Chapter XXVI…

Chapter XXVI

THE SOLITARY STUDENT――THE FALL OF AN ANCESTOR――HIS RESTORATION BY PEACE.

The melancholy series of events which we have recorded in the two preceding chapters occurred long before the period in which the action of our story takes place.

Let us now follow the thread of our narrative.

We have already signified that Lord Ethalwood returned to Broxbridge Hall very shortly after the servants’ party, at which our hero had played no insignificant part.

In a small room, called the study, “a thin, tall, aristocratic man, of three-score years and ten,” is seated; around the walls of the apartment are ranged glass bottles, crucibles, together with a variety of other articles, emblematical of a chemical laboratory. The solitary occupant of the studio might be taken for a necromancer of the middle ages, so spectral and weird-like is he in appearance; and at times his deep-sunken eyes seem to light up and flash with unwonted fire, while at others they are cold, inexpressive, and passionless.

His long bony fingers are busily occupied in reaching ever and anon some ponderous volume, the pages of which he scans with a curious and absorbing interest.

This old man is Lord Ethalwood, who, despite his years and the sorrow they have brought, is still firm and vigorous――still full of active intellectual life.

He is a philosopher――a searcher after truth――a solitary and silent worker in his old ancestral home.

To him the wonders revealed by scientific research have been a solace and a comfort in the hours of his affliction.

He has pursued his studies with unwearying industry; has never relaxed, but has worked as hard――and, indeed, harder, perhaps――than many men whose means of existence depended upon their own exertions.

There is good reason for this: the recluse at Broxbridge needed some occupation to drive away the miserable thoughts which at times took possession of him.

Without some such employment his life would have been one long sorrow.

He had made chemistry his study, he had also dipped deeply into the science of astrology, and when wearied of these he followed up his train of observations in astronomy.

At the top of his palatial residence he had erected an observatory.

This was furnished with a large telescope, which was said to be the finest in the country. He had always had a taste for scientific pursuits; in the later years of his life it was a passion with him.

He had little else to occupy his thoughts, for he had long since withdrawn himself from society, and with the exception of a few choice friends he did not much care about mixing with what is called the fashionable world.

Nevertheless he was not altogether a recluse: with those who knew him best he was the same genial, courtly, high-bred gentleman, whose presence was deemed an ornament in any fashionable or aristocratic coterie.

But a deep shadow had fallen on the house of Ethalwood――a shadow which no ray of sunlight dispelled.

For an hour or so the master of Broxbridge remained in his studio, working out some difficult problem in chemistry. Presently he arose, passed out of his laboratory, and made his way to the observatory.

To reach this he had to pass through the picture gallery, on the walls of which were ranged in chronological order portraits of his dead ancestors.

He seldom passed through the picture gallery without taking a glance at the long line of portraits, the very contemplation of which seemed to take him back to brighter and more glorious days.

He was proud of his ancestors, many of whom had been identified with the history of the country.

A miserable sense of depression and loneliness came over him as he contemplated the time-honoured works of art. He thought some of his race looked reprovingly on him out of their dingy frames.

At his death there would be an end to the unbroken line of the Ethalwoods. He had no son to inherit the title and estates, which would go to a distant relative, whom he held in utter aborrhence. This thought was perfect agony to him.

He turned abruptly away and made for the observatory, and strove to drown his sorrow in the depths of science.

In a short time, however, he again sought the laboratory. As he arrived at the door of the picture gallery he was startled by a loud noise, a sort of clatter and crash――so it seemed to him――which reverberated through the whole apartment.

He hastened forward, and beheld a cloud of dust.

When this had cleared away he was enabled to ascertain the cause of the strange sounds. The portrait of Gervase Lord Ethalwood, with its massive oak frame, had fallen to the floor.

The master of Broxbridge was greatly affected. His pale face became a thought paler, and his limbs trembled.

A superstitious fear seemed to creep over him.

He looked upon the circumstance as an ill omen.

Had fate in store for him any greater trial?

For awhile he stood motionless and spell-bound, his eyes being all the while riveted on the fallen picture.

His ancestor, Gervase Lord Ethalwood, was deemed the most honoured of his race. He had distinguished himself both in the field and in the senate――had enjoyed the confidence of his Sovereign.

“This is a most remarkable circumstance――the more so since it happened while I was at the entrance of the picture gallery,” murmured Lord Ethalwood. “Most remarkable――and――and significant.”

As he was hesitating how to act he observed at the other end of the gallery the well-known features of Mr. Jakyl, who was advancing in his usual quiet and unobtrusive manner.

“Oh, it’s you, Jakyl!” said his lordship, walking up to the picture. “Do you know of the accident?”

“I heard a noise, my lord,” returned the butler, “and hastened to ascertain the cause.”

“The picture, the likeness of my great ancestor――it has fallen.”

They both looked at the object in question.

“The rings have given way,” observed Mr. Jakyl, pointing to the rings through which ran the cords which supported it.

“Strange, most unaccountable!” ejaculated the nobleman. “Most incomprehensible.”

“Well, my lord, it is not so surprising after all,” returned the butler. “The wood is decayed.”

“Umph! You had better lift it up and place it against the wall, then get the steps and hang it up in its place.”

The butler gave utterance to an expression of surprise.

“What’s the matter?” enquired his master.

“The wood on which the picture is painted is perfectly rotten. I am afraid to touch it in case it should fall to pieces.”

This was found to be the case. The picture of Gervase Lord Ethalwood was in such a decayed state that the panel on which that marvellous man had been painted was like touchwood, which had been so worm-eaten that it threatened to tumble to pieces.

“I dare not touch it, my lord,” said Mr. Jakyl, in evident concern.

“The only wonder is that it should have hung so long in its position. How long has it been painted, my lord?”

“More than three centuries. What do you propose to do? Send up to London. Telegraph at once to a frame-maker to come immediately. I would not have the painting injured by unskilful treatment, not on any account.”

“Send to London?” repeated the butler.

“Of course, that will be the best plan.”

A bright idea occurred to the butler, who said in a half apologetic tone, “We have a very clever young man from London working in the neighbourhood, who, I think, would be able to make a good job of it.”

“What is he, and who is he?”

“He’s in the picture line, my lord and is very clever, so I’m told. His name is Peace.”

“Do you think he is a skilful workman?”

“Oh dear me, there’s no question about that.”

“Very well. Send for him at once; there will be no harm in hearing what he says. Send for him, Jakyl.”

And with these words Lord Ethalwood returned to his laboratory.

Peace, who was at work at his shop in Dennet’s-lane, was surprised to receive a message from the Hall, commanding his immediate attendance, upon a matter of urgent business.

He put on his best attire and presented himself at Broxbridge.

He was at once taken into the picture-gallery by the prudent and well-behaved Mr. Jakyl.

Mr. Peace made a careful examination of the picture.

“It’s all to pieces,” he observed to the butler, “and if you attempt to move it it will crumble into dust. I never saw anything so gone. The wood on which it is painted is literally powder. It will require all my skill to make a job of it.”

“Do you think you can restore it? Don’t undertake it unless you see your way clear, for I must tell you frankly that his lordship sets more store by this than anything else in the whole establishment.”

“If I can’t do it, nobody can,” returned Peace; “but don’t let me get you into trouble. If you have no confidence in me send to London.”

“I will consult his lordship,” observed the butler, proceeding at once to the laboratory.

He returned with his master.

“Well,” said the latter, addressing himself to Peace, “how about this picture? Can anything be done with it? I don’t mind the price――only I want it made sound.”

“And it is no easy task, my lord,” answered our hero, “seeing that it is so old and decayed; but I will do my best with it.”

“Tell me how you intend to proceed with your work?”

“The surface of the picture is not much injured. The dry rot, as it is termed, has not affected the painting, but it has left the wood like a honeycomb. What I purpose doing is to make a plaster of Paris bed for it. When the face of the picture is once safely deposited in this bed of plaster it will be then my business to make the panel upon which it is painted firm and secure.”

“And, pray, how is that to be effected?” inquired his lordship.

Peace smiled, and said――

“By a process I use in cases of this sort. It is an invention of my own, and I think when the work is completed your lordship will acknowledge that it is a very ingenious one.”

Lord Ethalwood looked hard at the speaker.

“It may be, but I am still in ignorance as to your mode of operation. I understand chemistry, and should like to hear something more definite about your process.”

“The panel on which the portrait is painted is so decayed that you might put your finger through it with the greatest ease. I intend to fill up all the interstices with a solution, which, when set, will make it stronger than ever. When done it will last for centuries, but the difficulty will be in effecting this without injury to the surface, and before I begin I must inform your lordship I cannot be answerable for any injuries to the painting which are at present not discernible, but which may present themselves in the course of the restoration.”

“You seem to be intelligent enough. Do your best――only I charge you to use the greatest care. You will bring your materials with you and work here, I presume.”

“I cannot do otherwise, my lord; any attempt to remove it would be attended with positive destruction.”

“Very well, Mr. Jakyl, you will see that the picture-restorer has all he requires,” said Lord Ethalwood as he left the apartment.

Peace returned to Dennet’s-lane with the understanding that he was to commence operations at the Hall on the following morning.

He was in some trepidation as to the success of his enterprise, which, to say the truth, required all his skill and care to ensure a satisfactory result; but he was not a man to be daunted by trifles.

On the following morning, therefore, he proceeded to the picture gallery with several bags of plaster of Paris.

His first proceeding was to see if he could with safety remove the panel from the frame, which was almost in as bad a state as the panel itself.

He found that he could not do this with safety; the panel would not bear forcing with the chisel. He therefore prepared a bed of plaster for the frame as well as the picture.

He oiled the surface of both, and, with the assistance of the young carpenter, in whose shed he worked, he succeeded in placing the picture and frame in its bed of plaster.

This was effected happily without any mishap.

His next process was to work into the wood with a fine soft brush a solution formed of oils, resinous gums, and driers. After he had saturated the worm-eaten wood with this, driving it well home to the back of the oiled surface, he left it to dry till the following day, when a similar process was gone through, with the addition of a little cement.

What remained of the honeycombed rotten wood had by this time become fixed and firm――there was no fear of its crumbling into powder.

On the third day he mixed up his patent solution as he termed it. This consisted, like the first coating, of oils, resinous gums, driers, and a larger proportion of cement. Warming the whole in an iron ladle he poured its contents on the back of the picture.

This, like the rest, was left for some hours to set, and on the following day he poured on more of the same composition, until the whole of the injuries to the wood were filled up.

This last process was witnessed by Mr. Jakyl and the footman, both of whom professed to be deeply interested in the proceedings.

Lord Ethalwood himself examined the work after Peace had left, and expressed himself well satisfied with it as far as it had gone.

In a day or two the composition was set as hard as a rock, and our hero lifted up the frame from the plaster bed, not, it must be confessed, without some anxiety.

As he expected he found a number of small holes, about the size of a pin’s head, made by his composition on the painting itself.

Luckily these were chiefly in the background of the picture, only two being observable on the face of the dead Gervase Lord Ethalwood.

Peace removed the panel from its frame――it was as firm and solid as a piece of slate――he placed it on an easel and looked carefully at its surface.

“Well,” said Mr. Jakyl, “it’s all right, with the exception of those ugly spots.”

“It was impossible to avoid showing these; the fact is the decay in another year or so would have gone so far as to destroy entirely the whole of the picture. We may think ourselves lucky it’s no worse,” observed Peace.

“Yes, I suppose so, but his lordship will think them a great disfigurement,” observed the butler.

“You had better ask his lordship to have a look at it.”

“I am very well satisfied with the work.”

Lord Ethalwood was communicated with. He accompanied his butler into the picture gallery.

He glanced at the portrait of his great ancestor, whose features were as dingy and faded as they well could be; this was more especially observable as the representation of the old nobleman was brought to the light.

“I hope your lordship will be pleased with my work,” said Peace. “It has been one of the most difficult tasks that I have ever undertaken; but you wil find, I think, my lord, that you have now a picture more endurable than any in your gallery.”

“Yes, it does you great credit,” returned the nobleman; “great credit, I admit. But these spots, they are sad blemishes.”

“They were holes in the painting itself, which, in another year or two, would, in all probability, have become like a colander.”

“Ah, yes; I see. I suppose so.”

“But, with your permission, my lord, I will make the work perfect――so perfect, indeed, that no human eye will be able to detect the slightest fault or injury to it. Will your lordship trust me with the picture for a few days?”

“What, take it away? Oh, dear no. I should not like that.”

“I cannot very well do it here.”

“And why not, I pray?”

“Well, in the first place, I shall require assistance. These spots must be carefully gone over with colour, and――besides, several other things will have to be done to it.”

“All of which, I presume, can be done here? If not, it must remain as it is, until such time as I meet with a good restorer.”

“Then, as you wish it, I will endeavour to do it here,” returned Peace.

It was so arranged. In the course of a few days, our hero sent for a well-known man in the trade, who was an adept in that branch of the profession.

The effigy of the valiant Gervase Lord Ethalwood was subjected to the restoring process. The dirty brown――or black varnish would be the more correct term――was removed by means of powdered cuttle fish. Then the spots were carefully picked out with colour, which had to be matched with that already on.

After this the face of the old earl was glazed, and when this had been done, the transformation was positively magical.

Lord Ethalwood was delighted. He ordered a costly frame from our hero. In this the restored picture was placed, and then hung up in its original position in the gallery.

He inquired of Peace what he was indebted to him; the answer was twenty pounds. Lord Ethalwood wrote a cheque for fifty, which he handed to our hero.

Nothing could be more satisfactory than this little stroke of business.

Peace returned to the “Carved Lion,” and told Brickett of his success, and there was a general rejoicing at the hostelry on the following night. Peace at this time had no reason to complain of fortune’s favours; he was doing a good business, had been singularly fortunate――had made a number of friends, and had every reason for pursuing an honest course of life; but he, nevertheless, soon began to be restless and dissatisfied. It must, however, be acknowledged that for a long time after his introduction to Lord Ethalwood’s palatial establishment, he continued to lead a respectable life.

He was much taken with the girl, Nelly, but she did not seem to offer him any encouragement. This not a little vexed him, for when they first met she appeared amiable enough. He did not very well know what to make of her.

But what concerned him the most was the mysterious disappearance of Bessie Dalton; this he could not in any way account for. He would have given anything to clear up that mystery.

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

XXVII. THE END OF THE INEBRIATE

Very soon after the events had taken place which have been described in our last chapter, Peace, much to his astonishment, had a rencontre with a person who was perhaps the very last in the world he would have expected to meet.

Our hero had to take some work home to a customer who resided at about a mile-and-a-half’s distance from his workshop. One fine bright sunshiny afternoon he bent his steps in the direction of the habitation in question.

As he was proceeding along a bye road he discovered in the distance a miserably-clad, cadaverous-looking man, whose features he remembered to have seen before, although they were, to say the truth, strangely and sadly altered.

At first he was in some doubt as to the identity of the traveller, but as he approached nearer he was surprised in no small degree to find that the miserable-looking man was none other than John Bristow, whom the reader will remember as Peace’s fellow-lodger in the town of Bradford.

Peace was fairly taken back when he recognised Bristow; he would if it had been possible have avoided a meeting, but as this could not very well be compassed, he determined to put the best face on the matter.

What could have brought Bristow to this part of the country was his first thought?

“Was he in search of anybody? Had he any communication to make?”

These were questions he could not answer satisfactorily.

Bristow was in a most miserable plight; his clothes were ragged and torn, and hung upon his attenuated frame like those of a scarecrow; he looked the very personification of squalid misery. Peace never remembered to have seen such a sudden alteration in anyone.

“Is this the right road to Saltwich?” said Bristow, addressing Peace, whom he evidently did not at first recognise.

“You’ll have to turn round to the right when you reach the finger-post at the end,” returned Peace.

The man started.

“Good luck to you, mate!” he ejaculated. “Why hang it all, if it isn’t Charles Peace.”

“You are right, and pray, in the name of all that’s wonderful, what brings you to this part of the world, John Bristow?” enquired our hero.

“One place is the same as another to me now,” returned his companion. “It matters little where I go or what I do. Everything goes wrong with me――has been going wrong ever since I last saw you. It appears likely to go wrong for the remainder of my life.”

“Why, mercy on me! you are so strangely altered,” said Peace, “that positively I hardly knew you. What has brought you to this? You look twenty years older.”

“Do I?” he exclaimed, with one of the jerks or nods which were habitual to him. “Do I? Well, I suppose I do. Anyway, I feel more than twenty years older. I’ve had a bad time of it――have been in the infirmary――and am next door to starving, that’s how I am.”

“And have you left the old shop?”

“Left it? Lord, love ye, long――long ago! Haven’t had any regular employment for ever so long. They gave me the sack soon after you left Bradford. I get a job when I can, and that’s not very often. I’m on the tramp now to see and find something to do, and haven’t a blessed mag about me.”

“All this is very sad. And your wife?”

“My wife? She took her hook without giving me an hour’s warning.”

“Where is she?”

“Umph! I should like to know, but I never shall now, I suppose. Oh, she’s turned me up. You see, we had a bit of a quarrel, and――――”

“You were always having quarrels when I knew you, but whose fault was it――not hers?”

“That’s true enough――it was mine. Well, I bear her no ill will. I hope she’s happier now. But look here, Charlie, we had some words. I’m sorry for what I said. You don’t bear malice, I suppose――there’s my hand.”

“Let bygoes be bygones,” said Peace. “You’ve been your own enemy more than anyone else’s. I’m sorry to see you so down, but――――”

“I know what you are going to say――it is my own fault. Well, if it is I am the sufferer; but, I say, do you happen to have a trifle you can spare an old chum? Something to help me on my road. I hope to get a job at Saltwich, and if I do I will return you what you may be able to lend――upon my soul I will, and no gammon.”

“I am a struggling man myself, but still I’ll do something――here’s ten shillings. When you have the means to pay it me back do so.”

“You’re a right down good fellow, Charlie,” exclaimed Bristow, in evident delight, “and I am sorry I said what I did, but you know well enough that I didn’t mean it.”

“That will do――enough upon that head. Pull yourself together, and keep away from that cursed drink; it is that alone which has made you the wreck you are.”

“Ah, I am a wreck――you are right enough! I am a wreck, that is true enough. I’m not the Jack Bristow you knew some three or four years ago.”

“And what about Bessie?” said Peace. “What of her? She left her old quarters about――――”

“About the same time as the missus. Ah, they both took their hook at the same time. I don’t think the old woman would have had the heart to go by herself. I’ll never be brought to believe that. She wouldn’t ha’ gone had it not a’ been for Bessie.”

“And have you no idea where they went?”

“Said they were going abroad, that’s all I know. Gone to America, Australia, or some such place. But, lord, I’ve given over thinking about ’em. What’s the use?”

“I don’t know that it is of much use, but I cannot understand the reason for so sudden a flight.”

“Oh, there’s good reason for the matter of that, leastways as far as my old woman is concerned. I don’t believe she ever cared a great deal about me, and that’s the honest truth. Well, latterly you see, she got fairly sick of me.”

“You have nobody but yourself to blame for that.”

“So you always told me. Well, one thing is quite clear, I can’t afford to keep a wife now――can’t keep myself.”

“You ought to be able to do so with common prudence. You are a skilful workman, and, with ordinary care and attention, might earn a respectable livelihood.”

“At it again,” exclaimed Bristow with a coarse laugh. “The same old game――moralising. What man was ever made sober by preaching I should like to know?”

“And do you never intend to reform?”

“Me? Ha, ha! I’m afraid I’m too far gone for that.”

“Then I should be ashamed to acknowledge it, if I were you――that’s all I have to say about the matter, Bristow; you are positively incorrigible.”

“You’re a good fellow, Charlie, but curse your preaching. I never could stand that; but there, I don’t mean to offend you.”

“Oh, you don’t offend me. What I say is for your own good. It is no business of mine, you may answer. Perhaps not, but nevertheless it is my duty to offer you some advice, however unpalatable it may be.”

“You ought to have been a parson, Charlie, upon my word you ought. You’d ha’ made your fortune in the preaching line.”

“Well, say no more upon the subject. I have business to attend to, and so we must part.”

“Where am I to send to you? Where do you hang out now?”

“I am constantly on the move, am travelling, but if you want to communicate with me, address a letter to the post-office, Sheffield, and it will be sure to reach me.”

“You’re a good fellow. There’s no house near where we can have a parting glass? Just one, you know, to show there’s no animosity.”

“There is no house near, and so think of what I have said, and farewell till we meet again.”

“Good bye, Peace, and good luck attend you,” said Bristow, shaking his companion by the hand, and so the two parted.

Peace proceeded with his picture frames towards the house of his customer, and John Bristow went in the opposite direction.

“Strange, remarkably strange, my meeting with that man,” he murmured, as he walked along. “And so he knows no more about Bessie and his wife than I do myself. It is altogether most mysterious and incomprehensible, but there’s something in the background which has not yet come to light.”

After delivering his frames he returned to his workshop, where he was occupied for an hour or two. He then sought the hospitable parlour of the “Carved Lion.”

On the following morning, while he was at breakfast in the club-room, Brickett came in and said with much concern――

“This is a sad business at Saltwich.”

“What is that?” inquired Peace, looking up from his smoking and fragrant cup of coffee.

“Ah, of course――I forgot you haven’t heard.

“No. What is it?”

“A poor fellow has been found in the road in a dying condition.”

“Who is he?”

“No one seems to know. He is a stranger to these parts and is supposed to be a tramp.”

“Indeed!――is he in any way injured?”

“Most seriously, they say――skull’s fractured. They have taken him to the workhouse.”

“Is nothing known about him?”

“Well, it appears that he had been drinking heavily for some hours, and the last house he called at the landlord refused to serve him. He became so violent that he had to be ejected. After that he offered to fight everybody; at length he was persuaded to go away. The last time he was seen alive was in Bedhall’s-lane; and at the end of this, near the high road, he was found in a dying condition.”

“Dear me, how very terrible! Has he been subjected to violence? Has anyone attacked him?”

“They seem to say not. When last seen he was running like mad. The supposition is that he stumbled and fell, his head striking against a heap of stones near to where he was found.”

Peace began to be seriously concerned.

“What sort of a man was he?” he enquired.

“I don’t know, but there’s a carter outside who saw him.”

Peace rose at once, and proceeded to the front entrance of the house.

A man was giving his horses some hay and water in front of the hostelry.

“Here, Jem,” said Brickett, “tell the gentleman what kind of man it was who was found on the Saltwich-road in a dying condition.”

The carter scratched his head and remarked――

“What sort o’ man? Well, un seemed a tallish chap, looked like a tramp.”

“Pale or dark?”

“Dunno. Ye see his face were smothured in blood, so un couldn’t say.”

“Had he dark bushy whiskers?”

“Yes, sticking out on the side on his cheeks.”

“Had he on a ragged fustian coat and moleskin trousers, much the worse for wear?”

“Yes, un ’ad.”

“And short cropped dark hair?”

“His hair was a bit short.”

“Ah, thank you. Will you have a mug of ale?”

“Aye, thank ’ee, zur, I will.”

The ale was drawn and drunk with evident relish by the carter, who was apparently not much discomposed by the sight he had witnessed some hour or two before.

Peace returned to the club-room. He was followed by Brickett.

“Well,” said the latter, “how about the description? Do ’ee know aught about the stranger?”

“I am afraid I do,” returned Peace, who then proceeded to make his companion acquainted with his rencontre with Bristow.

“And it is just possible,” he said, in conclusion, “that the miserable besotted wretch spent the money I gave him in drink. I say it is possible――nay, more, it is most probable.”

“If I were you I’d just run over to Saltwich and see if it be he――that is, if you can spare the time.”

In less than half an hour after this Charles Peace rang the porter’s bell at the workhouse.

He was conducted by the master into a small apartment. An iron bedstead was in this, on the mattrass of which was stretched the dead body of a man.

One glance sufficed.

It was the last mortal remains of John Bristow.

The whole affair had been so sudden, the denouement to the tragedy so swift, or it might be said electric, that Peace stood appalled.

“You know him, then?” said the master of the workhouse.

“I did know him years ago, but never dreamed it would end thus.”

“There will be an inquest,” said the workhouse official.

Peace nodded.

“If my attendance is required you know where to find me――at the ‘Carved Lion.’”

And, with these words, he left the chamber of death.

An inquest was held on the body, and the conclusion arrived at was that the unfortunate man had stumbled, and fallen head foremost on a heap of granite. Blood was found on one of the pieces of granite.

He had evidently afterwards crawled to the end of the lane, where it was assumed that he had sunk from exhaustion and loss of blood. He must have remained in a helpless and senseless condition for some hours.

Death resulted from injuries to the head and exposure, joined to a shattered constitution, the effects of drinking to excess.

The jury returned a verdict of “Accidental death.”

Unhappily for society, John Bristow’s is not a solitary case of the but too frequent indulgence in this fatal propensity.

Within the last week or so the papers have recorded a fatality at the Alexandra Palace which, in most of its features, resembles the wretched end of John Bristow.

The increase of intemperance in this country in the present day is an inexhaustible theme for moralists, economists, and philanthropists.

Drunkenness is the parent of crime, of pauperism, and of misery and degeneracy. It is not possible to calculate the evils that ensue from the pernicious and demoralising effects of a maddening propensity for drink.

The wretched and careworn doubtless fly to it as their only solace. For a time their spirits are raised, but a reaction soon takes place, and at any cost they must procure more stimulants. The end of this may be readily imagined.

How to deal with this gigantic national vice, on which, as yet, no impression has been made, is a question not so easily answered.

If there is one thing more certain than another, it is that, as wealth outstrips culture, sensuality outstrips refinement.

The illiterate millionaire who feasts his guests on turtle and champagne is about the counterpart of the ignorant artisan, who, out of his week’s earnings, treats a less fortunate comrade to a bottle of whiskey or gin.

England for many a day has been brought up in the worship of Mammon and Bacchus, and we are afraid, despite the efforts of the Legislature, intemperance is a vice which we must lay to our account for many years to come.

This, it must be admitted, is very sad to reflect upon.

A return, which was moved for by Mr. Henley last session, has recently been issued, showing the population and number of persons taken into custody for drunkenness and disorderly conduct in each city and town in the United Kingdom, for the years 1851, 1861, 1871, and 1876.

The number of arrests in each of the three countries shows a steady increase in the years named.

In England, in the year 1851, 70,097 persons were taken into custody, of whom 44,520 were males and 25,597 females; and each successive period shows a marked increase, until 1876 the total was 104,174――67,294 males and 36,880 females.

The returns for Scotland and Ireland showed an increase in a still greater proportion.

Education, we are told, is to effect a change; it will convert intemperate, improvident, and demoralised millions into sober, frugal, and independent citizens. It has not done so as yet, that is very certain, but we must wait till it does.

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

XXVIII. THE WORTHY VICAR――A FRIENDLY COUNSELLOR

Let us return to the halls of the rich and great. In the library at Broxbridge are seated two venerable-looking gentleman; the first of these is Lord Ethalwood, his companion being the white-haired old vicar. They are both students, only in different ways. The rev. father in God, Canon Lenthal, was a special favourite with the master of Broxbridge.

“But you will pardon me, my lord,” he observed, in his soft, mellifluous voice. “The time, I think, has arrived when it is your bounden duty to look to the future. I have no desire to allude to painful subjects, but I really think your worldly affairs should not be forgotten.”

“My children are dead, sir,” returned the earl――“have been dead for very many years――and every hope of my life has been destroyed. I bow to the decrees of Fate; but the last thing an Ethalwood lays down is what the world is pleased to term his pride.”

“My dear and very excellent friend,” said the vicar, “that may be true enough――without doubt it is absolutely true in every sense of the word; but, nevertheless, that is no reason for you not turning your eyes towards the future, which is to one and all of us inevitable. Look around you and consider who is to succeed you――who is to carry on the glories and the honours of your grand old race?”

“I have no next of kin save a headstrong, wild, dissipated nephew, who is unworthy for a place of honour――unworthy to represent the ancient and honoured line of the Ethalwoods.”

“The more reason, then, is there for you making an effort while there is yet time.”

“Make an effort!” exclaimed the Earl. “Can I restore the dead to life?” he added, with supreme bitterness. “Can I call back the loved ones who have passed away?”

“Assuredly not.”

“Then what do you mean by an effort?”

“My dear Lord Ethalwood, I have no desire to offend you, but assuredly you can be at no loss to divine my meaning?”

There was a pause. The nobleman made no reply. Like Othello, he gnawed his nether lip, and looked persistently at a large silver salver that blazed on the sideboard beneath the rays of the midday sun, which found their way through the oriel window of the apartment.

The vicar felt that he was treading upon forbidden ground. He, however, determined upon proceeding.

“I think you have not duly considered the matter, Lord Ethalwood,” he observed, in the same quiet tender way. “Nay, I am sure you cannot have done so. You have a daughter.”

“I have no daughter――she died years ago.”

“Died?”

“She has been dead to me――dead――for full five and twenty years.”

“True, she may be dead. But, even assuming this were the case――assuming it for argument’s sake――――”

“Well, what then? We will assume it for argument’s sake.”

“She may have left children――may have left a son and heir to the title and estates. You have said that her offence was an unpardonable one.”

“So it was. No living man will dare to dispute the point with me.”

“Do not be so choleric, my very dear old friend. I grant what you say. Her offence is perhaps unpardonable, but that is no reason for the innocent being similarly punished. You really must allow me to be plain-spoken when a subject of this nature――――”

“You are plain-spoken,” exclaimed Lord Ethalwood, as his pale face became still paler, “very plain-spoken.”

He arose from his chair and walked with rapid strides up and down the room.

“You are moved,” said Canon Lenthal. “The subject is a painful one, without doubt, but it may appear like egotism on my part when I express a hope that you might possibly be induced to listen to me more complacently than you would to any other. Now sit down, my lord, and view the matter in a better and more becoming spirit.”

Lord Ethalwood made no reply, but again took his seat at the table in front of the vicar.

“How could I,” he muttered, “bring the child or children of that base, low-born Italian within the walls of Broxbridge?”

“They are his children, no one will for a moment deny, that is, assuming there are any. Should there be issue of his marriage with your daughter they belong to your race――they may even resemble you in features, and in disposition also.”

“I hope not.”

“Do not say that, my dear friend――let us hope they do. They may even have the grand old Ethalwood spirit, the force, the nobility, and honour of the race from which they descend in a direct line. In a direct line, mark you――you cannot deny that.”

“I do not seek to deny it.”

“Very well, they have a greater right to succeed to the title and estates than any other living person. You may be proud, but that is no reason why you should not be just and reasonable, and I maintain that it would not be right to pass over your lineal descendants. After all there is something in a rightful claim which the best and worst of mankind generally acknowledge. It would be manifestly unjust to set it aside.”

“Really, my esteemed and reverend sir, I must tell you plainly that your argument is based upon no foundation whatever; you are jumping at a conclusion. My undutiful daughter may have no children.”

“That I admit. She may not. I am only suggesting that some effort should be made to find her. She may be dead――life is, at best, held but on a frail and uncertain tenure, but that is no reason for your remaining persistently in the dark.”

“Ah! so many years have elapsed that the task would not be likely to turn out satisfactory in any way, even if I were disposed to consent.”

“But you will give your consent. Let me prevail upon you to do so,” observed the good old vicar. “Some effort must be made to find out whether your daughter is alive or dead――that is the first thing to be done.”

“We have not the faintest clue. Five and twenty years have passed over. You seem to forget that.”

“No, indeed, I do not. I have thought over this matter more often than you can possibly imagine, for I must tell you it is a subject which has troubled me much for years past. I have abstained from breaking it from feelings of delicacy, as I felt that I had no right to interfere between father and child; but it has occupied my mind very much, nevertheless, and it has, moreover, caused me the deepest anxiety.”

“Pray say no more. Accept my best thanks for your kindness and consideration. I will think the subject over, and then determine upon my course of action.”

“No time like the present.”

“You are very persistent,” observed the earl, with a smile――it was the first that irradiated his features for many a day.

His companion looked upon it as a good omen.

“I have one or two calls to make at the other end of the village, and, upon my return, will call in again,” said the vicar. “Think over what I have said. In less than an hour I will see you again.”

“Good. I shall look for you, then, at the expiration of that time.”

The rumbling of the wheels of the vicar’s chariot were heard on the hard dry road, and Lord Ethalwood was alone once more.

He did think the matter over after the departure of Canon Lenthal, and his heart softened.

“He is right――oh, he is quite right! I am childless――have no kith or kin that I know of. I must and will take active measures, and see if she be still alive.”

He sat down at the table, and buried his face in his hands.

The hour sped by, and the vicar returned, agreeable to his promise.

“I have taken your advice, and have thought the matter seriously over,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“And what is your ultimatum?” inquired Canon Lenthal.

“To institute inquiries without further delay.”

The two friends sat down once more, and began to discuss details in a serious and business-like manner.

To the great surprise of the vicar, he learnt from Lord Ethalwood that he had never heard a word of his daughter after she left Broxbridge.

“Most singular,” murmured the good pastor. “But did she never write to you?”

“I believe so, but all the letters have been destroyed.”

“Where were they addressed from?”

“I don’t know. I never saw them. I gave orders to my butler to destroy them. Oh, we shall never be able to learn anything of that, I am convinced. Nevertheless I will endeavour to do so.”

“How will you proceed?”

[Sidenote: No. 14.]

“Place the matter in the hands of my lawyer――he will know how to act.”

“I am most delighted to find that you have listened to my advice, and hope and trust that you may be successful,” exclaimed the vicar. “In a few days’ time I hope to hear good news. Farewell, my friend, and that your efforts may be crowned with success will be the earnest prayer of your old friend.”

The two shook hands, and Canon Lenthal left Broxbridge in much better spirits than when he entered.

Mr. Chicknell, the earl’s lawyer, who had been telegraphed for, arrived about noon on the following day.

He was at once shown into the library. Lord Ethalwood had by this time become excited and restless. He explained the whole business to his legal adviser.

“Oh,” observed the latter, when his client had concluded. “You now desire to find her out?”

“If it be possible. It seems to me to be most hopeless.”

“Nothing is hopeless in the hands of efficient persons,” returned the man of parchment. “Leave the matter in my hands. I know a clever fellow belonging to the detective department at Scotland-yard.”

“Detective department!” exclaimed the earl, in evident disgust. “Is my daughter to be traced by a man whose business it is to hunt down common thieves?”

“My lord, I pray of you not to be so hasty. Detectives are employed by all sorts of people for all sorts of purposes, and for this reason they are especially qualified to deal with cases of this sort. They’ll find out in a week probably more than I could in months.”

“Well, as you please. You know best.”

“I will do my best for you, rest assured of that,” said Mr. Chicknell. “The very moment I obtain the least scrap of information I will either write or wire to you without delay.”

The active little lawyer returned to London that very afternoon.

Weeks passed over after this. Mr. Chicknell wrote several letters, but they contained but little intelligence.

At last one came which was more cheering. The Italian professor and his wife had been traced first to London, where they had lived some months, and in all probability had spent what little ready money they had. From the metropolis the Italian had gone to Leeds, where he earnt a living by teaching. He and his wife had taken lodgings in that city, and there a child was born.

From what could be gathered it would appear that Montini found it a hard task to maintain a lady brought up in the lap of luxury, and the young couple had to submit to a number of privations.

There were persons residing in Leeds who remembered both the professor and his young English wife.

Indeed, some of the Italian’s pupils, now grown up to middle-aged people, attested to the fact that Montini’s wife presented her husband with a little girl, and the register of her birth and baptism was obtained in the town.

Matters, therefore, looked a little more promising, and the old earl watched for the post each day with the greatest anxiety.

From Leeds they went to Harrogate. In this place they were supposed to be struggling for some time in adverse circumstances, and while there the professor became seriously ill――so bad indeed that his life was despaired of.

A doctor who attended him, and who still practised in this fashionable watering-place, gave a very sorry account of the Italian’s health, which, he said, was much broken while Montini was under his care. His impression, at the time, was that he could not live more than three or four years.

Mr. Chicknell, in his letters to the earl, informed the latter of all these facts; at the same time he expressed his sincere regret that there did not seem to be much chance of obtaining more information, as the clue seemed to be lost after the professor and his wife left Harrogate.

The supposition was that they returned to London, but this was merely surmise; there was no direct proof of them having done so.

For some time after this the matter remained in abeyance, and the anxiety of the bereaved nobleman increased as the weeks flew by.

He proceeded up to town, and waited upon Mr. Chicknell at his chambers, Paper-buildings, Temple.

“Can nothing more be done in the matter?” he inquired of the lawyer.

“I fear not, my lord. Certainly not at present,” answered his legal adviser.

“Surely, Mr. Chicknell, you do not intend giving over making further inquiries. The case is a most serious one as far as I am individually concerned, and we must not let the matter rest. I do not care what expense is incurred, but you must do your best to clear up the mystery,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“We appear to have come to a dead lock, but that is no reason for our abandoning the search as hopeless,” returned his companion. “Mr. Wrench, of Scotland-yard, has had the case in hand, and has striven as hard as any man possibly could have done to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. I think the best plan will be for him to wait upon you at Broxbridge, and you can then hear what he has to say. You will find him a most intelligent officer.”

“I wish you would communicate with him at once, then.”

“He is not in town this week, but the moment he comes back I will convey to him your expressed wish, and he will hasten at once to Broxbridge.”

“I shall be anxiously awaiting his appearance,” said the earl, who took his leave, and returned to his country seat.

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

XXIX. THE NOBLEMAN AND THE DETECTIVE――A CONSULTATION

In a few days after this a gentleman presented himself at the outer gate of Broxbridge Hall, and told the porter that he desired to see the earl upon important business.

“Show Mr. Wrench in at once,” said Lord Ethalwood to Jakyl; “of course I want to see him.”

The detective entered, and introduced himself to the nobleman, who desired him to be seated.

“Well, Mr. Wrench, my solicitor informs me that there is a dead lock in this business; can nothing more be done?”

“Oh, we can do a great deal more, my lord,” observed Wrench; “but you must acknowledge that I am furnished with such slender material, and then there’s the lapse of time, and many other things against us.”

“Admitted――still you do not give up all hope.”

“Well, no, I’m not accustomed to do that. I am glad we have met, my lord, for many reasons――you will, I am sure, pardon me if I am plain-spoken.”

“Certainly, speak as openly and frankiy as possible. I desire you to do so. Up to the present time I am free to confess we have been baffled.”

“I have done all that man could do, but my efforts have not as yet been crowned with success; I expect you to give me all the information you can.”

“Certainly, that is but a just and reasonable request.”

“You will not be offended, therefore, if I inquire about one or two little matters? Just tell me if you have any of your daughter’s letters, which she might probably have sent here after her departure?”

“I have never seen any of them,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“That’s most important――did anybody else?”

“I gave orders to my butler to destroy them.”

“Do you think he would remember any of the postmarks?”

“I never thought of that,” exclaimed the earl, with a start.

“Probably not, but it is the very first thing that occurred to me. Did any letters arrive?”

“That I cannot tell you.”

“Where is your butler? Is he in your service now?”

“Dear me, yes――he has never left it.”

“Will you be kind enough to summon him?”

Lord Ethalwood touched the bell. A servant entered.

“Tell Mr. Jakyl I desire to speak with him,” said his master.

In a minute or so the butler entered the library.

“Will you leave it to me to put the necessary questions?” inquired the detective, addressing his lordship, who felt a mere child in comparison to the sagacious officer.

“Certainly,” he answered, without hesitation.

Mr. Wrench cleared his throat, and focussed his eyes upon the smooth and placid face of the butler.

“I have one or two questions to put to you,” said the detective. “In the first place, did any letters arrive here from the Hon. Miss Ethalwood after her departure from Broxbridge?”

Mr. Jakyl stood aghast――he could hardly believe that he had heard aright.

“Did any letters arrive?” he paused, and glanced nervously at his master.

“Go on. Answer, Jakyl, you have my permission.”

“Yes, sir; several arrived after the departure of my young mistress, but――――”

“You were told to destroy them,” observed the detective. “Did you do so?”

“I would rather not answer the question,” said the butler, in evident trepidation; then, turning to Lord Ethalwood, he murmured in an under tone――“If I have done wrong, my lord, I hope you will pardon me. I did not destroy my young mistress’s letters.”

“A very discreet and sensible man,” ejaculated Mr. Wrench. “And pray why did you disobey his lordship?”

“Because I hoped that at some time they might be useful.”

“You have displayed great wisdom in your course of action――you cannot be too strongly commended, Mr. ――――. I don’t know your name.”

“Jakyl.”

“Well, Mr. Jakyl, you have acted in a very proper manner. I hope his lordship is of my opinion.”

“I am,” returned the earl, with undisguised pleasure. “I think Jakyl has been most prudent. To say the truth, I have always had the greatest confidence in him.”

The butler bowed, and hardly knew how to comport himself under the praise which was so lavished on him.

“I must tell you frankly, Mr. Jakyl,” said the detective, “that I am engaged in instituting a rigorous search for your master’s daughter; so if it be in your power to give me any information which may aid me in my inquiries, it will be a boon to us all.”

“I wish I could, sir.”

“Well, not now. I don’t mean at present, but if anything occurs to you, out with it at once.”

“I will.”

“Now, my friend, let me have the letters without further delay.”

The butler looked again at his master.

“Fetch them at once, Jakyl. You have heard what Mr. Wrench has said. The matter is in his hands.”

The servant left the library, and in a minute or so returned with a packet of papers tied with silk cord. He handed them to the earl, who pushed them towards the detective, saying, as he did so――

“I have not the courage to open them just now. You can do so.”

“I will not open them,” answered Mr. Wrench; “but, with your permission, will take a note of the postmarks and dates.”

He sorted them, placed them on the table in chronological order, pulled out his note-book, and made entries therein. Then he closed the book, and said――

“This looks a little more promising. I have some material now to work upon. At your leisure, my lord, you can peruse the contents of the epistles, and possibly there may be something which may be of service to us in the pursuit of this inquiry.”

“I will go carefully over them when I am a little more composed,” observed the earl.

“Good. I shall not return to London just at present, for special reasons. I deem it expedient to remain in this neighbourhood.”

“Will you take up your quarters here?”

“No, I thank you, my lord. It would be best, I think, to put up at an inn. There will be more chance of my picking up information in a place of public resort. We have our own way of doing business,” observed Wrench, with a smile.

Lord Ethalwood bowed and smiled also.

The very last thing he thought of doing was to dictate to the sagacious officer, who, in affairs of this sort, was so much his superior.

“From the postmarks on the letters I see your daughter and her husband have paid a visit to several other towns besides those in which I have made inquiries.”

“Other towns――eh?” exclaimed the earl.

“Yes, one is Sheffield and another Bradford. I shall make it my business to visit both places. Ah! the case is not so hopeless as Mr. Chicknell seems to imagine.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. Pray Heaven we may be successful; it will remove a weight off my heart.”

The detective looked at the speaker and observed, quietly――

“You ought not to have let the matter go so long without ascertaining something respecting the young people’s whereabouts.”

“Of that you must allow me to be the best judge,” said Lord Ethalwood, with all his old pride and hauteur.

Mr. Wrench saw at once the mistake he had made in hazarding an observation which sounded very much like a reproof.

“But you have a duty to perform, sir,” observed the earl, “and I doubt not that you will not shrink from carrying it out to the best of your ability.”

The detective bowed and answered in the affirmative.

He then rose and took his departure, promising his patron to wait upon him again in a day or two.

Mr. Wrench inquired of the butler the most convenient house in the neighbourhood for him to put up at.

Mr. Jakyl, as a matter of course, recommended him to go to the “Carved Lion,” and he at once bent his steps in the direction of that well-known hostelry.

Lord Ethalwood had not sufficient fortitude to open his daughter’s letters in the presence of any one, more especially that one being a detective.

It was a task he had reserved for another occasion.

Soon after the departure of Mr. Wrench his lordship mustered up courage to break the seals of the epistles.

As he did so a tremour seemed to pass through his frame.

A deep sigh escaped from him as he opened the first letter. In this the letter referred to her elopement as a playful piece of diplomacy, never for a moment assuming that it would be deemed an unpardonable offence by her parent.

She asked him to forgive her, and not be angry with his pet, as she had done that which had made her happy for life.

Lord Ethalwood tossed the epistle on one side with something like contempt or disgust.

The second letter was a little more serious in tone. In it she was lavish in her praise of Montini, who she said was the kindest and must considerate of husbands, he was so good, so clever――in short, there was no one like him.

She besought her father to write, if only a few lines. She would not and could not believe that he intended to cast her off.

“The infatuated senseless girl!” ejaculated the earl. “I never would have believed she could have so forgotten her position in life. For the life of me I cannot understand it.”

These two communications were followed by imploring letters, in which she told him how hard the world was using them, and what miserable struggles they had passed through.

But in this as in all others she spoke in the highest terms of her husband, who she said did his best to maintain a respectable position in the world; this was done for her sake more than his own, “and if,” she said in conclusion, “you only knew him half as well as I do, you would admire and esteem him; nay, more, I believe you would be proud of him.”

“She must have taken leave of her senses,” ejaculated the earl. “The wretched Italian must have bewitched her, the silly, senseless girl. Oh, but all this is hard to bear!”

He remained for some time after this lost in thought.

Presently he opened another epistle.

This announced the birth of a daughter; it was, of course, a fine child, and was, so the writer avowed, “the very image of its mother, and was an Ethalwood,――this everyone would acknowledge upon the first glance, and she will be named after me,” wrote the ill-fated wife. “Some day I hope you will see the little dear, and when you do I hope you will forgive me for your grand-daughter’s sake. She, at any rate, has not done anything to offend you.”

“It all seems to be like a dream,” murmured the earl, as he broke the seal of another. This came from Harrogate, and its tone was both melancholy and despairing. Montini was dangerously ill――he was not able to follow his avocation, and his unhappy wife implored her father to hold out a helping hand and send them money without delay, as they were reduced to the greatest possible extremity, and positively wanted the common necessaries of life.

Lord Ethalwood dashed the letter down on the table, smote his forehead with one hand, and uttered an expression indicative of the most poignant agony.

“I never thought it would come to this,” he muttered, rising from his seat and pacing the apartment restlessly. “Poor girl, she must indeed have changed to beg for assistance! Oh, what would I give now to have her here by my side, in――in the winter of my life――in my old age!”

He fell into his chair and burst out into a passionate flood of tears.

Retributive justice had overtaken the proud, uncompromising, relentless nobleman, who cried like a child.

* * * * * * *

Mr. Wrench wended his way along till he reached the well-known house of entertainment for man and beast, kept by the equally well-known Brickett. The detective was not a man to make himself common by mixing up with any knot of strangers――not unless he could make it answer his purpose to do so――he therefore requested to be shown into a private room, and, after partaking of some refreshment, he proceeded to glance at the memoranda he jotted down in his notebook.

“Humph,” he murmured. “The young couple seem to have visited a good many towns; I suppose things were running cross with them. It’s a queer business, take it altogether, and the earl is a starchy sort of customer, as unforgiving as the devil, and as proud as a peacock. Well, I wouldn’t change places with him for all his wealth and title. He’s what I call a stunner. No two ways about him. But ‘he’s down among the dead men’ this time, it would appear――is what our Transatlantic friends would call ‘cornered.’ I must find out all about his daughter for him, that’s certain――that is, if it be possible. The question is, how it is to be accomplished.”

Not being able to answer this question with anything like satisfaction to himself, Mr. Wrench lighted a cigar, rang the bell, and ordered some brandy cold.

He had not indulged in many puffs at the “fragrant weed” before Brickett made his appearance.

“Oh, your pardon, sir,” said the landlord; “but be your name Wrench?”

“Yes, my friend, it be.”

“A servant from the hall wishes to speak with you.”

“Let him come up then.”

Henry Adolphus made his appearance.

“His lordship told me to call and see if you were comfortable ’ere, as if not a bed will be provided for you at the hall.”

“I’m all right, my man. Shall do very well here. Give my respects to his lordship, and say that I am quite comfortable. Anything else?”

“No; I b’leve that is hall.”

Henry Adolphus retired.

The sounds of music and merriment in the parlour reached the ears of the detective.

“You appear to have a merry set of people below,” said he to Brickett.

“Yes, sir, they enjoy themselves in their own way.”

“Somebody’s playing the violin.”

“Yes; it’s a gentleman who’s stopping here for a short time, and he generally gives my parlour customers a tune or two after working hours――after the day’s work is over.”

“He does not handle the instrument badly. Is he a professional?”

“Well, partly so, I believe. He is in the frame and picture line of business――a traveller.”

“Ah, indeed! A traveller, a picture dealer, and musician all in one――he’s a good sort.”

“Yes, he’s a very good sort――there aint much doubt of that; has seen a deal of the world, and has visited pretty well every town in the three counties.”

“Oh! is that so?”

“Would you like to go downstairs into the public room?” inquired the landlord.

“Not now, I thank you――some other evening perhaps. Did I understand you to say that this violinist and picture-frame maker was stopping here?”

“He is for the present, until his orders are completed. Why, Lord bless us, he’s done wonders at the Hall, and has been highly complimented by Lord Ethalwood himself.”

Brickett now put his customer in possession of all the facts relative to the restoration of the decayed portrait of his lordship’s great ancestor.

“Ah, he must be a smartish sort of chap. Thank you,” observed the detective, who very shortly after the foregoing conversation was conducted to his bedroom.

In the morning he was shown into the clubroom where breakfast was served. Peace was partaking of his morning meal.

The detective bowed and sat down on the opposite side of the table. He looked at our hero with evident curiosity, but did not remember to have seen him before.

During breakfast the two conversed upon several topics, which were however not of a personal nature.

Peace did not know who his companion was; neither did he take the trouble to inquire. He concluded he was some commercial man who had rested there for the night, and the probability was that he should not see any more of him.

In this, however, he was mistaken.

Our hero went to his workshop, and Mr. Wrench remained behind.

He reflected for some little time, and then rose from his chair and went downstairs.

Brickett as usual was behind the bar.

“Is that the violinist and picture dealer――the one I had breakfast with?” he inquired.

“Aye, surely that be he.”

“He’s a sharp customer, a downy sort of card――isn’t he?” said Mr. Wrench.

“He’s got his head screwed on the right way if that’s what you mean,” returned the landlord, a little sharply.

“Yes, that’s precisely what I do mean. Where does he hail from?”

“Hail from? I dunno.”

“He’s been travelling about the country, you say?”

“That ’im has――been to every mortal place, so I’ve heerd.”

“Ah, just so. Where is he to be found now?”

“Found! He works in Dennett’s-lane.”

“And where is that?”

“Not a quarter of a mile from here. Why?”

“I will give him a call. What might be his name?”

“Peace――Charles Peace. Be you going to call on ’im now?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll show ’ee where his place is.”

The landlord went to the door of the house, and pointed out the lane in question to his customer.

“There at the further end of that,” said he, “you will find a wooden shed, and in that you will see ’im at work.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Wrench, who at once proceeded in the direction pointed out by his host.

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

XXX. MR. DETECTIVE WRENCH AND CHARLES PEACE

Mr. Wrench was a man who pursued his inquiries with the greatest pertinacity; he was not accustomed to let the “grass grow under his feet.”

It was a maxim of his, and one indeed the truth of which had been made manifest, that “you sometimes obtain the most valuable information from a source which appeared at first glance the most unlikely to be fruitful.”

It occurred to him that it would be quite as well to interrogate our hero before he (the detective) proceeded to the other towns visited by the missing pair. Possibly the itinerant frame-maker might have some knowledge of the person or persons of whom he was in search; anyway there would be no harm in putting the question to him.

“Who knows――” murmured Mr. Wrench, as he took his way along the lane――“who knows but this fellow――who, it would appear, is a sort of Admirable Crichton, in his way, if one is to believe the landlord of the ‘Lion’――may not have come across someone in his various wanderings who may have been acquainted with the Italian professor, who was a musician? It is certain that, to a certain extent, the picture chap is a musician――so here goes for it.”

He was by this time at the door of Peace’s workshop, at which he gave a modest knock.

It was opened by our hero.

“Good morning again,” said the detective. “I want to have a little conversation with you; but you are busy, perhaps. Some other time will do as well.”

“Oh, come in――you won’t hinder me,” returned Peace. “I can go on with my work, and you can have your say. Be seated.”

He handed his visitor a ricketty Windsor chair, which, to all appearance, had been put together in the last century.

Mr. Wrench sat down, and Peace, with his book of leaf gold in one hand and the pad in the other, went on with his work.

The detective cleared his throat, and then said, carelessly――

“I understand that you have visited a number of towns――of course you naturally would do so――in the exercise of your vocation. Am I right?”

“Yes; I’ve been about a goodish bit.”

“Oh, yes, so I hear. Well, now, I must be candid with you. I am in search of an Italian professor and his wife. The former was a teacher of music; but it is more than twenty years since anything has been heard of either.”

“Twenty years!” exclaimed Peace. “It is, then, not at all likely that I should know anything about them. I was but a child at that time.”

“True, but they may be alive now, you know.”

“Ah, that’s another matter. What might be the gentleman’s name?”

“Montini.”

Peace shook his head.

“Never heard of such a person,” he ejaculated. “Don’t know any one of that name.”

“Ah, I was afraid it would be before your time,” observed Mr. Wrench.

“Therein consists our greatest difficulty――the lapse of time.”

“That’s a remarkably beautiful frame you are gilding――just my sort.”

“Not bad,” returned our hero, “but I have had a deal better under my hands; but I’m sorry I can’t help you to find the persons you are seeking. What town did they reside in?”

“Ah, several. I will read you over the names.”

Mr. Wrench drew out his pocket-book, and ran over the list of places which he had copied from the postmarks on the letters at Broxbridge Hall.

“You know,” he said, when he had finished the list, “I don’t want any information from you without paying handsomely for it. It is most imperative that I should find these people, if they be still alive.”

“Oh, is it?” cried Peace. “Well, look here, I can’t tell you anything about them, and if I could――――”

“You wouldn’t, is that what you mean?” said his visitor, sharply.

“Don’t be quite so fast. I know nothing about you, and don’t even know your name.”

Mr. Wrench drew a case from his pocket, and gave our hero his card. On it was――

Mr. DETECTIVE WRENCH, Scotland-yard.

“Ah!” ejaculated our hero. “That’s it――eh?”

“What?”

“A criminal affair. Some poor crow is wanted.”

“Nothing of the sort. I pledge my word as a gentleman, and――――”

“A detective,” added Peace. “Go on, governor.”

“I tell you it is nothing of the sort. The facts are simply these. The lady eloped with her music master. Her relatives cast her off――now they are anxious to find her. Let me disabuse your mind of a false impression.”

“I never knew or even heard of such a person as Montini, and am therefore unable to assist you; but have you no clue to them――no letters?”

“Oh, yes, we have letters. That is how we know the different towns they visited. The last one is from the lady. She announces the birth of a daughter, who is named after herself.”

“What name might that be?” inquired Peace, carelessly, removing the superfluous gold from the frame.

“Aveline,” returned the detective.

“Aveline!” exclaimed Peace, in a tone of surprise, which he found it impossible to suppress.

“Yes. Have you ever met with one bearing that name?” eagerly inquired Mr. Wrench, who was at no loss to comprehend that one chance shot had told.

“Yes, I think so. The name seems familiar to me.”

“My dear sir,” exclaimed the detective, rising from his Windsor chair, and approaching nearer to his companion, “if you can let me know about this person you shall be rewarded handsomely. It is a most uncommon name, and it may furnish us with a clue to the missing person.”

“It is not a very common name, I admit; but then there may be hundreds of persons who bear it.”

“You know one, it would seem. Can you tell me where she’s to be found?”

“You take me by surprise,” observed Peace; “and I cannot quite call to mind just at present where I met with such a person. I know it must be a long time ago. I will think the matter over, and see if I can assist you.”

Mr. Wrench saw plainly enough that Peace was not to be caught tripping――he was too wary a customer for that; he therefore deemed it advisable not to press the question further at that time. He therefore said, in an off-hand manner――

“Well, you will see what you can do for me, like a good fellow, as I am told you are, and so farewell for the present.”

“Aveline!” ejaculated our hero, when he found himself once more alone. “What can be the meaning of this inquiry? He cannot be in search of the Aveline Maitland I knew――and loved,” he added in a tone of dejection; “but no, that is not possible.”

Peace was fairly puzzled. He had no predilection for detectives. They were a class of men whose acquaintance he had no desire to cultivate.

When his day’s work was finished he returned to the “Carved Lion.”

“The vicar has been here inquiring for you,” said Brickett. “I told him where you worked, but he said he would call here again later on.”

“The vicar――and what might he want? Going to give me an order for some Oxford frames, I suppose――eh?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s private business, I believe. You see, old man, people are beginning to take notice of you.”

In less that an hour after Peace’s return Canon Lenthal called again at the inn.

He was shown into a private room in which our hero was seated.

The vicar was introduced by Brickett.

“You will pardon this intrusion, sir, I hope,” said the minister, “but I wait upon you at the request of Lord Ethalwood, whom I believe you have some knowledge of.”

“I’ve worked for his lordship.”

“So he informed me. Well, Mr. Peace, I understand that you have some knowledge of a lady whose Christian name is Aveline. Possibly you would not care about furnishing Mr. Wrench with all the particulars concerning her. I can readily comprehend that, and hence it is that I pay this visit. It is to assure you, sir, that you will be conferring an inestimable favour upon Lord Ethalwood by giving him the address of the lady in question. His lordship had a daughter named Aveline, she has been lost to him for years, and――――”

“The young lady I knew could not possibly be his daughter,” cried Peace. “She is too young for that.”

“Admitted, but the circumstance is a most remarkable one――I mean the coincidence as to the names. I am here to make an earnest appeal. Let me entreat and implore of you to give all the information you can.”

Peace considered for some little time; presently he said――

“Under the circumstances of the case, I feel that I should not be justified in refusing. I will furnish you with what information I have in my power to give.”

“I am overjoyed to hear you make such a declaration. Will you confer with Mr. Wrench, or give me the particulars?”

“I will confer with Mr. Wrench, if you desire it.”

“That will be the best course. Accept my most sincere thanks,” said the vicar, offering his hand to Peace. “I felt assured my appeal would not be made in vain.”

Well pleased with the result of his interview, Canon Lenthal hastened back to Broxbridge Hall.

On the following morning, Charles Peace put Mr. Wrench in possession of all the particulars he was able to furnish in respect to the young lady, whom he had known as Aveline Maitland, but who had become Mrs. Gatliffe three or four years since.

The detective listened to the details with the greatest degree of interest. He was under the full impression that they might ultimately turn out to be of great service to him in tracing Aveline Ethalwood.

“I will at once proceed to Sheffield, Mr. Peace,” he said, in a cheerful manner. “It is indeed a most fortunate meeting――I mean, of course, ours. Should I be successful you will be duly rewarded, for I am free to acknowledge that you rendered me all the assistance it is possible for anyone to do similarly circumstanced.”

“I wouldn’t be too sanguine,” observed Peace. “The young woman, whose name and address I have given, you will find, I fear, will be of little service, but it is not for me to dictate or anticipate. Make whatever use you think fit of the information you have obtained in so singular and unexpected a manner.”

“I will at once to Sheffield,” repeated Wrench. “It may turn out a fiasco, but that is no reason for my remaining inactive.”

The detective was driven to the station by Lord Ethalwood’s coachman, and in a few hours he was at the door of the cottage which had at one time been in the occupation of Mrs. Maitland.

He was informed by its present occupant that the former tenant had left; she went to live with her daughter and son-in-law at Rotheram, soon after their union.

Mr. Wrench hastened thither. He was informed that they had all left the town, and were residing somewhere in London.

The detective was not to be baffled. He waited on Tom Gatliffe’s former employer, and one of the partners informed him that their late foreman was managing a business in the Euston-road.

He put up at one of the leading hotels in Sheffield, having determined upon proceeding to the metropolis on the following day.

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

XXXI. THE HOME OF THE WORKING MAN――THE ARRIVAL OF A STRANGER

Since his marriage with Aveline Maitland the reader has heard but little of Tom Gatliffe. The young engineer was the best and most loving of husbands; he worked steadily at his business, and in every respect was persevering in his endeavours to improve his position; but trade at the works where he was employed was not nearly so flourishing as it had been prior to his marriage. He, in common with his fellow-workmen, suffered by the depression.

After remaining two years at Rotheram he accepted an offer to take the management of some works in London.

He had another reason for doing this. His young wife had grown tired of Sheffield, Rotheram, and their surroundings, and yearned to be a denizen of the great city about which she had heard so much, but of which she had seen so little.

Aveline Gatliffe showed symptoms of discontent――she wanted some change of scene.

Her husband took a charming house at Wood-green, which he furnished, not grandly, perhaps, but with every comfort which persons in their station of life could desire.

Here he, his wife, and their child――a beautiful little boy of about three years old――were located.

Let us pay a visit to the home of the British workman.

At the door of the habitation stands a young and beautiful woman. She is barely two and twenty, but does not look even as old as that; her hair of shining brown looks like gold in the sunshine; her eyes are of violet blue; her dress is quite plain, but the homely material only showed the grace and beauty of her figure to greater advantage. Such are the most noticeable features of Aveline Gatliffe.

One might have wondered how she――living in a cottage, the wife of a man who worked hard for his daily bread――came by this dainty beauty, this delicate loveliness which would have been fit dowry for a duchess.

The young wife’s gaze was directed down the road which led to the station; the rays of the setting sun cast long shadows across this from the trees which skirted its sides.

Presently her countenance was irradiated with a smile. She heard the sounds of approaching footsteps, she hastened onwards, and in a few minutes she saw her husband in the distance.

“Ah, dearest, you’ve been waiting and watching for me. Is it not so?” cried Tom Gatliffe.

The young woman smiled and nodded; then they walked slowly home together.

“I hope you have not been dull to-day,” said Tom, when the two entered the parlour. “I don’t like to see you dull.”

“I have been as lively as usual,” she answered.

“Umph, that’s not saying much, darling,” returned the husband in a tone of banter. “Not much, you’ll admit. At present the place is new and strange to you. In time you will be more used to it.”

“Shall I?” she murmured.

“Why of course you will.”

“Make haste and get rich, Tom dear; then we can have a grand house in London.”

His countenance fell as he listened to her. For a long time she had appeared discontented with her lot, and this had been a sore trouble to Gatliffe, who found, as others had found before him, that matrimony was not all smooth sailing.

As yet there had been no storm, but distant rumblings of thunder had been heard.

He drew the beautiful face of his young wife towards him, and kissed it with a fondness which spoke more eloquently than words.

“My dear Aveline,” he murmured, “our little house is to me more beautiful than a palace. The reason is plain enough――it contains you.”

She looked up into his face and smiled faintly.

“And I am sure you are of the same opinion,” he added.

“It is well enough, Tom, but――――”

“But what, dear?”

“Oh nothing; the time will come, let us hope, when we shall own a grand mansion and have all sorts of beautiful things.”

The young engineer looked troubled. This was not the first time by many that he had heard her express a similar wish.

“I don’t know what to make of her,” he muttered to himself. “Of late a change appears to have come over her.”

“Look here, Aveline,” he said, more solemnly, “mark what I say; I don’t think you will be ever happier than you are now. It is not the place――it is not grandeur that ensures happiness――it is a contented mind; that you have.”

“Well, I hope I have.”

“You ought. I have; your beauty makes my heart glad, your love makes earth heaven to me.”

“Mercy on us, what a speech after four years of matrimony! Oh, you dear old fellow,” she ejaculated, clapping her hands together――“dear good old Tom!”

He laughed outright.

“Go on,” he exclaimed.

“Well, then, I will. Shall I tell you that I long for this great bright world that you despise?”

“Then I don’t, and there’s the difference. If we were rich and lived in the great world you speak of so rapturously, you would belong to so many others. Others would delight in your society and follow you with praise, and then I should be jealous. Here, I have you all to myself, which is the very thing I desire.”

“Will it be very long before you are rich?” she enquired carelessly.

“My darling, how can I possibly tell, and after all what does it matter? How often have I told you that riches do not bring happiness?”

“It may be so, but I should like to try.”

She did not perceive how her words jarred upon his sensitive nature. An expression of pain passed over his fine features, and he said no more for some little time.

He sat down and ate his evening meal in silence.

“I hope I have not offended you,” said his wife.

“I do not believe it possible for you to do so,” returned he. “You ask me when I shall be rich. I have two or three inventions――one I was about to work out with Charles Peace.”

“Oh the horrid man! Don’t have anything to do with him.”

“I don’t intend, but he has great ingenuity nevertheless; but let that pass. The inventions I am now endeavouring to bring to perfection may turn out successful. If only one of them does so I shall be a rich man; then I suppose you will be satisfied.”

“Oh yes, that would be glorious; but it’s not certain, I suppose.”

“My dear, nothing is certain in this life,” he said quickly. “Positively nothing, except hard work for us all.”

For some time after this both husband and wife remained silent. She cleared the supper table, and he lighted his pipe.

She sat herself down by his side. Presently she said――

“Tom, I should dearly like to know who I am.”

He started, and glanced quickly at her.

“Who you are――you are my wife.”

“Yes, I know, but who my mother was, and my father. It is strange that there should be such a mystery hanging over me.”

“What puts that into your head all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. My mother was a lady, and I am, moreover, sure that I am one myself, although I have been brought up in a homely manner. No matter for that――I am a lady myself――you may laugh at me, but I feel like one, or rather how I imagine a lady should feel. I love all things bright and beautiful. I detest everything mean, paltry, and contemptible. You think I am discontented, but this is not so. Nevertheless, I am free to confess that I have tastes which, perhaps, will never be gratified――longings which never can be realised. Is it my fault that a dark mystery hangs over me?”

“Life itself is a mystery,” he answered. “The world is full of mysteries. You must not give way to these gloomy thoughts――you must not indeed, dearest.”

“No, I will not.”

“My darling,” said Tom, noting the sad tone in which the reply was made, “whatever induced you to think riches must necessarily bring happiness?”

“I don’t know, indeed,” replied his wife. “There are times when the monotony of this life seems more than I can bear.”

“You would find the same monotony in any sphere of existence. What says the poet――

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

But there is surely no reason, dearest, why we should endorse the sentiment.”

“None whatever, Tom. You are kindness itself,” responded his wife, with a loving kiss.

“By the way, I have not as yet told you that a strange gentleman called at the works to-day. He wanted to see Mrs. Maitland upon very pressing business.”

“Ah, is that so? Who is he?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. He said his name was Wrench. Do you remember if your mother ever knew a person of that name?”

“Not that I ever heard of. What did you tell him?”

“I gave him her address.”

* * * * * * *

Mrs. Maitland resided with her niece, whose house was within half a mile of Tom Gatliffe’s residence. While the foregoing conversation had been taking place the worthy old lady was having a tête-à-tête with the sagacious detective, who had explained to her his reason for waiting upon her.

Mrs. Maitland narrated to him all the circumstances connected with the young girl Aveline, whom she had adopted and brought up as her daughter.

She explained to him how she had fallen into her hands when little more than an infant; explained to him also the accident on the line, how the mother and daughter were brought into the infirmary at Derby, with the death of the former, together with all those particulars which the reader has read in an earlier portion of this work.

Mr. Wrenoh was charmed――he was perfectly delighted with the successful nature of his visit, and felt perfectly assured that he was on the right scent.

“And the trinkets――the articles of jewellery, madame,” said he, “are you still in possession of them?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing would have induced me to part with them, except to those who require them for the purpose of identification.”

“Quite right, madam. I presume you will have no objection to intrust them to my care for a few days? They are quite safe in my hands. It will be needful for Lord Ethalwood to examine them.”

“Cannot you do so? I will fetch them at once.”

The old lady went upstairs, unlocked an iron safe in which the trinkets were deposited, and returned with them into the parlour.

She placed them before the detective, who examined each article carefully.

“Well, what do you make of them?” inquired his companion.

“There can be no doubt about the matter,” said he. “One of the rings bears the motto and crest of the Ethalwoods; and, as far as I can judge at present, this portrait bears a close resemblance to Lord Ethalwood’s daughter.”

“Then my little protégée, my darling child, is――――”

“The grand-daughter of a nobleman.”

Mrs. Maitland’s breath was almost taken away at this announcement.

“Wonderful――more than wonderful!” she ejaculated. “And is it possible that she has been left uncared for and unacknowledged all these years?”

Mr. Wrench shrugged his shoulders. “It would appear so,” he said, “but there are reasons for this my dear madam, very strong reasons. I suppose if I give you a receipt for these articles you will permit me to take them to Broxbridge Hall. I pledge you my word of honour, that, come what may, they shall be returned to you in the course of a few days.”

“Oh, indeed, I cannot do that.”

“I swear they shall be returned in a week.”

“I don’t like to part with them. If they should be lost.”

“They will not be lost. I will answer for that.”

[Sidenote: No. 15.]

“Oh, I dare say you will be careful enough, but still I hardly know how to act in a case of this sort.”

“We can do nothing without them. Will you accompany me to Broxbridge Hall, and bring them with you?”

“I am not well enough to bear the fatigue of travelling so far. I have not as yet recovered from a serious illness.”

“I leave the matter in your hands. I can get an order in the course of a day or two for you to produce them, but it would be saving a great deal of trouble if you would accede to my request. Yet once for all I must tell you, madam, that Lord Ethalwood counts the hours till I return. He is in the greatest state of anxiety. I have his written authority to act in this matter, the same as himself.”

Mr. Wrench pulled from his pocket a document in the handwriting of Lord Ethalwood, bearing his signature and seal, by which Mr. Wrench was empowered to act according to his own impression in all matters concerning the inquiry he was pursuing.

Mrs. Maitland put on her spectacles, and perused the document in question.

“It is altogether a most wonderful affair,” said the old lady. “To think that all these years should have gone by without any inquiry being made after my little pet. Still, I suppose, I have no right to refuse you; only, you see, I’m loth to part with these articles. Perhaps I had first of all better consult those to whom they in reality belong.”

“And who are they?”

“My adopted daughter and her husband.”

“I would not presume to dictate, madam, but at the same time you will do wisely, I think, by not mentioning the subject to either the lady or her husband till we know whether she is the person, or rather the daughter of the person, I am seeking. That would be the most prudent course. It would be an act of cruelty to raise hopes, which, after all, might have no foundation in fact.”

“That is true,” returned Mrs. Maitland. “I will not mention the subject at present to either of them.”

“If you are mistrustful of me,” said the detective, with a smile, “you can send these articles of jewellery to Scotland-yard. It amounts to much the same thing, for they will be handed to the officer who has charge of the case, and that is myself, as you are pretty well assured of by this time, I suppose.”

“I hope you do not imagine, Mr. Wrench, that I am casting any slight on you by my hesitation――far from it. I have every confidence in you. I ought to have, seeing the trouble you have been at to find out his lordship’s missing daughter or descendants. You had better give me an acknowledgment for the receipt of these articles, and take them with you without further delay. Please let me know, at your earliest convenience, the result of your interview with Lord Ethalwood.”

“That you may depend upon, madam.”

“It is to me most extraordinary how you found me out,” said the widow as she was proceeding to pack up the jewellery in its case.

“I doubt if I should――perhaps never――have succeeded in doing so, had I not by the merest chance in the world met with a townsman of yours――a Mr. Peace,” returned the detective.

“Mr. Peace!” exclaimed the widow, in a tone of surprise. “Dear me――how very remarkable!”

“Yes, very. He was acquainted with you some four or five years since.”

The widow nodded. “Yes, he was,” she said sharply. “Mr. Peace, eh? Well, he is the last man in the world I should have thought of.”

The jewellery was placed in a morocco case, and handed to Mr. Wrench, who at once wrote out a receipt for the same. He then placed the case and its contents in the breast pocket of his coat, and took his departure, well satisfied with the result of his visit.

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

Chapter XXXII

THE RETURN TO BROXBRIDGE.――A MIDNIGHT ALARM AT THE “CARVED LION.”――A CHASE, AND AN ESCAPE.

Mr. Wrench was under the full impression that he was a remarkably clever fellow. This fact, however, he had been duly impressed with on very many occasions, but perhaps he was never better pleased with himself than when he left Mrs. Maitland’s residence with the proofs of her reputed daughter’s identity. He had ascertained from the amiable and worthy widow herself, that Aveline had a beautiful little boy, who was between two and three years old. This he considered a valuable piece of information, in addition to the facts with which he was already furnished.

Taken altogether, our detective congratulated himself upon being singularly fortunate.

He went by train that same night to Broxbridge Hall, and was rather vexed when the model footman told him that his master was some miles away. Lord Ethalwood was on a visit at the house of a distinguished baronet.

“And his lordship will not return till late to-morrow evening, or it may be the day hafter,” said the radiant Henry Adolphus.

Mr. Wrench had no other alternative than to await the return of the earl. It would never do to take the liberty of seeing him at his friend’s house.

“He’s a bumptious starchy sort of customer,” murmured Mr. Wench, “and stands a good deal upon etiquette, and all that sort of thing. I must eke out the time as best I can until he returns. Hang it all, what does he want to go away for at this particular time?”

Mr. Wrench made the best of his way to the hostelry kept by Brickett.

It was market day, and there were a number of strangers in the “Lion,” in addition to its regular frequenters.

A noise and clatter as of many voices were heard proceeding from the public room, as the detective arrived at the front entrance of the house.

“You are unusually busy, it would seem,” said he addressing the landlord, and glancing significantly the carts and other vehicles in front of the habitation.

“Yes, I have had a regular rush of it all day,” returned the landlord, “but I’m glad to see ’ee back, sir, and hope as how ye’ve brought good news.”

“Pretty well for that. Where is Mr. Peace?”

“He be in the parlour, keeping ’em all alive. Shall I call him?”

“No; I’ll go in there myself.”

Upon entering the public room Mr. Wrench found it three parts filled with people, most of whom were in some way or other connected with agriculture.

Peace rose from his seat and drew near the detective, who had taken his place in a corner near the door.

It was not Mr. Wrench’s usual practice to make persons acquainted with his movements or proceedings, but in this case he felt that Peace had a perfect right to know, and he therefore narrated to him the successful nature of his expectations.

This, perhaps, was not altogether a prudent thing to do in a public room, even though the conversation between the two was carried on in a tone which was but a little beyond a whisper.

But our detective was under the full impression that there were none present who even comprehended their discourse, and certainly none who were in any way interested in the same.

But even detectives, with all their caution, are sometimes at fault.

This has been made apparent recently to a very painful extent.

The Kurr and Benson case took people by surprise, and shook the confidence of the public in police detectives. Everybody vaguely felt that an official inquiry must be held. Our detectives are seldom men of much education.

In books of superior fiction they figure as prodigies of acuteness, but the testimony of all who come in contact with them professionally is that they are rather dull and unenterprising, and somewhat thirsty officials, and that the chase of a criminal will be much stimulated by occasional consultations at bars and public-house parlours.

They have sprung from the ranks, and have gained promotion for qualities which are chiefly of use in tracking down and “running in” a receiver of stolen goods, or in apprehending a notorious pickpocket who was “wanted.”

The ordinary detective is of service in watching the movements of ticket-of-leave men or persons under the surveillance of the police.

In short, he is a match for the stupid, small-brained criminal, but he is of little use when society bids him capture gentlemanly rogues with plenty of money, ingenuity, and address.

It is, however, unavoidable that, if crime is to be tracked, there should be a set of policemen acting in secret.

It is obvious to what dangers the men who are thus employed must be constantly exposed.

The atmosphere in which they live is not a wholesome one.

They have to mix in an insidious manner with the criminal classes――to resort to all sorts of tricks and stratagems in order to collect particulars which could not be obtained in a straightforward way.

Moreover, men in such a position have a great deal of power in their hands, and may be tempted to use it nefariously, by making terms with those after whom they are sent, and by giving them hints of danger or opportunities of escape.

Detectives have, in the ordinary course of their duty, to place themselves in equivocal positions with those with whom they are watching and studying, in order to get proofs of their guilt, and there are doubtless cases in which appearances may be against them, though they are only loyally fulfilling their duties to their superiors in ferreting out the secrets of suspected people.

What is wanted under such circumstances is a very cheap system of supervision and control.

Officers employed in this way ought to be bound to keep a detailed diary of their proceedings, and to report continually to headquarters what they have in view and what they are doing.

Something ought also to be done to raise the character of the men and perhaps the rate of their pay.

It is quite certain that our system is at fault somewhere.

Mr. Wrench was an officer perhaps a little beyond others of his class. As we have already seen, he was persevering and intelligent, and Mr. Chicknell had acted wisely in securing his services for Lord Ethalwood.

Charles Peace was perfectly astounded when he became aware of the facts detailed to him by the detective.

He had never heard of the jewellery taken from the dead body of the lady in the infirmary――had never for a moment imagined that there was any doubt about the paternity of Aveline, whom he implicitly believed to be the daughter of Mrs. Maitland.

He was almost bewildered by the discovery made by the officer, who gave the details in a matter-of-fact sort of way, which left no doubt as to their accuracy.

Mr. Wrench remained in the public room for some time drinking with Peace, to whom he stood divers and sundry potations. After this he whispered to our hero that he was about to retire, wished him goodnight, and betook himself to his bedchamber.

Peace did not leave the parlour for an hour or two after the withdrawal of his companion.

He played several pieces on his violin, much to the delight of the assembled guests, and then in his turn retired to his room.

He was, however, too restless and fidgetty to seek repose. He sat himself on the edge of his bed and thought over all the strange incidents which had come to his knowledge in respect to Aveline.

The whole affair seemed to be like the disjointed fragments of a nightmare.

“Was it possible that Aveline, whom he had loved in an earlier day, was a descendant of a great and honoured line?”

“I say it seems like a dream,” murmured Peace, “altogether like a dream to think that I should have proposed to one of such high birth; but no, it cannot be. To think, also, that I should be the means of tracing her out――that is still more wonderful.”

While thus ruminating he was startled by a noise as of something heavy thrown against the window of his little room.

He arose suddenly and threw open the casement.

Something was flung into the window. It fell upon the floor.

Peace picked it up. It was a small pebble, around which was a piece of note paper.

“What’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed our hero, peering curiously out of the window.

No one was to be seen.

He sat down again and unfolded the paper, spread it out on his knee, and saw written thereon these words:――

“Be cautious. Keep watch and ward. Somebody’s in the house, a stranger, who is of no good. Take warning!――A FRIEND.”

“I can’t make this out. ‘Somebody’s in the house who is no good.’ Curse it, I wish the writer had been a little more explicit; this is most incomprehensible.”

Again he looked out of his window in every direction, but could not see a living creature.

The handwriting on the paper he failed to recognise.

“This is most remarkable,” he ejaculated. “Who is in the house, I wonder, that means no good? Some robber, I suppose――some suspected person. Well, I’ll have my revolver handy in case of any attack; but after all it may only be a grim joke of one of my parlour acquaintances?”

He tried to persuade himself that this last hypothesis was the correct one, but signally failed in doing so.

Not a sound disturbed the unbroken stillness of the night.

Peace was not a man to give way to idle or groundless fears.

Nevertheless he could not but acknowledge that the circumstance was singular, and, taken altogether, was of an exceptional character.

“Who could have thrown the stone and paper into the room?” murmured he. “If it came from a friend why did he not show himself?”

During his sojourn at the “Carved Lion” he had made it a practice to have his dog Gip sleep in the same room as himself, and he had not departed from that rule on the present occasion.

He had with him also a six-chambered revolver, which he had not come too honestly by. He had, in fact, stolen it when in Sheffield.

He had always a passion for fire-arms, as also for musical instruments, and had never been very particular how he obtained either.

He glanced at “Gip,” who was lying on a rug placed for his accommodation near the door of his room.

The animal looked wistfully at his master.

“Well,” murmured our hero; “no one will be able to enter the apartment without my hearing it, for Gip will be sure to give an alarm. At the same time it would be as well perhaps to take this precaution.”

He walked towards the door and slid the bolt into its socket.

Then he sat once more on the side of his bed.

“It may be after all but a hoax of some mischievously-disposed fool!” he exclaimed. “In all probability such is the case. Any way, I shall not put myself about, or take further trouble in the matter.”

He remained for an hour or so after this, watching and waiting, but could not detect the faintest sound.

All was silent within the house, and all was silent without.

He got fairly worn out, and threw himself on his couch without undressing, drew the rug over him, and sank to sleep.

How long he had remained thus he could not say, but he was awoke by a low moan or whine from Gip, who, upon discovering his master awakening, wagged his tail and came to the side of the bed; then he crept towards the door and sniffed at its base.

“Something’s amiss,” whispered our hero. “The sagacious brute hears or noses somebody――that’s quite certain.”

He crept softly to the door, against which he placed his ear.

He heard the sounds of soft footsteps on the outside, but they were so faint as to be hardly audible.

With revolver in hand he awaited the issue.

The dog in the meantime was in an evident state of anxiety.

Peace, before stretching himself on his bed, had taken the precaution to place his lighted chamber-candle in the fireplace, which effectively prevented its feeble rays penetrating into the passage on the outside.

“Somebody or something is stirring,” he muttered. “I can’t stand this state of suspense any longer――so here goes.”

He slid the bolt back as noiselessly as possible, and flung open the door.

A flood of moonlight streamed in from the window on the landing.

Beyond this was a wide oak staircase, and ascending this he beheld a strange-looking figure, clad in a long steel-coloured cloak.

To all appearance the figure was that of a woman.

But Peace had never remembered to have seen any such person in the hostelry since he had dwelt there.

“Holloa there――who are you? Speak, woman,” shouted out Peace.

No answer was vouchsafed to this.

“If you don’t speak and say who you are I’ll fire. I’ve a loaded pistol in my hand. Do you hear? For the last time I say speak, if it only be to save your life.”

The figure turned the angle of the stairs, but made no answer.

A buxom servant wench opened the door of her bedroom, and exclaimed――

“Mother Brickett’s ghost!”

She then uttered a series of piercing screams, and rushed back into her room in a state of abject terror.

Peace made for the bottom of the stairs, and fired one chamber of his revolver.

He did not aim at the receding figure, his object being only to frighten.

In this he succeeded, as far as the inmates were concerned.

Mr. Wrench came out in his night shirt, pale as a parsnip. Brickett made his appearance in the passage, and exclaimed, in a loud voice――

“For mercy’s sake, tell me what’s the matter! Are there robbers in the house, or what?”

“It be missus’s ghost, that’s what it be!” exclaimed the servant girl, from her bedroom. “Ah, woe is me that I should live to see such a dreadful sight!”

“You little fool,” cried Peace, “hold your cursed tongue, will you? Ghost, indeed!――more like a robber.”

“I’ve lost the jewels; they’ve been stolen!” said the detective. “Lost them! Don’t let anyone leave the house.”

He returned to his bedroom, slipped on his trousers and boots. Meanwhile Peace turned to Brickett, and said――

“Who’s in the house besides ourselves? Any stranger?”

“Yes, one.”

“Which is his room?”

“No. 9, on the next floor,” said the landlord, who had never been so puzzled and alarmed in his life.

Peace rushed back into his bedroom, snatched up the chamber candlestick, and flew up the wide staircase, never pausing till he had reached the upper floor. The door of the No. 9 bedroom was wide open.

Our hero entered the apartment, which was tenantless. He rushed into each of the other rooms on the same floor.

One was occupied by the little maid who acted as supplementary waitress――another was tenanted by an old woman, and another was where the potman slept. All the occupants were scared at beholding our hero with his revolver in one hand, and his chamber candlestick in the other.

In answer to his queries they one and all declared they had neither seen nor heard anybody about since they had retired to rest, with the exception of their interlocutor.

At the further end of the passage was a double window, which opened sideways on hinges, as is often the case in old English houses and inns. One of the casements of this was partially open.

Peace’s suspicions were aroused at once. He ran to the window, threw it back, and looked out. At the further extremity of the roof he beheld the figure of a man who flung himself off the roof on to one of the branches of a large chestnut tree, by means of which he reached the ground in safety.

“He’s got clean off, and done it very cleverly, I am free to confess,” exclaimed Peace; “but we may yet hunt him down.”

Mr. Wrench in a state of trepidation now made his appearance.

“Have you discovered anything?” he ejaculated, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.

“He’s off,” cried Peace.

“Who?”

“How should I know? The robber, whoever he may be. But not a moment is to be lost. Follow me.”

Our hero descended the stairs with the speed of an antelope, and was followed by the detective. They both made for the front door, which unfortunately for them was locked and barred most securely.

“How shall we get out of this cursed house?” cried Wrench.

“Here, Brickett――Brickett!” shouted out Peace. “Bring the keys and open the front door.”

The landlord hastened to the spot, and undid the fastenings.

Then Peace, without another word, sallied forth.

It is an old saying, “set a thief to catch a thief,” and it was never more exemplified than in this instance.

No one, however, at the time suspected that our picture-frame maker was a notorious burglar, who, however, it must be admitted had been conducting himself in a very proper manner.

He ran out into the high road, and saw at about a hundred and fifty yards the figure of the same man he had seen on the roof.

“He’s got a good start, it’s true,” he observed to the detective, “but here goes,” and with these words Peace ran after the fugitive at the very top of his speed.

He was followed by Mr. Wrench, who, as a matter of course, ran his hardest.

They had the satisfaction of finding that they gained upon the robber, who had, unfortunately for him, injured one of his ankles in dropping from the tree.

Had this not been the case the chances would have been all in his favour.

Peace and Mr. Wrench found they were gaining rapidly on the robber. This acted as an incentive for them to put forth their energies to the fullest extent.

Beyond the fields which the fugitive was new traversing was a narrow stream――a small river. This, although possibly he did not know at the time, would form a barrier to his progress.

Peace ran better perhaps than he had ever done in his life, and this is saying a great deal. He was far ahead of the detective, who was by this time winded, and was within from twenty to five-and-twenty paces of the robber, who had now come close to the river.

His capture seemed inevitable; but being well-nigh driven to desperation, he made a flying leap, and plunged into the stream just as Peace had made sure of seizing him.

The thief was evidently an expert swimmer. He struck out and made for the opposite shore.

“Curse him! he’ll get clear off after all,” shrieked out the detective, in an agony of despair. “Can you swim?”

“No, I can’t, and I don’t intend to try,” returned Peace. “Can you?”

“A little, but not well enough to venture with my clothes on in a running stream like this.”

“Then wait till he reaches the opposite bank,” cried our hero, levelling his pistol.

The robber now got into shallow water, through which he waded as quick as possible.

Peace fired and wounded the fugitive, who staggered, but had sufficient strength left to run behind a large granary in the opposite meadow, which sheltered him from any further discharge from the revolver.

“He’s wounded and wet to the skin. He can’t run far. I’ll after him,” exclaimed our hero, who made for a small wooden bridge, situated at about sixty or seventy yards from where he stood. He reached the bridge in the space of a minute or two, passed over it, and gained the field beyond.

He then ran towards the granary.

All this had been done so rapidly that Mr. Wrench did not very well know what his more active companion was endeavouring to compass. The wooden bridge was concealed by a dense mass of foliage, and Mr. Wrench did not know of its existence. He was therefore greatly surprised at seeing Peace run rapidly across the opposite meadow, and stood watching his movements with the deepest anxiety.

The robber was equally surprised at beholding Peace. Seeing his danger he once more took to his heels.

“If you don’t stop I’ll shoot you down like a dog,” shouted out his pursuer, in a voice of thunder. “You can’t escape. Yield, and save your life while you have a chance.”

“I know that voice,” cried the man. “Don’t fire, old fellow. I’m cornered, and give in.”

Peace rushed forward and collared the speaker.

“Don’t you know me?” said the man.

“Why, hang me if it isn’t the gipsy.”

“That’s right enough; it is the gipsy, who’s nearly done over. What with water and fire I’ve had my dose. But I say, old fellow, you aint agoin’ to hand me over to the ‘crushers.’ You don’t want to see a fellow lagged? Look here, this is all I’ve taken――it is as I’m a sinner. There it is; I give it up. Let me go!”

Peace took the case of jewels from the gipsy. He opened it, and saw that the articles corresponded with the description given by the detective.

“I don’t want you to be quodded,” said he, “but I shall just have a search before I let you go.”

“S’help me goodness,” ejaculated the gipsy, “that’s every blessed thing I’ve taken; I swear to you it is, and I’ll take my Bible hoath on it. I wouldn’t deceive you. Lord! how my leg do pain me.”

He turned his pockets inside out, and convinced our hero that for once he had spoken the truth.

“No more burglary bis’ness for me,” cried the gipsy. “I aint good at it. One pill’s a dose.”

“What made you attempt this one?”

“Well, if yer must know, I was put up to it by a swell. Ah! you’ve sent a bullet into my leg, and maimed me for life, perhaps, and a stopped me a getting a couple o’ hundred quid――that’s what you’ve been and done. But you’ll let me go?”

“I don’t know how you are to get clean off. I expect the officer here every minute.”

“I’ve got a fast trotting prod not fifty yards hence. If I’ve strength enough left, which I think I have, to mount him, the devil himself wont catch me when once on his back.”

“Go your way then――I will return,” cried our hero, as he thrust into his coat pocket the much-treasured jewel case, and made again for the wooden bridge.

He passed over this, when he was met by Brickett and the detective.

“Well,” said the latter, “he’s got clean off, then, after all?”

“What matters that?” whispered Peace to the officer. “This is all you want――isn’t it?” and he handed the case and its contents to Wrench, who could not conceal his delight.

“I am greatly indebted to you. Accept my most heartfelt thanks,” murmured the detective. “You have indeed afforded me most timely assistance.”

“Keep dark for the present,” whispered Peace. “We can discuss this subject at our leisure. For the present, let it be known only to ourselves.”

The detective nodded, and bent his steps in the direction of the “Carved Lion.”

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

Chapter XXXIII

THE MORNING AFTER――A VISIT TO LORD ETHALWOOD――THIEVES AND “THIEF CATCHING.”

Mr. Wrench and his two companions returned to the inn, all the occupants of which were in a state of alarm. They had no definite notion of the actual cause of the commotion any further than that some stranger had been creeping mysteriously through the apartments of the old hostelry――for what purpose they were at a loss to divine. The servant girl declared most positively that Mrs. Brickett’s ghost had paid a visit to the establishment on that eventful night. She was most positive in her declaration as to this fact, for she saw her with her own eyes, and nothing in the world should persuade her to the contrary.

Mr. Wrench and Peace did not contradict this statement; on the contrary, they affected to believe it, albeit they were well aware that it was without a shadow of foundation in fact.

None of the occupants of the inn, however, could conceal from themselves that some secret and mysterious agency had been at work.

Brickett was puzzled――in fact, he was in a state of fog, and could not see his way at all clearly.

He said, in answer to the detective’s queries, that a dark-looking man, who was to all appearance a gipsy, had presented himself at the house just before closing time, and inquired if he could have a bed for a night or two.

The landlord answered in the affirmative, and the stranger, after partaking of some refreshment, retired to the room, No. 9, on the upper floor of the house.

This was all the landlord knew of his customer. He seemed, so Brickett declared, to be a quiet respectable sort of man enough.

Mr. Wrench did not offer any observations when this information was given, but he had his suspicions nevertheless.

The whole household had been so disturbed that there was but little rest for them during the remainder of the night.

The detective and our hero met in the morning, in the club-room, where they had their morning meal together.

“This has been a planned thing,” said Mr. Wrench to his companion; “that rascal would not have entered my room――opened the drawer of the bureau in which the case was deposited, and stolen the same, had he not been fully aware of both its importance and value. I do much regret that he was not captured.”

“I think you will act as wisely in keeping the affair as quiet as possible,” returned Peace. “What possible good could accrue from his being brought to justice? answer me that. None at all――it would have only been a needless and unnecessary exposure, at which the earl would have been greatly mortified.”

“There is some reason in that.”

“Very great reason, I should say――you cannot for a moment suppose that his lordship would like his private affairs dragged before any court of law for the sake of a public prosecution. Rest assured, my friend, that we have acted wisely in letting the rascal go about his business. In any case, even assuming he had been convicted, blame would attach itself to you.”

“So it would――I admit that. You take a very sensible view of the matter. Let the matter blow over, and say as little about it as possible,” returned Mr. Wrench, with sudden warmth.

“You have shown great wisdom throughout, and I have once more to return you my most sincere thanks.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that” replied Peace, carelessly. “One thing is, however, quite certain: the gipsy cove was employed by some one to abstract the jewellery from the bureau. There could be but ohe object in this――to remove the traces of identity.”

“I came to that conclusion some hours ago. You are quite right, and we have had a narrow escape――a very narrow escape,” said Mr. Wrench, with something like a shudder. “Had they succeeded in carrying it off I don’t know what would have been the consequence. To me it would have been most disastrous. I see good reason to be thankful for the issue. But who could have thrown the paper and stone into your window?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion, but probably I may discover before very long. Anyway, I shall make inquiries. But for the present I must bid you good-day, for I have business matters to attend to,” said Peace, rising from his seat and making towards the door of the club-room.

“Good day for the present,” returned the detective, and so the two parted.

In a few minutes after this Henry Adolphus, his lordship’s footman, presented himself, and informed the detective that the Earl and Mr. Chicknell were awaiting his appearance at the Hall.

Mr. Wrench lost no time in paying his respects to his two employers. He made them acquainted with the successful nature of his expedition to Wood-green, his interview with Mrs. Maitland, and wound up by producing the trinkets, which had been so miraculously rescued from the clutches of “Bandy-legged Bill,” the gipsy.

Lord Ethalwood snatched the case and its contents from the officer. He examined the trinkets, and as he did so a bright flush overspread his features.

“The very image of the long-lost Aveline!” he exclaimed directing the lawyer’s attention to the portrait of his daughter. “There can be no doubt as to the identity.” Then, turning to the detective, he said, “You have displayed wonderful ability, sir, in the conduct of this case, and deserve my warmest commendation.”

Mr. Wrench bowed, but did not offer any observation. Possibly he was mindful of the old adage “That a modest man on his own merits is dumb.”

“We” (he spoke in the plural) “have brought the matter to a satisfactory conclusion,” observed the lawyer.

“As yet it is not concluded, Mr. Chicknell,” returned the Earl.

“No――ahem――of course not. Much remains to be done. Your lordship is quite right――it is not concluded, but it is gratifying to know that we have been successful thus far. The ring bears the Ethalwood crest, I believe.”

“It does.”

“An additional link――I may say an important one――in the chain of evidence.”

“I am told,” said the earl, addressing the officer, “that some robber, some unprincipled scoundrel, made an attempt to steal these articles from the inn, either last night or early this morning.”

“That is true, my lord, but we were too sharp for him,” said Mr. Wrench, with evident vexation――“much too sharp.”

“Oh! it would be adding to the other favours already conferred upon me if you could by any means ascertain who the villain was.”

“I will do my best, my lord,” returned Wrench.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I think, that is all we have to say at present, Wrench,” said Mr. Chicknell. “I will see you later on.”

The detective took the hint, bowed, and retired.

“Confound it!” he murmured, as he descended the stairs. “Who could have told him of the attempted robbery? ‘Ill news travels fast’ is an old saying, which is borne out in this instance.”

For the remainder of the day Peace was actively employed in an endeavour to find out the man who had created such a disturbance at the “Carved Lion” on the preceding evening; but, as he had anticipated, he found this by no means an easy task.

The gipsy had got clear off. There were traces of his passage along the high road by the marks of blood which had poured from his wound, but they gradually became fainter, after which they were no longer distinguishable.

Wrench had proved himself to be a proficient in that department of his profession known as “thief catching,” but he was by no means sanguine of success in this case. Neither did he care much about it, for he argued that no possible good could accrue by the arrest of the gipsy; certainly, none as far as he (the detective) was concerned. In point of fact, it would be a needless exposure of his own want of caution.

Thieves as a rule are remarkably cunning, and to capture them is no easy matter.

Captain Fenwick, head constable of Chester, wrote some time back an interesting letter on “Modern Thief-catching.” It is estimated, said he, that there are at large in this country about 40,000 individuals who are either known thieves or under the suspicion of the police; nearly 3000 are yearly liberated from the convict prisons alone; and a large proportion of them are lost in the crowd until they find themselves back in prison again.

Considering the influence of these persons on society in the way both of depredation and contamination, it will be readily perceived that thief-catching is a matter of considerable moment.

Captain Fenwick in his epistle reviews the various means which have been adopted from time to time to identify depredators, and to save the public from being victimised by habitual criminals.

When the telegraph system was adopted it was probably thought that its use by the police would cripple the operations of the professional thief.

As a fact it has been and is still used with some success for the purpose, but even at the present day, with the system and its immense ramifications in full working order, the “dangerous classes,” as they are termed, manage to exist in strong force.

Photography lends its aid in the same direction.

Twenty years ago the police established what are known as “routes,” and many an old gaol bird has been recognised by that means.

When a prisoner has been arrested, and it is suspected from his familiarity with the prison rules and for other reasons that he is known to the police, notwithstanding his air of pastoral simplicity, he is photographed, and his “picture” is circulated.

In a few days it is returned with an accumulation of information signally fatal to the prisoner’s assumed innocence, and largely in the public interest.

Instead of a “moon” (a month) in the local gaol he finds himself before a jury as an old offender, and ultimately back again to a convict establishment.

But photography is not always quite reliable, and it is not even imperative upon an untried prisoner to sit for his photograph, and only “chumps” (the inexperienced) consent; and, although after conviction a prisoner is duly “taken” and carefully registered, his personal appearance naturally changes. This change, as in the case of Peace, is sometimes assisted by art.

As a rule, prison photographs are not excellent specimens of photographic art.

The pose is not perfect, nor the subject carefully focussed, and the result of the defect is not removed by a normal squint or a twist of the features at the critical moment.

Officialdom felt this drawback, and to meet it to some extent a “black book” was devised.

The “Habitual Criminal Register,” as this book is termed, is an imposing-looking tome. In six years and a half the names of nearly 180,000 persons were registered in its pages. In every case the criminal had been more than once convicted on indictment for serious crimes against the community.

This formidable catalogue was compiled for the most part by men whose names are to be found in it and printed at “Her Majesty’s Prison, Brixton.”

There is a curious irony in the fact that some of these gentlemen should be employed to perfect a scheme destined to react upon themselves and their fraternity.

Yet with all these precautions a goodly proportion still evade the clutches of the law.

By the free adoption of aliases, identifications through the Hue and Cry, and even by means of photographs, have often failed.

Amusing exceptions, it is true, have occurred, one woman, who had provided herself with sixteen aliases, being convicted for the thirty-ninth time.

Lieut.-Colonel Du Cane says in his preface to the first volume of the “Register”:――“It is, I believe, the first time that an attempt has been made to furnish all the police of this or any other country with information in such a complete and readily accessible form respecting the individuals of the class against whom they are carrying on their operations, and the first time that such a work has been carried out in a prison.”

The latest attempt, however, is to checkmate and deal with the habitual criminal in the register of their “Distinctive Marks and Peculiarities.”

The name only has proved an uncertain means of tracing their antecedents. It is found, however, that many of these people bear about with them some mark or peculiarity, which answers much better.

Thus of 2914 persons who were liberated in 1876 nearly one-half were indelibly stamped in this way, and this information is now carefully arranged in the new register.

A thief may assume any name he pleases――the chances are about even that he is ear-marked, and known more certainly than by name.

This register is a curiously interesting production.

The first issue shows who are “deaf,” “very deaf,” “men of colour,” “blind of one or both eyes,” those who squint, or have a “glide,” or a “cast” in their organs of vision.

Twenty-five per cent. have “broken, or crooked noses,” and a few have “their ears slit.”

The mania for tattooing, which it will be remembered even the “Claimant” was not free from, exists largely among thieves.

There is first of all the “D,” (deserter from the army), which occurs very frequently, two “D’s” almost equally so; some have even three “B C’s,” (bad characters) appearing on the left sides, of a sufficient number to justify the conclusion that a bad soldier is often something more.

The variety of marks upon the chest is very extensive.

Sometimes they are the initials of the owner’s name, or of his sweetheart’s.

The presence of the Union Jack is presumed to indicate patriotism of some sort.

Here and there occur a ship in full sail, the masonic emblems of square and compass, and a few adopt such mottoes as Dieu et mon droit, “Now or Never,” and so on.

The arms are extensively used for this kind of art, every fourth criminal being tattooed with some device.

The variety indeed is almost endless, and the extent in some cases enough to make a Maori jealous.

The sun and moon figure over and over again; anchors, fishes, mermaids, and hearts (pierced with Cupid’s arrow and other devices) are also frequent.

Then there are flags, swords, guns, and implements of war in abundance.

Among other devices we come upon such as “Mary.” “In Memory of My Parents,” &c., &c. The hand is very fruitful in its “particularities,” and the legs are laid under contribution in the same way.

The reader will pardon this digression, as this notice of the means by which the police are able to detect the “wanted” when they are “known,” has interest for the public, as well as the constabulary.

It is calculated to induce a more general scrutiny of suspected thieves, with a view to discovery of peculiar marks, and in future the “information” received by the police may prove more useful in thief-catching.

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

XXXIV. LORD ETHALWOOD AND HIS SOLICITOR

“We have been singularly successful, my lord,” said Mr. Chicknell, after the detective had taken his departure. “We have not succeeded in finding your beloved daughter, but we have found your grandchild, who is beautiful, and who is moreover the image of her mother.”

“How do you know? You have not seen her,” observed the earl.

“That I admit, but Wrench has, and we can take his word.”

“What does Mr. Wrench say about her husband?”

“He says he is a fine handsome fellow. Not of high birth, it is true; but he is a superior man of his class.”

“And what might that be?”

“He is an engineer.”

“Does his wife seem warmly attached to him?”

The lawyer smiled.

“I am a better judge, my lord, of the merits of a law case than of a lady’s affection,” he returned; “but from what I am given to understand the union between the two was what is termed a love match.”

“Bah! a love match!” exclaimed the earl, with something like disgust. “A love match, indeed!”

A silence of some minutes’ duration succeeded this last speech.

The earl glanced at a portrait of one of his ancestors which hung on the wall of his room.

He sighed, and said, sadly――

“It would seem that the Ethalwoods have fallen very low during my lifetime; their name is sullied, their honour tarnished. But I am not unmindful of the respect due to myself and my ancestors. I cannot and will not receive the husband of my grandchild in this house. A man of that kind is not fit companion for me or mine.”

“I am sorry for this,” murmured the lawyer, “very sorry, but I suppose it cannot be helped. What do you propose then, my lord?”

“At present it is not easy to determine upon my course of action, but I am resolved upon one point. Nothing whatever shall induce me to recognise this miserable mechanic. But I will adopt my grand-daughter, I will make her a wealthy heiress――she shall have the large fortune which I purposed dividing between my two sons, and I will also adopt her son. He shall be my heir, but this must be conditional.”

“And what is that?”

“She must live apart from her husband. There must be a separation――a legal one if it can be compassed. If not, they must part by mutual consent.”

Mr. Chicknell made no reply.

“Do you understand what I have been saying?” asked the earl, testily.

“Oh yes, my lord, I comprehend most fully, but I cannot conceal from myself that there may be some difficulty in carrying out your views.”

“None whatever. I can see no difficulty.”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer.

“Really, Chicknell,” observed the earl, “you seem to be offering imaginary impediments. You must look at this matter from my point of view, not from your own. I suppose you know enough of me――you ought to do so by this time――to be perfectly aware that I am not a man to be dictated to.”

“I would not presume to dictate to you,” observed the lawyer.

“I tell you that I will, under no circumstances, receive this young woman’s husband here. Let that suffice. It is needless for me to reiterate this.”

“Yet you would receive his child?”

“He is of my own race, but his father is an alien. The boy has noble blood in his veins――the father has none. The former has a strong claim on me――the latter has none whatever. You must see this; nay, I am sure you do.”

“Yes, I can understand that, but――――”

“Well, sir, but what?”

“For the life of me I cannot see what this young man has done that you should seek, my lord, to tempt from him the wife he loves.”

Lord Ethalwood uttered an expression of disgust.

“If you are his champion,” he said, bitterly――“if you plead his cause so pertinaciously, in opposition to my expressed wishes, say so at once, and I shall know how to obtain the services of another legal adviser.”

“I much regret you should for a moment imagine that I have not your interest at heart. Why should I be the champion of a young fellow whom I have never seen? I have always had the privilege of speaking plainly, and it is not because I have done so in this case that I should merit your censure. However, if you have no confidence in me, my lord, it is competent for you to obtain better advice――or rather advice more in accordance with your own views.”

“Pardon me, Chicknell, I have been somewhat hasty. What I said was without due consideration, so let it pass; but you must do your best for me. Of course I have no desire to place the affair in any other hands than yours.”

“If you have been hasty, I acknowledge frankly that I have been mistaken.”

“In what?”

“I thought your delight would have been so great at our success that you would have for the nonce sunk all considerations as to social distinction. I find I am mistaken. I do not wonder at the revolt of the poor against the rich, of the opposition and bitter animosity displayed by one class of the community against another class.”

[Sidenote: No. 16.]

Lord Ethalwood looked at the speaker in some surprise, but his countenance did not, however, wear an angry expression.

“I don’t think,” he observed with a smile, “that we shall agree upon this great social question, and it is therefore idle and useless to discuss it. I have my views, which it would appear are identical with your own. I do not like you any the less for plain speaking; nevertheless my opinion remains unchanged. I will receive my grandchild Aveline and her son, but I will not countenance her husband.”

“It is my bounded duty to act according to the instructions received from your lordship,” said the lawyer. “Tell me what you wish me to do.”

“You had better hasten at once to Wood Green, and let my grand-daughter know who she is. I should like you to bring her and her son back with you, if this be possible. I will, in the meantime, consider over the proposition we will make to her.”

“I will act in accordance with your instructions.”

“But you do not like the commission” said the earl, quickly. “You need not reply, Chicknell; I see you do not.”

“Gentlemen in our profession are constrained to undertake commissions which at times may be neither pleasing nor palatable to them. I will do my best to further your views.”

The earl bowed, and then said, in a quieter tone――

“There is another little matter, Mr. Chicknell. We have to attend to this picture-frame maker, Mr. Peace. He has been of essential service to us, and certainly deserves some recompense.”

“Certainly; that was understood.”

“What do you propose?”

“He’s a poor man. Fifty pounds would be deemed a liberal recompense.”

“I will get you to take him a cheque for a hundred.”

“Ah, that will be ample――more than sufficient.”

“You will see what he says――how he receives it.”

The lawyer nodded. The earl drew the cheque, and handed it to Chicknell.

“You wish me to present him with it before I leave?”

“Certainly; do so at once.”

Mr. Chicknell remained at Broxbridge Hall till the following morning after the foregoing conversation. He sallied forth, and bent his steps in the direction of Peace’s workshop.

The frame-maker was hard at work. A few brief words sufficed to explain the reason for his visit.

He handed the earl’s cheque to our hero, who accepted it, and at the same time expressed his sense of gratitude, and said it was much more than he had any right to expect.

This little bit of business having turned out perfectly satisfactory, Mr. Chicknell took the train up to London, and from thence proceeded to Wood Green.

Upon his arrival at Gatliffe’s residence he discovered the young wife in the garden, which ran at one side and in the rear of the house.

Mr. Chicknell raised his hat in a most courtly manner as Aveline advanced towards the gate at which he was standing.

“Mrs. Gatliffe, I presume?” said the lawyer.

The lady answered in the affirmative, and unlocked the gate.

“I am a stranger to you, madam,” he observed, apologetically; “but the business I am engaged in makes it a matter of necessity that we should confer together.”

“Do you wish to see me or my husband? If the latter he is not within, and will not return home till the evening.”

“It’s you I desire to communicate with, not your husband.”

Mrs. Gatliffe looked surprised, but did not make any reply.

She opened a side door, and conducted her visitor into the front parlour.

The lawyer was struck by her appearance, as well he might be. She was dressed in a neat stuff gown, which fitted tight to her graceful and symmetrical figure, and he thought she was the very personification of female loveliness without the aid of any meretricious adornment.

He entered the parlour and was handed a chair by the mistress of the establishment.

“You will, perhaps, be no wiser,” said Mr. Chicknell, with a smile, when I inform you that I am solicitor to Lord Ethalwood, seeing that in all probability even the name of his lordship may be unknown to you.”

“It is.”

“Well, madam, it must remain so no longer, as it is requisite that you should know who you are.”

A bright flash overspread the beautiful features of Aveline Gatliffe.

“Who I am!” she murmured. “Indeed――indeed, sir, I have yearned to know this for very many years past.”

“I am not surprised at that, madam. Let me at once inform you that you belong to the aristocracy of this country.”

“Oh, sir, are you serious? Can this be possible?” inquired Aveline, in a state of the deepest anxiety.

“I am dealing with facts which are incontrovertible,” said the lawyer, in a more serious tone. “Listen, madam.”

Slowly, deliberately, and with singular dearness, Mr. Chicknell proceeded to make his companion acquainted with all those circumstances connected with his case, as he termed it.

He passed lightly over the elopement of Aveline’s mother with the Italian; neither did he dwell upon the painful scene in the infirmary after the accident on the line, but he gave her to understand that the articles of jewellery taken from the dead body of her parent were in the possession of Lord Ethalwood. Mr. Chicknell made the young wife acquainted with every grain of evidence, which taken altogether proved most incontestably her identity.

As Aveline listened her wonder-struck countenance lost much of its wonted colour; her lips grew white as lilies, and her eyes dilated with an expression which was something akin to terror.

He finished his narrative, the last words of which were of serious import.

A mist seemed to float before her eyes.

“Am I really that great lord’s grandchild?” she gasped forth with evident effort.

“You are so beyond all question,” returned the lawyer. “You are undoubtedly the daughter of Aveline Beatrice Ethalwood, who ran away from home with her music master. You are the grandchild of Lord Ethalwood, the master of Broxbridge and its rich dependencies. The child playing there (pointing through the window of the apartment to the little boy on the grass plot) may be one day an earl, and you yourself may be a wealthy heiress; but I regret to say that there is one condition attached to all this.”

“A condition!” she replied, her face recovering its colour, her eyes flashing light. “I am bound to accept the condition, I suppose? You do not know how I have always longed to be rich and great.”

The lawyer smiled.

“It is not for me to dictate. I have only to make the proposition, which it will rest with you to either accept or refuse.”

She looked surprised and said――

“There will be no condition too difficult for me to accept.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Mr. Chicknell. “Lord Ethalwood is a very proud man――I should say no man living is prouder. He has the greatest reverence for what he calls the honour of his house. Think how he valued it when he treated his daughter as one dead because she married beneath her. I will be explicit and plain-spoken――the exigencies of the case necessitate my being so. Lord Ethalwood will receive you as his grandchild; will give you a large fortune; will make your son his heir; all, upon one condition.

“And what is that?”

“That you will leave your husband, whom he considers low-born, and promise never to see him again.”

Aveline uttered an expression as of sudden pain.

“These are indeed hard terms, sir,” she exclaimed. “It might be said cruel proposals.”

“They are what I have been instructed to make to you,” returned the lawyer, with a shrug.

“Leave my husbund, who is the best and kindest that ever woman had! I would not do it for any consideration. He loves me, and I will not consent to break an honest man’s heart.”

“I expected this answer,” said Mr. Chicknell, “and it therefore does not surprise me; but if I might suggest, madam, it would be that you take time to consider the matter. This is but just and reasonable.”

“You have no right to tempt me thus by making such an offer,” she exclaimed, in an angry tone.

“I have simply done my duty,” he answered, “by acting in accordance with the instructions received from my client.”

“Tell this proud nobleman that I will never give my consent to such a course of action.”

She looked so lovely in her pride, her anger, and her tears, that the lawyer wished his client could have seen her at that moment.

He waited patiently till her indignation had in a measure passed over――then he said――

“There will be no harm in your seeing his lordship,” he said. “On the contrary, it might have considerable weight with him, and turn him from his obstinate resolution. He requested me to say that he would be overjoyed to see you and your little boy at Broxbridge Hall.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He said I was not to leave until you had consented to accompany me.”

“I will see him, then. I accept his invitation, but I cannot leave without first of all consulting my husband.”

“Who, in all probability, will not give his consent.”

“He will not refuse if I tell him I have promised my word.”

Mr. Chicknell inquired of his companion when she would have her husband’s answer.

“I will speak to him on the subject when he comes home this evening.”

“And if he consents you will accompany me to Broxbridge to-morrow.”

Aveline replied in the affirmative.

The lawyer took his departure, with a promise to see her again on the following morning.

Tom Gatliffe, when he returned home that evening, was perfectly bewildered when he had been made acquainted with all the circumstances connected with his young wife. A foreboding of evil took possession of him――he was forcibly and painfully impressed with the fact that the discovery was not unattended with danger. He could, however, refuse his wife nothing, and therefore gave his consent for her to accompany the lawyer to Broxbridge Hall.

On the following morning Mr. Chicknell presented himself. Aveline and her child were arrayed in their best attire, and left their cottage in Wood Green under the protection of the man at law.

A telegram had been sent to Broxbridge, advising its owner of the visit. An open landau awaited them upon their arrival at the station. In this Mr. Chicknell and his two companions were driven to the hall.

As they approached the fine old mansion Peace passed the carriage. His eyes were rivetted on the face of its female occupant, Aveline; he thought she looked more lovely than ever.

It was the first time he had seen her since the rejection of his suit in the garden of Mrs. Maitland’s house.

A host of contending emotions rushed through his brain as he witnessed the arrival of the carriage at the great gates of the hall.

“She does not condescend to honour me with a passing notice,” he ejaculated, in a voice of concentrated passion; “the stuck-up, proud minx, and but for me she would never have been discovered. Curses on it, I was a fool to give any information――worse than a fool. Much thanks shall I get from either her or her bumptious husband.”

He turned out of the high road and made for his workshop, but he was ill at ease. All the worst passions of his nature were in the ascendant, and he did not care about following his usual avocation.

For a long time he remained moody and thoughtful in his workshop. He was laying plans for the future.

The sight of Aveline seemed to have produced a sudden revulsion in his mind. He could not bear to see her under any circumstances; but to find her in such an exalted position was most intolerable. And yet he had been mainly instrumental in bringing this about. Now it was done he bitterly regretted. Such is the strange perversity of the human character.

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

Chapter XXXV

THE LOVERS――PEACE BECOMES FURIOUS――VIOLENT ALTERCATION――PHILIP JAMBLIN TO THE RESCUE.

While all these events had been taking place Charles Peace had paid frequent visits to the house and gardens in possession of the girl “Nelly,” for whom he had conceived a passionate fondness. He had become on tolerably familiar terms with her aunt, and had on more than one occasion flirted with her niece. Nelly did not dislike him, and, although she did not encourage his attentions, she did not positively reject them. To a certain extent she felt flattered by the court and homage paid to her. Her conduct, as far as our hero was concerned, was nothing more nor less than a bit of harmless coquetry.

With Peace it was far different. He hoped to win the girl; otherwise he would not have troubled himself so much about her, and it is likely enough that he would not have remained so long in the neighbourhood had it not been for her.

After the robbery at the “Lion,” and the chase of Bandy-legged Bill, Peace endeavoured to ascertain who threw the missile into his window on that eventful night.

He taxed several of the villagers with it, but they one and all denied in a most positive manner having given the timely warning.

It afterwards occurred to him that it might be Nelly, and he mentioned his suspicions to her.

She laughed, and after a little hesitation acknowledged that she was the culprit. She informed Peace that she was mistrustful of the gipsy, whom she had seen in her aunt’s strawberry ground with a strange gentleman, with whom he was conversing in almost a whisper. From the few words of the conversation that did reach her ears she was under the impression that a deep-laid plot was hatching; and afterwards, upon finding the gipsy had taken up his quarters at the “Carved Lion,” her suspicions were in a measure confirmed, hence it was that she had recourse to the little stratagem which was of such infinite service on the night of the attempted robbery.

“You are a good girl, and are worth your weight in gold,” cried Peace, when Nelly had concluded. “Indeed, I don’t know what I should do without you.” He placed his arm round her neck, and drew her towards him.

“There, get away, do!” exclaimed the girl, slipping out of his grasp. “I never knew a man so forward and impudent as you are.”

“And I never knew a girl so uncertain and capricious as you are,” returned he; “so now we are even. But I say, Nell, darling――――” he was about to make an amorous speech, when the voice of the owner of the establishment was heard, and Nell said, quickly――

“There’s aunt calling me; I must indoors.”

“But I want to speak to you――have something to say of the greatest importance.”

“Some other time will do as well,” she returned, with a laugh.

“Will you meet me to-morrow evening at the corner of Dennett’s-lane, and hear what I have to say?”

“Perhaps.”

“Nay, don’t say perhaps; you must come.”

“Very well; I will, if possible,” and with these words the girl ran down the gravel walk and entered the house.

It was in the evening of the day on which Aveline Gatliffe had paid a visit to the earl that Nelly had promised to be at the end of Dennett’s-lane.

Peace anxiously awaited her appearance.

He remained in his workshop silent and thoughtful.

He was calm, but it was that sort of calmness which presaged a storm.

To say the truth, he was getting tired of the quiet and respectable sort of life he had been of late leading. The old feeling of restlessness and yearning for adventure had come over him, and his mind was in a sort of chaos.

“Will she come?” he murmured, looking furtively down the lane, “or will she make some miserable excuse for stopping away when next I see her? She’s a riddle――a mystery, which I find it difficult to make out.”

Another half hour passed away, but no Nelly. The sun had already sunk, and the shades of evening were beginning to descend.

He arose from his seat, passed out of his workshop, closed and locked the door, and again looked down the lane.

He beheld in the distance the figure of a woman. It was that of Nelly. His heart leaped with delight.

“You’re precious late, my lady,” said he, as she approached.

“Be I? Well, I couldn’t get away before. It beant no fault of mine if I be late. Now, then, what be ye a-going to tell me?”

“You shall learn all in good time,” cried he, putting her arm in his, and strolling along the narrow footway.

“You see, Nell, it’s time, I’m thinking, that I should be plain spoken. I find, my lass, that I care a deal more for you than I first imagined. You see, I don’t know how much longer I shall remain in this village――not long, I expect. The fact is, I’ve grown so fond of you that I don’t like to leave――nay, more, I don’t intend to leave until you give me an answer one way or the other.”

“An answer――what about?”

“What do you suppose it’s about? Can’t you guess?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m sorry for you. Don’t I tell you that I’m attached to you――that I love you?”

He drew her towards him, and covered her lips and face with burning and passionate kisses.

She was surprised and annoyed, made as much resistance as possible, and pushed him from her.

“What possesses the man,” she cried, “to be mawling a gal in this fashion? If I’d ha’ known of this, I wouldn’t ha’ come.”

“Now, Nell,” cried her companion, “why do you seek to tantalise me? You must know by this time my feelings with regard to yourself. Listen to me for a few moments. You know I’ve been doing a good stroke of business; I am greatly respected by all who know me. In addition to this I have been patronised and made much of by the Master of Broxbridge――――”

“What has all this to do with me?”

“I am telling you these things to prove that I am worthy of you. I am well-to-do, and have every reason to suppose you care something about me.”

She laughed derisively at this last observation.

His countenance grew dark and wore a malignant expression, but by a violent effort he suppressed his passion for a while.

“And be this all you wanted to see me for?” she inquired.

“All!” he reiterated, “and enough too, I’m thinking. Now do be a little reasonable. Do you suppose I should have been dangling after you for so long a time for nothing? I tell you again and again, Nelly, that I doat on you.”

Here once more he threw his arms round his companion’s neck, and embraced her with passionate fervour.

“There, that will do. You certainly are the most daring man I ever came across. Have you anything more to say?” she enquired, in a coquettish manner.

“Yes, a deal more,” he returned. “I want to fix you firm and fast before I leave――I want you to give me a promise.”

“What be that you want me to promise?”

“Not to have anything to say to any other chap when I am gone. You must consider yourself engaged to me.”

She made no reply, but looked thoughtfully on the ground on which they were walking.

Do you hear――do you understand?” he inquired.

“Yes, I think I understand.”

“And you answer――”

“I aint a goin’ to mek any promise.”

“What!――you refuse, then――and why? Tell me why? Why don’t you answer? Do you want to drive me to madness, you cruel thoughtless girl?”

“I aint a goin’ to mek any promise, I dunno what other answer to mek.”

“I’ll take you up to London and you shall see all the fine sights, and be a fine lady,” he said in a wheedling tone. “Come, Nell, say you will be mine.”

“I won’t say nuffin’ o’ the sort, not at present.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know enough of you,” she answered with the greatest simplicity; “that’s one reason.”

“And the other?”

She made no answer.

“The other!” he shouted in a voice of thunder. “There is someone else in the case――is that it?”

“I won’t answer you.”

“Then you have been making a fool of me all this time,” he cried, in a voice of concentrated passion. “You treacherous infamous girl; but I’ll let you know, my lady, that Charles Peace is not to be trampled upon with impunity――understand that.”

He caught her by the wrist and held it with the grip of a vice.

“Let me go――ye hurt me――let me go!” she exclaimed in some alarm.

“Not till you give me the name of my rival. Until you do that I will not release you.”

He dragged her forcibly along the pathway, and displayed such an excess of fury that the girl was seriously alarmed.

“I must ha’ bin a born fool to ha’ come here, and I be rightly served. Let me go!”

“Answer my question first――his name――tell me the fellow’s name and I’ll then release you――not before. You’ve played me false, and you know it.”

He had by this time become more like a maniac than a rational being.

Nell struggled desperately to release herself from his grasp, but although a strong-built muscular young woman she found herself almost powerless in the grip of her persecutor.

“Have I wasted all my thoughts all this time over one who is so base and worthless?” he ejaculated with supreme bitterness. “Am I to become the laughing stock of the whole neighbourhood?”

“I wish I’d never seen you. I hate you!” cried Nelly, in a spiteful tone. “What have I done to be treated thus?”

“One word and we are friends for life. Say you will be mine,” said he.

“I will say nothing till you let me go.”

“I’ll have your answer one way or the other,” shouted out Peace, drawing a revolver from his pocket. “By the heavens above, I will make you answer me.”

At the sight of the weapon the miserable young woman uttered several piercing screams.

A tall young man jumped over a neighbouring stile, and with one blow from the stout ash stick he carried struck the weapon out of Peace’s hand; then he delivered another terrific blow on our hero’s head, which sent him back reeling and half stunned.

“You cowardly scoundrel,” exclaimed the new comer, “to lay your hands on a woman.”

The speaker was about to inflict further chastisement, whereupon Nelly interceded.

“Spare him, Mr. Jamblin,” said the girl. “He be mad, and knows not what he has been doing. He be mad, I’m sure o’ that.”

“What have you to say for yourself, sir? What is the reason for this outrage?” inquired the young man, addressing himself to Peace.

“What business is it of yours?” answered our hero. “There is a reason, and a very strong one. But, hark ye! Don’t you bully me, or it will be worse for you. I’m not afraid of you, big as you are.”

“I’ve seen your face before,” observed the newcomer. “It’s familiar to me.”

“Have you?” cried Peace, making a hideous grimace. “Then you’ve the advantage of me, for I never saw your ugly mug before; and what’s more, I don’t want to see it again.”

“Do you remember a burglary at Oakfield House, some time ago, eh?”

“No, I don’t. Do you?” inquired Peace, who was by this time a litle less confident in his tone and manner.

“Yes, I do. A man named Gregson was shot by a woman, and afterwards expiated his crimes on the public scaffold. If I mistake not, I met you on the night of the burglary. I’ve an astonishing power of remembering faces.”

“Have you? You’re a mighty clever fellow in your way; but it so happens that I never heard of any such burglary, and don’t know any house bearing that name. You seem to know more about it than I do. Were you one of the burglars?”

At this last observation the young man rushed forward and was about to strike Peace, when the girl, Nelly, threw herself between the two, and begged her protector to spare him.

“Say no more, Nell,” returned the young man. “I won’t harm him. Though for the life of me I can’t understand why you should seek to protect him.”

“Go your ways, you ugly little vagabond,” said the stranger, addressing Peace. “If you remain here much longer the chances are you will find yourself handed over to the police constable, who is coming this way.”

Peace in this instance considered discretion to be the better part of valour, and, hurling several anathemas at the girl and her protector, he made off.

He hastened at once to the house of the village surgeon, where he had his head dressed, declaring that he had received the wound in conflict with what he chose to term a ruffian.

He was by this time thoroughly sick of Broxbridge, which he determined upon leaving forthwith. He had been jilted and derided by a girl to whom he had become attached, had been chastised by a young man, who evidently knew all about the Oakfield House burglary, which he had believed had been quite forgotten, and so there was every reason for his leaving the neighbourhood. On the following morning he packed up his traps, had them conveyed to the station, and bidding Brickett good-bye, with a promise to return in a few weeks’ time, he beat a retreat, and hastened up to the metropolis, to find therein a new scene of action.

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

XXXVI. A YOUNG POACHER――THE INDIGNANT AGRICULTURIST

The name of the young man who came so opportunely to the rescue of Nelly was Philip Jamblin. The reader will doubtless remember the two visitors to Farmer Ashbrook’s house on the night of the burglary at Oakfield. These personages, Messrs. Cheadle and Jamblin, gave chase to Peace after his escape over the fields described in the opening chapters of this work. The Jamblins and Ashbrooks were old friends.

Philip’s father was the owner of a large farm situated at about a couple of miles’ distance from Broxbridge; he held this under a lease from Lord Ethalwood. The place was known as Stoke Ferry Farm.

Mr. Jamblin, senior, was a farmer of the old school, who had worked his way up in the world by dint of skill and industry. He it was who paid for the plentiful supply of beer to the occupants of the parlour of the “Carved Lion,” on the night when Peace first became acquainted with the establishment.

Mr. Jamblin had in his service a ne’er to-do-well, wayward, good-for-nothing sort of lad, called Alfred Purvis, whose parentage was not clearly established. A gentleman of independent means, residing in the neighbourhood, had paid for his support during the earlier years of his childhood, and when he became old enough he had placed him with Mr. Jamblin to learn the farming business, if it can, with propriety, be so termed.

But the lad Alfred was a sore trouble to the farmer. He was mischievously disposed, and was for ever getting into scrapes.

As he is destined to play a secondary part in this drama, it will be necessay to introduce him to the reader.

Some few days after Peace’s departure from Broxbridge, Mr. Jamblin became furious at a discovery he had made.

He was striding up and down the great stone kitchen of Stoke Ferry Farm, with his arms swinging round his head like the sails of a windmill, and his face growing redder and redder every moment.

He was a kindly-disposed man enough, and was greatly esteemed by his workpeople, but he did not like anything under-handed.

His youngest daughter Patty was leaning against the table, and trying to pacify him as best she could.

“Don’t lose your temper, father,” she murmured, in a soft low voice. “After all it’s only one, and surely that’s no great matter.”

“Only one!” cried the indignant agriculturist. “That be true enough, lass; but how are we to know if he aint killed twenty――the young warmint?”

A dead hare, which was lying on the dresser with a wire round its neck, explained the subject of their conversation.

Mr. Jamblin glanced at it with a look of rage and disgust.

“He’ll never come to any good――never, as sure as I’m a born man,” he ejaculated; “there beant no manner of doubt about that.”

“Haven’t you often said that boys wouldn’t be boys if they weren’t a little mischievous?” said his daughter.

“Don’t talk nonsense, gell. Boys’ meescheef be boys’ meescheef, that be true enough; but it doesn’t do to ha’ too much of it at one time. I tell ’ee he won’t come to any good. He aint a common boy――he’s a changeling, that’s what he be; there’s something remarkable about him. Ever since he’s bin here he’s bin a sore trouble to all on us, and I wish I’d never set eyes on the young bastard. After he had bin with me a little time and I sent him out in the fields bird-keepin’, he begged and prayed of me to take the long gun with him, and I did let un take it. ‘You won’t know how to use it now you’ve got it,’ sed I. ‘Oh yes, I shell,’ sed he; and I’m blessed if he warn’t right, for directly he got into the fields he let fly at a flock of my house pigeons and brought down four, and took ’em into the veeledge and sold ’em. He’ll never come to any good, Patty, you mark my words. Them as commence being bad as early as he did seldom find the right road arterwards.”

“Oh, he’ll know better as he gets older,” said Patty.

“Not a bit on it; not a morsel of improvement will be found in him. I tell ee what makes me most afraid on him,” said the farmer, sinking his voice to a whisper, “it’s the way he’s got of reading a durned lot o’ books. It’s my belief as they puts him up to no end of things as he’d never ha’ thort on without.”

“Oh, father, there aint any harm in reading.”

“I tell ee there is, I aint no ’pinion of that printed stuff, Patty. When I opens a book it reads all black to me, and whatever’s black’s bad, so folks say, and it arnt that only, this lad is so clever with’ut. I sent him to a day school to get a little scholarship because the vicar wished me to do so, but he soon beat the lot on un, missus inclooded.”

His daughter laughed outright at this speech.

“It be all very well for you to make merry over it, gell; he’s allers got a book in his hand now, arter his day’s work, or what he calls his day’s work, is over.”

“He’s read all I’ve got in the best parlour, and there’s a frightful sight on ’em there, so he gets about borrowin’ books from the neighbours. Blessed if I don’t think he would swallow the biggest library that ever was, and think nuffin of it.”

“Well, he’d better be reading than be getting into mischief.”

“Sam seed him busy about the hedge last evening, and this morning he bein’ fust in the ground went to look at the place, where he found this big leveret ketched in a wire as dead as a door nail.”

“Here he comes,” said Patty, looking through the window.

The farmer gave a sort of a grunt of displeasure, and a tall, light-haired boy ran into the room.

He was full of life and spirits, and as audacious in his manner.

He wore no coat or smock, but a waistcoat with long sleeves and a pair of fustian trousers bound below the knee with leather straps to prevent them from dragging in the mire.

His boots were of the usual clodhopping description, in weight about four pounds, and studded with nails like the door of a prison.

Although his costume was not particularly becoming, there was something in his voice and manner which showed that he was of a different race to the other labourers on the farm.

Nevertheless there was something in his countenance that betokened an absence of moral principle; a restlessness, and an expression of cunning seemed to pervade it.

There was something in his grey eyes which to a physiognomist would have afforded food for speculation and inquiry.

Mr. Jamblin sprang forward and seized the youngster by the collar, at which he did not appear to be surprised.

“You audacious circumventing young wagabond,” shouted out the farmer; “I’ve been a waitin’ for you, my pretty manakin. I’ll teach you to put metal collars round my hares’ necks, you rascal.”

“Will you, master?”

“Yes, I will. What have you to say for yourself?”

“What have I say? Well, if you will listen I’ll tell you, sir.”

“Go on, and look sharp about it, then.”

“Aint hares wild animals, the same as rats, foxes, and such like?” said the boy. “When I made a new sort of trap and caught the rats for you, which nobody else could do, didn’t you praise me and acknowledge it was a clever contrivance?”

“You young rascal!” cried Jamblin. “Don’t ’ee think to shield yourself by your book larning. Wild animals, indeed. I’ll flay ’ee alive, you viper.”

The farmer seized hold of a stout stick which was lying on the table.

“There was a farmer lagged the other day for killing a boy,” said the lad, in an insolent tone. “So don’t lay it on too strong, master, for fear of your own precious life.”

“You insolent ruffian!” exclaimed Jamblin. “Hang me if I ever met with your like, and hope I never shall for the matter o’ that.”

He rained a heavy shower of blows upon the boy’s back and shoulders, which he bore without flinching or even uttering a cry.

The farmer was surprised.

“He’s a hardened callous rascal that no mortal man can mek anything on, and that be the solemn truth.”

“He won’t do it again――I’m sure he won’t, father,” pleaded the girl.

“Won’t he? I’ll wager he will. Good words or bad blows are wasted on such as he.”

Then, turning to Alf, Jamblin said――

“I tell ’ee, my lad, I’ll serve ’ee in the same way as we serve a dog who runs out and eats his game. To-morrow I will tie this leveret under your nose and your hands behind your back, and let ’ee nose at it for a day or two――that’s what I’ll do.”

And, with these words, the indignant agriculturist stalked out of the kitchen.

The boy watched him across the yard, and when the farmer was lost to sight he unbuttoned his waistcoat, and passing his hand round his back produced a quantity of napkins with which he had padded himself.

He had been expecting some such castigation, and like an old soldier had recourse to stratagem.

The heavy blows fell harmless upon his back and shoulders.

No wonder he bore all with such patience and equanimity.

In cunning he was more than a match for his master, or indeed the whole of the establishment.

Patty could not refrain from laughing when she beheld the artifice resorted to by her companion in the kitchen.

“You are a sharp one, Alf, and no mistake,” she cried.

“But you won’t peach――won’t tell the governor?” said he.

“No――no. Let us hope his anger is all over by this time.”

“He won’t forget his promise about the hare, I daresay, but what of that? It won’t hurt me.”

The lad was quite right――Jamblin did not forget the promise he had made.

“Look here, men, just pinion this young scoundrel. We’ll teach him a lesson he won’t easily forget,” cried the farmer to his labourers in the yard on the following morning.

The men obeyed and the boy’s arms were fastened firmly, so that there was no possibility of his raising them.

The hare was then slung under his chin.

“Now, my lad, see how that suits you,” said Jamblin. “It shall hang there till you promise never to do the same thing again.”

He was driven out of the yard by the farm labourers, who one and all detested him for his mischievous ways, and therefore they enjoyed the fun immensely.

“Now then, youngster, go and make a sight o’ yourself till noontime,” cried the carter, thrusting young Purvis forcibly through the open gate into the high road.

“Who cares for a pack of fools like you?” exclaimed the lad, walking rapidly away from the scene. A chorus of laughter reached his ears as he took his way along the road.

He was certainly under the impression that he cut a most ridiculous figure, adorned as he was with his furry companion, but there was no help for it; he was constrained to hear the sneering remarks passed on him by the passengers, equestrian and pedestrian, he met with on the road.

He had also to endure the jocose and playful cuts with the whip with which the carters saluted him as they went by with their long teams of horses. But he bore all these indignities with the greatest fortitude; nevertheless a burning spirit of revenge smouldered within his breast――a spirit which some day or other would burst into a flame.

He walked on without deigning to offer any reply to the vexatious and sneering observations with which he was greeted.

An hour or more had passed over without his meeting with anyone who would take compassion on him. Presently he espied, at some little distance ahead of him, a little boy coming in the opposite direction.

It suddenly occurred to him that he might make a friend of the urchin, but the latter, believing him to be one of those fabulous animals he had read of in children’s good story books, or fables, as they are sometimes termed, screamed, and attempted to fly.

“Come here. I want to speak to you,” cried Alfred Purvis. “Don’t run away. Come.”

But the little fellow was too much alarmed by the extraordinary appearance of the speaker to approach any nearer, and, after hesitating for a few seconds, he made off in the opposite direction.

“Don’t run away, you little fool,” cried the farmer’s boy; “I only want to speak to you for one moment――something of the utmost importance. Don’t run away, there’s a good fellow; you have no call to be frightened of me.”

But the little fellow was frightened, and all the other could do in the way of persuasion failed to restore his confidence.

Alf Purvis said no more in the way of remonstrance, but ran after the fugitive as hard as his legs would carry him.

Encumbered with the hare, and pinioned as he was, he managed to get within a few yards’ distance of his younger and less agile companion.

The latter screamed with fright, and, turning out of the high road, flew into an adjoining meadow.

His pursuer followed fast on his heels. In another moment, Alf had overtaken the boy, with whom he came in collision, both falling on the grass together.

“Oh, mercy! What shall I do? Oh, oh!” sobbed the urchin.

Alf held him down by one knee, and then said, in a most conciliatory tone――

“You’ve no occasion to be a snivelin’. Nobody will hurt you. I want you to do me a favour. Come, there’s a good fellow; you won’t refuse, I’m sure. Don’t you know me?”

“No I don’t.”

“I work at Stoke Ferry Farm, and they’ve tied my hands behind me; that’s what they’ve been and done. Now you get up, and I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

The speaker rose to his feet.

“Now, then, we’re all right. Get up, young un, and come behind this hedge.”

His companion after a little hesitation obeyed, with a show of reluctance. His large eyes opened to their fullest extent when he had a full and closer view of Parvis, and he was evidently still in a state of wonderment.

“Now, then,” said Alf, “I want you to cut the ropes which fasten my arms. Have you got a knife?”

“No.”

“Well, put your hand in my pocket, and there you’ll find one.”

“In your pocket?”

“Yes; lift up my frock on the right hand side, and drive your hand in my pocket. Why do you hesitate?”

“I’m afraid.”

“But you must not be afraid. You’re a dear good little fellow; anyone can see that, and I dare say are your mother’s pet,” cried Alf, stooping down and giving his companion a kiss.

The latter plucked up courage and drew out a knife from the other’s pocket.

“Open it,” said Alf.

This was not an easy task to one of his tender years, but after one or two efforts he succeeded.

“Excellent. Now go behind me and cut through the rope. Don’t be afraid, you won’t hurt me. Hack away as hard as ever you can. Ah, ah, we’ll show them a trick or two. That’s right――hack away.”

The celebrated rope trick, as practised by the Davenport brothers, and other impostors, was not known at this time――hence it was that the pinioned lad was powerless without assistance.

“Perseverance overcomes all obstacles,” is an old saying, and in the due course of time the rope was severed.

Young Purvis was once more free. He seemed to breathe again with fresh life. He threw the cords scornfully on the ground, unfastened the hare, and shook himself in a satisfactory sort of way.

“You’re a jolly good little fellow,” he exclaimed, giving his companion a penny by way of reward.

“I’m sorry I haven’t in my power to give you more, but I shan’t forget you. I’ll make it up some other time.”

The boy took the penny and looked wonderingly at the speaker, who presented altogether a different appearance.

“Now, youngster,” said Alf, “you’ve done all I have required of you, and so good-bye. You’ve made a free man of me.”

The little urchin scampered off, and Alf Purvis found himself alone.

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

XXXVII. ALF’S RESOLVE――HIS MEETING WITH THE WHITECHAPEL BIRDCATCHER

The dinner hour came and passed away, but the inmates of Stoke Ferry Farm saw nothing of Alf Purvis. Mr. Jamblin was surprised at this, for the boy as a rule had always been punctual enough at meal times. The farmer grew fidgetty; he half regretted having made an example of the lad for an offence which, after all, could not be considered to be one of a very grave character.

“That young scapegrace is in his sulks, I expect,” said Jamblin to his daughter. “An’ may be he’s got the hump so strong on him that he’ll be for stoppin’ away for awhile.”

“Never fear,” answered Mr. Philip Jamblin; “he’ll come back again when he’s had his fling and hunger begins to set in. He’ll come back fast enough then, I’ll warrant.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Patty. “He’s got a mighty spirit of his own. He’s a lad one might lead, but I don’t think he’s easy to drive.”

“He’s an obstinate, audacious young varmint, that’s what he be, an’ one as no one can do much good with. Let un stop away an’ he likes,” cried the farmer.

He rose from his seat, and sallied forth into the fields.

“I think, Phil, that father was a little hard upon him, to hold him up to the ridicule of all the farm people, and then to drive him forth to be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood.”

“Oh, I don’t know; it’s no more than he deserves. The lad is always up to mischief, and has been an endless source of trouble and anxiety to us. If I could have had my way I would have got rid of him long ago.”

Seven o’clock came, and Mr. Jamblin, the elder, returned to the farmhouse again.

“So that impudent young scamp aint returned yet, it seems,” cried the farmer. “He be making a long stop on it.”

“I hope he will come back,” said his daughter, in a tone of sadness.

“You hope! What do you hope for? If he does come back he shan’t stop, I tell ’ee that. I’ll see the squire, and get shot of un.”

“Have a little more patience with him. He won’t be so wilful after a bit.”

“Patience, gell! I dunno what thee art thinkin’ about. I think we’ve all had patience enough. Wilful! He’ll mend as much as small beer is likely to do in harvest time. Some on us will ha’ to break un of his bad habits. I aint much yoose at that, it would seem.”

“But when he returns you will wait awhile, and try him a little longer?” said Patty, coaxingly, winding her arms round the old man’s neck.

“Umph! ye be a wheedling lass,” he returned. “Very well, I will wait and see if he be likely to change. Say no more, gell. You know better than what I do what a fool ye can mek o’ yer old father. Say no more; ye shall ha’ yer own way in this as in all other things.”

“Ah, that’s said like my own dear father,” murmured Patty.

But the night passed over as the day had done, and no Alf Purvis presented himself at Stoke Ferry Farm; as bed time came the members of the household exchanged blank looks, although they said but little. Each member of the family could not conceal his uneasiness.

Although they said but little each member of the family could not conceal their uneasiness.

Let us return to him whose absence was the cause of this anxiety.

After the departure of the urchin who had rendered such signal service to Alf, the latter walked over the fields and bethought him of what to do.

“I won’t return again to that dalled place,” murmured he. “I’ve had enough of the guv’nor and his low-bred crew of workpeople. Oh that I were a man, and able to fight my way in the world without the help of anyone! If I go to the squire he’ll give me a long lecture, and take me back to Stoke Ferry Farm. I don’t know what to do.”

He looked at the sun――it wanted about an hour to noon, his dinner time.

He resolved to stroll about and amuse himself birds’ nesting. Anyway he would not return till the evening――he could do without his dinner for once in the way; besides he had a slice of fat bacon between two thick pieces of bread in his pocket; these he had stolen from the larder without any one observing him.

Yes, he’ll go birds’ nesting.

He walked across field after field, and soon reached a small common which was covered with furze bushes, slanting thorn trees, and yews.

This place seemed to have considerable attractions for him. The aspect of nature is always beautiful, but rugged, savage, uncultivated nature this lad loved the most. Perhaps the reason of this might be traced to his occupation as a tiller of the soil.

As he entered the grass road which ran through the middle of the common he overtook a man who was walking slowly along, looking on all sides of him, and stopping every few steps to listen.

[Sidenote: No. 17.]

Alf knew pretty well every inhabitant of the locality by sight, but he never remembered to have seen the individual he now came across for the first time.

“Who can he be, and what’s his game?” he murmured; “he’s a queer-looking sort of customer. I’ll just watch and see what he’s up to.”

The man had a short pipe in his mouth――he was tall, but stooped slightly, which took somewhat off his height. His clothes were travel-stained and dilapidated, and the beard on his chin seemed to be of some days’ growth.

For the rest, his skin was of a deep brown, partly attributable to dirt and partly to his natural complexion, which was what might be termed swarthy. As to his age it would have puzzled any one to tell except those who had been acquainted with him for years――he might be seven and thirty, or he might be sixty.

On his back he carried a huge bundle, which was as large and heavy as a pedlar’s pack, but of a very different shape.

Alf’s curiosity was aroused――he had never seen any one of a similar character in the neighbourhood. He felt instinctively that the brown-faced man with the bundle was a brother sportsman, but he could not quite comprehend the reason for his stopping every now and then to listen, and then walking on in such a careless desultory manner.

“He’s a bit of an original in his way, a sort of curiosity,” murmured the boy. “He’s up to something and I mean to know what it is before long.”

The mysterious sportsman had by this time reached the small “clearing” (to use an American phrase) where the cottagers had been permitted to cut furze for their firing.

The stranger had all this time been quite unaware of the presence of the farmer’s boy.

He threw down his bundle and raised himself to his full height; he then stretched forth his arms, which were evidently stiff and cramped from the constrained position they had been in during his journey.

This done he reflected for a brief space of time, after which he stooped down and began to untie his bundle and spread out its contents.

“He’s a rum un. Let’s see what his next move is,” cried Alf, who deemed it expedient to keep as quiet as possible.

He, therefore, stretched himself full length on the grass.

When the boy saw the brown-faced man bring forth a large net his eyes began to shine, and lying on his stomach, with his face between his two hands, he watched the movements of the stranger with the greatest possible interest.

He saw the net, which was about twelve yards square, spread flat upon the ground, and then secured by four small pins (called stars), which left, however, a considerable space of net on either side unoccupied.

Then the brown-faced man placed something covered with green baize-cloth in the centre of the net, and, having carefully examined his apparatus, he uncoiled a long line, which was looped and run within the edges of the net.

He then raised the green baize, disclosing a goldfinch in a wire cage.

“My eye, he’s an artful old buffer, and knows his way about!” murmured Alf.

The man glanced around.

“Blessed if I didn’t hear a voice, or somethin’ of the sort,” he ejaculated.

He adjusted the lines of his net, and looked up at the sky――then he glanced around once more.

“Holloa, you, sir, what are you a doing there? Want to frighten the birds――eh?” he exclaimed, catching sight of the boy for the first time.

“I hope I aint in the way, or a doing any harm,” cried Alf, in a beseeching tone. “I’m only doing the looking-on part. I hope you don’t mind, please, sir?”

“Umph,” returned the man, with a puzzled expression of countenance, “you’ve been ’nation quiet, my young bloke. I didn’t know there was a soul about; but, look here, my lad, I’d rather you shift your quarters if it don’t make any difference to you, ’cos why it’s like enough you’ll frighten the birds away if you stop there.”

“All right, guv’nor, I’ll go wherever you like.”

The man made a sort of crook with his forefinger, with which he beckoned the lad.

“Just you stir your stumps,” he said, “and come here by the side of me.”

“All right, that’s just what I should like――it will suit me above everything,” cried Alf, with evident delight.

He and the brown-faced man hid themselves behind a bush, the latter holding the line and peeping through the interstices of the foliage.

As soon as the goldfinch felt the sun and light it began to sing.

“That’s the call bird,” whispered the man. “He’ll draw a lot presently if we have luck.”

It must be owned that there is a most malicious joy in these call birds to bring the wild ones into the same state of captivity, which may likewise be observed with regard to decoy ducks.

Their sight and hearing excel that of the bird-catcher. The call birds do not sing as a bird does when in a chamber; they invite the wild ones by what they, the bird-catchers, call “short jerks,” which when the birds are good may be heard at a great distance.

The ascendency of this call or invitation is so great that the wild bird is stopped in its flight, and, if not already acquainted with the nets, alights boldly within on a spot which otherwise it would not have taken the least notice of.

Indeed it frequently happens that if half the flock are only caught the remainder will immediately afterwards alight in the nets and share the same fate, and should only one bird escape, that bird will suffer itself to be pulled at till it’s caught, such fascinating power have the call birds.

While we are on the subject of the jerking of the bird, we cannot omit mentioning that the bird-catchers frequently lay wagers upon whose call bird can jerk the longest, as that determines their superiority.

They place them opposite to each other by an inch of candle, and the bird who jerks the most before the candle is burnt out wins the wager.

We have been informed that there have been instances of birds giving one hundred and seventy jerks in a quarter of an hour.

It may be here observed that birds when near each other seldom jerk or sing.

It is a singular circumstance that the male chaffinches fly by themselves, and in the flight precede the females; but this is not particular with this class of bird.

When the larks are caught at the beginning of the season it frequently happens that forty are taken, and not one female among them.

An experienced birdcatcher informed us that such birds as breed twice a year generally have in their first brood a majority of males, and in their second of females.

The method of birdcatching must have been long practised, as it is brought to a most systematical perfection, and attended with much trouble and expense.

The nets are a most ingenious piece of mechanism.

They are from ten to twelve and a half yards long, and ten yards and a half in width, and no one on bare inspection would imagine that a bird, who is so quick in all its motions, could be caught by the nets flapping over each other till he becomes an eye-witness of the process.

After the birdcatcher and Alf Purvis had taken up their position in the clump of foliage, they waited patiently for more than a quarter of an hour.

The adjacent trees and shrubs resounded with chirpings and carollings.

“I like to hear them twitter,” said the boy.

“It looks like business,” returned his companion. “Pretty――aint it?”

“Oh, jolly, and no mistake. I wish I knew the business.”

The birds gathering courage began to flutter down upon the net, which soon swarmed with linnets, yellowhammers, and tit-larks.

“Pull the string, guv’nor,” said Alf.

“Wait a bit, youngster. I want some bullfinches. I can hear ’em piping all around. There’s lots on ’em about these thorn trees.”

The bullfinch, though it does not properly belong to what are known as singing birds or birds of flight, as it does not often move farther than from hedge to hedge, yet invariably sells well on account of its learning to whistle tunes, and sometimes flies over the fields where the nets are laid, the birdcatchers have often a call-bird to ensnare it, though most of them can imitate its call with their mouths.

It is remarkable with regard to this bird that the female answers the purpose of a call-bird as well as the male, which is not experienced by any other bird taken by the London bird catchers.

The man in the bush imitated the call to such perfection that in a short time he had the satisfaction of seeing six cock bullfinches in the net, which began to present the appearance of an aviary. They were beautiful little creatures, with their blue bullet heads and their scarlet breasts.

They were clothed in red and purple, like the kings of ancient Tyre.

The man gave his rope a sharp tug, and the flaps or wings of the net closed and held them all prisoners.

The poor things beat themselves fiercely against the net, uttering piercing cries, while the call-bird still sung as if in savage triumph from his wire cage.

“Beautiful!” ejaculated the boy. “I call that something like.”

The birds were gathered by the large brown hand of their ensnarer, and with Alf’s assistance they were placed in a large hamper, which formed part of the fowler’s equipage.

“That’s a good haul, ain’t it?” inquired the lad.

“Middling, not so bad. I’ve had better, and a good many worse.”

“Do you happen to know of any nestesses round here?” he inquired.

“I don’t mean the common sorts. D’ye know of a bottletit’s anywhere?”

“I know one――in fact I was going to collar it when I met you.”

How far is it from here?”

“Not a hundred yards from where we are now――just ready for eggs.”

“I don’t want no eggs, but I’ll give yer a pint o’ beer for the nest――that is unless ye want it yourself.”

“I don’t particularly want it,” said the boy, who was going to show the man the nest for nothing; but he now declared he couldn’t afford to part with it under sixpence.”

“It’s worth that if it be a good ’un. I’ll give you sixpence――that is, when I’ve got the nest.”

“All right. Come this way,” cried Alf, who showed the man the nest, which was imbedded in a little bunch of gorse.

Instead of tearing it out the fowler cut the branch with his knife, thus preserving, it furze and all.

He then handed his companion the sixpence.

The bottle tit, or long-tailed tit, builds the most beautiful of all English nests. It is oval in shape, like a leather bottle, and outside is one mass of that crisp white moss which one finds on apple trees and old gate-posts. There is one tiny hole the circumference of a child’s finger, and the interior is choked to its very mouth with soft and downy feathers.

These nests sell at a high price in towns to egg-collectors, closet naturalists, and buyers of curiosities.

“You’ll make your money of that, guv’nor. It’s a stunner――aint it?”

“Not a bad one of its sort; but, lor’ love ye, the job is to find a customer. It’s only one here and there who knows what’s worth buying and what’s best left alone. Still, ye see, it won’t hurt by keepin’, and it won’t die, as many of the birds do. I’ve been very unlucky wi’ my birds of late.”

“Have you, though? They croak, I s’pose?”

“That’s it; right you are. They do croak, and no mistake. Howsomdever, it can’t be helped. Do you know of any more nests, young shaver――some with bigger eggs, you know?”

“Ah! you mean some of the other sort?”

This is a cant term among poachers for those eggs which are preserved by the hand of the law.

The fowler started, and looked at the speaker with his right eye only.

“You’re a queer young bloke,” he muttered, “down as a hammer, and no mistake. Oh! you’re fly, my lad――fly to a thing or two――there aint no manner of doubt about that ’ere!”

Alf laughed. He was much charmed with his companion’s quaint and curious ways.

“I know of one nest――eleven eggs, old bird sitting,” he said, in a tone of exultation. “Just your book, I should say.”

“That’s the style, Polly. Bring ’em to me, my lad, and I’ll give you a shilling.”

“If you’ll give me a shilling I’ll show you the nest, and let you take it as you did the bottletit’s. I want money, I can tell you.”

“I s’pose you do. That’s by no means an uncommon complaint.”

“Well, you can have it if you like――only say the word.”

“And fork out the bob――eh?”

“Yes, that’s a bargain, you know.”

“Well, look here, my little ace of trumps, that may be all very well; but how am I to know if you wont round on me afterwards?”

“I never rounded on anybody in my life,” cried Alf, in a tone of indignation.

“Umph, I’m jolly glad of it; but you’ve got a pair of queer grey peepers. I’m always keerful how I do business with grey peepers.”

“I didn’t make my peepers, and it’s no fault of mine if their colour don’t please you. I know one or two shady customers who have black and brown peepers.”

“You’re a deal too artful for my money, and you see I don’t want to be led into a scrape, which is easier for a cove to get into than out of by long chalks.”

“Look here, then,” cried Alf, pulling out the hare from under his smock; “I snared this, and have had a thrashing for it. I’ll sell you this if you like, and then one will be as low in the dirt as ’tother in the mire.”

The bird-catcher stared with surprise, and exclaimed quickly――

“Didn’t I say as how you was fly? I’m blessed if you are not too good for a God-forgotten place like this.”

“I want to leave it, and I will, please the pigs,” returned the lad. “I don’t care what I do so long as I haven’t to go back to Stoke Ferry Farm.”

“Is that where you come from?”

“Yes.”

“Who and what are you?”

“I’m an orphan, and have been brought up by Mr. Jamblin.”

“And who is he?”

“A farmer; and one as thinks a lot on himself.”

“And you want to leave him?”

“Yes.”

“And seek your fortune in the great world, eh?”

“That’s it. You’ve just hit it.”

“Well, come, lad, sit down and let us have a bit of dinner together. You’re peckish, I ’spose, by this time?”

Alf drew from his pocket the two pieces of bread and the slice of bacon.

“Oh, you carry your prog with you, it seems. Not a bad plan. But just reach that basket――we shall find something better in that.”

The two commenced their repast.

“Where are you bound for after you’ve done for the day?” inquired Alf.

“For London. Whitechapel; it aint a haristocratic part, but it’s busy sort of place in its way.”

“I should like to go with you.”

“Well, then, you shall, youngster. So that’s soon settled.”

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