Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 90

As may be imagined, there was a rare hue and cry, both at Highgate and the adjacent neighbourhood, for some days after the burglary at Miss Chickleberry’s establishment for young ladies, and as a natural consequence the facts of the case lost nothing in the hands of the gossips who recounted the terrible outrage.

The schoolmistress herself was said to be at death’s door, in consequence of the brutal treatment she had received at the hands of the ruffian who had so mercilessly attacked her.

The valiant policeman was also seriously injured, and the amount of property stolen was of course enormous.

Notices were sent to the several metropolitan police stations, and all that could possibly be done to trace the robber was at once set on foot.

Meanwhile Peace was quietly working at his trade in Leather-lane.

He had, on the following day, disposed of the plate to a Jew fence in Whitechapel; the watches he secreted in the premises he occupied.

He had effected so complete a change in his personal appearance that it was hardly possible for anyone to recognise him as the man who had carried out so daring a robbery; indeed, the policeman into whose arms he ran when making off from the premises had but a transcient glance at him; his impression was that he was a mulatto, and he was so described in the “Hue and Cry.”

This in itself would have been sufficient to put the detectives on the wrong scent, and thereby to defeat the ends of justice.

Peace did not stir out from his workshop, save in its own immediate neighbourhood, for some days; and no one for a moment suspected that the quiet, mild-spoken, industrious artisan of Leather-lane was the real culprit.

A week or two passed over, and the burglary at Highgate became a thing of the past; at the expiration of which time, Peace committed some more burglaries in a different neighbourhood. These were on a minor scale, but he contrived to escape detection.

By these, together with the Highgate robbery, he managed to amass a considerable sum.

About this time crowds of persons were flocking to the Crystal Palace to witness the performances of the renowned Blondin, the hero of Niagara, as he was termed in the posters and advertisements.

There never was a greater furore displayed by sightseers of the metropolis and elsewhere than on this occasion.

Blondin was the “lion” of the day, now he is a very lamb—​equally as clever, it must be admitted, as when he first came in our midst, but the novelty has worn off, as the novelty wore off some years before with Van Ambrugh.

Peace, who was a lover of daring deeds and adventure, perhaps more than anyone else, could not leave London without seeing the prince of rope performers. He, therefore, determined upon paying a visit to the palace at Sydenham.

He was not a man easily moved to terror, but it has been said, and it would be useless to attempt to gainsay it, that somewhere deep down in the human heart there is a corner devoted to the instinct of horror.

This fact has been evidenced at all times and in all ages, and although the world is said to have grown more civilised since the days of gladiatorial exhibitions in ancient Rome, when gaily dressed ladies placidly witnessed a man being devoured by wild beasts, the love of the horrible still remains.

Blondin, when he first came into this country, revived in the British breast the old feeling of the Romans in the circus.

His daring deeds on the high rope, which, to say the truth, were appalling to witness, drew a greater concourse of people to the Crystal Palace than any other has done either before or since.

He was the rage. Tens of thousands of wondering eyes were rivetted on him as he performed such dexterous feats on the rope. People were fascinated as they watched the acrobat play with the chance of death at such a dizzy height.

We are a Christian people, much given to church and chapel going, and it would be rank heresy therefore to say that our natures would revolt at the sight of a martyr bound to a stake.

Happily the days are over for such an exhibition. The days are past also for bull baiting, badger baiting, cock fighting, and even for fistic contests.

Nevertheless, we expect human nature is much the same as it was hundreds of years ago.

It is true we stick a silk hat upon our heads, and put an eye glass on one of our orbits, and disguise the ladies of our family in pull back gowns and high heels; the love of the horrible is not even scotched, much less killed.

A Christian company sit and stand about the floor and galleries of some great building ostensibly devoted to the arts, to see the wonderful Zazel flirt with the King of Terrors.

They watch the graceful creature shot from a cannon, holding their breath as she flies through the air and alights safely in the net.

Then the poor girl, carrying her life in her hand, in obedience to the bond of service with her worthy master, walks along a wire as high from the earth as a low cloud in a hilly country, in peril of imminent death.

We do not pay to see the clever manner in which Zazel balances herself, because, if the feat were performed at a lower and safer altitude, there would be few, if any, spectators.

And this will apply with equal force to Blondin. His performances on the low rope were much more graceful and difficult, but they were not so popular as his high-rope feats.

It is the element of danger and the probability of an accident which gives piquancy to the exhibition.

It has been said that a gentleman of independent means attended for years Van Ambrugh’s exhibition of wild beasts, in the full expectation of seeing him one day devoured by one of the savage animals.

Some years ago, when a travelling blacksmith murdered six persons at a lonely habitation at Denham, the lane leading to the scene of the tragedy was thronged with the carriages of the nobility, the occupants of which offered large sums to the policeman in charge of the house for permission to see the dead bodies as they had fallen when struck down by the hands of their murderer.

The gate post at the entrance was probably cut away by persons who possessed themselves of a piece of the same as a trophy or memento of the tragical event.

In fact, the hitherto unfrequented lane leading to the house presented the appearance of Rotten-row on a summer afternoon, so thronged was it with carriages and equestrians.

Who therefore will deny that the instinct of horror does not still exist?

If this were not so, what would become of our acrobats, our sword swallowers, fire-eaters, and fire kings?

Peace, before setting out from Leather-lane, made as great an alteration in his personal appearance as possible.

He had cultivated a moustache and imperial; he dressed himself in a long black coat of the clerical type, put on a white tie also of the clerical pattern, and stuck on his head a felt hat.

An eye-glass completed his transformation, which was so perfect as to defy recognition.

Taking his ticket at Blackfriars, he was whirled down to the palace with all convenient speed.

He found the place thronged with gaily dressed people; it appeared as if all London had turned out, as by common consent to do homage to the hero of Niagera.

Most of us know what the Crystal Palace was at this time.

If you desired to meet with a few of your friends, people you had missed sight of for a given space of time, you had only to go there; somebody would be sure to recognise you and claim your acquaintance.

Peace, who now paid a visit to the palace for the first time, was delighted with the attractive nature of its most noticeable and leading features. Apart from the world-renowned Blondin, he found numberless objects of interest to engage his individual attention.

He passed from court to court, examining objects displayed therein with an eye of a connoisseur.

He always found great pleasure in contemplating works of art, whether ancient or modern; and, although but little versed in history, he would linger lovingly over any choice or rare specimen of art workmanship of a bygone age.

This, indeed, was one of the many strange contrarieties of his character, which would lead us to the conclusion that he was destined by nature to cut a more respectable figure in the world than that which is but too plainly evidenced by his lawless career.

While in the Pompeian Court somebody addressed him by name.

He looked up and beheld Brickett, the landlord of the “Old Carved Lion.”

“Ye be looking at the wonders of this grand place all by yourself,” said Brickett, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

“Well, who would have thought of seeing you?” returned Peace. “I thought you never moved half a league’s distance from the old inn.”

“Neither do I as a rule, but I’ve been obliged to come up to London about a little matter, so I thought as how I’d just see this wonderful rope-dancing chap; but I go back agen to-night.”

“Ah, well, I’m jolly glad to see you, Brickett.”

“The same as regards yourself,” returned the landlord; “but I s’pose you haven’t cut us entirely. There’s lots of people inquiring after you, and good people, too, who want to know when you are coming back. There’s plenty of work for you, mind that, when you do return.”

“All right; we’ll see about it in good time. How does his lordship get on with his newly-found relative?”

“So well, I hear, that he’s not disposed to part with her—​not upon any consideration. She’s tumbled into a good thing, and no mistake; but, lord, she is a sweet creature—​a loveable creature.”

Peace sighed.

“Yes,” he answered, sadly, “she is, so I’ve been told.”

“And let us hope she’ll be a comfort to the old man—​indeed, I’m sure she will.”

“No doubt.”

“And she ought to be thankful to you—​so I’ve heard.”

Peace made no reply.

“So I’ve heard,” replied the landlord. “It’s only what I’ve heard.”

“May be she has,” returned Peace, carelessly. “People in this world soon forget those who have rendered them a service; but let that pass. She’s the earl’s grand-daughter, I suppose, and it is not at all likely she’d care to remember or recognise me.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Brickett, looking hard at his companion, “I suppose not.”

There was a murmur from many voices and a shuffling of feet.

Blondin was about to go through his performance on the high rope.

Peace and Brickett left the Pompeian-court and took up the best position they could to witness the hero of Niagara go through his marvellous feats.

The worthy host of the “Carved Lion” stood spellbound with astonishment.

He declared he “had never seen anything like it in his life, and that it quite surpassed his expectation.”

Peace was of the same opinion.

When Blondin had finished the two made their way to one of the refreshment-bars, and had some cold meat and ale, which Brickett would insist on paying for, after which he bade our hero a hasty adieu, saying that he had to catch the train which was to take him down to Broxbridge.

Before parting he was very profuse in his protestations of friendship, and then he extorted a promise from Peace that he would very shortly pay another visit to the “Carved Lion.”

“He’s a rare good sort,” murmured our hero, after Brickett had taken his departure; “one of the best and most cheery of landlords I ever met with.”

Having given expression to this sentiment, Peace sat down at one of the side tables in front of the refreshment bar, and was for some time apparently lost in thought.

People passed to and fro, but he was so abstracted as to be heedless of all that was passing around.

It was singular, but it was nevertheless true that the very name of the village of Broxbridge or the remembrance of its associates seemed to have a depressing effect upon him.

He liked Brickett, and to a certain extent liked also many of those who frequented the parlour of the “Lion,” and he had been fortunate and prosperous while in the village, but despite all this perhaps the very last thing he would think of would be paying it another visit.

Peace was of a jealous disposition. He could not bear to think of his treatment at the hands of the girl Nelly.

In addition to this another, and a higher order of female, had in an earlier day treated him with scorn.

Aveline Maitland, to whom he had made honourable proposals at Sheffield, had cast him on one side to become the wife of his old schoolfellow, Tom Gatliffe.

By an exceeding strange concurrence of circumstances, had been attached to the village in which Nelly dwelt, and indeed where she had been born and brought up.

This was the reason for his hating the very name of Broxbridge, and at the bottom of his heart sat despair and humiliation.

He bitterly regretted ever having given the information which led to the recognition of Aveline as a descendant of the Earl of Ethalwood.

But it was useless to repine, now that the past could not be recalled.

Bad man as Peace was, these circumstances were active agents in hurrying him on in his lawless career. In a great measure they rendered him callous and reckless.

He took a jaundiced view of life, and became the hardened and unscrupulous criminal, whose daring exploits have so astounded his fellow-countrymen.

We do not offer these observations in palliation of his guilt, for to say the truth there was never much good in the man.

But at the same time it is a fact which is incontrovertible, that circumstances in a great measure create criminals, even as they do heroes.

After ruminating for awhile Peace rose from his seat and strolled into the grounds attached to the palace. He saw many things there which were of sufficient interest to dispel the gloomy thoughts which a few moments before had taken possession of him.

He met at the ornamental gardens one or two persons with whom he was acquainted. The society of these afforded him some relief, as the current of his thoughts were directed in a different direction.

He became all of a sudden gay and festive, and again had recourse to one of the refreshment bars.

It may have been observed by the reader that the Crystal Palace is a thirsty place, or rather a place which creates thirst. Anyway, a very fair amount of liquids of various sorts are consumed therein.

But a surprise which was perfectly overwhelming awaited our hero, who, after parting with his companions, sauntered about in a most desultory manner.

All of a sudden his eyes were attracted to one of the first-class refreshment rooms.

He could hardly credit his senses.

At one of the tables in the room sat a young and beautiful female, dressed in the height of fashion.

Her arms, head, and bust glittered with jewels.

Her costume was perfection.

Peace thought he had never beheld any woman so elegantly dressed, or one possessed of so aristocratic an appearance.

Could he be deceived? Was he dreaming or awake? The features of the female were familiar to him.

“It cannot be!” he ejaculated. “I must be mistaken. And yet the likeness—​the similitude—​is most remarkable; but, Lord bless me, it never can be her!”

He paced backwards and forwards for some little time, not knowing very well how to act.

To the first-class refreshment room aforesaid his attention seemed to be attracted.

He kept advancing towards the door, peeping in and then retreating again, but he found it impossible to leave the spot.

He was under the impression that the elegantly-dressed female tricked out in such gaudy costume was none other than the long-lost Bessie Dalton.

And yet she was so completely metamorphosed in every way that he had some doubts as to her identity.

Possibly he was mistaken.

But he could not leave the palace without satisfying himself upon the subject which so deeply concerned him.

He passed through the doorway into the refreshment-room and strolled on till he came in front of the elegant young female, who looked like one of the first ladies in the land.

He gazed at her in both surprise and admiration. There could be no doubt about it—​she was Bessie Dalton, but oh, how changed!

He had known her only as a chrysalis—​now she was a butterfly with gaudy wings.

He walked boldly up to the table by the side of which she was seated, and exclaimed in a hissing whisper—

“Bessie!”

The young woman looked up, and said, carelessly, “Oh, it’s you—​eh? Well, you are a stranger.”

“And whose fault is that?” cried Peace, as he shook her jewelled hand which she held forth. “Whose fault is that?”

“Ah, that would not be so easy to say, if there is a fault.”

“What is the reason for you not acknowledging any of my letters? You’ve served me nicely; leaving Bradford without letting me know where you had gone, you and Mrs. Bristow. Now I have met with you I mean to know all about your movements.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Peace, resolutely, and with something like anger in his tone.

“Well, you see, my dear fellow,” said Bessie, in a languid tone, “there were many reasons for our leaving, and as there were also many reasons for our preserving our incognito, I was not able under the circumstances to write a farewell letter to you, and have now to apologise for my seeming neglect, which I assure you was not wilful.”

Peace was perfectly astounded.

The easy self-assurance of the woman proved that she was evidently no longer the same in manner and ideas as he had known as a factory hand.

He was perfectly astounded, and to use a nautical phrase, was completely taken aback.

“You’ve used me badly enough,” he exclaimed, “and as far as your apologies are concerned they are not worth a rap. Where did you and Bristow’s wife fly to? They told me at the house that you gave out you were going abroad.”

“Certainly we did. We wished it to be understood that such was our intention.”

“But you never had an idea of leaving this country.”

“Certainly not; you are quite right in your surmise. We never had an idea of leaving the shores of England, but you see, Peace, there were special reasons for our wishing it to be understood that we had left the land of our birth. You see we sought concealment—​this was not so important, as far as I was concerned, but with Mrs. Bristow the case was different. There was an imperative necessity for her to seek seclusion; this she has found, poor thing, and her life, I am happy to say, is now one of unclouded sunshine.”

“Sunshine be ——,” cried Peace. He was about to make use of an oath, but the lady held up her fan, and by an effort he restrained himself.

“Look here, my lady,” he cried, after a pause. “You’re coming it pretty strong. You’ve got fine feathers and make use of fine words, but don’t you think you can deceive Charles Peace. I can see through you, for all your affected airs and graces. You’ve got an admirer—​are under the protection of a gentleman, I suppose. Eh?”

“I must request you to be a little more cautious,” said Bessie, perfectly unmoved. “In the first place you must not address me in language which is in every way objectionable. Our paths in life are as dissimilar as well possible for two persons to be. I have been long since shunted—​to make use of an expressive simile—​on to a different line to yourself, and I must request you to keep your place as I shall keep mine. I wish you well, entertain the most friendly feelings towards you as far as your own happiness and welfare are concerned, but for the rest—​for the rest,” she observed, conveying a spoonful of strawberry ice cream to her lips, “we are separate and apart.”

Peace was indignant beyond expression; he had the greatest difficulty to restrain himself from striking the speaker.

“If you give me any more of your cheek,” he cried, in a hissing whisper, “I’ll slap your face.”

“You had better not, Mr. Charles Peace,” said his companion; “upon my word you are sadly forgetting yourself.”

“What do you mean, you stuck-up, conceited little hussy, by treating me in this way? Separate and apart indeed! I’ll soon teach you a lesson about that, my lady. Where do you live?”

No. 21.

PEACE AND BESSIE DALTON.

“I decline to answer your question; and, indeed, if you do not behave yourself better, I shall decline to have anything further to say to you. I wish you well, and don’t bear any animosity towards you; but at the same time must beg you most distinctly to understand that I am not disposed to submit to taunts or insults from anyone—​still less from you.”

“I am not going to let you off so easily,” said Peace. “It’s no use you endeavouring to ride the high horse with me. I intend to know where you live, and, in addition to this, I am determined to know all about you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you’ll have to find out as best you can; for I must tell you frankly that you will have no information from me.”

“Do you suppose, you little fool,” exclaimed Peace, in a voice of concentrated passion, “that I am going to let you have it all your own way—​that I’m going to give you up now I have found you? If you do, you are greatly mistaken.”

Bessie Dalton made no answer, but continued to help herself to the strawberry-ice before her.

Her self-possession—​her refinement and graceful deportment—​fairly astonished her companion.

“Do you hear me?” he cried.

“I cannot fail to do so,” she answered, “seeing that you speak vehemently.”

“Will you write down your address?”

“Most certainly I will not.”

“Then I’ll follow you, if it’s for twenty miles. You shall not escape me.”

“There must be an end to this, Mr. Peace,” said Bessie Dalton, in an altered tone. “Your words and manner are most objectionable, and I must decline to have any further converse with you.”

“You decline?”

“Most emphatically. Be good enough not to trouble me any further. Our interview is at an end, and I must request you to leave, or, at any rate, not to press your society on me.”

“Did any one ever hear of such audacity?” exclaimed Peace, in a perfect fury. “Do you suppose that I am to be taken in by your fine airs and graces? Play them off upon somebody else—​they are thrown away upon me. I don’t appreciate them—​don’t believe in them; so the sooner you return to your own natural character the better. I am not to be tricked or hoodwinked. Where do you live, and what are you doing? Don’t toss your head; I must and will have an answer.”

“Once more I tell you not to interfere with me,” cried Bessie. “I do not choose to hold further parley with you. As one whom I knew some long time ago I have been courteous enough to exchange a few words with you. Now I wish I had not done so, for your tone and manner cannot be considered otherwise than offensive in the eyes of any well-bred person, and I therefore request you to leave, as I do not choose to be subject to your insults.”

“Insolent minx!” exclaimed Peace, seizing the speaker by the wrist, which he grasped with an iron grip. “You shan’t escape me—​you have played me false, you have been carrying on a nice game without doubt. But you will find, my lady, that you won’t have it all your own way, now. I’m not to be shaken off. I will know what you have been up to, and where you are residing. I swear by the Lord above us that I will not leave till you have told me.”

As he gave utterance to this speech he shook her angrily, and grasped her wrist with such force that the bracelet she wore was forced into her flesh and produced acute agony.

She gave utterance to a slight scream and called for assistance.

One of the waiters at the establishment who heard the angry altercation beckoned to a stalwart policemen who was near the entrance, who at once came forward.

Peace’s countenance wore at this time a most diabolical expression.

“What is the matter, madam?” inquired the constable, in a respectful tone.

“This man is both threatening and annoying me. In the absence of my friends and relations, who are in the grounds but will return shortly, I am constrained to appeal to you for protection.”

“Certainly,” returned the policeman. “Now, then,” he said, sharply, addressing himself to Peace; “you be off, or else I will take you into custody.”

“Leave me alone, officer. I know what I’m about. Don’t you interfere between man and wife.”

“Wife!” exclaimed Bessie; “I’m no wife of his. Don’t listen to what he says; he does not mind what falsehoods he tells. My husband is in the grounds. All I want you to do is to remove this insolent fellow.”

“Do you give him in charge?”

“If he won’t go quietly I must do so, I suppose.”

Peace let go his hold of Bessie, and seemed to be a little staggered at her last observation.

“You go about your business. We don’t want any row here!” cried the policeman, taking Peace by the collar and dragging him towards the door. “We don’t allow ladies to be insulted with impunity, So you must leave. If you don’t, I shall lock you up.”

“Lock me up! What for?”

“For a breach of the peace—​for creating a disturbance. You take my advice and get clear off while you can, or it will be worse for you.”

Peace had no desire to make the acquaintance of the inspector at the station-house, and he had, therefore, no alternative but to submit.

“I want to say a word to her before I leave,” he exclaimed, nodding towards Bessie.

“Say it, then, and go.”

Our hero was half beside himself with ill-suppressed passion.

“Hark ye!” he ejaculated, bending towards the female, with a hideous grin on his ill-favoured countenance, “you have carried it off bravely this time, but I’ll have my revenge. I’ll find you out, expose you, and bring ruin upon your head, you deceitful, worthless, despicable huzzy!”

“It is out of your power to do me any mischief. You are beneath contempt,” answered Bessie, turning away.

“Now then, no more of this. Be off!” cried the constable, in an angry tone. “Be off, I say.”

There was no help for it. To avoid being forcibly ejected Peace had to leave the refreshment room with the best grace he could.

But rage and despair sat at his heart. He never was more astonished than he had been by Bessie Dalton’s treatment of him.

He went out into the grounds in a state bordering upon frenzy. He found it difficult to believe that so complete a change had come over the pretty little work girl whom he had been so intimate with at Bradford.

She did not seem to be like the same person. Her costume was magnificent, her manners were polished, her actions graceful, and, taken altogether, her whole appearance denoted that she was moving in the best society.

“Her husband,” she said. Was she married? Possibly so.

This thought did not in any way add to his composure. On the contrary, it seemed to fret and chafe him. He generally viewed affairs from his own standpoint; perhaps he was not singular in this respect, for there are multitudes of other persons who make it a practice to do precisely the same thing.

He persuaded himself that he was an ill-used man—​that his most intimate associates turned against him for no imaginable reason, and he therefore declared war against the whole human race. How well he carried this out the history of his life but too plainly demonstrates.

He considered that Bessie Dalton had acted towards him in a manner which was altogether incomprehensible.

She had treated him—​so he considered—​with the basest ingratitude, when in reality she had but cast aside a man who was not worthy a moment’s consideration.

At one time she had been in a measure attached to the selfish, unscrupulous burglar, but that time had long since passed away.

“My word!” he ejaculated; “but she knows how to ape the fine lady. I never should have thought it was in her. She certainly plays the part to perfection, the pretentious overbearing little devil! Well, this little affair knocks me completely silly. What on earth can she be doing? She’s evidently got into a good position by some means or other. It’s altogether a mystery. It appears to me that everybody gets shoved on in this world but myself—​Aveline, Bessie, and Lord knows who else besides!”

He paced the grounds of the palace in a restless and troubled manner. His mind was ill at ease. He had been singularly unfortunate in his escapades with the fair sex.

He had wasted his thoughts and time at Broxbridge over the girl Nellie, and now he was treated with scorn by an old flame, whose absence had caused him so much concern.

All this he found hard to bear.

He did not remain long in the ornamental grounds of the Palace. In fact, he was sick of the place, and therefore at once made for one of the entrances, and passed out of the building.

As he turned off to the road leading to the station a surprise awaited him, which well-nigh took his breath away.

An open carriage, drawn by a pair of high-stepping magnificent horses, passed him.

In it sat Bessie Dalton and a gentleman of aristocratic appearance on one of the seats.

On the other reclined Mrs. Bristow, dressed in the height of fashion, with a male companion on the other.

As the vehicle wheeled by Peace became completely overpowered.

“The devil!” he exclaimed. “John Bristow’s wife! The John Bristow who died on the public highway, and whose body I identified at the workhouse. His wife and Bessie Dalton riding in a carriage and lolling in the lap of luxury! It seems like a dream. Have they come into a fortune, or what? It is most unaccountable.”

This discovery seemed to trouble him more than his treatment in the refreshment-room. He went back to his rooms in Leather-lane in a state of doubt, surprise, and bewilderment.

“It seems I did not go to the Crystal Palace for nothing,” he ejaculated. “Well, this beats all I ever heard of.”