Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 80

For a minute or two after his friend’s departure Charles Peace stood gazing at the features of the young woman before him. She presented altogether such a different appearance to the girl he had known at Sheffield that he stood wonder-struck, thoughtful, and irresolute.

“You’ve become such a fine London lady that it is not surprising I failed to recognise you when we first met,” he said, after a pause.

“No, I’m a good deal changed, I’ve no doubt, although perhaps I do not see it myself; but you will remember, Charlie, that I was but a slip of a girl when we were in the habit of meeting.”

Her companion nodded.

“And I’ve gone through a good deal since then,” she said in continuation.

“Ah, no doubt. What are you doing now, and where do you live?”

“Not many minutes’ walk from here. See me home, and we can talk over old times.”

See you home?”

“Yes, I will show you where I live, and you will then be able to give me a call when you have an hour or two to spare.”

The girl put her arm in his, and the two walked on together till they reached a street in close proximity to Regent Circus.

She stopped at one of the houses in the street, and gave a gentle rap at the door, which was opened by a neat, modest-looking, maid servant.

Laura Stanbridge conducted her visitor upstairs, when the two entered a large and elegantly furnished apartment on the first floor.

“Now then,” she said, “make yourself at home, Charlie. We are no strangers to each other, and I’ve got a lot to say to you.”

Peace sat down, while his companion went into an adjoining room to take off her bonnet and mantle.

“She’s a mysterious party,” he murmured. What can she be up to now, I wonder? Seems to be in pretty good feather anyhow.”

The girl returned, and sat herself down opposite to her male companion.

“Well, in the first place you are surprised to see me, and in the next you are not able to reckon me up,” said she, laughing. “That’s it—​isn’t it?”

“Ah, as to that, Laura, I think most of us reckoned you up when you were at Sheffield; but what you are doing now, of course, I’m unable to say.”

“I’m creeping—​creeping along.”

“We have not met for ever so long a time,” said the girl, “and now you have come I’m not going to part with you without first of all having a talk about old times.”

“Umph!” muttered Peace; “you seem to be flourishing, my lady—​everything very comfortable, and all that sort of thing, eh. I wonder how it’s done?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, you’ve got a snug place, and seem to be doing it up pretty brown. Are you living here all alone?”

“No. I have a friend, a female companion, who shares the expenses with me.”

“Ah, that’s all right. I suppose a personal friend?”

“Yes; we work together.”

“What at, if it’s not an impertinent question?”

The girl burst out in a merry mocking peal of laughter.

“I see—​I understand, the same old game, I suppose,” remarked Peace.

She nodded.

“I might have guessed as much, ‘What’s bred in the bone,’ &c. You knew the old adage.”

“Now, don’t you be quite so cheeky, Master Charlie,” returned his companion. “What is a lone, unprotected female to do in a great city like this? Tell me that.”

“You know more of the great city than I do, and as to what a lone female is to do, my charmer, why that all depends.”

“I’ve not seen you since I left Sheffield. Tell me, does any of our old pals ever mention my name?”

“Not one that I ever heard—​not since you slipped away so cleverly. No one seems to have troubled their heads about you.”

“Ah, people are soon forgotten in this world. You know my mother is dead?”

“Yes, I knew that long ago. My word, you had a narrow escape, my lady—​were as near as possible being nabbed and quodded.”

Peace had known Laura Stanbridge from her earliest childhood. She was a native of the same town as himself, and like him she was a lawless character. When but little more than a child she began to steal. Her mother had encouraged her acts of petty larceny.

When a little girl she had worked at one of the factories in Sheffield, and while thus employed she robbed her employer, who himself forbore from prosecuting her on account of her youth.

She was, however, discharged without a character; bad training, bad companionship did the rest, and she became an habitual thief, but somehow or other was fortunate enough to escape the meshes of the law.

Her last robbery in the town was of an extensive nature; it was carried out under the direction of a gang of thieves. Her companions in guilt were tried, convicted, and sentenced to various terms of imprisonment.

Laura Stanbridge managed to escape by leaving the town in a clandestine manner.

She hastened up to London, where all trace of her was lost.

Since then but little was known of her, but without doubt she had been carrying on her lawless practice to a considerable extent in the metropolis and its suburbs.

The contemplation and description of such characters as this woman is not perhaps a pleasant theme to discourse upon, but we should remember that she is only one out of many offenders of a similar description. Their name is legion, even in the days in which we are writing.

We have more than once hinted that a correct history of crime and criminals has long been a desideratum, because much of the history of the times is involved in the prevalence of particular crimes and in the career of criminals.

In every age and country, since the foundation of society, events have been occurring of which, though too minute and fugitive for the rapid page of history, it must be regretted that no record has been preserved.

Few that have written on crime and criminals have kept in view anything but the crime or criminal, and the holding up of both to the execration of mankind.

They have seldom sought for those proximate or remote causes which may have led to the commission of crimes by individuals, and occasioned whole classes of hardened offenders.

Investigation by comparison is the surest road to knowledge; the whole system of daily intercourse throughout the world is carried on by it.

The most exact of the sciences obtains its positive results by no other means.

The passing over all the circumstances connected with the exciting causes to the commission of crime is the result of a motion of very general prevalene.

It is thought that by allowing crimes to be palliated by circumstances we lessen the effects of public examples; but whenever it is proper to publish accounts of persons and events it is always desirable that the truth should be spoken.

And although the task of chronicling the career of such a blot upon the face of society as Laura Stanbridge may be in a measure repulsive, it is nevertheless true to nature.

She had been so early trained in the committal of unlawful acts that she could never go right afterwards.

It is a sad thing to reflect upon that there are in this country thousands of women who are, morally speaking, of much the same type as the woman Stanbridge.

She forms, in point of fact, a companion picture to that of the hero of this work, and it will be our duty, us impartial historians, to shadow forth her life and actions in all their native and hideous depravity.

“Yes, Charlie, I had a narrow escape,” observed the girl, in a tone of exultation; “but it is not the only narrow escape I’ve had—​not by a good many; but you know, old fellow, we’ve all our trials and troubles in this world. You’ve had yours.”

Here she winked at her companion in a manner that was not in any way agreeable to him.

“But tell me, old boy, all about my old pals in Sheffield. What has become of them? As the song says, ‘Where are my playmates gone?’”

“Some are dead; some married, and others are serving her Majesty in places where they haven’t much chance of deserting, seeing that they are so well guarded and looked after with such care.”

“I understand. Poor devils!” cried Laura, with another laugh, which was so loud and discordant that it jarred upon the ears of her companions.

“You make merry over the misfortunes of your friends,” he observed, deprecatingly.

“Friends!” she exclaimed, in a sneering tone. “How many have I in this world, I should like to know? Friends, indeed! where can you find them? There are many who may call themselves your friends, but who would nevertheless sell you without pity or remorse if they could profit by the bargain.”

“You speak with bitterness, my lady. I have never sold or betrayed you.”

“Pardon me, Charlie, I was not alluding to you. Dismiss any such idea from your mind. We were always pals—​let us continue to be so.”

She drew her chair close to his, and took one of his hands within her own. She had the cunning of the serpent, for in some respects she had much of the fascinating powers which that reptile is supposed to possess; but Peace was not likely to be made a dupe of, as he knew pretty well the character of the woman who was so demonstrative.

“You don’t forget your old companion. You don’t forget the time when we were boy and girl together?”

“No, I don’t forget, Laura.”

“Then why this coldness?” she remarked, looking into his face with her soft seductive eyes.

“Look here, old girl, I hope you have not brought me into this crib to make love to me. If you have, it’s a bit of a sell, that’s all I have to say. We know one another pretty well. We ought to do so by this time. I wish you well, and am glad to find that you are in so comfortable a position. I shan’t lose sight of you—​shall drop in occasionally to see how you are getting along, for, as I said before, I wish you well.”

The woman comprehended his meaning, and at once altered her tactics. She withdrew her hand from his, went to a cheffonier, and placed on the table a decanter of wine and glasses.

“We’ll have a glass together before you leave,” she said, in a careless manner.

“I have had quite enough already—​indeed, more than enough,” he returned.

“Ah, that’s it—​is it?”

“Yes, that’s it. You see, old girl, I’ve been knocking about with a young spark for some hours, and feel that I’ve had quite enough. However, I won’t refuse to take one glass—​just to show that there’s no animosity.”

Two glasses were filled, and the companions drank by way of good fellowship.

Peace remained for some time after this, giving the woman a short but succinct account of their old associates at Sheffield.

It had arrived at the small hours of the morning when he took his departure, and returned to Sanderson’s Hotel.

* * * * *

Many days have passed over since our hero’s visit to Laura Stanbridge.

Our scene shifts, and other characters appear on the stage.

It was evening in London.

A drizzling rain was coming steadily down; the pavement shone under the glittering gaslights as if it had been smeared with oil.

The streets were slush and mud, which a band of men in tarpaulin hats and coarse blue jackets were scraping to a heap, and piling in a cart with huge wooden instruments, half spade and half rake.

It has been said that London is paved with gold; few of us, however, have been fortunate enough to pick up a nugget, or even a few grains of that precious metal.

Nevertheless it is quite true that, by the refuse of the streets, large sums are realised.

Although the weather was so cheerless the streets were thronged with men and women, whose rapid movements and anxious looks explained that it was business, that patron saint of the great city, which had called them from their comfortable domiciles, their families, and their friends.

There was one, however, in the public thoroughfare who had no comfortable home, no family, and but few friends.

This was a wretched-looking boy.

He was standing opposite the Charing-cross railway station, not very far from the entrance to the Lowther Arcade.

The arcade itself was, as is usually the case in wet weather, crowded with loiterers, who looked at the tempting articles on the stalls, but did not purchase. They had, in fact, only sought shelter till the rain gave over.

Ever and anon an individual would emerge from the precincts of the arcade and hail a passing omnibus, which was of course full inside. The Metropolitan Railway had not at this time extended as far as Charing-cross, and the omnibuses had it pretty much their own way.

The boy, who was so heedless of the falling rain, had long fair hair, which fell down upon his shoulders in clustering curls; his features were well moulded, and denoted a superior organisation to what one expects to see on those of the London street Arabs, who, as a rule, are common and coarse enough—​indeed, they might have been esteemed handsome had they been fuller and less dejected.

His eyes were clear and grey, and were now fixed upon the pavement or upon what he was holding in his hands.

His attire was by no means becoming—​he had on a dirty smock frock, which fell below his knees, as if to hide the corduroy trousers which hung down in rags, which were splashed and encrusted with mud.

He held in his hands a large basket filled with birds’ nests and thin speckled eggs.

The boy was Alf Purvis, who had run away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and had been brought to London by the Whitechapel bird-catcher.

Alf’s experience of London life up to the present time had been anything but satisfactory. His patron, the birdcatcher, during the period he remained with him, had been kind enough, but it happened, unfortunately for poor Alf, that the honest and industrious snarer of feathered songsters had a wife—​and such a wife!

She was a termagant of the worst description. In addition to her many other accomplishments she drank, and led her husband such a life that penal servitude was luxury in comparison to it.

The birdcatcher caught a severe cold, and fell sick; he sought refuge in the hospital.

After his departure the wrath of his better-half fell upon the ill-fated Alf, who, in self-defence, was constrained to give the shrew as good as she sent. The consequence was that he was turned out of the house, which he was told never to enter again. Before this climax had arrived he had been scratched and beaten most unmercifully by his mistress.

In fact, he had been a source of incessant wrangling before the birdcatcher sought refuge in the hospital.

He had to shift for himself, and strove to earn a living by selling birds’ nests and eggs in the street.

But, poor lad, he had a hard time of it. It was not, however, so much the hardships he had to pass through as the associates he was constrained to mix with that formed the foundation of his erratic and criminal life.

Had he remained with Mr. Jamblin he might have turned out a respectable member of society.

He was, as the farmer said, naturally “wiciously” disposed; but, by good training and careful culture, he might probably have been led into the right path.

He displayed a great amount of patience and endurance in waiting for customers on this particular evening.

Presently a gentleman in a mackintosh, with a brown silk umbrella over his head, stopped before the young ornithologist, and said—

“What have you got there, my lad—​are they for sale?”

Alf started from his reverie, and his countenance became irradiated with a smile.

A gentleman had been attracted by his wares, and perhaps he might be a customer.

The boy made a most respectful obeisance, and said—​“Yes, sir; they are all for sale. Do buy of a poor lad, who’s been waiting for hours for a customer.”

“Umph. I don’t know that any of them will suit me, youngster. What might these be?” he inquired, pointing to one of the nests.

“I’ll tell you, sir. Those you pointed to are dishwasher wagtails; some call ’em so, ’cos their tails are always twiddling like a woman’s tongue.”

He thought of the birdcatcher’s wife when he made this observation.

The gentleman laughed.

“Upon my word, you are quite a cynic,” he remarked. “Well, and how about the others?”

“Do you want to know ’bout ’em all, sir?”

“Yes, certainly, make me as wise as yourself. You’re a sharp lad, it would seem.”

“These dishwashers, sir, are three pence each,” said the boy.

“These,” pointing to another set, “are butcher birds, or hedge murderers; they’re pretty eggs—​aint they, sir?”

“Yes, they are very pretty.”

“But the birds themselves, them as lays these eggs, are cruel brutes.”

“Indeed, how so?”

“They’ll ketch little birds, and spike ’em on a thorn just as an insect-collector sticks a pin through a butterfly, and then they take to stripping the feathers off on ’em, and eat ’em up morsel by morsel.

“These be house sparrers, and their eggs vary in colour most of all birds. Some are quite white, though not often, and others are almost black. They’re twopence.”

“Ah, they are common enough,” remarked the gentleman.

“Yes, sir, they are common, but look at these. This is a golden-crested wren’s nest, with nine eggs; they are not at all common.”

“I suppose not.”

“They are very rare indeed, sir, and the eggs are so tiny and brittle it’s the hardest work in the world to blow ’em without breaking ’em; it’s the smallest bird in Europe, so I’ve b’en told—​the very smallest, and it’s sixpence, being choice and rare.”

“Humph! you’ve got some of all sorts, it seems.”

“This is a cuckoo’s egg, and it is quite a curiosity, not often got hold on. I’ll let it go cheap, as I want money. I’ll take fourpence for it.”

“The cuckoo’s a shy bird, isn’t it?”

“Ah, very shy. Don’t often catch sight on it, though you hear it pretty often at certain seasons of the year. It makes no nest of its own, but lays its eggs in the hedge-sparrer’s nest, and the sparrow sits on it, and warms it, and hatches it along with its own eggs; so the young cuckoo is brought up with the young sparrers, and when he gets strong and hungry he gets spiteful, too, and hoists all the t’others out of the nest, and so gets all the food hisself. It ain’t fair, but there’s a good many things done in this ’ere world that ain’t quite the thing.”

“By men as well as birds, my lad,” remarked the gentleman.

“You’re right, sir, by men and women too,” returned the lad, who was still mindful of his shrew of a mistress.

“You are really quite an oracle.”

“Well, sir, which will you buy?” said Alf, who by this time had come to the conclusion that he had wasted a sufficient number of words without any purport. “Which would you like best? The hedge chaffinch is the prettiest, but the golden-crested wren and the cuckoos are the rarest.”

“Oh, yes, they are both very pretty, but I am afraid I cannot be a customer to-day. You are an intelligent lad. Some other time when I’m passing this way. I can’t take them home in this rain.”

“I’ll take ’em wherever you like. I don’t mind the wet, I’ll take ’em home for you.”

“No, not to-day. Some other time; but you’re an intelligent lad.”

And with these words he walked away.

“There’s for you, the humbug!” cried Alf, as a cloud came over his face. “I might have known he was not one of the buying sort; he only stopped to amuse himself. An intelligent lad. I’m glad he said that, it’s so consoling when you’ve got empty pockets and are a shiverin’ with cold. Well, it made me forget my troubles for awhile.”

He tried to sing to keep his spirits up, but his efforts in that way were not crowned with success.

Presently a tear rolled down his cheek as he thought of the comfortable farmhouse which he had left to seek his fortune in a city where the poor may die on a doorstep unheeded and uncared for.

“I don’t think much of the London people as far as I have seen of ’em at present; I ain’t altogether in love with ’em. A poor devil like myself stands a deal better chance in the country. Nobody as I’ve met with here will offer a hungry lad bite nor sup not to save his life, and I am as hungry as Jowles’ dog—​that is certain.”

He walked on to the entrance of the Lowther Arcade, in which a dense throng of persons had collected.

Two ladies were waiting for a Hammersmith omnibus. Their attention was directed towards the young birds’-nest seller. Ah!” exclaimed one, “do look at that miserable-looking boy—​he’s drenched with rain, Anna Maria dear; how thankful you ought to be that you are not in his position, poor fellow!”

“He does look wretched,” said Anna Maria, who was the younger, and by far the best looking of the two, “let’s ask him what keeps him out in the rain.”

“He’s got birds’ nests to sell; don’t you see?”

“Ah, so he has.”

The speaker beckoned to Alf, who made his usual obeisance, for privation had taught him to be patient and polite to all.

He had been taught by experience that ladies seldom bought eggs or nests—​not unless they had children with them, which neither of the two in question seemed to have.

Still he was not disposed to throw a chance away—​perhaps these might be an exception to the rule—​there was no telling.

He drew nearer, and stood close by them.

“How wet and cold you must feel, my poor lad!” Said Anna Maria.

“Yes, marm; but I’m used to be out in all sorts of weathers.”

“You are from the country, I suppose,” said the elder of the two.

“Yes marm, country bred. I was a farmer’s boy till a couple of months ago, when a bird-catcher brought me up to London to seek my fortune, though I can’t see as how I’ve bettered myself as yet.”

“No, I should assume not. Dear me, and is this your trade?” inquired the elder lady.

“Yes, marm; when I first come up I was pretty comfortable, but the birdcatcher caught a cold, was took ill, and went to the hospital; then my troubles commenced.”

“Was he kind to you?”

“Yes, as kind as could be. I should have been all right if he hadn’t been took ill—​that’s what’s driven me to this. I have to do business on my own hook, and it aint always as good as it might be.”

“Dear me, only to think of that, now,” said the old lady, turning to her companion. “A lad like this, too; extraordinary—​most extraordinary.”

Then, turning towards Alf, she inquired where he got the eggs from.

“They come from all parts. Mostly from Witham and Chelmsford, mum,” answered Alf. “Chelmsford is about thirty miles from Westminster-bridge, Witham eight miles further. I go out of town for ’em three times a week. I start generally about dusk, and walk all night. I like that better than walking in the sun; besides, one can’t rest in the night time.”

“Dear me, how astonishing!”

“When I get there,” said Alf, in continuation, “I skipper it under a hedge, and get a couple of hours’ sleep. After this I set to work in earnest. It’s uncertain about meeting with what I want, but one must take the chance of that. I go on until I do succeed. Sometimes I climb tree after tree, and find no eggs in the nests, or else young birds, which are no use to me. But this aint all. When I’ve been away two nights and a day, and worked hard, and got a lot of eggs, I have a hard job to sell ’em.”

“But, my good boy, don’t you know that it’s very cruel to take away the eggs of the poor birds?” cried the elderly female. “You ought to consider that.”

“I s’pose it is, marm; but other people do the same. There’s lots of nesters besides me, and they are a deal more lucky; for some in our trade have what they call a connection, and a goodish many get their orders beforehand, and so they know what they can make sure of, whilst I have to take my chance. I’ve been about the streets for the whole of this blessed day, and have scarcely sold anything at all.”

“How do you account for that?”

“Well, you see, marm, it’s been so wet, and there aint been many young gentlemen about, that’s the reason. Young gentlemen are my best customers, and if I don’t sell anything to-night, I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do.”

“Are you so badly off, then?”

“I haven’t had anything to eat the whole of the day.”

“I am very sorry for you—​extremely sorry.”

“I don’t so much mind going without my grub, but unless I get some money I shall have to sleep in one of those dreadful lodging-houses. My regular place is Whitechapel, but I am too tired to walk there. I generally give up trading long afore this, but I’ve gone on late to-night in the hope of selling a nest or some eggs.”

“Ah! all this is very sad; I’m quite troubled to think that you should be so unfortunate,” murmured the lady.

The other lady had gone a pace or two from them. She was anxiously looking down the Strand in the direction of the City.

“But how will you get on in the winter time of the year?”

“Winter!” exclaimed Alf; “I never thought of that. I don’t know what I shall do then. Beg or starve, I suppose.”

The lady bent her head at that moment, her companion gave a scream, and waved her umbrella in the air.

“Please give me a trifle for a night’s lodging, ma’am,” said the boy, addressing himself to the younger of the two ladies.

“Yes, certainly,” she said. “Aunt, you’ve got my purse in your bag; I want it for a moment.”

“Want it—​what for? Here’s a Hammersmith omnibus waiting.”

“Don’t go away without giving me something,” cried Alf, in piteous accents.

“Anna Maria, what can you be thinking about? We shall lose the omnibus if you don’t leave off chattering to that dirty little fellow.”

“Let me have the purse.”

“I can’t get at it without wetting myself through. Give him something another time. It doesn’t do to place any reliance upon what boys of his sort say. Do come, or we shall be left behind. Come, Anna Maria.”

“Now, ma’am, look sharp, please,” bawled the conductor. “Jump in, ladies, if you’re going.”

The door of the omnibus was held impatiently open.

The ladies ascended the steps and took their seats in the vehicle, which was driven rapidly down the Strand.

The poor birds’ nest seller was again disappointed this time. He had hoped to extract a small sum from his female questioner.

“Ah!” he ejaculated, “I’m very unfortunate, that’s what I am, I have been so the whole of this blessed day.”

It was still raining, and he was drenched to the skin. His feet were sore with walking, and every bone in his body ached.

He was sick at heart—​felt fairly worn out. It was no use his waiting any longer in the streets—​there was no one to buy, and nobody seemed disposed to give him alms.

Hunger was gnawing at his very vitals. He was supremely wretched—​more miserable than he ever remembered to have been.

He walked slowly and sadly on towards Trafalgar-square. As he went along he counted the flagstones by way of amusement, if such a term could with propriety be applied to him under the present circumstances.

He arrived at the corner of Parliament-street. He knew that there were several low lodging-houses in the back slums of Westminster. He dreaded, as well he might, having to pass the night surrounded with the very dregs of society.

But there was no help for it. He knew that he must sleep, or try to sleep, or he would faint under his next day’s work.

It is true he might go to the casual ward of the workhouse, but of this he had an instinctive horror. He had never been in one, but he had listened to the vivid descriptions of those who had.

He stood at the corner of Parliament-street, irresolute and chapfallen.

A man looked curiously into his face.

The boy raised his head, and saw two gentlemen standing by the side of him.

One of these was Charles Peace; the other, the friend he had picked up at Sanderson’s hotel.

“Birds’ nests—​eh, youngster?” cried Peace.

“Yes, sir. Do, for mercy’s sake, buy some, either eggs or nests.”

“I’m going to the theatre, my lad, and can’t be bothered with things of that sort.”

“Won’t you buy?”

“No, certainly not. Where do you hail from?”

“Broxbridge.”

“I thought so. Well, here’s something to keep the devil out of your pocket.”

Peace presented the boy with a shilling. At the sight of this he was in perfect ecstasies.

“Oh! thank you, sir—​thank you,” he ejaculated. “May Heaven reward you!”

“Shut up; that ’ill do,” cried Peace, with a deprecating gesture—​then he put his arm in that of his friend’s, and the two walked away.

“He’s a rare good sort—​a stunner,” cried Alf. “No nonsense or collywabbling about him; he outs with a shiner at once.”

He passed down Parliament-street and bent his steps in the direction of Westminster.