Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 30

Peace’s misgivings with regard to Bessie Dalton were not without foundation. To say the truth, she had become duly impressed with the fact that he was intensely selfish.

A number of circumstances conspired to convince her of this, and what liking she had for him at one time was now very considerably diminished.

Bessie was quick-witted, clever in many ways, and was withal kindly disposed. Certainly at this time, at all events, she could not be considered cold or heartless.

But there were other and more cogent reasons for her failing to communicate with Peace. These will be made manifest in the course of this chapter.

Bristow went from bad to worse. His desire for drink became insatiable—​indeed, it might with truth be designated a disease. Unhappily for himself and those belonging to him, it appeared to be a disease that was incurable.

For days together this miserably-besotted wretch would be in a state of intoxication.

He had several associates who were nearly as bad as himself. The consequences attendant upon the fatal propensity may easily be guessed. His work was neglected. By degrees his apartments were stripped of everything he could turn into money, and his unhappy wife led a life in comparison to which that of a galley slave was an enviable state of existence.

It is not, it cannot be possible for a writer to depict with anything like adequate force all the misery to be witnessed in the home of a drunkard. Mr. J. B. Gough, the temperance orator, has said that there was no power on earth that tended so much to the degradation and ruin of young men, morally, physically, spiritually, religiously, and he might say financially, as drink. “I have held the hands of dying men in mine,” says the orator; “I have laid my hand upon the burning foreheads, and moistened the dry lips of many drunkards, while I have heard such stories as have made my heart ache and my eyes stream with tears. They were wrecks of men of genius—​men of education—​men of power—​men that might have made their mark in the world, going out—​oh, so fearfully—​into the blackness, and darkness and hopelessness, of the awful future.”

The great poetical genius of America—​Edgar Allan Poe—​gasped out a life the world could ill spare in the agonies of a drunken debauch. Robert Greene, worn out with debauchery and completely shattered with diseases which were a consequence of his ill-guided indulgences, was carried off, it is said, by a surfeit of red herrings. There is no sadder book in literature than his dying homily, “A groat’s worth of wit bought with a million of repentance.” Poor Lee, the author of the “Rival Queens,” died like a dog. He had, it has been said, carousing with a party of friends, none of whom had the grace to see him home.

In the morning he was found dead in the streets, which were covered with snow.

A dray had passed over his body, whether before death or after is not certain.

Hundreds, nay thousands, of other instances could be cited of the fatal effects of intemperance.

But the evil is not confined to a class. It is widespread, and saps and undermines the moral principle of the working classes of this country to an extent which is almost incalculable.

Bristow furnishes us with a sad example of this pernicious and fatal propensity.

He had become an incorrigible and irreclaimable inebriate.

He returned after a debauch of some hours’ duration to his miserable lodgings at Bradford.

He had spent what little money he had about him. This it was that caused him to leave the pot-house and bend his steps homewards.

As a rule he seldom came back till past midnight.

His industrious little wife, who worked for the trade, was plying her needle and thread when her husband entered.

“What, John!” she ejaculated, in a tone of surprise; “you’re early.”

“Am I?” he ejaculated, flinging himself into a chair. “S’pose I am—​what of that? I’m not wanted—​is that it?”

It was very evident from his tone of voice, as well as his manner, that he was in a quarrelsome mood.

His wife made no reply, but kept on with her work.

“You’re a deal too good for me—​you are,” he muttered. “Pity you threw yourself away upon me.”

Still no reply.

“D’yer hear what I am sayin’?” shouted out the ruffian, in a louder tone.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“I have answered.”

“No, yer haven’t, leastways not in a proper manner. D’yer think I’m a stock or a stone? Curse it, you’re always at work—​always.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in that.”

“I say there is,” he returned, with a nod.

He was bent upon fastening a quarrel upon the woman, but did not know very well how to begin.

“I’ll put my work on one side, then,” said his wife.

“Oh, go on. Don’t mind me. I’m nobody. Haven’t been anybody for a long time past.”

Here he burst out into an idiotic laugh.

Seeing the mood he was in, his wife abstained from making any observation.

This had the effect of aggravating him.

“Has that fellow been here to-day?” he inquired.

“Who do you mean?”

“That mealy-mouthed sneaking chap. You know who I mean well enough.”

“No, he has not, or at any rate if he has I have not seen him.”

“Ugh! not seen him, indeed. I don’t believe it. It’s a lie.”

“You can say what you like, and believe what you like, for the matter of that.”

“Don’t you give me any of your cheek, my lady. I aint a going to stand it. Do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, mind what you are about. I’m not a fool. I know all about your little capers. I say he has been here.”

“If he has it was without my knowledge.”

“Silence. Don’t contradict me; I won’t stand it!” exclaimed the ruffian, bringing his fist down upon the table with violence. “You’re not going to gammon me, mind you that.”

He rose to his feet and moved towards the fireplace. After looking on the mantel-piece he went to a chest of drawers which stood at the further end of the room. He opened one drawer after the other, and in one of the small top ones he discovered a paper packet which contained a few shillings in silver.

He drew it forth, and was about to thrust it in his pocket when his wife sprang forward and grasped his hand.

“John—​John!” she ejaculated, in a tone of terror; “what would you do? Give it to me.”

“I shan’t do anything of the sort.”

“It is not yours. It is my hard earnings, and it’s all I’ve got to pay the rent. If you meddle with it we shall be turned into the street—​you know that as well as I do.”

“Let go, I say!” he ejaculated. “I’ll soon show you who is master here. Let go, will yer?”

“No I will not. You cannot be so cruel as to rob me of this?”

“Cruel—​rob!” he cried, in a fury. “Leave the matter to me. I’ll pay the rent when it suits me.”

Here he burst out into another mocking laugh.

“John,” said his wife, in a beseeching tone, “you are not going to serve me like this. You shall not spend this money in drink, not if I die for it.”

“Oh—​oh! indeed. You are likely to die, let me tell you that, if you don’t mind what you are about.”

Mrs. Bristow was in an agony of despair. She knew perfectly well that if she suffered her husband to depart with her little hoard there would not be the most remote chance of her seeing it again.

There is an old saying, “Tread upon a worm and it will turn,” and the unhappy wife was an example of this.

She clung to her husband with a firmness which fairly astonished him.

“You shall not take away the money, John. I tell you you shall not have it. Give it me back at once.”

“Get out; don’t talk to me, woman!” exclaimed Bristow. “Leave go, or it will be worse for you.”

“I will not leave go; I will call for assistance.”

He endeavoured to shake her off, but she was wound up to a pitch of desperation, and would not part with him.

He dragged her across the room, and strove to reach the door.

Seeing his intent, she put out all her strength to detain him.

“Let go, I say!” he shouted out, in a stentorian voice.

Once more he strove to shake her off.

Not succeeding in this, he struck her in the face, and tore her garments from her back.

He struck her several blows after this, and finally succeeded in flinging her from him.

Then with the howl of a wild beast he rushed towards the door: in doing so the side of his body came in contact with a small dressing-table, upon which was a looking-glass.

The table was upset, one of its legs was broken, and the plate of the glass was shivered into fragments.

Then Bristow rushed out of the house.

His wife sat on the side of the bed, sobbing convulsively.

Thus ended a scene—​the accumulated horrors of which we have purposely avoided giving in all their full detail.

Bruised and bleeding from the effects of the blows inflicted by her husband, the wretched woman cried as if her heart was about to break.

Very soon after Bristow’s departure Bessie Dalton, upon her return from the factory, let herself in with the latch-key. As she entered the passage she heard sobs and sighs proceeding from the back parlour.

She was at no loss to divine that something was amiss.

Opening the door of the room she was appalled at beholding Mrs. Bristow seated on the side of the bed in a terrible plight. The clothes were torn off her back, so that the upper portion of her person was nearly in a state of nudity.

Her lip was swollen, her nose was bleeding, and one eye was in an incipient state of blackness.

To add to the horrors of the scene the furniture was upset, and the miserable apartment gave unmistakable evidence of the violent scene which had just taken place.

“For mercy’s sake do tell me what’s the matter?” exclaimed Bessie Dalton.

“Oh, don’t ask me—​don’t speak to me!” answered the wretched wife. “I wish I was dead—​I wish I had never seen that inhuman wretch.”

“It is as I guessed. Then Bristow has been here. It is he who has done all this. But do bear up, dear—​bear up,” said Bessie, going at once for a bason of water, with which she washed the bruised and bleeding face of her companion.

“Ugh, the drunken, good-for-nothing beast,” she ejaculated; “and has it come to this?”

“It has. I only wish he had killed me outright—​then there would have been an end to my misery. As it is there does not appear to be any end to it.”

“But you must leave him. It would be worse than madness to remain longer with such a ruffian. How did it occur?”

“He came back, much to my surprise, much earlier than usual. He had been drinking heavily, that I saw at a glance, and did all he could to aggravate me; but I was determined not to lose my temper if I could help it. He then got up and searched about the room and opened all the drawers, in one of which he found the silver I had put by to pay Parker two weeks’ rent. He threatened to turn us into the street unless we paid.”

“And what then?”

“He snatched hold of the paper which contained the money, and was about to thrust it in his pocket, and because I tried to get it from him he became furious. He has beaten me most unmercifully, as you see.”

“If you live any longer with this infamous man you will have yourself only to blame. Go away this very night. Do not remain another hour under the same roof with such a diabolical wretch.”

“Where can I go?”

“Anywhere. Do you suppose that I would remain if I was in your position? Ah, dear, you are too meek and mild. He should have me to deal with.”

“You could do nothing with him. Nobody could. He’s past cure, Bessie. At one time I had some hopes of reclaiming him—​now I have none.”

“He’ll never be any better,” said Bessie Dalton. “That I have seen and known for a long time past. He’s a lost man.”

“Ah,” ejaculated Mrs. Bristow; “it was an ill-fated day when I first set eyes upon him. I was warned and cautioned by those who knew him better than I did; but like a fool I was heedless of their warning. I’ve paid the penalty of my obstinacy. Many a time I have prayed to be released from this odious thraldom, while at other times I have contemplated flight. Now I am resolved. I will no longer live with him, not under any circumstances.”

“Well spoken. I am glad to hear these words fall from your lips, dear,” said Bessie, putting her arms round the neck of her companion and kissing her fondly. “Your words give me hope and comfort. Do not change your determination. Go this very night. Go at once.”

“But look at me. See how I am disfigured! What will people think of me?”

“Let them think what they like. Tell the truth; you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I hope not.”

“I am sure not. If you remain here you will be murdered. Of that I am as well assured as that he will never reform. I say one day or another you will be murdered. Ah! no, dearest. You most not change your mind upon this. Come, dry your eyes. There, that’s better. You are beginning to look a little more like yourself. Oh! how I should like to have the wretch flogged! I haven’t patience with the monster.”

“What have I done that I should be punished thus?” murmured Mrs. Bristow.

“You’ve been too easy with him.”

“Ah, Bessie! don’t say that. It’s all very well for a woman to talk about controlling a drunken man. It is quite impossible. Do what you will, treat him with harshness or kindness, the end is the same. But too well I know that.”

“Well, I’ll not vex you by offering any further observations upon that subject. Doubtless you know best. One thing, however, you can do.”

“What is that?”

“Why, leave him. Take a situation, far away from this town. I would rather beg my bread in the public streets than subject myself to the brutality of such a ruffian.”

“You are quite right, Bessie. Such a course is the more bearable one of the two.”

“Suppose he should come back, how then?” said Bessie, in a tone of alarm.

“Ah, he will not come back till he’s spent the whole, or the greater portion, of the money. There’s no fear of that.”

“To say the truth, I don’t think there is. But how he’s knocked about the things,” said Bessie, glancing at the overturned table and the broken glass.

“He upset them as he went out. The looking-glass is broken. That is a fatal sign. No luck in this house after that.”

“Don’t be superstitious,” cried the girl, lifting up the table, and endeavouring to replace it in its position.

“It won’t stand, dear. One of the legs is broken,” said Mrs. Bristow.

“Never mind.”

Her companion propped it up as best she could. Then she stooped down and began to pick up the pieces of the glass which had fallen from the frame.

These she placed on the table.

She then lifted up the glass. As she did so, something met her eye. It appeared to be a thin piece of paper, which had been concealed between the plate of the glass and the wooden back.

“Mercy on us! what is this?” exclaimed Bessie.

She drew out the paper, and held it forth. Then, with a sudden scream, exclaimed, in a hissing whisper—

“A hundred pound note!”

“Heavens above! what do you mean?” cried the miserable wife.

“Well, seeing’s believing,” answered her companion. “I’m not much of a judge of these matters; but if I am not mistaken, this is a genuine Bank of England note for one hundred pounds.”

“How came it there? This looks like sorcery. Ah, Bessie, dear, you are playing me some trick. It cannot be.”

“But, my dear, it is. Look here.” She drew towards the side of the bed, and placed the note in the hands of Mrs. Bristow.

“Well, this is most wonderful—​most incomprehensible. Can you account for it?” said the latter.

“Indeed, I cannot. Where did you get this glass from?”

“Bought it at a broker’s shop in the town.”

“Give the note to me, I’ll take charge of it,” cried Bessie, clapping her hands.

“Yes, you had better do so; but I say, dear, suppose it should be a forged one?”

“Oh, lor! I never thought of that; but I’ve no doubt we shall find it all right enough.”

“Let us hope so.”

“You have given me your word that you will leave this very night,” said the girl. “You are not going to break it?”

“No! Oh dear no.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Certainly. What makes you think otherwise?”

“Never mind my thoughts. Swear that you will leave this place. If you refuse——”

“Well, what if I refuse?”

“I will burn this note before your very eyes,” exclaimed Bessie Dalton, holding it over the fire.

“What would you do? Are you mad, Bessie?”

“Swear!” ejaculated the girl.

“If it’s any satisfaction, I do swear. In the name of the most High and Mighty I pledge myself to leave this house to-night.”

“And never to return to it from your own free will.”

“And never to return to it from my own free will.”

“That is enough. Now I feel assured that you are in earnest. So am I; for I tell you plainly that I shall not rest till I see you out of the house.”

“Upon my word you appear in a monstrous hurry to get rid of me.”

“No matter about that. You’ll have to go, and it’s no use making long faces about it. Come, dear, put your things together, and we’ll away at once.”

“We! are you going, then, as well?”

“I purpose bearing you company for to-night, at all events.”

“And whither are we to go?”

“Leave that to me. I have an old friend who lives but a few miles hence. We can stop with her for to-night, and in the morning we shall have a little leisure to arrange our plans for the future.”

“You’re a brave girl, Bessie; I wish I had your nerve,” said Mrs. Bristow, who proceeded at once to look up several garments which were necessary for her immediate use.

Bessie Dalton went upstairs to her own apartment, and brought therefrom a capacious carpet bag, which she handed to her companion.

Poor Mrs. Bristow was suffering terribly from the blows inflicted upon her by her brutal husband. She was sadly bruised and disfigured, but bore up as best she could.

She had one sincere friend in the hour of her affliction, this being Bessie Dalton.

“Put all you want in the bag,” said the latter, “and bid adieu for ever to this miserable place, in which you have suffered so much.”

“I intend to do so—​rest assured of that.”

While the unhappy wife was thus engaged her companion once more proceeded to examine the shattered looking glass.

As yet she had but taken a curious glance at the article in question. Now she made a more searching and minute inspection of it.

She removed the remains of the plate from its front and then uttered an expression of surprise and wonder. The back was literally lined with Bank of England notes.

Bessie’s head seemed to swim as she made this unlooked-for discovery.

“Heaven be merciful to us!” she exclaimed. “See here, there are more of them—​a whole heap.”

“What!” ejaculated Mrs. Bristow, whose heart was by this time beating audibly. “I feel as if about to swoon.”

“Bear up, dear,” said her friend. “You have nothing to fear, but everything to hope. Here are several notes for a thousand pounds. You are an independent woman, and the possessor of fabulous wealth. Be of good cheer. A bright future is before you. Now we know what to do.”

“I feel quite overcome—​completely prostrated. Can it be? Is it possible? Or is it all deception?”

“Never you mind, we shall soon be able to ascertain all about this wondrous gift presented to us—​or rather to you—​by Dame Fortune. I tell you there are notes for thousands, and you are rich—​immensely rich.”

“I find it hard to believe.”

“No matter, you will soon believe it.”

“But where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, can all these riches have come from?” said Mrs. Bristow, passing her hand across her aching forehead.

“Will you leave the matter in my hands?”

“Of course I will.”

“Very well then, so be it. There is a mystery about this affair which neither of us for the present can fathom—​that we may take for granted; but the property belongs to you, and for the present I will take charge of it.”

“Ah! do so. You are much more quick-witted and clever than I am, and I need hardly say I would trust you with my life.”

Bessie Dalton folded up the notes, flew upstairs again to her own room, and returned with a pocket-book.

In this she carefully placed the notes, and then thrust the pocket-book in her bosom.

“So,” she ejaculated, “they are safe for the present—​safe until we can learn something more about them and their real value. Now, are you ready to leave?”

“Yes; but—​ahem—​I—”

“Well, what?”

“Hadn’t I better write a letter to John, bidding him farewell for ever?”

Bessie shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

“It’s more than he deserves,” she said, “but as you wish it, do so.”