Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 98

After leaving Charles Peace in Leather-lane, Miss Stanbridge came to the conclusion that for the future it would be advisable for her to be a little more cautious in her dealings with her old playmate and quondam companion.

She was a lady who had her own battle to fight in the world, and as far as want of principle was concerned she was quite adapted to hold her own against any odds.

Upon returning to her own domicile she found Alf Purvis in the kitchen, in company with Susan.

“You may have a holiday for the rest of this day, Alf, and to-morrow we will commence business again.”

“Thank you, marm,” cried Alf, “May I go out?”

“Yes, where you please; but mind and be home early in the evening. I don’t approve of late hours.”

The boy sallied forth and wandered about from one place to another, returning soon after nightfall.

“To-morrow you will have to go out lace-selling,” said his mistress, upon his entering the house.

“Yes, marm,” answered Alf, in a cheerful tone, “I’ll do my best.”

In the morning of the following day she brought down from the lumber-room a large tray filled with quantities of “edgings,” viz., the kinds of lace used for the bordering of caps, &c.; some braid and gimp, some lace articles—​such as worked collars and undersleeves—​and some lace of a superior quality, which, however, was English.

This latter kind, she told him, was called “driz” by the street sellers, and that he should offer it to ladies as rare and valuable lace smuggled from Mechlin, Brussels, and Valenciennes.

The braid and gimp, she said, was very little in demand, and the whole street-trade was now so indifferent that the only way a man could get a fair profit on what he sold was by “palming”—​that is, giving short measure.

“Would you like to learn how to do it, Alf?” she inquired, and without waiting for an answer, she took a yard measure from the table behind, and cried, in a loud street voice:—

“Three yards a penny edging!” Then she measured three yards with her wand, and showed him how she “palmed” the lace by catching it in short with a jerk of the fingers.

“Let me try,” cried the boy, quietly, and in less than half an hour he palmed to perfection.

Young Purvis, when he had accomplished this important piece of manipulation, sallied forth.

He patrolled the favourite “pitches” of the lace business—​namely, the Borough-market, Walworth-road, Tooley-street, and Dockhead, Bermondsey.

He told his customers that he was a lace-maker from Millyham, and that the edgings were his own and his old father’s work.

This tale, which he related with eloquence and sometimes with tears, worked largely on the feelings of his auditory, and whilst compassionate sailor-girls gazed tenderly on his handsome and grief-stricken features, his sobs extracted sympathy from their hearts.

The next day he went to the houses in and about Regent’s Park, and towards Maida-hill. There he sold his pseudo Mechlin to the old dowagers, and his worked collars or “edgings” to their housemaids.

He felt a pleasure in cheating these dames, who, while trying to cheat Government, were trying to cheat the whole of their fellow-countrymen; but he felt a pang in clipping the measures of those pretty servant-girls, who gave him such bright smiles and words, and to whom pennies were so precious because they were so hardly earned.

However, he consoled his conscience with the Machiavellian maxim, “All’s fair in Trade.”

It had become his motto, as it is the motto of those Jesuits of commerce, who say that all is fair which is foul, false, and thievish.

It was his panacea for the heart’s qualms, as it is the panacea, for heaven knows how many thousands in London who rise and fast behind their counters till they have stolen the price of their breakfasts.

He told his mistress how he had succeeded by chicanery in realising a good sum for her.

She complimented him.

“There’s no harm hoodwinking your customers,” she said. “Besides, all’s fair in trade.”

As he repeated this sentence after her he thought that the elder of the two women sighed.

He had ascertained from the servant girl that this lady’s name was Grover.

He lay awake that night, trying to guess who Miss Stanbridge and Mrs. Grover could possibly be.

He did not think they were real ladies.

In the first place he had met them in a house that was frequented by only the scum of the London streets.

Besides that, there was something very different about them to the young ladies who sometimes stopped him to ask questions about his nests in the Bayswater-road or in Grosvenor-place.

Miss Stanbridge, it was true, had the voice and manners of a lady, but in those of Mrs. Grover he had often detected something which reminded him of the rustics among whom he had been brought up.

And yet it was extraordinary that they should always go out in the afternoon, which he knew was the fashionable hour for ladies to go out, and dressed in gorgeous array.

It was singular.

They could not be bad women, argued the young rogue, but always stayed at home in the evening, and though a great many visitors (whom he was never permitted to see) came after dark, he was shrewd enough to understand that these could not be lovers, because his mistress always took off her fine clothes when she came home.

He also observed that these mysterious visitors were never shown upstairs, but always into a room on the ground floor, and that there Miss Stanbridge came down to them. Peace was the only person who was accustomed to go into the drawing-room, and the boy was under the impression that he was a relative of either one or the other of the two females.

Another singular thing was this: the room upstairs looked out upon the back yard, as did the kitchen.

He was always sent out by this back yard, which led through a mews into the street from which Peace had made his escape on the eventful night of the attempted burglary at the jeweller’s. He was told never to come in at the front door.

And the ladies themselves always went out and came in by the back way, which, although he was unacquainted with the manner of gentlefolk, appeared to him to be a very eccentric proceeding.

To show you how slight is the step from fraud to felony I will continue the history of this poor boy who had fallen into the power of one who knew well how to harden a heart for crime.

In Alf’s little garret there was an empty book-case. He had often wished there were books in it, and had often thought of asking his mistress whether she could lend him any, for he had no doubt there were some within the mysterious lumber-room, which seemed to possess almost everything that mortal man could think of.

One night he went to bed at eight o’clock, when, much to his surprise, he saw a number of odd volumes in the book-case.

This was a great boon to him, for as we have already seen he had always been passionately fond of reading.

He went to the case, and caught hold of one which first came to hand, and having undressed himself with a rapidity known only to boys, he sprang into bed and at once began to eagerly devour the contents of the volume, which happened to be “The Lives of Celebrated Highwaymen and Pirates.”

The work was exactly suited to his taste.

As he read the exploits of these lawless and daring men he was so fascinated that he read without interruption till the candle had died away in its socket.

He lay thinking of what he had read, and watching the thin dusky light as it crept towards him across the room.

He rose at daybreak with his eyes red and watery, and his mouth parched.

Slinging his lace bag over his shoulders, he went downstairs into the streets, where he walked for hours with his eyes now drooped upon the pavement, now raised towards the grey clouds of early dawn.

Two hours afterwards a woman stole into his room with a wolf-like step.

When she saw that the candle had quite burned down, and that there was a book lying on the bed, she gave a terrible laugh, and clapped her hands.

An hour afterwards, another woman entered the room.

But, when she saw the candle and the book, her wrinkled face grew painful, and she sighed deeply.

Then she drew a book from her bosom, and placed it on a table by the window, returning the other to the shelf.

When Alf came home to breakfast, Susan asked him what made him look so pale.

His eight hours’ work had never seemed so long and weary as they did that day.

He walked about mechanically, and sold but little, for in great towns customers have to be run after, and almost inveigled.

He was thinking of his book, and longing for the night to return.

He even took the precaution of buying a candle in case they gave him a short one to go to bed by.

At tea-time Susan complained that she could not make him understand a word that she said.

He told her that he was very tired, and went to bed an hour earlier than usual.

As he was undressing his eyes fell upon the book which was lying upon the table.

He determined to begin with that, and, as it was such a small one, he thought that perhaps he might be able to read it through.

The first few lines showed him that it was a moral book, which inculcated good principles.

He glanced impatiently down the page, intending to throw it aside, when a sentence caught his eye.

He turned the page, and read on.

It was a book which had been written by a good and earnest teacher for the assistance of those who might be under some peculiar temptation, or on the threshold of some great crime.

It was written in simple but beautiful language.

It was written with the heart as well as the pen.

Every word in the book was a good spirit, which flew towards the poor soul tottering on the brink of the abyss, and which held it back with tender arms, and whispered to it to turn back and be saved.

When he had read this book the poor lad sank into a calm and refreshing sleep, and awoke in the morning determined to be honest and industrious, and to think of thieving no more.

But he was still too proud to pray.

He relied upon his own heart, which he thought was strong, but which yielded and broke beneath him like a wooden plank which had been rotten and decayed.

He little knew how difficult it is to repent.

Remorse is only regret. Repentance is to regret and amend.

That very day he cheated a customer, and chose to believe that he had not done very wrong.

That very night he returned to his “Lives of the Highwaymen,” and felt relieved when he could not see his good book anywhere in the room.

Next morning as he went downstairs he heard female voices apparently in angry altercation.

He stopped at the door, and listened.

He heard his mistress say—

“I ask you again what made you put that book there?”

“I could not help it,” answered the other, which he knew by the voice was Mrs. Grover. “I can’t tell you how it is, but my heart kindles towards that boy; I feel as if I could look at him for ever. I tremble when I hear his voice. There’s something about him which makes me younger and sadder to think of. I don’t—​nay I cannot—​tell you what I mean.”

“You will, perhaps, have the goodness to answer my question,” said Miss Stanbridge. “What made you put that book there?”

“I don’t know. I tell you again that my heart warmed towards him, and I wanted to—​to—”

“You wanted to baulk me; I know that perfectly well without your telling me so—​to baulk me.”

“I do not want to do anything of the kind. I have no desire to interfere with you in any way.”

“But you do so, nevertheless. After all the time and money I have spent my plans are to be spoilt by a foolish old woman who does not even know why she wishes to spoil them.”

“You are quite wrong in your view of the matter.”

“Am I?”

“Most certainly you are.”

“Well, then, let me tell you that I’m of a different opinion—​you have interfered in a matter which does not concern you.”

No. 23.

PEACE TURNED THE KEY, AND THE MASSIVE DOOR OF THE SAFE SWUNG OPEN.

At the close of the day on which Alf Purvis heard the foregoing conversation he was called into the drawing-room, and his mistress congratulated him upon his skill in palming edgings upon the wives of Tooley-street, and Marlow lace as Valenciennes upon the dowagers of Maida-hill.

Alf felt flattered. It was not often his mistress praised him, and when she did so he knew he was in more than usual favour.

“Do as I tell you,” said Miss Stanbridge, in continuation, “and you will soon make money. I started in life as you are doing now, and you see that, though I am very young, I am not so badly off. I contrive to live respectably without the assistance of anyone.”

Her looks and manner were at this moment most deceptive; anyone who gazed upon her would have said she was a girl who had just been released from the durance of a boarding school.

She was young in face, but in heart she was old as a hag who had lived years in crime.

She spoke of the books he had been reading, and told him several stories about thieves with such eloquence that his interest was aroused, his imagination ran riot, and he was perfectly charmed with her discourse.

While all this had been going on the old woman kept glancing anxiously at Alf, trying to repress her sighs.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “what a jolly time those highwaymen must lead of it! I should dearly like to lead such a life.”

“You would be afraid of the prison and the gallows,” cried his mistress, bursting out into a loud laugh.

“Not I, marm. I should have to take my chance like the rest of them. To be in prison is no more than being in the streets—​so I’ve heard ’em say who have been there; and one may as well end one’s life in the air as on a mattress.”

His mistress again laughed as if he had said something marvellously funny, but Mrs. Grover was evidently greatly concerned and indeed hurt at the turn the conversation had taken.

A shade of displeasure passed over her features, and this was not lost upon Alf Purvis, who refrained from expatiating on lives of lawless robbers. Alf therefore lapsed into silence.

Mrs. Grover meanwhile watched his countenance with intent, so also did Miss Stanbridge, who said after a pause—

“Alf, have you ever been to a London theatre?”

“No, marm, I was never inside a theatre in my life,” he returned.

“Would you like to go to the play?”

“Oh, rather,” ejaculated the boy.

His mistress smiled, and went out of the room, taking Mrs. Grover with her. She returned and said—

“Well, Alf, you shall see a performance to-night. You have been diligent and deserve a little relaxation.”

She was about to put on her bonnet and shawl when Susan entered the room, and said a gentleman wished to speak to her.

Miss Stanbridge inquired the name of her visitor, and the servant girl said it was Mr. Peace.

Our hero was at once shown upstairs. As he entered he glanced furtively at the boy, who was told to go into the kitchen with Susan.

“Anything up?” muttered Miss Stanbridge.

“No, nothing fresh,” returned Peace. “But you are about to go out—​I shall not detain you. Some other time will do as well.”

“I was going to take the lad to the theatre,” said his companion.

“All right, old girl, I’ll go with you if you’ve no objection.”

“I shall be most delighted to have your company.”

Peace, Miss Stanbridge, and the boy sallied forth. To the latter’s inconceivable awe, a cab was hailed and procurred.

Alf sat diffidently on the extreme edge of the back seat, and surveyed the gorgeous interior of the vehicle, from the ragged rug to its dingy roof, as a parson’s daughter views for the first time the vaulted expanse and the hollow-sounding stones of Westminster Abbey.

After half an hour’s ride the cab stopped, and the driver coming round to the door informed them that they had arrived at their destination.

They passed through the entrance and gained the hall. Miss Stanbridge paid for three seats, and they were shown into one of the private boxes.

The house was a very large one, and Alf as he gazed around was lost in wonderment at its gigantic proportions. He had never been in an establishment of this description.

The pit and gallery were crammed with people, those of the lower class predominating. Some of the men were in their shirt sleeves, many of the women carried in their arms babies with bald heads and sturdy lungs; many coster boys were also present, who were overflowing with merriment and wit, while the atmosphere reeked with the mingled fragrance of orange peel, stale ginger beer, and corduroys.

As the boy was gazing round the house the audience were beginning to grow impatient and personal.

Having discovered a gentleman in full dress in one of the boxes, a lubberly lad called out in the voice of a stentor.

“Three cheers for the bloke in white kids!”

This was responded to and assisted with cat calls and hootings as they observed the discomfiture of the used-up Belgravian, who had wandered among these barbarians to receive amusement, not to contribute to it.

This was followed by shrill whistling from the gods above, the stamping of feet, and conversation carried on by some of the occupants of the pit with those in the gallery. The noise was perplexing and almost deafening.

“Now, then, you catgut-scrapers,” exclaimed a voice, “tune up. If we aint a goin’ to have any acting to-night, play ‘God Save the Queen,’ and let’s go home.”

A costermonger in the gallery began to chant a well-known music-hall ditty, which was at this time enjoying an extensive share of popularity; numbers of men and boys joined furiously and tunelessly in the chorus, and this, together with the stamping of the feet of those who were endeavouring to keep time to the melody—​if such a term can be justly applied to it—​served to amuse the “gods,” as they are called, most immensely.

Peace could not refrain from expressing his disgust at these proceedings.

He had an ear for music, and the abominable din and clatter overhead disturbed his equanimity, and ruffled his temper.

To remonstrate with the noisy ruffians would be only making matters worse.

The leader of the band at length made his appearance from beneath the stage, and, just as his face filled the trap-door which led into the orchestra, it was struck by a sucked orange, thrown by some miscreant from the back of the pit.

The house laughed till it nearly cried. An effort was made by the police to find out the delinquent, but it was not attended with success.

Miss Stanbridge bought a bill of the play.

The first piece was one of those romantic dramas which small playwrights pillage from the French—​a sin which is not visited upon the thief, but upon those who receive the stolen goods—​with their ears.

The plot was of such an intricate and impossible nature that Alf Purvis was totally at a loss to understand the meaning of what was going on.

To say the truth, this was a matter of no very great moment.

If he did not derive much pleasure from the weary polysyllables and the heavy rant of the people on the stage, their spangled robes, the lights and the music, and the novelty of the whole scene, were sufficient to amuse him during its hour of performance.

The tongues of the coster boys had not been idle all this time, and while any good dramatic point was picked out with wonderful acumen, inefficiencies, either in the acting or in the stage management, were treated most unmercifully.

Nor would they permit the play to proceed till they had got a good view of the stage.

“Higher the blue!” was shouted when they found the sky too low; and “Light up the moon!” was the cry when they observed the chaste orbit growing dim.

“Did you ever hear a more uproarious ill-behaved audience?” said Peace, to Laura Stanbridge.

“It’s their way,” returned his companion. “If they were not permitted to express themselves after their own fashion the gallery would be empty.”

The scenes were shifted—​not very accurately, it must be admitted. In a castle at the back of the stage a large gap was left.

An indignant chimney sweep called out—​“Ve don’t expect no grammar here, but you might shove the scenes to!”

At this the people were convulsed with laughter.

Between the first piece and the heavy sanguinary melodrama which was to follow, the bills advertised a comic song by the celebrated Bill Rasper.

This was pretty sure to please the audience, as it was what is termed a topical song, consisting chiefly of hits at popular personages, and sneers at the aristocracy.

By this time the half price had come in, and the gallery presented an extraordinary appearance—​a vast black heap slanting to the roof, dotted with faces, and striped with shirt sleeves.

When there was a clapping of hands the whole mass twinkled as if their dingy hands were so many rays of light.

The rails in front were adorned with the bonnets of the ladies, who did for comfort that which, in the dress circles of the West-end, is done for fashion.

These bonnets became marks for the boys at the back, who, seated upon the shoulders of their friends, or upon the spikes which crowned the partitions, played at pitch and toss with nut shells.

Once more greetings were exchanged between the gallery and pit, and sometimes family secrets were revealed.

“Then you aint brought Poll with you after all,” cried a voice from the pit.

“No,” answered a man in the gallery—​“no, I aint. ’Cos why—​she’s got the hump.”

“Oh! Jerusalem; that’s the time o’ day, is it?”

The comic singer, dressed as only a comic singer can dress, in a chocolate-coloured coat, a waistcoat with a large floral pattern, and pegtop trousers of the most ultra description, and a watch chain, as thick and massive as a ship’s cable, now made his appearance.

His nose was deeply tinged with red, and he had an old umbrella of the Mrs. Gamp species under his arm.

He was greeted with loud and prolonged applause.

The orchestra struck up, and the comic gentleman commenced his song.

As he finished his verse he looked up to the gallery to help him out of the chorus, saying, “Now, then, gentlemen, the Hexeter Hall touch, if you please.”

The song was called “Keep your weather eye open, my boys,” and it was vociferously “angcord” by the noisy multitude, who were flattered at being permitted to lend their services in the chorus.

The gentleman with the large umbrella had his work to do. He was called on again and again, and had to sing fresh verses containing more pointed allusions to persons and events of the time.

When the audience consented to part with their favourite, the curtain rose for the representation of a transpontine melodrama of the most pronounced and formidable description.

It was a little incongruous, but had, nevertheless, all the elements to commend it to the appreciative audience, for whom it had been written by a veteran playwright who dealt in such hotly spiced commodities.

It would be expecting too much of us or any other man to describe the plot after the fashion of the newspaper critics, for to say the truth the incidents in the drama were too chaotic and heartrending to admit of their being placed before the reader in black and white.

The leading personages may, however, be briefly described.

In the first place, there was a wicked baronet, who persecuted the heroine of the piece. She was, as a matter of course, an innocent and artless seraphic creature, entitled the “Lily of Ludgate.”

The aforesaid baronet suborns a ruffian of the deepest die, called “Black Hugh.”

This personage has committed an endless number of crimes; he is cast into gaol, from which he contrives, after the approved fashion, to make his escape.

He is followed by a detachment of soldiers (supers), who fire at him as he creeps over the castellated roof of his prison house.

To see him gain the rocks beyond this, and plunge from a giddy height into a foaming cataract beneath, was a sight which, happily, is only to be seen on the stage of a transpontine theatre.

He buffets the waves “with lusty sinews,” succeeds in reaching an island in an impossible sea; and from this he puts off on a raft, constructed by himself and a nigger, who is, like himself, a castaway.

He describes this in glowing language in the third act.

Eventually he is shot, and staggers on the stage. All of a sudden he becomes repentant, and makes a dying confession.

To see him point his accusing finger at the wretched baronet, and to see also the “Lily of Ludgate” let down her back hair by the footlights, and to hear the gasps and sobs she gives utterance to as she listens to the tale told by Hugh, who sets all things right before he dies, is altogether beyond our powers of description.

It had a visible and marked effect upon the house.

An itinerant vendor of lemons and oranges, who evidently belonged to the Hebrew persuasion, whispered to a companion in the gallery that the piece “wash very deep.”

After his confession, Black Hugh raised himself up, gave a gasp, and fell on his back as dead as a stone.

The baronet was loaded with chains, and the “Lily of Ludgate” fell into the arms of the rightful heir, who had been carried away in the earlier part of the drama by Black Hugh, who was evidently a favourite actor with the frequenters of the theatre.

He rolled his eyes, and pronounced his words as only an artist of his accomplishments and powers could pronounce them.

During the progress of the play the whole theatre shook with enthusiasm and applause, and when Black Hugh had safely escaped from his painted prison-house, the shouts of exaltation were deafening, and were repeated till the roof rang again.

But then we must remember that crime and the penalties of crime are so different in the world and on the stage.

On the stage there is not the cankering remorse, the ever-trembling fear, the start at each voice which speaks, the shudder under each hand which is placed upon the shoulder.

On the stage the prison walls are of wood and canvas, and the public will not permit hanging.

On the stage, then, the law has no terrors, the judge with the black cap is a jest, the condemned cell a jovial cider cellar, the gallows an empty puppet for a Christmas pantomime.

Alf Purvis had, during the performance of the melodrama, been most deeply interested with the action of the piece. His mistress placed her hand upon his shoulder, and asked him if “Black Hugh” was not a bold, and fearless man.

“He’s a brave chap, but the baronet was the worst of the two, and ought to have been shot instead of Hugh. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I do, my lad,” returned Miss Stanbridge.

“You’ll make something of that boy before you’ve done with him,” whispered Peace. “I dare say you find him an apt pupil.”

“And what if I do, Charlie?” said the woman, in an offended tone. “It doesn’t matter to you, I suppose.”

Peace shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.

A cab was hailed, and the three playgoers were conveyed to their destination. Peace parted with Miss Stanbridge at the door of her house, and returned home on foot to his rooms in Leather-lane.

Miss Stanbridge poured evil words into the ear of the boy, who listened to them greedily. He was ambitious in mind—​he was dishonest in heart. He longed to be one who was known and feared while he was alive, and who should be spoken of and written of after he was dead.

Upon his return home, Alf Purvis missed Mrs. Grover.

He asked his mistress what had become of her.

“She has gone away,” said Miss Stanbridge. “I had set my mind on something, and she was foolish enough to oppose me.”

“Oh,” murmured Alf, “I’m sorry for that.”