t be in better hands.”) That may be your opinion, but it is not mine; however, I will do my best. I think we shall all agree upon one subject, that being the regard and esteem in which our worthy friend, Mr. Jakyl, is held. For nearly thirty years he has had the honour of enjoying the confidence and good opinion of his lordship, and in addition to this his urbanity and kindness cannot fail to have been duly appreciated by all members of this establishment. It is, therefore, with feelings both of pride and pleasure that I present to him, on behalf of the members of this household, a gold watch and chain, as a token of their respect and friendship.”

The article in question was now brought forward, enclosed in a handsome case, and laid before the butler by the page.

“Before concluding,” said Mr. Magnet, “I shall call upon you to join me in a toast. I need hardly indicate what it is――‘Long life and happiness to Mr. Jakyl.’”

This was of course the signal for vociferous applause, which made the servants’ hall reverberate to the very echo.

The butler rose in some precipitation, and said he could not find words to express his feelings, but that he was duly impressed with the honour which had been shown him; and that, in short, the company were all kindness, and he was all gratitude.

Several other healths were proposed and drunk, and the company now began to assume that of a highly festive character.

There was a vast amount of wine-taking, of mixed conversation, and a noise as of many tongues speaking at once.

One of the young farmers sang a hunting song, with a “tally ho!” chorus, which was rendered vigorously, if not musically.

People had evidently come to enjoy themselves, and they did so to their hearts’ content.

Henry Adolphus had been constrained――from the force of circumstances, of course――to partake of wine with so many persons that he was in an effervescent state.

All of a sudden, to the surprise of everybody and the dismay of a few, he rose to his legs for the purpose of addressing the assembly.

“Sit down――don’t be so foolish――do pray sit down,” cried one of the female servants, frowning at the footman.

“Ish all right, I know what I’m ’bout!” exclaimed Henry Adolphus――“have a dooty to perform.”

“Are you mad?”

“Mary Hann, don’t be personal. Be quiet, my girl, be quiet.” Then in a louder voice he shouted out, “Mr. Charman!”

“Order, chair!” said Mr. Magnet.

“Mr. Charman and gentlemen,” said the footman, “I need not tell you that I’m unaccustomed to public speaking, but I cannot let this hevening pass hover without――without doing what I consider to be a justice to our worthy charman. Gentlemen, Mr. Magnet has put himself out of way to oblige us. Every one of us can lay our ’ands on our ’arts and say that he has expressed our feelings a deal better than we could have done ourselves. (Hear, hear.) Now, I want to tell you that we ought to be grateful, and I cannot let the hevening pass hover――――”

“Henry Adolphus, do sit down.”

“Mary Hann, shut up,” said the footman. “I will have my say.”

“Oh, it’s dreadful. Do get him to sit down.”

“We have a little interruption here, Mr. Charman, but that does not matter. I cannot and will not let the hevening pass hover without doing what I consider to be my dooty. Gentlemen, one and hall, my hobject in addressing you is easily expressed, and I intend to keep the hobject in my heye. I’m going to ask you to drink the ’ealth of Mr. Magnet, and at the same time I want you to join me in thanking ’im for all his kindness.”

The health of the charman was drunk with enthusiasm, and, much to the delight of those around him, the pertinacious flunkey sat down.

He had by this time imbibed enough to float a four-oared cutter, and the only wonder was that he did not make a greater fool of himself.

The chairman responded in an amusing speech, and the hilarity was very soon at its height.

It was intimated that everything was ready for the dance, the next room had been cleared, and the musicians were playing some lively strains.

There was a general exodus, most of the company betaking themselves to the ball-room.

Peace and his coadjutors comported themselves very well――the music was bright, crisp, and inspiring.

The musicians were stationed in a gallery at the end of the room, and Peace had no opportunity of mixing with the throng of dancers beneath.

He commanded, however, an excellent view of all that was going on, and was by no means consoled by seeing the girl Nelly dancing with one partner after another, without even condescending to regard him with a passing glance.

This, of course, was irritating to a man of his choleric temperament, but there was no help for it; he was compelled to submit with the best grace he could.

There was a number of young and pretty women among the throng, and, as a matter of course, a vast deal of flirtation took place in the course of the evening.

Mr. Jakyl was evidently anxious that neither his fellow-servants nor his guests should overstep the bounds of prudence.

Some of the young farmers were far too demonstrative and noisy to please the discreet and prudent butler, who, to say the truth, would in all probability feel greatly relieved when the festivities of the evening were brought to a termination.

Those who lived some distance from the hall now began to take their departure, and, in the course of another hour, more than half the visitors had left.

Mr. Jakyl came up into the gallery and personally thanked Peace and his confederates for their services. He at the same time placed wines and other refreshments before them.

He was certainly a well-behaved, considerate man, who never failed to look after the comforts of those who came within his sphere of action.

The guests at the hall now began to leave rapidly and the evening’s amusements were brought to a close. The musicians were thanked once more by the butler, Henry Adolphus, and many others of the household, and our hero returned to the old “Carved Lion,” in company of its genial landlord, who had been footing it merrily for an hour or more.

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

Chapter XXIV

LORD ETHALWOOD――A CHRONICLE OF PAST EVENTS――THE SHADOW ON THE HOUSE.

For some four or five weeks after this Peace was busily engaged in executing the orders he had received from people of almost every denomination. It was evident enough that he did not intend to shift his quarters for some time, as orders were falling in pretty fast, and he had promised Bricket to regild his frames before he left the village.

Lord Ethalwood returned to Broxbridge Hall. Before introducing him to the reader, we must, for the purpose of our history, give a brief chronicle of past events. He had the reputation of being proud and haughty to a fault. Austere and inflexible as he was in outward appearance, he was not deficient in the softer and more tender promptings of the heart; but he was proud――this fact his best friends could not deny, and therein, perhaps, lay the secret of all his trials and troubles.

He was proud of his name, of his lineage, of his unsullied honour, proud of the repute in which he was held, of his high standing in the county.

As a river gathers force and strength from every tributary stream, so he made every gift heaven had bestowed upon him tributary to his pride.

It was a grand old place he owned, in the county in which he was born. Broxbridge Hall had everything to recommend it. Situated on the summit of a hill, with acres and acres of land spreading out on all sides, fine old woods, fertile land, through which a silver stream wound its sinuous course, and a house of the old Elizabethan type, together with a princely income. Nevertheless this man was not happy.

Nay more, he was supremely wretched.

No wonder a shadow had crossed over his house――a shadow deep and sinister.

The misfortunes that had befallen him and his were, to a certain extent, attributable to circumstances beyond his control; but he had added to these misfortunes by his own indomitable pride.

People, in speaking of him, said he was just and generous, but very proud.

He was a rigid observer of class distinctions. He paid all persons the honour due to them, and he expected the same in return.

“The Ethalwoods came in with the Conqueror,” he would say. “Had fate ordained them to be kings, they would have known how to reign. Old as the line is, there is not a blot on the escutcheon. No Ethalwood ever forfeited his honour.”

It is an axiom as old as the hills――much older, it may be, than the honoured line of the Ethalwoods――that pride must have a fall.

Never, surely, was the truth of this more terribly exemplified than in the life of the nobleman now immediately under our notice.

Bertram Lord Ethalwood, married a young creature of surpassing beauty. She was nobly born, but vivacious and volatile. She bore him three children――two sons and one daughter.

The first blow that fell upon our nobleman――a blow which fell upon him “even as a flail falls upon the garnered grain”――was the elopement of his wife with an officer attached to the Indian army.

The injured husband did not show externally any signs of the sorrow which weighed so heavily on his heart. He sued for a divorce, which he obtained without opposition.

His wife, shortly after this, died in Calcutta. It was a relief to him when he was apprised of her death.

He did not marry again, but he loved his daughter and was proud of his sons. His children were the delight of his heart――the very light and brightness of his home was his daughter.

A beautiful, gay, high-spirited girl, who had all the Ethalwood spirit with its attendant pride. Her father literally worshipped her; he watched her beauty as it developed day by day; he pleased himself by fondly imagining what a glorious future was before her.

He could not bear to part with her, and would not upon any consideration be persuaded to send her from home.

He had governesses and masters for her――he did his best to ensure her a good education at home, but it was, perhaps, the most imprudent thing he could possibly do. He made no allowance for girlish gaiety or exuberance of spirits, and the result of this was that the girl began to look upon her home as a sort of prison.

She loved her father, had the greatest respect for his character, but still at the same time she looked upon him as a sort of gaoler, and gloried in evading his rules.

Her brothers she did not see a very great deal of. They spent very little time at Broxbridge Hall; they went to Eton and from thence to Oxford, and were principally under the charge of tutors.

Lord Ethalwood had impressed upon them in a most marked manner the nobility of their race and the obligation they were under to keep their name unsullied and honour unstained; he left the rest to their teachers.

The name of Lady Ethalwood no one in the household durst mention; his lordship had given orders to that effect. Even his sons and daughter never once alluded to their dead mother.

Whatever they knew or had heard about her they had the prudence to keep to themselves.

The years flew by and the Honourable Miss Ethalwood was approaching her eighteenth summer, and her father was looking forward to the time when she would be presented at Court and take her place among the ladies of the fashionable world.

He almost dreaded this ordeal, for he felt that she would, as a natural consequence, become hurried on into a vortex of pleasure, and be constrained to keep up an incessant round of visits; but a greater evil, a more serious estrangement, was destined to take place before the dreaded time arrived.

When his lordship took up his quarters in his town residence he left his daughter at the old ancestral home, where, during his absence, she reigned supreme. This just suited her, for, like her father, she was immensely fond of having her own way.

With all his intellect and acquirements, how blind was the haughty nobleman to the common affairs of life――how little did he reckon upon the danger which beset his daughter’s path at this time!

An Italian professor taught her music and singing. He was, as many Italians are, a remarkably handsome young man, and he had a voice which was simply magnificent.

Bending over the piano, and turning over the leaves of the music, he had ample opportunity afforded him of coming in close contact with his fair pupil.

His visits――or lessons would be the more correct term――were much more frequent during his lordship’s absence than they were when he was residing at Broxbridge; even the servants could not help noticing this.

A thought came into the head of the music-master――indeed, it had been there for a very long time; it was this――

“What a grand future I shall make for myself,” he murmured, “if I woo and win the Honourable Miss Ethalwood!”

To do the Italian professor justice, he was really not actuated by mercenary motives. He had conceived a passion for his pupil, and, as a natural consequence, she became aware of this without his uttering a word relative to so important a subject.

The professor had all the qualities to captivate one of the opposite sex.

He was light-hearted, animated, had no inconsiderable amount of passionate eloquence, and was, in short, a very dangerous man to hover about a thoughtless and inexperienced girl.

The Honourable Miss Ethalwood inherited much of her father’s pride, but that was not much protection when her heart was touched.

In a very short time she became infatuated with the handsome young Italian.

To make use of a common phrase, she was over head and heels in love, or, as Mr. Artemus Ward would say, “I cannot tell you how muchly she loved him.”

Meanwhile, while all this was going on, Lord Ethalwood had not the faintest notion of the coming storm, and even if a suspicion had crossed his mind he would have dismissed it, for it would have seemed as probable to him that his daughter would fall in love with one of his grooms as with her music-master.

He returned to Broxbridge Hall, and demonstrated all his old fondness for his daughter, and did not observe at this time that her manner was at times constrained.

The professor’s visits were now few and far between, but the love between the two grew stronger――the Italian grew bolder――he asked his fair pupil to meet him at an appointed spot in the neighbourhood.

She foolishly consented, and on one occasion when her ardent admirer told her in passionate accents how dearly he loved her she owned that the feeling was reciprocal.

It is not easy to determine whether it was love or ambition that prompted the Italian to make the declaration――it might be both.

It was, however, a base betrayal of trust and a cruel fraud――a most unpardonable deception, a most dishonourable deed.

They plighted their troth. The professor asked the young lady to broach the question to her father.

She drew back a pace or two, and exclaimed――

“Mention it to my father! You must be mad to make such a proposition.”

“He would never consent?”

“Consent! He would die first. Oh, you do not know him.”

The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and looked on the ground in a desponding manner.

The lovers parted.

A day or two after this the Italian went to Broxbridge Hall for the purpose of giving his usual lesson. He met his lordship in the passage, who bowed stiffly and passed on.

“Can he suspect anything?” murmured the professor, “or is it the natural pride which all the English aristocracy have, more or less? Ah, she’s right enough! It will never do to mention the subject to him. Ha, ha, we must elope!”

He told his pupil of the meeting, and informed her also that her parent was stiff and haughty in his manner.

“That is not unusual with him,” she answered. “It’s his way. Do not take any notice of it.”

“Does he suspect aught?”

“No. Oh, dear no!”

While this love-making had been going on there was one in the house who had her own private reasons for suspecting something was amiss――this was the housekeeper in the establishment.

She was under the impression that a little harmless flirtation was taking place, but she had no idea of its nature or extent. Had she been aware of this, in all likelihood she would have mentioned the subject to her young mistress or his lordship.

She, however, deemed it expedient, for divers reasons, to remain silent.

The very last person in the whole establishment to suspect the state of affairs was the master of Broxbridge.

He had unlimited faith in the integrity of his daughter, and, indeed, to say the truth, there was not much excuse to be made for her, save that she was charmed with her lover’s handsome person, his musical voice, his fascinating and engaging manners. She was infatuated――so much so, indeed, as to be heedless of the great wrong she was doing, but she had now gone too far to retract.

She consented to elope with her music-master, who had repeatedly suggested a clandestine marriage.

She persuaded herself that he was a gentleman, although a poor one. He was an artist, a man of polished manners, and equal in many ways to her father’s friends and companions――in some respects he was their superior.

Poor, giddy, thoughtless girl, she knew but little of the world. Had she mixed more in society she would have hesitated before she took the first false step which led to untold misery both to her and hers.

The end came. She stole one afternoon from the time-honoured walls of Broxbridge, and eloped with Signor Montini.

It would be impossible to describe the despair of Lord Ethalwood when he heard of his daughter’s flight. He was frantic for a time, after which he was preternaturally calm; but a storm raged within more terrible than any sudden burst of passion. She had written to him avowing her love for Montini, and informing him at the same time that she took it for granted he would never give his consent. Hence it was she had consented to a clandestine marriage. She implored him to forgive her, to pity and pardon her for her disobedience.

No member of the old Inquisition could have looked more relentless and spectral than did the lord of Broxbridge when he read this epistle.

“She has passed from me, even as did her mother,” he ejaculated, in a low deep whisper. “Even as did her mother,” he repeated, like the burthen of a song. “Fool that I was, I never counted on this blow.”

He took an oath never to look upon her face again. Dear as she had been to him, he was resolved upon thinking only of her as one dead.

This terrible oath he kept unbroken.

He knew but little of Montini, and, strange to say, he was not so embittered against him as might have been supposed. The full measure of his wrath fell upon the head of his undutiful thankless daughter. His love for her had changed to the most deadly hate, which neither time nor circumstances would change.

He was relentless. As far as he was concerned, the noble sentiments conveyed in the words of a celebrated poet, “To err is human; to forgive, divine,” never for a moment passed through his mind.

She had brought disgrace upon him. She had sullied the name of Ethalwood by running away with a low-born foreigner, a miserable teacher. The thought was agony. He never would acknowledge her――never more.

It was something fearful to witness the inexorable determination of the injured and unforgiving father, who never for a moment reflected that he was in some measure responsible for the misfortune which had befallen him. Had he been less exacting, given her a wider sphere of action, the chances would have been she would not have been forced into the error which brought with it so much misery.

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

XXV. THE CHILDLESS MAN――IN THE HANDS OF FATE

The two sons of Lord Ethalwood were perfectly astounded when the news reached them of their sister’s elopement with Signor Montini.

They might and, indeed, ought to have taken her part; but they knew pretty well the hopelessness of any appeal to their father, who was not a man to give way when he had once made up his mind.

They had, indeed, seen so little of their sister, had been so estranged from her for so long a time, had left her so entirely to their father’s disposal that they did not hold themselves responsible for her actions.

Nevertheless, they found it difficult to comprehend how she could have so forgotten herself.

Lord Ethalwood made no loud complaints.

To all appearance he was as calm and impassible as of yore.

If any one attempted to condole with him he held up his hand in a deprecatory manner, which enforced silence.

His sorrow――his anger lay too deep for words.

He did not interrogate any of the household about his daughter’s mode of life, or make any inquiry about Montini.

Servants as a rule are loquacious enough with regard to the movements of their superiors. His gamekeepers could, and, indeed, would have told him of rambles in the woods of Broxbridge, of stolen meetings in the grounds, but their lord and master at once repressed them.

He forbade them ever to mention the names of either the Italian or their young mistress.

The men of course deemed it expedient to keep silent.

The housekeeper began to open her mind to his lordship.

“I do not desire, madam, to enter into the question, and therefore beg that for now and hereafter you will hold your peace. The past has passed away; let it be forgotten.”

The housekeeper made a curtsey and retired.

In a few days after this she received a notice from his lordship, who was then at his town residence, to quit his service.

He did not return till the notice had expired, and she had taken her departure.

She was sagacious enough to understand the cause of her dismissal.

His daughter’s lady maid and two other female servants were also discharged.

Upon Lord Ethalwood’s return to Broxbridge, he summoned his butler, Mr. Jakyl, to his presence. He was sitting alone in his library at this time, and before him rose, like so many ghosts, all the hopes he had centred in his beautiful daughter. He remembered her as a lovely laughing child――as a merry and artless girl. His brow was dark, and his eyes were red with weeping.

Despite his pride, his sternness, his terrible contempt and scorn, there was something pitiful in the proud man’s silent, solitary despair.

Never again was he destined to hear the gay young voice――never more to watch the beautiful face. She was worse, ten thousand times worse, than dead. If she had been snatched from him by the icy fingers of death, he could have loved her still――could have visited her grave――he could have spoken of her, but she was dishonoured and disgraced――she had brought scorn and contempt down upon the very name of Ethalwood.

“Ahem! did you ring, my lord?” said the butler, who had crept so quietly into the room that his master was not aware of his presence. It was a way he had――he was so very soft and gentle in his movements.

“Ah, it’s you, Jakyl.”

The butler bowed.

“Yes, I rang――let me see, what was it for? Ah, I remember. You know the handwriting of your late mistress?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“For the future I desire you to look carefully over all the letters addressed to me before I see them, and, should there be any in the handwriting of your late young mistress, destroy them.”

“Destroy them?”

“Yes, sirrah; burn them――that’s what I mean.”

“Yes, my lord,” returned the butler with another bow.

He was surprised, but was too discreet a man to let any expression of it be seen on his countenance, which was as inexpressive as that of a wax doll.

He withdrew from the apartment in the same noiseless way in which he had entered.

After this time Lord Ethalwood lived as if he had no daughter.

Mr. Jakyl was the only person who knew how many heart-broken letters came to Broxbridge Hall; he never referred again to the subject to any living creature. He knew very well the uncompromising nature of his master, and knew, moreover, that it was more than his place was worth to be outspoken on so painful a subject.

So time passed on, and the name of the young girl who had been his idol in days gone by was never even mentioned; all trace of her had disappeared, and she was as one dead, and to all appearance even the fact of her having had existence was entirely forgotten.

His two sons he took great pride in. He hoped and expected that they would do honour to his name.

Reginald, the eldest, was proud and haughty like his father. The younger one was soft and womanly; he had not by any means so robust a constitution as his brother, but he was a general favourite, being especially kind and considerate to all who came within his influence.

He was his father’s pet, for he never thwarted his parent in any of his whims and fancies; indeed it might be said that he was obedient and yielding to a fault.

Lord Ethalwood could not conceal from himself that this young man had a hectic flush at times, and showed decided symptoms of weakness, or it might be of early decay, and he was seriously concerned when the family physician informed him that his second son required the greatest possible care.

His lordship trembled at the thought of losing one who was so endeared to him, and he could not bear him out of his sight; he was therefore his constant companion, either at Broxbridge or his town residence.

Reginald took great delight in athletic sports, was a member of a yachting club, was a daring rider, and attended most meets in the county and elsewhere.

His father did not much concern himself about him, leaving him to do pretty much as he liked; for he used to say, with a smile, that Reginald was strong enough for anything, and was well able to take care of himself.

Judge of his horror, however, when, one afternoon, he received the sad intelligence that his son, Reginald, had been thrown from his horse while following the hounds in a distant part of the country; and that when picked up the young man was found to be dead. His neck was broken, and he never moved after the fall.

This blow fell with a deadening weight upon the miserable and despairing father.

He could not at first realise it, and it was not until he saw the body of his dead son that he could be brought to believe in the irreparable loss he had sustained.

There were people who at this time, and indeed afterwards, said that he was justly punished for his indomitable pride; and many averred that he had brought most of the troubles on himself.

Such is the charitable construction some people put upon the misfortunes of others.

But the cup of his sorrow was not yet full.

[Sidenote: No. 13.]

A terrible change came over the unhappy and ill-fated nobleman about this time. Long years of toil could not have aged him as his sorrow did. His hair grew white, his face became livid, his eyes lost their wonted fire; and albeit he bore himself bravely under the deep affliction which had fallen upon him, it was easy to see that he was no longer the same man. A shadow had fallen upon him and his, and he was constrained to suffer in silence.

Reginald was interred in the family vault. A noble scion of the house of Ethalwood was gathered to his fathers with all the pomp and ceremony usually accorded to the illustrious dead.

His only remaining son, Herbert, was now his father’s chief, and indeed it might be said only, care. He had no other prop for his declining years, no other to look to as the direct inheritor of his title and estates.

His anxiety about his son, Herbert, was almost pitiful to witness; he was for ever by his side, watching with a jealous care.

It was pretty generally understood by all that the young man was acutely sensible of the loss he had sustained by the death of his brother, Reginald, to say nothing of the mystery in which the fate of his sister was enveloped.

He durst not make any inquiries about her, and even if he had he would have been none the wiser, seeing that nobody knew aught about her. He therefore mourned the loss of each in silence.

He was, physically as well as mentally, incapable of bearing any great affliction, and it is likely enough that the untoward events which had taken place in a measure tended to hasten his decline.

Nothing, however, could have saved him, so his medical attendant declared, for he was suffering from the worst form of consumption.

This fact, however, was kept from his father for as long a time as possible.

Lord Ethalwood hoped against hope. He could not, and would not, up to the very last, believe that his only remaining son was slowly but surely passing away.

“Remember, Herbert, you are the last of the Ethalwoods, my son, the last of our name. Our race all depends upon you. It behoves you, therefore, to take great care of yourself. Live, live, for my sake.”

Then he would sit down and watch the thin features of the young man with the deepest anxiety.

Whether he believed in the possibility of his recovery, or whether he clung to hope as a last refuge, it is not possible to say.

It was perfectly evident to all the inmates of Broxbridge Hall that their young master was daily becoming weaker and weaker, and the end most of them guessed, and even hinted at.

There were many who said the father’s excessive care helped to kill him.

Observations of this nature are cruel enough under any circumstances. In this case they were most unjustifiable and unpardonable.

Busybodies who came to the house declared that the young man had too many doctors, too many nurses, and had taken too many remedies. Those who knew best, however, were perfectly aware that his death was inevitable.

The fiat had gone forth, and no medical skill could arrest the approach of death――Herbert sank to his last sleep in his father’s arms. Lord Ethalwood was left alone in the world.

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