Читать книгу At War with Society; or, Tales of the Outcasts - James M'Levy - Страница 4

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HOWEVER assiduously I have plied my vocation, I have never thought that I was doing the good which our masters expect of us in stopping the sliders on the slippery scale of criminal descent. They only commence again, and when they slide off altogether others rise to run the same course. If I have taken credit for a diminution, I suspect that Dr. Guthrie has had more to do with it than I. Sometimes I have had qualms from a conviction that I have been hard on many who could scarcely be said to be responsible. I have been, no doubt, often an unwelcome intruder upon merry-makings and jollifications, but then it may be said for me that these merry-makers were merry at the expense of others. Well, “you have stopped marriages where one of the parties was innocent.” True, but the innocent party was attracted by the glitter of stolen gold, and why should a resetting bridegroom escape a loss any more than a resetting pawnbroker? A dowried thief in stolen orange blossom may be a pretty object to a loving snob—to me, however, she is nothing else but a thief, and if I am bound to tear her from his arms, I have just the satisfaction that I transfer her to the arms of justice, who will hug her a good deal closer.

In 1842, our office was inundated with complaints of house enterings by false keys. There had been no fewer than sixteen in six weeks, and not a trace could be discovered.

“Why, M‘Levy,” said the Lieutenant one day to me, “we will lose caste. Aberdeen will mock us, and Berwick hold up the finger at us. What’s to be done?”

“There’s a difficulty,” replied I. “In the first place, I am satisfied there is only one thief; in the second place, there is only one place of deposit; in the third place, I am only one man; and, in the fourth place, I am not an angel. Yet, notwithstanding, I have a hope.”

“What is it founded on?”

“This little bit of swatch,” replied I, shewing him a paring of print not larger than two crown pieces.

“Why do you place faith in a rag like that?”

“I got it,” replied I, “from Mrs——, the proprietor of a house in Richmond Street, the last one operated on, and Mrs. Thick, the broker in the Cowgate, thinks she will be able to match it.”

“That promises something.”

“I think I have the sex too,” said I, with an intention to be jocular.

“Man or woman?”

“Woman,” replied I.

“Oh, something peculiarly in the female line,” said he. “I hope not an object in the greening way?”

“No; something preparatory to, and going before that. Can’t you guess?”

“No—yes—let me see—orange blossom?”

“Yes, orange blossom,” said I. “The thief wants to be married. She has laid in the dowry from the same house in Richmond Street, and finished off with the bride’s badge.”

Our conversation terminated with a laugh, for, after all, we were scarcely serious, and I repaired to Mrs. Thick, a fine specimen of her class, who, rather than pocket a penny from stolen goods, would have surrendered her whole stock, amounting to hundreds of pounds. As I went along I continued my former ruminations on this wonderful succession of robberies. That they were all done by one hand I had, as I have said, little doubt; but, considering the short period of time, the difficulty of watching and accomplishing even one house, the multiplied chances of being seen, the obstructions of locks, the accidents so rife in pledging or disposing by sale, the many inquiries and investigations that had already been made by sharp people, I could not help being filled with admiration at a dexterity so unexampled in my experience. And then, if I was right in my whimsical conjecture as to sex, what a wonderful creature of a woman she must be!

“She is worthy of me anyhow,” I said to myself; and as we illiterate people are fond of a pun, I added, just for my own ear, “I will catch her through thick or thin.”

Now, don’t be angry at my wit; it is better than you think; for don’t you remember of one of the name of Thin, with the three balls above his door?

And not insensible to the effect of my solitary effort at being clever out of my sphere, I entered the shop of the broker.

“Now, Mrs. Thick,” said I, “have you got a match for my swatch?”

“Indeed I think I have,” replied the good woman, although she knew she would in all likelihood be a heavy loser by her honesty. “Here’s the gown,” and, taking the pattern out of my hand, “see, it’s just the thing—aye, just a bit o’ the self-same. Whaur in a’ the warld got ye the swatch? Surely it’s no canny to meddle wi’ you, you’re an awfu’ man; but, do ye ken, I canna think after a’ that that gown was stown.”

“I never said it was, Mrs. Thick.”

“Aye, but it’s a sign o’ dead hens when the farmer rins after the fox that has loupit the yett.”

“And I never said it was not,” replied I, for I had reasons to be cautious.

“Weel, to be honest, Mr. M‘Levy, I really dinna think it was.”

“And why?”

“Just because it was brought to me by that industrious creature Lizzy Gorman.”

“That’s the handsome hawker, as the young chaps call her?” said I.

“Just the same.”

“And what makes you have so much faith in Elizabeth?”

“Just because I have kent her for years; and naebody could look into her bonny face, sae simple and sweet, without being sure she’s an honest creature. Then she has hawked sae lang through Edinburgh, that had she been dishonest, she would hae been fund oot.”

“Well, she does look like an honest girl,” said I. “Have you had many articles from her besides the gown?”

“Just a heap,” replied she. “But ken ye what, Mr. M‘Levy?”

“If I knew the what, I could perhaps tell,” said I, keeping my friend in humour.

“This is Elizabeth’s marriage-day,” she whispered in my ear.

“Orange blossom!” muttered I.

“Aye, orange blossom,” repeated Mrs. Thick; “Lizzy’s as far up as even that.”

Now I had no wish that Mrs. Thick should have heard my muttering, but the answer satisfied me I had muttered to some purpose.

“And who is the happy man?” inquired I; though I would not have given the sprig of orange blossom for the other sprig.

“Just a snab,” replied she; “but then Elizabeth has money, and a full house, a’ by her ain industry, and she says she’ll set him up.”

“Well, the affair looks promising,” said I, adding, as I meditated a little, “unless the swine runs through it.”

“Oh, it’s ower near now for the sow; you’re no Scotch, and maybe dinna ken the auld rhyme—

‘Lang to woo, and then to marry,

That’s the way to mak’ things miscarry;

But first to marry, and then to woo,

Is the surest way to keep out the sow.’

Aye, the beast seldom comes on the marriage-day to scatter the ribbons and the orange blossom.”

“Not sure,” said I, somewhat absent. “But letting the marriage of this most industrious girl alone, I have a favour to ask of you. Will you take care of this gown, and all the other articles Elizabeth has brought to you?”

“I will,” replied she; “but the Lord kens how I’m to get them a’ collected. There’s a cart-load o’ them; but I hae nae fear they’re a’ honestly come by.”

“I hope so,” said I, as I left the shop, with the intention of returning to the Office for a list of the property stolen from the sixteen houses, and then perhaps to call and see the bonny bride.

And as I went along, I began to gather up the fragments of my prior knowledge of my handsome hawker. She was pretty well known for several peculiarities. Her face was that of a gipsy, with the demureness of the race mixed with a simplicity which they seldom exhibit; and her dress, plain almost to Quakerism, had all that dandyism which extreme care and an excellent taste can bestow on very plain things. Quite an exception to the crowd of town-hawkers, she was far above their baskets and bundles of troggan. We see these every day. Some are enveloped in a mountain of shining articles of tin—others are surrounded with a whole forest of wicker-work in the shape of baskets and reticules—others rejoice in a heap of black tin shovels—many are devoted to kitchens, where they shew their white caps to the servants out of a basket neatly covered with a white towel—the apple and orange troggars are everywhere, the red-herring female merchants being probably at the foot of the tree. Despising all these, Elizabeth was seldom burdened with more than a neat paper parcel. Even that she was often without, and indeed I had heard it often remarked that no one knew what she hawked. Yet the readiness with which she was admitted at pretty high doors was remarkable, and once in, the secret article, probably drawn from under her gown, was an easy sale—at to her, no doubt, a remunerating price—under the charm of a winning simplicity, aided by the ready tale of the interesting orphan. A little consideration of these things soon brought me to the conclusion that it was only by such an adept, thoroughly acquainted with the inside of so many houses, by means of a daring eye and a quick ear, that all these sixteen entries in six weeks could have been effected. Nor would it be too much to say that the orange blossom was not accidental, if it was an object which she had known to be in the house where a marriage was on the tapis, and of which she had obtained the knowledge by a prior visit.

I had now got thoroughly interested in my pretty hawker. Her movement on the scale was now upwards. It is seldom that thieves slide up to Hymen’s bower; and if I had had no other motive than simply to see the young woman who could perform such miracles, I would have gone twenty miles to see her in her marriage dress, orange blossom, and all. I soon got my list completed; indeed, I was now somewhat in a hurry. The apathy with which the Lieutenant had charged me was changed into enthusiasm. Strange perversity of the human heart! I felt a jealousy of the snab. He was unworthy of such perfection. The bride must be mine at all hazards, even if I should be obliged to renounce my beauty to the superior claims of the Colonial Secretary.

Having got my list, I made again for the Cowgate, where, as I passed the stair-foot leading to the room of the intended, I saw the beginnings of the crowd which was to honour this match between the son of Crispin and the daughter surely of that famous goddess who got her skeleton keys from Vulcan for a kiss. I would pay due attention to the crowd by and by, and gratify it perhaps more than by the raree-show it was gaping to see. It was Mrs. Thick I was now after; and having again found her at her old post, I went over with her as quickly as I could the long list, and became quite satisfied that her estimate of a cart-load was not much below the mark.

“Now, you are upon your honour,” said I to her. “You must be careful to retain all those articles for an hour or so, for I am sorry to inform you I must take them from you.”

“And can it be possible!” she exclaimed, no doubt with reference to the guilt of her industrious protegé; and then relaxing into a kind of smile, “Surely, surely you’re no to act the animal we were speaking of. The bride’s dressed, the bridegroom is up, the minister is waited for, and the crowd is at the door. Poor Lizzy, poor Lizzy, could ever I have thought this of you!”

“Well, I admit that I intend to be at the marriage anyhow,” said I. “They have not had the grace to invite me; but I am often obliged to overlook slights from my friends.”

And leaving my honest broker in the very height of her wonder—if not with uplifted hands and open mouth—I made my way to the house of rejoicing, shaded as all such are with that quiet decorum, if not solemnity, which the black coat and white cravat have such a power of casting over leaping hearts and winged hopes. The crowd had by this time increased; and among the rest was my assistant waiting for me—though ostensibly there to overawe the noisy assemblage. The Irish boys and girls were predominant, shouting their cries, among which “The snab and the hawker, hurra,” would not sound as an honour up-stairs. When I say Irish boys and girls, I mean to include adults of sixty, grim and shrivelled enough in all save the heart, which is ever as young and green as an urchin’s. Then who does not feel an interest in the evergreen of marriage, albeit its red berries are often full of bitterness and death? The young look forward to it, and the old back upon it—the one with a laugh, the other with a sigh; but the interest is ever the same. Nay, I’m not sure if the sigh has not a little hope in it, even to that last dripping of the sands, when even all other “pleasure has ceased to please.” Excuse me, it is not often I have to sermonise on marriage, except those between the law and vice, where the yoke is not a pleasant one, and yet perhaps less unpleasant than many of those beginning with love on the one side, and affection on the other. And now I am the detective again.

“Are the constables ready?” I whispered to my assistant.

“Yes; they’re in the stair-foot beyond the meal-shop on the other side.”

“Then keep your post, and have an eye to the window.”

“For ha’pennies?” said he, with a laugh.

“I’m just afraid I may reduce the happiness,” replied I, not to be outdone in Irish wit on a marriage occasion, however bad at it.

And pushing my way among the noisy crowd, whose cry was now “M‘Levy!” “He’s to run awa’ wi’ the bride!” “The snab has stown his varnished boots!” “The bride is to sleep in a police cell!” and so forth, I mounted the stair till I came to the marriage-hall. Uninvited as I was, I made “no gobs,” as they say, at entering, but, opening the door, stood there among the best of them. A more mysterious guest perhaps never appeared at a marriage before since the time of the famous visitor at Jedburgh, where the king danced; but I had no attention to bestow on expressions of wonder. The scene was of a character to be interesting enough to any one. To me the chief object of attention was the head of the bride, where the orange blossom ought to be; and there to be sure it was, set off, as it ought to have been, with green myrtle. With this I was so much occupied, that I cannot say it was just then that I scanned Elizabeth’s dress—a fine lavender glacé silk, adorned with as many knots as would have bound all the lovers in the room in silken bands; collar and sleeve of lace, of what kind goes beyond my knowledge; grey boots, necklace, and armlets; white kid gloves, with no doubt a good many rings under them. These notices came rather afterwards, my practical eye ranging meanwhile—the party being dead silent as yet—round the room, where, according to my recollection of my list, I saw a perfect heaping up of all manner of things collected from the sixteen opened houses, which the pretty bride had so industriously entered.

My survey was the result of a few rapid glances, and I recurred to the parties. The amazement was just at its height, yet strange to say the only one who stood there unmoved, and with no greater indication of internal disturbance than a cast-down eye, overshaded by its long lashes, was Elizabeth Gorman. That she understood the object of my visit, I had no doubt; nor was I surprised that a creature of her nerve, capable of what she had done, should stand before me in the midst of all her friends, and in the presence of her intended husband, as immoveable as a lump of white marble—no additional paleness, no quiver of the lip, no hairbrained glances of fear.

“And who are you?” at last cried the souter futur; “you are not invited.”

“No; I have taken the liberty to come uninvited,” replied I, as I threw my eye over the body of the young snab arrayed in absolute perfection, from the glossy cravat to the shining boots, so spruce and smart that the taste of Elizabeth must have been at the work of preparation. Nor was he without some right, if one might judge of the number of houses laid under contribution for a dowry which was to be his, and by the help of which he was to become a master.

Whereupon there arose a perfect Babel of voices—“No right;” “M‘Levy has no right here;” “Turn him out.” To all this I paid little attention; I was more curious about a movement on the part of Elizabeth, whose right hand was apparently fumbling about her pocket. A pocket in a bride’s dress!—ay, just so. Elizabeth Gorman was a bride of a peculiar kind; she had a pocket even as a part of her bridal apparel, and there was more there than a cambric handkerchief.

“I will help you to get out your napkin, Elizabeth,” said I.

And putting my hand into the sacred deposit, I pulled out two check-keys.

With these two keys, she had opened (I speak in anticipation) the whole sixteen houses. I managed this movement in such a manner that I believe no one could know what I abstracted except Elizabeth herself, who seemed to care no more for the discovery than she had as yet done for any part of the ceremony.

“And the orange blossom,” said I, “I have a fancy for this too,” I said, as I, very gently I hope, took off the wreath, and, in spite of the necessary crumpling of so expressive an emblem of bliss, put it in my pocket.

The hubbub was now general, and Crispin thinking that his honour was touched, waxed magniloquent. He even put himself into a fighting attitude, and sparred away with all the valour of a gentleman called upon to protect injured innocence. Nor Dowsabell, nor Dulcinea, nor any other heroine of romance, had ever so formidable a champion; but then I did not choose to take up the snab’s gage. I contented myself with stepping between one or two of the guests to the window, gave two or three knocks, and then took up my station by the side of Elizabeth. The door opened, and in came my assistant.

“I choose to claim this young woman for my bride,” I said, with a little of an inward chuckle. “I will dispose of her property; meanwhile, all of you leave the room. Clear-out, officer,” I added, as they seemed to loiter and murmur.

And so to be sure, my assistant, to make short work of emptying the room, hurried them off, the last loiterer being the snab, whose look at Elizabeth carried as much of what is called sentiment as might have touched even her, who, however, received the appeal with the same cold indifference she had exhibited all through the strange scene. I do not say she did not feel. It is hardly possible to suppose that a young woman dressed for marriage, and in the hands of the police, with banishment before and shame behind, could be unmoved; but the mind of these creatures is so peculiarly formed that they make none of nature’s signs, and are utterly beyond our knowledge. That something goes on within, deep and far away from even conjecture, we cannot doubt; but it is something that never has been known, and never will be, because they themselves have no words and no symbols to tell what it is. When thus left alone with her, it might have been expected that she would give me some token that she was human, but no; there she stood in all her finery, unmoved and immoveable, her gipsy face calm, if not placid, her eye steady, and without uttering a single word. “And now, Elizabeth,” I said, “I daresay you know the reason of this intrusion; you are accused of having entered no fewer than sixteen dwelling-houses, and stealing therefrom many valuables, and I must apprehend you.”

“Very well.”

“Have you any more keys than those I have got?”

“No more.”

“Were these all you used?”

“You can find that out; I confess nothing.”

“Well, then, make yourself ready to go with me; get your shawl and bonnet.”

And without further sign of being even touched with any feeling of remorse or shame, she proceeded calmly to put on these articles of dress.

“I am ready.”

“Too serious,” thought I, as I looked to a side-table and saw the wine and the cake. I wanted to give things a more cheerful look.

Was ever bride taken away without the “stirrup-cup,” even a glass of her own wine?

But no, it wouldn’t do. Elizabeth would neither take nor give, and so I, too, went without my glass.

“Keep the house,” said I to my assistant, “till I return. I will post the constables at the foot of the stairs.”

And, taking Elizabeth by the arm, I sallied forth amidst a noise that roused the whole Cowgate; and no wonder, perhaps such a scene was never witnessed there before, certainly not since. Mrs. Thick’s hands were uplifted as we passed; nor was the wonder less among the other neighbours, who looked upon Elizabeth as a pattern of industry and strict behaviour.

After depositing my bride I got arrangements made for clearing the house of the stolen property. Every thing was removed except the table, chairs, and frame of the bed, and pages would not contain a catalogue of the fruits of this young woman’s industry. But the recovery from Mrs. Thick was a different process. I was up till four in the morning getting out and identifying the numerous articles of all kinds stored away in her premises.

By and by, my bride was tried before the High Court; and here I may be allowed a remark on the apparent calosity of people of her stamp. I have often noticed that these dumb, impassable victims are more ready at the end to give way than your loquacious asserters of innocence. I take this peculiarity for a proof that they bleed inwardly, and that while we are angry with them for being what we call unnatural, they are paying the forfeit in another shape. This extraordinary girl, after all her silence and apparent indifference, pled guilty to ten different cases of house-entering, and they were all effected by the two keys I took out of her pocket at the scene of the contemplated marriage. Fourteen years’ transportation was her punishment, and she heard the sentence without a sigh or a tear.

I need scarcely add, that this was the only thief I ever discovered through the means of orange blossom.