Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 25

The words that had fallen from Bristow could not be forgotten by Peace, who began to be seriously concerned.

He was quite unable in any way to account for the expressions made use of by the ruffian in the parlour.

From whence could he have obtained his information?

Had it been noised abroad that Peace was the man who effected an entrance into the warehouse, or had Cooney been in the town and split upon him?

Some mysterious agency had been at work.

Bristow could not have dreamt that he was a burglar. He was too besotted and stupid a man to divine it from anything he had seen.

Somebody must have given him secret information. These thoughts passed rapidly through the brain of our hero.

“This place is becoming too hot for me,” murmured Peace, while working in his shop in the back yard.

“Some enemy is at work, and to remain here much longer would simply be an act of madness. No, I must away, and that, too, as speedily as possible, but I will not let any one know my intentions—​no, not even Bessie. That Bristow is a dangerous fellow—​when the drink is in him he cares not what he says.”

Peace had concealed in his rooms a number of valuable articles which were the proceeds of his burglaries. He did not care about running any risk by disposing of the same in Bradford; neither did he feel disposed to leave anything behind when he quitted the town. He therefore packed them as closely as possible in a hair trunk which he had procured for the purpose.

All this was done as quickly and secretly as possible while Bessie Dalton was away at the mill where she worked. When she came home in the evening she found Peace busily occupied in the shop with his picture frames.

He appeared to be as cheerful as usual, but he was maturing his plan of operations.

On the following morning he paid the landlord his rent, together with the amount due for the week’s notice, alleging that he had just received a telegram announcing the fact that his mother was in London dangerously ill, and that he was therefore compelled to hasten to her bedside without further delay.

The landlord did not for a moment doubt the truth of this statement.

Peace put his traps in a fly he had hired, and was driven to the station.

He took the first train to London, arriving in the metropolis in the early part of the afternoon.

A four-wheeled cab conveyed him to Whitechapel.

In that classic locality dwelt a Jew with whom Peace was well acquainted.

He had on more than one occasion disposed of his ill-gotten wares to the Israelite in question.

The Jew was called “cunning Isaac” by the professional gentlemen who had dealings with him.

Peace was driven to a coffee-shop, near to the Jew’s residence.

Here he engaged a bed, his trunks were safely deposited in the back room; he had some coffee in the public room, and in the dusk of the evening he proceeded to the Jew’s house, carrying with him, in a large bag, the greater portion of the property he had brought with him.

“Ah, Mishter Peace, your servant. I’m happy and proud to see you. Vat can I do for you? Have you anything in my vay? Bishness is bad—​wery bad it ish. Nothing stirring but stagnation, as our friend O’Callaghan used to say.”

“You just stop your clatter, Isaac, and don’t call me by my name in a public shop. What I have to say to you must be said in your own private room.”

“Chertainly, my tear friend, chertainly! This way if you please.”

The burglar was conducted into a large back room, which presented the appearance of an old curiosity shop. It was crammed full of articles of almost every conceivable description.

“There now, take a chair, and make yourself at home. I’m happy and proud to see you,” ejaculated the Jew, rubbing his hands together.

“There’s quite enough of that. You’re about as glad to see me as I am to see you,” observed Peace.

“Vell, then, ve von’t say any more about it. Let’s to bishness. You’ve got something for me, I dare say.”

His visitor opened his bag, and placed a number of articles on the table.

These consisted of gold trinkets of various descriptions, silver plate, spoons, forks, and fruit knives, but more noticeable than all the rest was the massive silver cup which the burglar had purloined from the mill-owner’s residence at Dudley Hill.

On this was engraved the owner’s name, and the inscription signified that it had been presented to the master by the workpeople employed in his establishment.

The Jew examined each article separately, and shook his head in a deprecating manner as some of them came under his inspection. This was a way he had so that he might thereby depreciate them in the eyes of the party who offered them for sale. Some young hands were taken in by his manner, which to say the truth was never very encouraging.

“Oh, I see—​plated,” he would ejaculate, when handling a genuine silver article, which he would push on one side as worthless. These little pleasantries were habitual with him.

It is a well-known fact to those who are acquainted with the subject that the burglar or thief never realises half, nor, indeed, in many instances a third, of the value of the property he purloins.

The sacrifice he has to make in obtaining ready cash for the same is enormous. The Jew “fence,” as he is termed, who purchases the goods obtains by far the largest booty, and this is done with but little risk. The receivers, as a rule, are seldom captured and brought to justice, it being at all times most difficult to prove their guilt.

“Well,” said Peace, after the Jew had finished his scrutiny of the various articles, “will they suit you?”

“Umph, there are some good things among them, but ash to the others, vell I don’t care much about them.”

“Don’t have them then,” returned his companion.

“I’ll have them all at a price.”

“Yes, I understand what that means—​at your price, about a quarter of their value.”

The Jew regarded the speaker with a half angry glance.

“I give the utmost I can afford at all times—​to my friends especially. Indeed, Mishter Peace, I often lose by my purchases; bishness ish pad—​there are no buyers, money is tight. You don’t know how hard it is to get rid of goods, some especially. Now, there’s that presentation cup—​vat can I do with it? See the risk I run in——”

“Get out!” cried Peace, testily. “Put it in the melting pot—​risk be hanged. You can’t gammon me, you old sinner.”

“Oh, Lord! to hear him talk, it’s as good as a play,” said the Jew, once more rubbing his hands together. Then, suddenly changing his tone, he said—

“Tell ye vat I’ll do—​give you fifty pounds for the lot.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure. Fifty pounds for goods that are worth a hundred and fifty in weight of the silver alone.”

“Ah! but you forget the solder—​you never thought of the solder. Besides I must have some little profit. I can’t live on air.”

Peace knew perfectly well, when he paid a visit to the establishment, that there would be a long time lost in haggling before he could get a moderately fair offer from Isaac. He had come prepared for this.

“I won’t take fifty, or anything like it,” said Peace, putting some of the articles back in his bag.

“Yer vont—​eh?”

“I know where I can get more, and not far from here either.”

“Vere ish it? Tell us vere it ish. Vill he puy of me?”

“I’m not going to let you know where it is.”

“Vill you take sixty? There’s a good offer. I shall lose by them.”

Peace shook his head. No, he would not take sixty. Ultimately a bargain was struck, and Peace accepted seventy-five pounds for the articles, and he esteemed himself particularly fortunate in realising that sum.

“Ah, that’s a pad job about the ‘Badger’—​a very pad job—​poor fellow, he vos bowled out at last.”

“He was too headstrong. It was partly his own fault, so I’ve been told,” remarked Peace, as he passed out of the shop.

He slept that night at the coffee-house, and on the following morning took the train to his native town, Sheffield.

He called on his mother and found her in her accustomed health and spirits. It is said that he was her favourite son, but we have no positive proof of this.

Soon after his arrival in Sheffield he wrote a letter to Bessie Dalton, in which he informed her that he had left Bradford for very excellent reasons—​the place had become too hot for him, and a change of air was necessary for his health. This, he asserted, was his only reason for leaving—​his love for her (Bessie) was as strong as ever. Nevertheless, there was an imperative necessity for them to be separated for a while.

He, however, sent her a small sum of money occasionally, and bade her keep up her spirits until they met again.

He had brought with him a sum which would suffice to keep him for some little time, and before this became exhausted he knew pretty well how to obtain more, but for some weeks after his arrival in his native town he was much more careful than he had been heretofore.

He picked up a very decent living by playing the violin at various houses of public entertainment in the town, and, to all appearance, he was a well-behaved, proper sort of young man enough.

It was shortly after his return to Sheffield that he become enamoured of a young girl. This, the first and indeed only honourable attachment he ever had for one of the opposite sex, was not crowned with success.

The circumstances connected with the life of the object of his new-formed attachment are of a nature singularly romantic, and as our history progresses her career, as shadowed forth in this work, will form a touching episode in the drama of every-day life.

There resided in the town of Sheffield at this time a widow lady, named Maitland. She was possessed of a small income, and led a quiet life. Peace, who had been introduced to her by one of the neighbours, was anxious to improve the acquaintance, his reason for this being a sudden passion for her daughter Aveline.

When once bent on any object he was not a man to be easily thwarted.

Aveline Maitland was possessed of no inconsiderable share of beauty. She was exquisitely formed, graceful, with small delicately-chiselled features, which were singularly sweet in their expression. Taken altogether, there was an air of refinement about her that might well inspire any man with the master passion.

It is somewhat singular that such a radiant, fair young creature should have touched the heart of a man of so coarse a mould as Charles Peace.

But so it was. He saw her by chance at her mother’s residence, and he was struck with her grace and beauty.

Her influence over him was so powerful that for a short time he became quite an altered man.

He dressed with scrupulous care, was soft and gentle, and indeed it might be said winning in his manner.

Aveline Maitland, utterly unconscious of the fact that she had made a conquest of her mother’s visitor, treated him with courtesy, and conversed freely with him upon the various topics of the day.

Mrs. Maitland gave a party one evening. Peace, who heard of this, volunteered to play the violin to the dancers.

The widow availed herself of his services, and he made himself particularly agreeable to all the guests.

After this he procured a box at the theatre, and escorted the widow and her daughter. During the performance he was most polite and attentive to both the females.

It was a source of great trouble to him, however, that the fair Aveline did not offer him any encouragement. On the contrary, he could not conceal from himself that she was cold and distant.

Nevertheless he did not despair. It is an old adage, “That faint heart never won fair lady.” Peace was mindful of this. Most assuredly his was not a faint heart at any period of his career.

He was determined to woo and win Aveline. This time he was desperately in love, but there is another declaration made by a great poet—​namely, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” It would be hardly worth while to make an effort to ascertain whether Peace’s passion for the fair Aveline could be included in the category of “true love;” there was so little truth about the man throughout the whole of his sinful life that the reader will find it difficult to believe of him being inspired with a pure and holy love for one of the opposite sex.

One thing, however, is quite certain, he believed himself to be desperately in love, and comforted himself in much the same way as other mortals do under similar circumstances.

“What is love?”

The fevered head, the palpitating heart, the visions beautiful and young, clothing our every day in a transient paradise, when the voice is heard deliciously exulting, or weeping passionately loud into the pillowed night.

Is this love? Slim girlhood answers yes.

Or is it the interchange of soul and soul, of which all life is typical? A staff in the traveller’s hand, music to the soldier’s march. Ah, such is love, sweet love!

Peace, as we have already seen, was a man of action. He was not one to beat about the bush, or let the grass grow under his feet, and in a very short time after his introduction to Mrs. Maitland and her charming daughter, he determined upon making a declaration to the latter of his undying and unfading love.

He had before this presented Mrs. Maitland with a handsome timepiece, the frame of which was most elaborately and beautifully carved by his own hands.

He had in his possession a ring set with diamonds, rubies, and other precious stones. This he purposed presenting to the daughter upon the first opportunity that occurred.

The widow’s cottage stood on the outskirts of the town of Sheffield. In the rear of the habitation was a small but well-cultivated garden. In this, one fair spring morning, Aveline Maitland was to be seen. She was seated in an alcove, or summer-house, as it was termed, reading.

Charles Peace, who had been watching her from the road, thought this a favourable opportunity.

He unfastened the wicket gate by the side of the garden, and entered.

His manner was soft and gentle. Taking off his hat, he paid his respects to the widow’s daughter, who rose from her seat and shook him by the hand.

“Pardon me, Miss Maitland, for this intrusion upon your privacy; but I have that to say which cannot possibly remain any longer unsaid.”

The young lady regarded the speaker with a look of surprise, and requested him to be seated.

Peace proceeded. “In the first place, I have a favour to ask, which I hope—​nay, I feel convinced—​you will not refuse.”

“What is its nature?” inquired his companion.

“I wish you to accept this little present,” said he, drawing forth the ring; “to accept it as a token in remembrance of me.”

“Sir!” exclaimed Aveline. “Mr. Peace, you greatly surprise me.”

“You are not offended, I hope?”

“No, certainly not. And I hope you will not be offended when I say I could not think of accepting it.”

No. 6.

ENCOUNTER WITH THE DOG BRUNO.

Peace’s brow darkened. To say the least of it, this was a bad beginning. He did not press the question.

“Miss Maitland,” he said, in continuation, “you will, I hope, not object to hear what I have to say?”

She signified, by an inclination of the head, that he might proceed.

“Well,” said Peace, “I don’t know whether you have been able to divine my feelings, or to guess the secret which is locked up in my heart; but I feel that the time has come for me to be outspoken. From the very first moment I saw you but one absorbing thought haunted me. A mighty and overpowering passion took possession of me, and held me in bondage. As time went on, it became more intensified. Take pity on me!”

“Pity, and for what?”

“I am your slave, your devoted slave. It is little to say, perhaps, that I never knew what love was till I saw you.”

His companion gave utterance to a cry of surprise, or it might be alarm.

“Ah, my dear young lady, if you only knew how, sleeping or waking, your image is before me, if you only knew——”

“Enough of this,” cried Aveline; “we are not on the stage playing two parts in a fashionable melodrama; you must be less demonstrative.”

“I will, as it so pleases you. Listen: I have money at my command sufficient to supply you with every ease or luxury you may desire. Only give me hope—​do not drive me to despair. I love you so much that it would be indeed a blessing to devote my whole life to you. Tell me—​may I hope?”

“Hope what?”

“That you will look with favour on me.”

“Mr. Peace I have already signified that you surprised me—​now I am fairly astonished. What am I to understand by the words you have been uttering?”

“I desire you to accept me as a suitor for your hand, and on a future day I hope to become your husband.”

Miss Maitland rose from her seat.

“There must be an end of this,” she said, with something like anger depicted on her beautiful features.

“You refuse then—​you doom me to perpetual misery.”

“I don’t know what you mean by perpetual misery, but I must tell you frankly that I feel it my duty to at once declare that I cannot for a moment receive you as a suitor, and once and for all I bid you never again to allude to this subject.”

Peace was miserably disappointed. He felt humiliated. The reception he had met with was in every way unsatisfactory.

He did, in his way, really love the young woman to whom he had made so sudden and unexpected a declaration.

Her candour and prompt answers cut him to the quick.

He had no right to expect a young lady, who was so immeasurably superior to himself, to treat him in any other way than she had done; but the audacity, assurance, and conceit of the man were beyond all bounds.

He had hoped to carry the fortress by storm, but the attempt turned out an ignominious failure.

“I cannot tell you, Miss Maitland, how supremely wretched you have made me,” said Peace.

“I am sorry to give pain to anyone, but at the same time I have felt it my bounden duty to be explicit. You have my answer. Let me beg of you, as a personal favour, Mr. Peace, not to ever again refer to this subject.”

“May I inquire the cause of this aversion, if I may so term it? Is there a rival in the case?”

“I do not feel myself bound to answer such a question,” returned his companion, in a tone of offended dignity. “Neither do I think our relative positions entitle you to interrogate me thus, I might say, rudely. Our interview is at an end.”

She moved towards the house.

“I hope we part friends. You’re not offended with me?”

“Well, no; but I think you have acted without due consideration. There has never been anything in my manner or bearing towards you to warrant this familiarity. But let that pass. I bear you no ill will. On the contrary, I hope and trust you will see the mistake you have made, and so farewell.”

She offered her hand to Peace, who took it and raised it to his lips.

She withdrew it somewhat hastily, and walked with rapid strides towards the back door of the cottage.

Peace found himself alone.

He had some difficulty in mastering his feelings.

Rage and despair seemed to have seized him, and had he not respected Aveline Maitland as much or, indeed, more than he admired and loved her, the probability is that he would have burst out in one of those violent fits of passion which he generally displayed when thwarted in any object upon which he had set his heart.

But there was something so polished in the manner of the young girl that he was in a measure disarmed and held in bondage while in her presence.

After the departure of Miss Maitland, Peace remained for a few minutes like one stupified.

He presently recovered himself, and walked slowly along the gravel path in the garden until he had reached the gate.

He opened it, passed through, and crept down the lane which skirted the side entrance of the widow’s residence.

He cast one long lingering look at the cottage, heaved a deep sigh, and walked on with accelerated speed.

“I’ve been too precipitate,” he ejaculated, as he proceeded along; “much too precipitate, and by my rashness have lost the only woman I ever loved—​the only woman. How could I have been such a fool? Not, perhaps, that she would have been persuaded to listen to my suit, not in any case; but I have thrown away whatever little chance I had. Well, she gave me a plain and positive answer. And it’s likely enough that some one else is after her.”

As this thought passed through his brain he uttered curses loud and deep.

Crestfallen, and in a state bordering on distraction, he reached Sheffield, where he joined a lot of boon companions, in whose company he vainly strove to drown the sorrow which weighed so heavily upon his heart.

For the next few days he was in a state of nervous excitement.

He could not forget the words that had fallen from the lips of Aveline.

Did she suspect aught? Had some mischievous busybody been speaking against him? It was likely enough. There must have been some powerful influence at work. The more he reflected upon the subject the more he felt assured that some one had given her a timely caution. Who could it be?

He ferreted about in all quarters; made inquiries of a number of persons from whom he thought he might obtain the desired information, but was unable to get the faintest clue to anyone. He pushed his inquiries still further, but was in no way successful.

He frequently bent his steps in the direction of the widow’s cottage, where dwelt the woman for whom he was ready to make any sacrifice. He hovered about the house and grounds in a state of hopeless and almost incurable despair.

It was even some solace for him to contemplate the habitation, and to conjure up, by the agency of imagination, the fair young creature moving about from room to room.

One day, while traversing the lane, he heard voices in the garden; they proceeded from the other side of the hedge which skirted the grounds.

Peace came to a halt—​listened most attentively. He could hear the low, musical tones of Aveline, and hear also the voice of a man in close converse with her.

His heart beat audibly, his pulse quickened.

“She has some one with her,” he murmured.

Moved by a sudden impulse, he crept by the side of the fence until he had gained the extreme end of the garden. A quickset hedge ran along this, through the interstices of which Peace was able, unobserved, to obtain a view of the summer-house, upon which his eyes were now riveted.

He saw Aveline Maitland seated therein. By her side was a tall, handsome young man, whose looks denoted the state of his heart. He was whispering loving words to her—​so Peace imagined, and was by no means mistaken.

It was evident that he was saying something that pleased her, for ever and anon she smiled.

Peace’s brain seemed to be on fire, his knees knocked together, and his whole frame shook with ill-suppressed passion.

“Tom Gatliffe, as I’m a living man!” he exclaimed. “He then is my rival, the sneaking hound! Ah, if I had only known this before!”

He ground his teeth with rage, and watched the lovers with the eyes of a basilisk.

It would have been too plainly perceptible, even to a casual observer, to say nothing of the penetrating and suspicious glance of Peace, that the young lady in the alcove lent an attentive ear to the soft, low sentences breathed by her male companion.

Peace became furious as he gazed upon the loving pair; nevertheless, he found it impossible to leave the spot. The foliage behind which he hid was sufficiently dense to screen him, but even if this had not been the case, he was wound up to such a state of desperation that he would not have much cared had the faithless Aveline and her companion become aware of his position behind his leafy screen.

Indeed, the thought crossed his mind more than once, of emerging from his place of concealment and confronting them.

But, upon second consideration, he came to the conclusion that no possible good could result from such a course of action, and therefore determined to keep where he was till the interview was over.

He would watch and wait.

The conversation was carried on between the two for some time, after which they both rose and walked slowly towards the house.

Peace was not sufficiently near to hear a word they said, but he judged, rightly enough, that their discourse was a pleasant one—​being, in fact, made up of those airy nothings which are the golden dreams of life’s morning.

The situation in which he found himself was, to say the least of it, a most trying one—​it would have proved to be so to the most apathetic, but to a man of Peace’s temperament it was all but insupportable.

“She can be haughty and distant enough when it suits her purpose, the deceitful minx,” he ejaculated, with bitterness; “but at other times she can be all honey. Bah! a plague on them both! That mealy-mouthed Tom Gatliffe, with his fine set speeches and goody-goody manner, has turned the gal’s head—​that is the reason of her flouting me the other day.”

The lovers now entered the cottage, and Peace crept along the side of the hedge till he had reached the lane.

He sat down on a neighbouring stile and began to reflect—​if a chaotic mass of fugitive thoughts rushing through an overheated brain can be called reflection.

What should he do? How should he be avenged?

Was it possible to break the golden fetters which bound the two together?

These were questions he found some difficulty in answering.

He had known Tom Gatliffe from boyhood; indeed, at one time they were schoolfellows. He was jealous of him even in those early days, for Tom was a diligent pupil, and in every way so superior to Peace that as a natural consequence they were never at any time what might be called pals.

“He was always a proud, conceited upstart,” exclaimed Peace. “Always thought a deal of himself, and went in for the virtuous, and looked down upon me with something like contempt. That was bad enough, but worse has followed—​he’s stolen from me the only girl I ever loved. I hate the fellow, curse him!”

He rose from his seat and walked rapidly down the lane, muttering anathemas against Gatliffe and all his belongings. This did not appear to satisfy him, so he turned round and retraced his steps.

He had no settled or defined purpose in so doing, and, indeed, he hardly knew why he turned back, unless it was occasioned by a reluctance to lose sight of the cottage in the occupation of the widow.

He was so restless, so little himself, that he acted altogether in an erratic way.

In the course of ten minutes or so he caught sight of a solitary figure at the extreme end of the lane.

Peace came to a sudden halt; to all appearance from what he could make out the solitary messenger was none other than the detested Tom Gatliffe.

In a minute or so after this he was assured of this fact; with rapid strides the young man hastened along.

Peace waited; this was just what he desired. His face was distorted with passion, and wore on it a demoniacal expression.

Heedless of the coming storm young Gatliffe walked merrily along until he caught sight of the malevolent countenance of his quarrelsome schoolfellow.

“Ugh, it’s you, is it?” said Peace, with inexpressible disgust, both in his tone and manner; “you, eh?”

“What’s the matter, my friend?” inquired Tom.

“Friend be hanged,” answered Peace, “you’re no friend of mine. What do you do crawling about here? Tell me that. Oh, you may put on one of your sanctimonious looks, but it won’t deceive me. I say again, what do you do here?”

“Upon my word, Peace, you conduct yourself in a strange manner. Has anyone offended you?”

“Never you mind whether they have or not; you are lurking about here for no good purpose. Where have you come from?”

“Well, from the house of a friend of mine.”

“You are full of friends—​everybody’s your friend, I s’pose. Is your friend’s name Maitland?”

“You are quite correct in your surmise—​it is.”

“I thought so, and I suppose, if I may make so bold as to inquire, it is not so much the widow who has attracted you to the house as the daughter?” This was said in a tone of bitter irony.

“What if I refuse to answer impertinent questions?”

“You will refuse. You dare not answer them—​you’re a mischief-making, lying, canting humbug. It is you, and none but you, who have poisoned the mind of Miss Maitland against me—​Charles Peace—​do you hear?”

Tom Gatliffe was perfectly astounded. As Peace gave utterance to these last words his countenance seemed to darken with the darkness of a curse.

“Look here,” said Gatliffe, in a more serious tone. “For the life of me I do not understand what you mean; but I tell you frankly that I am not disposed to be insulted and abused—​the more so since I have not by word or deed done you the slightest harm.”

“It’s a lie—​a miserable lie!” yelled Peace, poking his face forward towards the speaker, and making a hideous grimace.

“Are you mad? What on earth possesses you?” inquired the other.

“Haven’t you just left Miss Maitland?” cried Peace.

“Suppose I have—​what’s that to you?”

“Oh—​oh—​what is it to me! Why, only this—​she looked with eyes of favour on me until you set her against me.”

“Looked with favour on you!” said Gatliffe, with ineffable disgust. “Me set her against you? Why, Peace, you are beside yourself. Listen. I have known the Maitlands for years; and, long before you set eyes upon either, was the accepted suitor of the daughter. And neither you nor any other man shall come between me and Aveline Maitland—​not even a peer of the realm.”

“Don’t you fancy you’re going to carry it off with a high hand, you despicable, crawling reptile!” exclaimed Peace, in a paroxysm of rage. “There’s not a word of truth in what you’ve been saying. I know full well who I have to thank for turning her against me—​you, none but you.”

With these words he rushed at Gatliffe like a wild beast. He wound his fingers around his throat and endeavoured to throttle him.

In his fury he foamed at the mouth; and, had he been possessed of a weapon, doubtless something serious would have happened.

Gatliffe was a tall, athletic young man, who, in fair fight, would be able to overcome Peace with the greatest ease.

He had stood his taunts and insults with commendable good temper, but there is a limit to the forbearance of the most patient man.

He caught Peace round the waist, lifted him up, and threw him from him with the greatest ease.

Peace picked himself up and rushed forward again at his antagonist, who by this time had become a little angry.

He delivered a well-directed blow on his opponent’s chest, which knocked him backwards.

Finding that he was overmatched, Peace picked up a large flint stone, which he hurled at Gatliffe, who was seriously bruised in the thigh from the blow.

He rushed rapidly forward, and, clutching Peace by both arms, he pinioned him, and rendered him powerless to do further harm for the present.

“Let go, coward—​let go!” exclaimed Peace.

“It’s you who are the coward, you spiteful, vindictive little brute. You ought to be ashamed of yourself—​that is if you have any shame in you. Think yourself lucky you’ve escaped a good thrashing, for it’s what you deserve,” said Gatliffe.

Peace made frantic efforts to release himself, but he was unsuccessful.

Gatliffe, in addition to having great personal strength, had on more than one occasion carried off the prize as a wrestler.

He was a quiet, well-disposed young man enough, and was at all times the very last to quarrel, but when once aroused he was well able to take his own part.

“Are you going to leave go?” cried Peace, after a series of ineffectual struggles.

“Not unless you promise to behave better.”

“I wont promise—​I’ll die first.”

“Very well, then; I shall keep you prisoner till a constable comes—​that’s all.”

“A constable?”

“Yes, a policeman. Will you promise?”

“What?”

“To conduct yourself like a sane person.”

“I wont promise anything. I hate and despise you for a sneak as you are.”

“You were always an abusive, audacious fellow, even as a boy,” returned Gatliffe. “And a man who knows you as well as I do must be a fool to take any notice of your blustering.”

Two farm labourers who had witnessed the conflict from a neighbouring meadow, now came forward and proffered their services to Gatliffe.

“You’ve got a bit of a madman, aint ye, master?” said one of the men. “May be he’s escaped from his keeper.”

“You impudent wretch!” ejaculated Peace.

“What be going to do wi’ him?” said the other rustic. “He deserves ducking in the horse pond—​that be the best way to serve him.”

“He’s flung a big stone at ’ee,” said the other; “better take him to the police station.”

“Oh, there’s no occasion for that,” answered Gatliffe. “I think he may go about his business now. If he’s got any sense he will do so at once.”

And with these words he left go of Peace, who deemed it advisable not to attempt any renewal of hostilities.

“Now go your way,” said Gatliffe. “You are smarting under some real or imaginary wrong; hence it is, I suppose, that you have fallen foul of me.”

“I haven’t done with you—​depend upon that,” cried Peace. “You’ve got the better of me now, I admit, but that does not settle the difference between us.”

“Get away, you stupid fellow,” returned Gatliffe; “you don’t suppose I’m afraid of a man like you. Be off, and give me no more of your impudence, for if you do, I tell you candidly you wont escape again with a whole skin.”

Peace made another hideous face, after which he jumped over the stile and threaded his way through a narrow pathway which ran by the side of a corn-field.

Gatliffe watched him for some little time—​he then turned towards the two farm labourers and laughed.

“He’s a spiteful, vindictive rascal,” said he; “there’s no doubt of that.”

“He be vicious, an’ I should say from the look on’un a bad lot,” observed the ploughman. “There aint much on ’im, but what there is is all fire and brimstone, an’ it dont take much to set it alight.”