CHAPTERCLI.A VISIT TO WHITECHAPEL—THE STREET OF WOMEN—A MOTHER SEEKING HER SON.We must leave Charles Peace for awhile to gather up the tangled threads of our story, and follow the fortunes of other characters who have figured in this “strange eventful history.”The capture and conviction of our hero, together with the remarkable concurrence of circumstances connected with the history of the most accomplished and desperate burglar of modern times, created an amount of public interest which was altogether of an exceptional character.This interest was not confined to one class of the populace. It permeated throughout every conceivable class from the highest to the lowest, and as a natural consequence the criminal portion of the community were deeply interested in the fate of one who had proved himself to be so much ahead of any of his compeers in crime.Peace was looked upon as a sort of hero. Many admired him, and not a few pitied him. His adventurous life, his daring exploits, found favour in the eyes of rogues and thieves of a lesser degree, and his exploits formed the theme of conversation among numberless sections of the lawless portion of the thieving fraternity of London.We must take a glance at one of the haunts of the dissolute and depraved. It is Saturday night, and the hour is ten o’clock. All London is alive, for Saturday night is the market-time of the poor.The streets of Whitechapel presented remarkable scenes. Huge crowds passed down them, and bought their Sunday dinners from the butchers’ stalls upon the pavement, where joints of raw meat were suspended upon hooks, and which were lighted by pipes of blazing gas. Others crowded into the fried-fish shops and supped ravenously on rank plaice swimming in oil. Others resorted to the taverns, which were adorned with portraits of pugilists, and regaled themselves with Old Tom for which Whitechapel is so famous.Close to one of these streets, where rioting and business seemed to go hand in hand, there was a narrow lane, silent as death. Gigantic warehouses rising on each side seemed to shut out heaven.A man was walking down the lane—his appearance was dejected and his eyes were bent on the ground.When he had come to the end of the lane he dived into a dark alley, which brought him out close to a railway arch.Hollowed in the side of this arch was a hole like the mouth of a cavern, and running under the railway supported by black pillars was a street.This was “the street of women,” described in the early portion of this work; it was the place where Laura Stanbridge led the boy, Alf Purvis, on a dark night.Our pedestrian walked along the street, and the women who stood at their doors brawny, repulsive, and naked as the ogresses of old, did not molest him even with their tongues.They looked upon him with kindness, for they had heard that he was the friend and companion of the celebrated Charles Peace, the burglar, and hence it was that they gazed at him in silence, with something like a feeling of reverence.He turned down a yard and stood opposite to a house dilapidated and apparently untenanted, but from the cellar windows of which came shouts of laughter and streams of light.He entered by the same means as those previously described, and having gained the kitchen, which was filled with thieves and beggars, sat down in a corner by himself.There were several men seated round a table; at a little distance from the rest a tall pale man, who was clad in the dirtiest rags, but who, nevertheless, could afford to drink gin—and doses in large quantities—was speaking.“It’s the greatest pity in the world as that gang got broke up by the beaks; they were an honour to our English gemmen—they were an honour to our land.”“Ye—es,” said a man with a white comforter tied over his mouth, “ye—es; so I thought till they got nabbed like that there in the country. That was a pitiful job—old hands like that goin’ time arter time on the same beat, and almost on the same lay, with the whole vorld, as one might say, before ’em. It’s jolly hard—that’s what it is.”“I tell you how it happened,” observed another of the company, who was smoking a short pipe, “the whole country laid awake at night a watching for ’em.”“There was somethink under the rose, depend on’t,” said a red-faced man in a green cutaway, and his whiskers cropped in that peculiar fashion which stamps the habitué of the race-course. “Smoucher and Jim were both high-flyers and knew how to make their books as well as any going; but there’s days on which even the knowin’ ones gets taken in, though not so often as the knowing ones would have you believe. Well, it’s a pity as how they were copped. They’d never have gone into the neighbourhood if it had not ha’ bin for the Dandy.”“Vell, there now, I hope as how he aint a goin’ to blame Alf for it,” said the man with the comforter.“In course not. Who says I do?”“Nobody as I knows on.”“I remember,” said the pale man, “the first night as the Dandy came to this ’ere blessed crib, and sat at this ’ere table and drank Max with Lorrie Stanbridge. She brought him here. I remember it well enough. Why, he was only a boy then, but his eyes were as sharp as needles, and his long white fingers seemed a ’itching for the game even then.”“Ah,” soliloquised the gentleman with the white comforter, “Vat a pictur that hand vos to be sure!”“I was made a cadger on that night in the little room upstairs. The ‘Smoucher’ used to have it then, just as Lorrie has it now; but as I was a coming out who should I see but these two—Lorrie and the little bloke? I guessed as how he was to be ’chanted the play’ too, but I didn’t guess as how that smock-faced kid was a goin’ to turn out as he has.”“I never liked the ‘Smoucher,’” said the sporting man, “though I’ve often been on the ‘flimsy-kiddy’ and the ‘ring dodge’ down at Ascot with him. Still, I’m sorry he was made a target on, which, for sartain I am he has bin.”“But, Jim,” said the man with the muffled mouth, “he vas a good sort. S’posin there vas any nasty or ticklish vork to be done on the fly, sitch as breaking a bobby’s head, he vas alvays ready and foremost to do it himself, instead of trying to put it on his pals.”“Breaking a bobby’s head!” exclaimed another of the party; “’taint so easily done. It’s all very well for you chaps to talk, but I say it aint so easy. But, Lord love yer, there aint anybody here as is fit to hold a candle to Charley Peace—he was the man to knock over the bobbies.”“There aint no manner of doubt of that there,” said the pale man; “not a shadow of doubt. Charley was a wonder.”“That he was, and no flies,” said Cooney, for he it was who had introduced the name of our hero. “He was allers straight and square with me; I aint got a word to say against him. You chaps here talk about the ‘Smoucher’ and the ‘Dandy’—why they were fools compared to Peace.”“I dare say they were, or indeed are,” observed the man with the pipe; “but yer see, I never happened to fall across Peace. He was a bloke who, from what I’ve been told, kept hisself to hisself. Vell, I don’t care about blokes of that kidney. ‘Live and let live,’ that’s my motter, and do as ye’d be done by.”“Well, and who says Charlie wasn’t one of that sort? He allers acted fair and square with his pals.”“Ah, he was a wonder,” exclaimed the man with the muffler. “He stands alone—there aint a bloke as can come up to ’im. Pity he’s been nabbed, ’cause ye see he was a stunner in every way—leastways, I’m only a speakin’ from what I’ve heard.”“Oh, you are right enough,” returned Cooney. “You may take your davy about Charlie. You won’t find such another throughout England.”“I’m precious sorry for him, poor chap. I don’t know as I was ever so broken down in the whole course of my life as when I heer’d of his conviction, ’cause you see he proved himself to be a downright good sort, as far as I am concerned.”“But yer aint seen much of him of late, have yer?” inquired the pale-faced man.“No, not much; yer know he was like hide-and-seek, and he kept as much to himself as possible; but, law, he wasn’t to blame for that, seeing what were agen him, he worked on the quiet, all to himself as yer might say.”“And didn’t care about trusting anybody—eh?”“Right you are, old man,” said Cooney, with a nod. “But for all that, I wouldn’t mind doing a seven years’ stretch if I could see him out of limbo, but Lord bless us, there aint much chance of that now. They’ve got poor old Charlie pretty tight, and he’s done for.”“Will be tried for the Bannercross murder, I ’spose?”“That’s their game—so I’ve been told.”“Ah!” said the pale-faced man, “this is how we lose our friends; the best on ’em get nabbed, them as we care most about go the first. It’s the way of the world.”“Who’s that old woman over there, talking to Bandy-legged Bill?” suddenly exclaimed the sporting man.“Can’t say,” said the man in the white muffler. “She comes here to see Bill, and seldom speaks to any one else.”“But who is she? Don’t you know her name?”“Oh, yes—she’s known as Mother Grover.”“Thank you for the information. I am about as wise as ever. Who is she, and what brings her here?”“She wants to know about the Dandy, wishes to find him out, so I’ve been given to understand.”“Does she want to pinch him, the old cat?”“Ah, no. Hark ye,” said the man with the muffler. “She’s greatly interested about the Dandy, and I’ve been told she’s his mother.”“Oh, scissors!” exclaimed the sporting man. “His mother—eh?”“That’s about the size of it,” ejaculated the other, with a mysterious nod. “She was a bosom friend of Lorrie’s years and years ago; but they chipped out, and my lady, I mean Lorrie of course, is a bit too much for her. Oh, there’s a mystery about the Dandy and his belongings, but I do honestly believe that yonder woman is his mother.”“It’s a rum story, take it altogether,” cried Cooney. “That woman is for ever following upon the heels of Bill Rawton. Why I cannot tell you.”There was a dead silence for some time after this, but the eyes of most present were directed to the corner of the apartment where the gipsy and his companion sat.The last-named were conversing in a low tone, which was but a little above a whisper.“You are not so callous and hardened,” said the woman, “as to be dead to all feeling for another. I ask you to find my boy. You can do so—of that I feel assured. You know Laura Stanbridge, who is his friend, or professes to be so.”“Hold hard,” interrupted Rawton. Don’t be quite so fast, mother. I am not her friend. I know her. She has done me a good turn more than once, and I have had it in my power to return the compliment. What of that?”“What of it? A great deal. She will listen to you, and I wish you to do me a turn. I wish you to help me to find my son.”“I don’t believe Lorrie knows where he is, and I am quite certain that I do not, and, what is more, I don’t want to know. He’s a chap I never cared a bit about—he was a deal too uppish for my money, and thought too much of himself; so you see it ain’t at all likely that I can assist you.”“In other words, you won’t.”“I would if I could.”“You can—of that I feel perfectly well assured. It was into this house, years ago,” she murmured, in a low and concentrated voice—“it was into this very house that she decoyed my poor innocent boy, and I, loving him, I knew not why—crouching on the cold stones outside—shivering under the bitter winds. But ah, woman without heart! your day shall come, and it is nigh at hand.”“Be silent,” whispered Rawton. “They will hear you.”“I do not care who hears me.”“But I do. You do not know the people here so well as I do. Your life might be sacrificed if they suspected your purpose.”“Is it wrong or wicked for a mother to strive to rescue her son from the depths of sin?”The gipsy laughed.“You make a jest of it—do so,” returned his companion.“Rescue the Dandy—rescue Alf Purvis! Bah!”A shade of sorrow passed over the features of the woman.“Is he lost, utterly and irretrievably, then?” she inquired. “Answer me, Rawton.”“You and I are not likely to agree upon this subject,” returned he. I must tell you frankly that he is as unprincipled as he is worthless.”“Do you wish to drive me mad?” said Mrs. Grover.“Certainly not. But you must not place all the faults of this young gentleman upon the shoulders of Lorrie Stanbridge.”“Who taught him? Who brought him up as a thief? She did!”“We will not argue that question. He proved to be a pretty good pupil, and was not good for much when she took him in hand.”“What has she made of him? Oh, Rawton, you know but too well, although you do not choose to say. Listen to me. I am growing old, have no tie but one, it is my boy; restore him to me, and heaven will bless you. Think of the many dreary and desolate years I have passed—think of all I have suffered, and take pity on me.”“I do pity you,” cried the gipsy. “I am sorry for you, but what’s the use of that? You cannot be benefitted by my pity or commiseration. I do not know anything about Purvis; if I did I would tell you all I knew.”“But you can find him—I am sure you can if you set about the task with a free goodwill.”“Ask Lorrie Stanbridge. She is the person to apply to. Alf, to the best of my belief, is abroad. He has left his country for his country’s good, that is all I know about the matter.”“He did leave England, but he has returned—he must have returned by this time. You can aid me. Oh, Mr. Rawton, you are kindly disposed, are not sunk so low, but have, I am certain, some good left in your disposition. I am a friend of Mrs. Bourne’s, and she speaks of you as a man who is——”“Who is what?” cried Bill, with sudden vehemence, and interrupting the speaker. “As what? Mrs. Bourne!—do you know her?”“Yes. Have known her for many years.”“I never heard that—Mrs. Bourne, eh?”“Yes, the widow of Dr. Bourne. He who committed suicide.”“I know. There is no occasion for you to tell me about that. I know the whole history of his crime, and his end.”“You acted fair enough towards her.”“Well, what of that? Who says I didn’t?” cried the gipsy, evidently moved.“Nobody. If they did I should suppose they spoke an untruth.”“Look here,” said Bill Rawton, after a pause. “You want me to help you, and I aint the man to say no to such a request, but that is one thing. I may have the will, which, to say the truth, I have, but I have not the power, I know nothing about this young gentleman—no, nothing about Alf Purvis, or Mr. Algernon Sutherland, as he now calls himself. Let me give you a word of advice. Don’t trouble yourself about the young scapegrace. You wouldn’t be much benefitted by finding him.”“But he is my son. Oh, sir, think of that.”“I do think of it.”“Well, what then?”“He is better lost than found.”“Have you so bad an opinion of him, then?”“I have a very bad opinion of him.”“I dare say he has become hardened, and, as a natural consequence, is despised by many of his associates.”“I am not one of his associates. Please to understand that,” said Bill Rawton, “I never cared anything about him—a stuck-up conceited jackanapes. I tell you frankly, I would never have anything to say to him—‘cause why?—he wasn’t my sort.”“You hate him then?”“I never liked him, if that’s what you want to know.”“Oh, I do not want to know anything about his doings, or about his enemies. All I want is my son. Will you help me to find him?”“I’ll do what I can to serve you, but you musn’t bother me as you’ve been doing lately. If I learn anything about him I’ll let you know.”“You promise that?”“I do. There’s a mystery about this young shaver, but it aint no business of mine. You want to see him?”“I do.”“Well, if I can put you on the scent I will—that’s all I have to say. So now you had better step it, for my friends yonder are wondering what business I have with you, so make tracks as soon as possible, or may be we shall get into the mire.”The woman drew from her pocket a piece of dirty crumpled paper, which she handed to Bandy-legged Bill.“There is my name and address,” said she, “and, oh, Mr. Rawton, I pray you to do your best. Restore my son to me, and I shall owe you a lasting debt of gratitude.”“All right, mother,” said Bill, pocketing the paper. “I’ll do my best for yer.”The woman rose and took her departure.“Vell I’m blest,” cried the man with the cutaway coat. “Blow me tight if Bill hasn’t got a woman on the hooks. We shall see a big wedding presently, I s’pose.”“I hope she’s got plenty of blunt, and that we may be invited, the whole piling on us, to the wedding breakfast,” remarked the man with the cutaway coat.“She’s no blunt, you fool,” said the pale-faced man. “No such luck.”“Ah, I see, Bill’s going to marry her for her beauty—a love match, eh?” observed another of the party.“You’re a set of noodles to be talkin’ like that ’ere,” said Cooney. “Don’t ye know who she is?”“No, I don’t,” returned the sporting man.“Vell, then, I do. ’Tis Mother Grover, as vas a friend of Lorrie Stanbridge’s some years ago.”There was a prolonged “ah!” at this last observation.“That’s about the size of it,” observed Rawton. “There’s a bit of mystery about the Dandy. He came from a good stock, so I’ve been given to understand, and the woman who has just left is his mother.”“Tell us all about it, Bill,” exclaimed several. “You aint the man to keep anything from your pals.”“I don’t know as I’ve anything to tell you,” said Bill Rawton.“Ah, gammon an’ all,” exclaimed the sporting man, “but if you are making up to the young and fascinating widow, and the matter is of a private nature, vell, in course ve won’t ax any further questions.”“Shut up,” cried Rawton. “Making up to her! You must be going off your nut to be a-talking in that way.”“Ah vell, I’m sorry I spoke.”At this last observation there was a loud peal of laughter.“You’ve got yer chaffing togs on to-day, it would seem,” observed the gipsy. “But there aint no secret in the case. The woman, as I said afore, is the mother of the Dandy—leastways that’s what I believe, and I don’t see any reason to doubt what she says. She’s been on to me for ever so long to find him for her. You know, all on yer, that he aint now on good terms with Laura Stanbridge; why or wherefore this is I don’t rightly know, and, as yer all know, he hasn’t shown up of late.”“He’s got a precious sight too proud to mix with any of us. He was allers a la-de-da stuck up young shaver,” remarked the man with the white comforter, “and wasn’t at any time quite my book. But that’s neither here nor there. He’s mizzled, turned tail, and keeps aristocratic company—so I’ve been told—and much good may it do him—but go on. The old woman wants to find him. I hope as how he’s come into a fortune.”“And if he has he’ll spend it jolly quick,” said Cooney.“Not the least doubt of that, old stick-in-the-mud,” observed another of this choice assembly. “But stow magging—Bill’s got something to tell us.”“No, I’ve not,” returned Rawton. “You know just about as much as I do myself, and if any on yer can find the Dandy, why it ’ill be doing the old ’oman a service, and you won’t go unrewarded when you give her the tip.”“That’s business,” ejaculated the pale-faced man. “I likes a chap to come to business without any long palaver. If any on us tumble over my gentleman we shall know what to do. Do you see that, mates?”No.85.Illustration: SHE HURLED HIM OVER THE CLIFF.WITH A SUDDEN PUSH, SHE HURLED HIM OVER THE CLIFF.“Aye, aye, governor, we all on us see that,” exclaimed several.“But is it a plant?” suggested the man with the cutaway coat.“Plant, Lord love yer, no,” returned Rawton. “The old ’oman’s right enough, right as the mail—I’ll take my davy on that; but she does take on, and no mistake. She’d give her life to find the Dandy.”“But, hang it all, she never took much notice on him when she was with Laura,” said Cooney. “It’s a rum start, take it all together.”“She didn’t take much notice on him at that time, I admit,” answered Bill. “But why didn’t she?”“Can’t say.”“Then I’ll tell yer. She didn’t know then that he was her son. Do you understand now, old thick-head?”“Vell, I didn’t understand it rightly,” returned Cooney; but I s’pose it’s square and straight.”“As straight as an arrow, take my word for it.”“I don’t care which way it is,” said Cooney. “Blow the Dandy, say I. I only wish I could get Charley Peace out of quod.”“Ah,” replied the gipsy, “and so do I. He’s worth fifty Dandys.”“Have you seen anything on him?”“Yes. I saw him on the day of his trial.”“And how was he?”“Oh, miserably cast down. Couldn’t hold up at all.”“Poor chap. It’s hard lines. Why, the sentence was a cruel one.”“It was—it was!” exclaimed several. “Everybody says so!”“And what everybody says must be right—leastways, it can’t be very far wrong,” said Bill. “But it aint of no manner of use a-talking about that—Charley’s potted. There aint much chance now of his ever being a free man, not unless he can get the Home Office to commute his sentence, but I ’xpect there ain’t much chance of that.”“Lord bless yer,” said Cooney, “yer might jist as well ’xpect to lift upSt.Paul’s in the palm of yer hand. Commute—blow me tight, there aint no manner of chance of that there—and mind ye, Charley’s as right as the mail—never turned round on a cove in all his mortal days. Well, here’s to his good health.”The speaker raised a full goblet to his lips and toasted our hero.The woman known as Mrs. Grover, and who had been pleading so pertinaciously to Bill Rawton, was no other than Isabel Purvis, the mother of Alf Purvis.The reader will doubtless remember that Laura Stanbridge had with her as a companion a Mrs. Grover when she first took Purvis under her protecting wing.At this time her companion had no idea that the young bird-seller was her own son, but she had taken to him by one of those unaccountable influences which are past the comprehension of ordinary individuals.As years passed over her head she comprehended that Miss Stanbridge’s protegé was her own offspring.When the fact became clearly established she was solicitous of finding the young scapegrace, and for this purpose she applied to the gipsy.Mrs. Grover, or more properly speaking, Isabel Purvis, had in early life been associated with a tribe of gipsies, and here it was that she had made the acquaintance of Bill Rawton.She knew his wife, and had been mixed up with the wandering tribe, to which he at one time belonged, and hence it was that she sought his assistance in tracing out her son, the worthless young scoundrel, Alf Purvis, or Algernon Sutherland, as he chose to term himself.
We must leave Charles Peace for awhile to gather up the tangled threads of our story, and follow the fortunes of other characters who have figured in this “strange eventful history.”
The capture and conviction of our hero, together with the remarkable concurrence of circumstances connected with the history of the most accomplished and desperate burglar of modern times, created an amount of public interest which was altogether of an exceptional character.
This interest was not confined to one class of the populace. It permeated throughout every conceivable class from the highest to the lowest, and as a natural consequence the criminal portion of the community were deeply interested in the fate of one who had proved himself to be so much ahead of any of his compeers in crime.
Peace was looked upon as a sort of hero. Many admired him, and not a few pitied him. His adventurous life, his daring exploits, found favour in the eyes of rogues and thieves of a lesser degree, and his exploits formed the theme of conversation among numberless sections of the lawless portion of the thieving fraternity of London.
We must take a glance at one of the haunts of the dissolute and depraved. It is Saturday night, and the hour is ten o’clock. All London is alive, for Saturday night is the market-time of the poor.
The streets of Whitechapel presented remarkable scenes. Huge crowds passed down them, and bought their Sunday dinners from the butchers’ stalls upon the pavement, where joints of raw meat were suspended upon hooks, and which were lighted by pipes of blazing gas. Others crowded into the fried-fish shops and supped ravenously on rank plaice swimming in oil. Others resorted to the taverns, which were adorned with portraits of pugilists, and regaled themselves with Old Tom for which Whitechapel is so famous.
Close to one of these streets, where rioting and business seemed to go hand in hand, there was a narrow lane, silent as death. Gigantic warehouses rising on each side seemed to shut out heaven.
A man was walking down the lane—his appearance was dejected and his eyes were bent on the ground.
When he had come to the end of the lane he dived into a dark alley, which brought him out close to a railway arch.
Hollowed in the side of this arch was a hole like the mouth of a cavern, and running under the railway supported by black pillars was a street.
This was “the street of women,” described in the early portion of this work; it was the place where Laura Stanbridge led the boy, Alf Purvis, on a dark night.
Our pedestrian walked along the street, and the women who stood at their doors brawny, repulsive, and naked as the ogresses of old, did not molest him even with their tongues.
They looked upon him with kindness, for they had heard that he was the friend and companion of the celebrated Charles Peace, the burglar, and hence it was that they gazed at him in silence, with something like a feeling of reverence.
He turned down a yard and stood opposite to a house dilapidated and apparently untenanted, but from the cellar windows of which came shouts of laughter and streams of light.
He entered by the same means as those previously described, and having gained the kitchen, which was filled with thieves and beggars, sat down in a corner by himself.
There were several men seated round a table; at a little distance from the rest a tall pale man, who was clad in the dirtiest rags, but who, nevertheless, could afford to drink gin—and doses in large quantities—was speaking.
“It’s the greatest pity in the world as that gang got broke up by the beaks; they were an honour to our English gemmen—they were an honour to our land.”
“Ye—es,” said a man with a white comforter tied over his mouth, “ye—es; so I thought till they got nabbed like that there in the country. That was a pitiful job—old hands like that goin’ time arter time on the same beat, and almost on the same lay, with the whole vorld, as one might say, before ’em. It’s jolly hard—that’s what it is.”
“I tell you how it happened,” observed another of the company, who was smoking a short pipe, “the whole country laid awake at night a watching for ’em.”
“There was somethink under the rose, depend on’t,” said a red-faced man in a green cutaway, and his whiskers cropped in that peculiar fashion which stamps the habitué of the race-course. “Smoucher and Jim were both high-flyers and knew how to make their books as well as any going; but there’s days on which even the knowin’ ones gets taken in, though not so often as the knowing ones would have you believe. Well, it’s a pity as how they were copped. They’d never have gone into the neighbourhood if it had not ha’ bin for the Dandy.”
“Vell, there now, I hope as how he aint a goin’ to blame Alf for it,” said the man with the comforter.
“In course not. Who says I do?”
“Nobody as I knows on.”
“I remember,” said the pale man, “the first night as the Dandy came to this ’ere blessed crib, and sat at this ’ere table and drank Max with Lorrie Stanbridge. She brought him here. I remember it well enough. Why, he was only a boy then, but his eyes were as sharp as needles, and his long white fingers seemed a ’itching for the game even then.”
“Ah,” soliloquised the gentleman with the white comforter, “Vat a pictur that hand vos to be sure!”
“I was made a cadger on that night in the little room upstairs. The ‘Smoucher’ used to have it then, just as Lorrie has it now; but as I was a coming out who should I see but these two—Lorrie and the little bloke? I guessed as how he was to be ’chanted the play’ too, but I didn’t guess as how that smock-faced kid was a goin’ to turn out as he has.”
“I never liked the ‘Smoucher,’” said the sporting man, “though I’ve often been on the ‘flimsy-kiddy’ and the ‘ring dodge’ down at Ascot with him. Still, I’m sorry he was made a target on, which, for sartain I am he has bin.”
“But, Jim,” said the man with the muffled mouth, “he vas a good sort. S’posin there vas any nasty or ticklish vork to be done on the fly, sitch as breaking a bobby’s head, he vas alvays ready and foremost to do it himself, instead of trying to put it on his pals.”
“Breaking a bobby’s head!” exclaimed another of the party; “’taint so easily done. It’s all very well for you chaps to talk, but I say it aint so easy. But, Lord love yer, there aint anybody here as is fit to hold a candle to Charley Peace—he was the man to knock over the bobbies.”
“There aint no manner of doubt of that there,” said the pale man; “not a shadow of doubt. Charley was a wonder.”
“That he was, and no flies,” said Cooney, for he it was who had introduced the name of our hero. “He was allers straight and square with me; I aint got a word to say against him. You chaps here talk about the ‘Smoucher’ and the ‘Dandy’—why they were fools compared to Peace.”
“I dare say they were, or indeed are,” observed the man with the pipe; “but yer see, I never happened to fall across Peace. He was a bloke who, from what I’ve been told, kept hisself to hisself. Vell, I don’t care about blokes of that kidney. ‘Live and let live,’ that’s my motter, and do as ye’d be done by.”
“Well, and who says Charlie wasn’t one of that sort? He allers acted fair and square with his pals.”
“Ah, he was a wonder,” exclaimed the man with the muffler. “He stands alone—there aint a bloke as can come up to ’im. Pity he’s been nabbed, ’cause ye see he was a stunner in every way—leastways, I’m only a speakin’ from what I’ve heard.”
“Oh, you are right enough,” returned Cooney. “You may take your davy about Charlie. You won’t find such another throughout England.”
“I’m precious sorry for him, poor chap. I don’t know as I was ever so broken down in the whole course of my life as when I heer’d of his conviction, ’cause you see he proved himself to be a downright good sort, as far as I am concerned.”
“But yer aint seen much of him of late, have yer?” inquired the pale-faced man.
“No, not much; yer know he was like hide-and-seek, and he kept as much to himself as possible; but, law, he wasn’t to blame for that, seeing what were agen him, he worked on the quiet, all to himself as yer might say.”
“And didn’t care about trusting anybody—eh?”
“Right you are, old man,” said Cooney, with a nod. “But for all that, I wouldn’t mind doing a seven years’ stretch if I could see him out of limbo, but Lord bless us, there aint much chance of that now. They’ve got poor old Charlie pretty tight, and he’s done for.”
“Will be tried for the Bannercross murder, I ’spose?”
“That’s their game—so I’ve been told.”
“Ah!” said the pale-faced man, “this is how we lose our friends; the best on ’em get nabbed, them as we care most about go the first. It’s the way of the world.”
“Who’s that old woman over there, talking to Bandy-legged Bill?” suddenly exclaimed the sporting man.
“Can’t say,” said the man in the white muffler. “She comes here to see Bill, and seldom speaks to any one else.”
“But who is she? Don’t you know her name?”
“Oh, yes—she’s known as Mother Grover.”
“Thank you for the information. I am about as wise as ever. Who is she, and what brings her here?”
“She wants to know about the Dandy, wishes to find him out, so I’ve been given to understand.”
“Does she want to pinch him, the old cat?”
“Ah, no. Hark ye,” said the man with the muffler. “She’s greatly interested about the Dandy, and I’ve been told she’s his mother.”
“Oh, scissors!” exclaimed the sporting man. “His mother—eh?”
“That’s about the size of it,” ejaculated the other, with a mysterious nod. “She was a bosom friend of Lorrie’s years and years ago; but they chipped out, and my lady, I mean Lorrie of course, is a bit too much for her. Oh, there’s a mystery about the Dandy and his belongings, but I do honestly believe that yonder woman is his mother.”
“It’s a rum story, take it altogether,” cried Cooney. “That woman is for ever following upon the heels of Bill Rawton. Why I cannot tell you.”
There was a dead silence for some time after this, but the eyes of most present were directed to the corner of the apartment where the gipsy and his companion sat.
The last-named were conversing in a low tone, which was but a little above a whisper.
“You are not so callous and hardened,” said the woman, “as to be dead to all feeling for another. I ask you to find my boy. You can do so—of that I feel assured. You know Laura Stanbridge, who is his friend, or professes to be so.”
“Hold hard,” interrupted Rawton. Don’t be quite so fast, mother. I am not her friend. I know her. She has done me a good turn more than once, and I have had it in my power to return the compliment. What of that?”
“What of it? A great deal. She will listen to you, and I wish you to do me a turn. I wish you to help me to find my son.”
“I don’t believe Lorrie knows where he is, and I am quite certain that I do not, and, what is more, I don’t want to know. He’s a chap I never cared a bit about—he was a deal too uppish for my money, and thought too much of himself; so you see it ain’t at all likely that I can assist you.”
“In other words, you won’t.”
“I would if I could.”
“You can—of that I feel perfectly well assured. It was into this house, years ago,” she murmured, in a low and concentrated voice—“it was into this very house that she decoyed my poor innocent boy, and I, loving him, I knew not why—crouching on the cold stones outside—shivering under the bitter winds. But ah, woman without heart! your day shall come, and it is nigh at hand.”
“Be silent,” whispered Rawton. “They will hear you.”
“I do not care who hears me.”
“But I do. You do not know the people here so well as I do. Your life might be sacrificed if they suspected your purpose.”
“Is it wrong or wicked for a mother to strive to rescue her son from the depths of sin?”
The gipsy laughed.
“You make a jest of it—do so,” returned his companion.
“Rescue the Dandy—rescue Alf Purvis! Bah!”
A shade of sorrow passed over the features of the woman.
“Is he lost, utterly and irretrievably, then?” she inquired. “Answer me, Rawton.”
“You and I are not likely to agree upon this subject,” returned he. I must tell you frankly that he is as unprincipled as he is worthless.”
“Do you wish to drive me mad?” said Mrs. Grover.
“Certainly not. But you must not place all the faults of this young gentleman upon the shoulders of Lorrie Stanbridge.”
“Who taught him? Who brought him up as a thief? She did!”
“We will not argue that question. He proved to be a pretty good pupil, and was not good for much when she took him in hand.”
“What has she made of him? Oh, Rawton, you know but too well, although you do not choose to say. Listen to me. I am growing old, have no tie but one, it is my boy; restore him to me, and heaven will bless you. Think of the many dreary and desolate years I have passed—think of all I have suffered, and take pity on me.”
“I do pity you,” cried the gipsy. “I am sorry for you, but what’s the use of that? You cannot be benefitted by my pity or commiseration. I do not know anything about Purvis; if I did I would tell you all I knew.”
“But you can find him—I am sure you can if you set about the task with a free goodwill.”
“Ask Lorrie Stanbridge. She is the person to apply to. Alf, to the best of my belief, is abroad. He has left his country for his country’s good, that is all I know about the matter.”
“He did leave England, but he has returned—he must have returned by this time. You can aid me. Oh, Mr. Rawton, you are kindly disposed, are not sunk so low, but have, I am certain, some good left in your disposition. I am a friend of Mrs. Bourne’s, and she speaks of you as a man who is——”
“Who is what?” cried Bill, with sudden vehemence, and interrupting the speaker. “As what? Mrs. Bourne!—do you know her?”
“Yes. Have known her for many years.”
“I never heard that—Mrs. Bourne, eh?”
“Yes, the widow of Dr. Bourne. He who committed suicide.”
“I know. There is no occasion for you to tell me about that. I know the whole history of his crime, and his end.”
“You acted fair enough towards her.”
“Well, what of that? Who says I didn’t?” cried the gipsy, evidently moved.
“Nobody. If they did I should suppose they spoke an untruth.”
“Look here,” said Bill Rawton, after a pause. “You want me to help you, and I aint the man to say no to such a request, but that is one thing. I may have the will, which, to say the truth, I have, but I have not the power, I know nothing about this young gentleman—no, nothing about Alf Purvis, or Mr. Algernon Sutherland, as he now calls himself. Let me give you a word of advice. Don’t trouble yourself about the young scapegrace. You wouldn’t be much benefitted by finding him.”
“But he is my son. Oh, sir, think of that.”
“I do think of it.”
“Well, what then?”
“He is better lost than found.”
“Have you so bad an opinion of him, then?”
“I have a very bad opinion of him.”
“I dare say he has become hardened, and, as a natural consequence, is despised by many of his associates.”
“I am not one of his associates. Please to understand that,” said Bill Rawton, “I never cared anything about him—a stuck-up conceited jackanapes. I tell you frankly, I would never have anything to say to him—‘cause why?—he wasn’t my sort.”
“You hate him then?”
“I never liked him, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Oh, I do not want to know anything about his doings, or about his enemies. All I want is my son. Will you help me to find him?”
“I’ll do what I can to serve you, but you musn’t bother me as you’ve been doing lately. If I learn anything about him I’ll let you know.”
“You promise that?”
“I do. There’s a mystery about this young shaver, but it aint no business of mine. You want to see him?”
“I do.”
“Well, if I can put you on the scent I will—that’s all I have to say. So now you had better step it, for my friends yonder are wondering what business I have with you, so make tracks as soon as possible, or may be we shall get into the mire.”
The woman drew from her pocket a piece of dirty crumpled paper, which she handed to Bandy-legged Bill.
“There is my name and address,” said she, “and, oh, Mr. Rawton, I pray you to do your best. Restore my son to me, and I shall owe you a lasting debt of gratitude.”
“All right, mother,” said Bill, pocketing the paper. “I’ll do my best for yer.”
The woman rose and took her departure.
“Vell I’m blest,” cried the man with the cutaway coat. “Blow me tight if Bill hasn’t got a woman on the hooks. We shall see a big wedding presently, I s’pose.”
“I hope she’s got plenty of blunt, and that we may be invited, the whole piling on us, to the wedding breakfast,” remarked the man with the cutaway coat.
“She’s no blunt, you fool,” said the pale-faced man. “No such luck.”
“Ah, I see, Bill’s going to marry her for her beauty—a love match, eh?” observed another of the party.
“You’re a set of noodles to be talkin’ like that ’ere,” said Cooney. “Don’t ye know who she is?”
“No, I don’t,” returned the sporting man.
“Vell, then, I do. ’Tis Mother Grover, as vas a friend of Lorrie Stanbridge’s some years ago.”
There was a prolonged “ah!” at this last observation.
“That’s about the size of it,” observed Rawton. “There’s a bit of mystery about the Dandy. He came from a good stock, so I’ve been given to understand, and the woman who has just left is his mother.”
“Tell us all about it, Bill,” exclaimed several. “You aint the man to keep anything from your pals.”
“I don’t know as I’ve anything to tell you,” said Bill Rawton.
“Ah, gammon an’ all,” exclaimed the sporting man, “but if you are making up to the young and fascinating widow, and the matter is of a private nature, vell, in course ve won’t ax any further questions.”
“Shut up,” cried Rawton. “Making up to her! You must be going off your nut to be a-talking in that way.”
“Ah vell, I’m sorry I spoke.”
At this last observation there was a loud peal of laughter.
“You’ve got yer chaffing togs on to-day, it would seem,” observed the gipsy. “But there aint no secret in the case. The woman, as I said afore, is the mother of the Dandy—leastways that’s what I believe, and I don’t see any reason to doubt what she says. She’s been on to me for ever so long to find him for her. You know, all on yer, that he aint now on good terms with Laura Stanbridge; why or wherefore this is I don’t rightly know, and, as yer all know, he hasn’t shown up of late.”
“He’s got a precious sight too proud to mix with any of us. He was allers a la-de-da stuck up young shaver,” remarked the man with the white comforter, “and wasn’t at any time quite my book. But that’s neither here nor there. He’s mizzled, turned tail, and keeps aristocratic company—so I’ve been told—and much good may it do him—but go on. The old woman wants to find him. I hope as how he’s come into a fortune.”
“And if he has he’ll spend it jolly quick,” said Cooney.
“Not the least doubt of that, old stick-in-the-mud,” observed another of this choice assembly. “But stow magging—Bill’s got something to tell us.”
“No, I’ve not,” returned Rawton. “You know just about as much as I do myself, and if any on yer can find the Dandy, why it ’ill be doing the old ’oman a service, and you won’t go unrewarded when you give her the tip.”
“That’s business,” ejaculated the pale-faced man. “I likes a chap to come to business without any long palaver. If any on us tumble over my gentleman we shall know what to do. Do you see that, mates?”
No.85.
Illustration: SHE HURLED HIM OVER THE CLIFF.WITH A SUDDEN PUSH, SHE HURLED HIM OVER THE CLIFF.
WITH A SUDDEN PUSH, SHE HURLED HIM OVER THE CLIFF.
“Aye, aye, governor, we all on us see that,” exclaimed several.
“But is it a plant?” suggested the man with the cutaway coat.
“Plant, Lord love yer, no,” returned Rawton. “The old ’oman’s right enough, right as the mail—I’ll take my davy on that; but she does take on, and no mistake. She’d give her life to find the Dandy.”
“But, hang it all, she never took much notice on him when she was with Laura,” said Cooney. “It’s a rum start, take it all together.”
“She didn’t take much notice on him at that time, I admit,” answered Bill. “But why didn’t she?”
“Can’t say.”
“Then I’ll tell yer. She didn’t know then that he was her son. Do you understand now, old thick-head?”
“Vell, I didn’t understand it rightly,” returned Cooney; but I s’pose it’s square and straight.”
“As straight as an arrow, take my word for it.”
“I don’t care which way it is,” said Cooney. “Blow the Dandy, say I. I only wish I could get Charley Peace out of quod.”
“Ah,” replied the gipsy, “and so do I. He’s worth fifty Dandys.”
“Have you seen anything on him?”
“Yes. I saw him on the day of his trial.”
“And how was he?”
“Oh, miserably cast down. Couldn’t hold up at all.”
“Poor chap. It’s hard lines. Why, the sentence was a cruel one.”
“It was—it was!” exclaimed several. “Everybody says so!”
“And what everybody says must be right—leastways, it can’t be very far wrong,” said Bill. “But it aint of no manner of use a-talking about that—Charley’s potted. There aint much chance now of his ever being a free man, not unless he can get the Home Office to commute his sentence, but I ’xpect there ain’t much chance of that.”
“Lord bless yer,” said Cooney, “yer might jist as well ’xpect to lift upSt.Paul’s in the palm of yer hand. Commute—blow me tight, there aint no manner of chance of that there—and mind ye, Charley’s as right as the mail—never turned round on a cove in all his mortal days. Well, here’s to his good health.”
The speaker raised a full goblet to his lips and toasted our hero.
The woman known as Mrs. Grover, and who had been pleading so pertinaciously to Bill Rawton, was no other than Isabel Purvis, the mother of Alf Purvis.
The reader will doubtless remember that Laura Stanbridge had with her as a companion a Mrs. Grover when she first took Purvis under her protecting wing.
At this time her companion had no idea that the young bird-seller was her own son, but she had taken to him by one of those unaccountable influences which are past the comprehension of ordinary individuals.
As years passed over her head she comprehended that Miss Stanbridge’s protegé was her own offspring.
When the fact became clearly established she was solicitous of finding the young scapegrace, and for this purpose she applied to the gipsy.
Mrs. Grover, or more properly speaking, Isabel Purvis, had in early life been associated with a tribe of gipsies, and here it was that she had made the acquaintance of Bill Rawton.
She knew his wife, and had been mixed up with the wandering tribe, to which he at one time belonged, and hence it was that she sought his assistance in tracing out her son, the worthless young scoundrel, Alf Purvis, or Algernon Sutherland, as he chose to term himself.