CHAPTERCXII.A PAINFUL SCENE—THE DEATH OF TOMMY—PEACE’S GRIEF.When Charles Peace arrived at his own residence he was almost as bad as his steed. It was only by a miracle that he had escaped being captured. Stackhouse was of course very well acquainted with all the particulars concerning the Bannercross murder, and should he, Peace, come across him, an ignominous death would be sure to follow as a natural consequence, for the “gentleman of independent means” felt that he could not impose upon the Sheffield detective. All things considered, it was most necessary that the latter should not trace the murder of Mr. Dyson to his residence in Peckham. Stackhouse, although he affected to be quite certain as to our hero’s identity, was by no means so well assured as he professed to be to his brother officer. And in addition to this there were other circumstances which conspired to break the thread of the clue.Stackhouse was only in London for a few days, and after the chase described in our last chapter, he returned to Sheffield upon other but less important business. He told the officials there that he believed he saw Charles Peace in front of a roadside inn at Sydenham; but the general impression seemed to be that he was mistaken, and so the matter was suffered to drop.When the pony had been taken out of the trap, its master saw that it was in a very sad condition; there was no use attempting to disguise this fact, which was self-evident.Tommy had not been quite right for some days before this. It had a cold, and was out of order in other ways, but nothing very serious was supposed to be the matter. A mash was given, and the usual remedies applied, but the enormous stress that had been put upon it on this ill-fated evening seemed too much for the beautiful little creature.Peace removed the valuables from his trap, and concealed them in his usual hiding-place. When this had been done he rubbed down the pony, and tended it as carefully and affectionately as a mother does her pet child. He was greatly concerned about the animal, perhaps quite as much so as he had been about himself during the fearful half hour or so he had driven so recklessly to save his worthless life. He was greatly dispirited and depressed, and in this instance he had to keep all his troubles to himself. It would never do to let the women of his establishment know the danger he had passed through, or the real cause of the change that had come so suddenly over his Tommy.His thoughts, as may be readily imagined, were by no means pleasant ones, and for upwards of two hours did he sit in the stable watching his steed and musing upon the present and the past, and it might be trembling for the future, like a guilty remorseless miscreant as he was, for however callous and selfish a man of his type may be, he cannot be altogether dead to the silent monitor within.He had obtained a considerable amount of booty by his night’s depredation, and it is surprising, seeing the amount of property that fell into his hands, that he was not a rich man. It is a wonder where all the money went to, and the probability is that he did not know himself. It came and it went, how it would be difficult to say.Upon his entering his domicile, he found both his ladies in the parlour with Willie Ward. As a rule they did not ask him any questions, or rather no more than was absolutely necessary, but they were at no loss to divine that something had “put him out.” His brow grew dark when spoken to, and his answers were sharp and by no means agreeable in either tone or manner, and so but little was said by any member of the select family. When he did not desire conversation, he had recourse to an ingenious device—he took up his violin and directed Willie Ward to accompany him with the guitar. He knew perfectly well that his female companions would much prefer “magging,” as he termed it, and sometimes he was disposed to indulge them, but he was not on this particular evening; he was not in a mood to listen to their discourse; he therefore laid hold of the fiddle he had bought at the sale of Doctor Bourne’s effects, and began to play a prelude. Willie was always but too glad to join in, and he began twanging at one of the guitars.The two females listened to the music complacently enough, but they, of course, had had quite enough of it, and, first of all, Mrs. Peace went into the kitchen on some excuse or another; in a short time she was followed by Mrs. Thompson. Then a discussion ensued as to the cause of Peace’s moody manner, and both agreed that something or someone had put him out.However, after putting his goat through some tricks and amusing himself with one or two more of his pets, his ruffled temper became a little more smooth, and Charles Peace was himself again.The women returned to the parlour. A game or two of whist was played, and then Peace arose, and said he must go into the stable.“Into the stable?” said Mrs. Thompson, in surprise.“Yes,” cried our hero. “I don’t like the look of Tommy—he’s very queer.”“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed Mrs. Peace; “but he’ll be better in a day or two, I suppose?”“I’m not so sure about that. He’s very bad, poor little fellow—refuses his food.”“May I go with you?” said Willie.“Aye, if you like. Come along.”“Oh, that’s what’s put him out,” said Mrs. Thompson.“I knew there was something the matter. It’s the pony. Well, that’s a bad job.”“He cares a deal more for Tommy than he does for either of us—you may rest assured of that. But then, you see, the faithful little animal don’t cross him; so there is, after all, good reason for his attachment.”“He likes to have it all his own way. It’s the case with most men.”“He’s got a temper—that all who know anything of him will readily admit. But so have we all, I suppose.”“I hope I’ve got a better temper than he has.”“I dare say you have; but you mustn’t run Charles down. He’s not such a bad sort after all—there’s many worse than him.”The two women went on bandying words for some time. There was nothing new in this; it was their custom, and had been so ever since they had become acquainted with each other. It was, as we have before indicated, not altogether perfect harmony in the house in the Evalina-road, and wrangles were of frequent occurrence. It was perhaps in the nature and order of things that this should be so.Meanwhile Peace and Willie were busily engaged in the stables. The pony seemed to be in great pain—he would not take his food for all Peace’s coaxing—he was restless and fidgetty; nevertheless he pricked up his ears, and strove to put a better face on matters when spoken to and caressed by his master, but with all this it was easy to perceive that he was not in his usual health. As a rule our hero was not accustomed to give way to despair—his naturally sanguine temperament led him to look difficulties or troubles in the face. Had this not been so, he never could possibly have gone through what he had throughout his guilty and chequered career. Without doubt he was a most remarkable individual. The sanguine man can bridge over difficulties, which one of the opposite nature would perhaps sink under. His future, he will admit, presents the possibility of failure or mischance, as well as the possibility of good fortune and success, but with him the preponderance is immensely in favour of the realisation of his wishes.Let him make up his mind that the attainment of a certain object is desirable and he has a wonderful knack of persuading himself that it is easily attainable.He will muse over it until he has clearly realised not merely the bare object that would be all that would present itself to an ordinary imagination, but the thing itself, decked out in all the tinsel and trappings which a fervid fancy can create.With him it is the goal which shines out large and luminous, and it is the obstacles to be overcome in reaching it that are too hazy and insignificant to be worth serious consideration.The future always presents probabilities of both, but to the naturally despondent and apprehensive the balance is always in favour of mischance.Both these peculiarities of character are open to serious objections, and if a man might choose his mental constitution for himself no doubt he would be wise to keep clear of both extremes. For all the ordinary purposes of life the capability of regarding the future under the clear and cold light of reason, untinged by the delusive colouring of hopes and fears, is very valuable.He who can do this will not be daunted by imaginary difficulties, or waste his powers by needless preparation to meet them, and, on the other hand, he will not court failure by undertaking the tasks that lie before him, and neglecting to make due allowances for contingencies.But if the choice lay between the over-anxious and the over-sanguine temperament, then for all the purposes of an active and happy life the hopeful is infinitely preferable.It is just possible that excessive care and caution would in the long run more often prove right in judgment than injudicious hope; but even that is perhaps doubtful.Not merely the unforeseen, but that which cannot be foreseen by the most anxious vigilance, is so potent a factor in human affairs that the fortuitous and accidental may perhaps be said to shape as many of our ends as all our cares can do.Moreover, anxiety and fear and morbid apprehension are quite as distorting as high-flown hope and confidence.But even though it be granted that the more cautious temperament is the safer of the two, any advantage in this way is more than counterbalanced by the pluck and energy which a boundless hopefulness is able to inspire.There is, it must be confessed, very little “go” to be got out of those who are habitually given to a despondent and over-anxious view of things, however useful they may be as skids upon wheels that are apt to go too fast; while, all the world over, it is and always has been those who are dazzled by the brilliancy and colour in which they themselves deck out the future who have done the greatest deeds and excited the greatest influence.All history almost has been made, wars have been waged, freedoms have been won, dynasties have been overthrown, reforms have been brought about, inventions have been perfected, not by men who have been pre-eminent for their skill in forecasting difficulties, but by those who have insanely “laughed at impossibilities.”No doubt great caution as well as great hope has been characteristic of many of the foremost men of history, but as a rule the greatest of human works have been accomplished by those whose cautious fears and prudent foresight have continually been borne down by their sanguine temperament or some equivalent to it.The utterances of oracles, the reading of the stars, omens and prophecies, witchcraft and palmistry, and every other species of infatuation have at all times been called in to inspire just that confident hope with which capricious Nature has so largely endowed some of her children, while to others of them she seems to have denied it altogether.That an over-sanguine person is incapable of taking an altogether safe view of things, and that he is always in more or less peril, is true; but it is also true that his very delusions are the source of an energy and daring which must always be wanting to the timorous and despondent.His infatuation may, no doubt, be regarded as merely a mild phase of insanity, since he will often see that which to the soberest sense is undiscernible, while he often appears blind and deaf to the most obvious facts before him. But if the delusions are akin to those of a madman, the strength and the daring are the madman’s too.Undoubtedly he who has this temperament should be regarded as one of fortune’s favourites. The light that leads him on may often prove delusive, but it does not always do so, and even when it does it sheds a cheery glow upon his path that enables him to enjoy his life as he goes along, and at times permits him to revel in the anticipation of successes that are never to be his.Cowards die many times before their death;The valiant never taste of death but once,says Cæsar. In the same sense the hopeful individual enjoys good fortune many times, the anxious and despondent only once; and sometimes not at all.A more important consideration is the fact that whereas the cares, and worries, and disappointments of life have a natural tendency to intensify the over anxiety and apprehensiveness of those who yield to a proneness in that direction, they tend in an ordinary way to correct the opposite fault.There are, it is true, some to whom experience seems to bring little wisdom, and there are still more to whom experience brings wisdom, only when it is too late to be very effective; but as a rule the individual who starts in life with a superabundant dash of the buoyant and hopeful in his composition, starts with, no doubt, a somewhat perilous fault, but yet with a fault which time and experience will greatly modify and reduce; while he who is wanting in this faculty of hope has a no less serious flaw in his composition, and one which, unless he strive against it, time and experience will but increase.The sanguine temperament and self-reliant nature of Peace caused him to surmount difficulties which other men would have sunk under. And had he turned his thoughts and mind more in a proper direction, he had sufficient qualities to have caused him to have cut a respectable figure in the world; but it was not in his nature to abstain from wrong-doing.He was guided by no moral principle, but had been radically wrong from his earliest childhood.But we must return to the stable to which Peace and Willie Ward had betaken themselves. The former was much concerned at beholding the pony rear on its hind legs as if in pain; then the faithful animal dropped on all fours again and looked inquiringly at his master.In a minute or so after this a sudden shivering seemed to seize the pony, who trembled in every limb, at the same time snorting like a war charger.“Poor little fellow! he is bad,” cried Willie, in a tone of alarm. “I never saw him like this before. What can be the matter with him?”“That’s not easy to say. He’s dreadfully bad at present, but he’ll get better after a bit.”“I hope so.”“Oh! he’ll get better.”Peace, despite the symptoms, which were of a serious character, was still sanguine.He strove to put the best face on the matter, and proceeded at once to prepare a bran mash.In this he was assisted by his step-son. “Tommy” was the most docile, tractable little animal it was well possible to conceive, and took his mash without hesitation.“Will that do him good?” said the lad.“I hope so,” returned Peace. “It is a simple remedy, and can’t do him any harm.”Peace endeavoured to get the pony to take his food; he led him to the manger, and strove by every means in his power to persuade him to eat.Tommy swallowed a few mouthfuls of oats, but this was evidently an effort.Presently he turned away from the manger and lay down upon the clean straw which his master had previously prepared for him.“We will leave him now,” said Peace. “Quiet and rest will do more than we can do for him. Come along.”The two passed out of the stable and returned to the parlour ofNo.4.“How is the poor little fellow?” inquired Mrs. Peace.“I don’t like his looks. Very bad. I wish to goodness Bill would drop in.”“He was here when you were away,” said Mrs. Thompson.“What! this afternoon?”“Yes, between five and six o’clock.”“Did he leave any message?”“Said he would call to-morrow, in the early part of the day.”“That’s well. Bill will be able to set him right if any man can. I wish he was here now.”“Whatever is the matter with the animal?” cried Mrs. Peace.“He’s been driven at too sharp a pace for one thing, and in the next he has been ailing for some days past. Bill will pull him together.”“I’m sure I hope he may, but——”“But what?” said our hero, sharply.“Why drive him beyond his pace?”“Mind your own business. What do you know about the matter? Nobody asked you for your opinion, which aint worth much at any time.”His partner was silent. She knew perfectly well that he was irritable, and would, to use a common phrase, “quarrel with a straw,” so she said no more.Peace bore up bravely against adverse circumstances, but his rencontre with the Sheffield policeman troubled him much. There was no telling what might follow. If he discovered the burglar’s snug retreat at Peckham the game would be up.As he reflected on this Peace’s brow grew dark, and his face wore a troubled expression.He had, however, a great desire to conceal from his two female associates the trouble that for a time so seriously depressed him; he therefore assumed an air of bravado, and discoursed upon matters in a reckless and over-confident tone. Luckily at this juncture a neighbour dropped in; this was a great relief, a little music followed, and finally a game of cards, so by this means he was enabled to get through the remainder of the evening. Before he went to bed, however, he went into the stable and had another look at “Tommy,” who was evidently in great pain; the poor animal could not rest for long in one position. After attending to him Peace retired to rest.Between twelve and one on the following morning Bandy-legged Bill presented himself at the house in the Evalina-road. Peace was overjoyed to see him.“Well, Bill, old man, I’m glad you’ve called—have been anxiously watching for you,” cried Peace.“Oh, indeed; anything up?”“Tommy’s very bad, cursedly bad. I don’t know what to make of him. I want you to see if you can put him right.”“Bad—eh? Attacked suddenly?”“Well, yes, it is a bit sudden. But come into the stable and have a look at him.”“Right you are; I’ll see to him.”The two went into the stable, and Mr. Rawton at once proceeded in the most professional manner possible to make a careful examination of his equine patient.“Well, what do you make of him? inquired Peace, in an anxious tone.“Umph!” murmured the gipsy. “He’s as bad as a ’oss well can be, that’s what I make of him. He’s got a fever.”“A fever!”“There aint the least doubt of that, and the chances are——”“Are what?” cried our hero.“That it ull finish him.”“Don’t say that, Bill.”“Aye, but I must say it. I think I ought to know something about ’osses by this time. Can’t you see that he keeps grinding his teeth, that his eyes are distended, and that every now and then he is convulsed. His sight and hearing, too, are both evidently affected, and he is unable to swallow.”Peace groaned and said—“As bad as that, eh?”“Has he been overdriven?” observed the gipsy.“Yes, he has.”“I thought so, and by whom?”“By me.”Peace hereupon proceeded to put the gipsy in possession of all those facts with which the reader is already acquainted.“Ah, Charlie,” said Rawton, after the narrative had been brought to a conclusion; “you’ve knocked him silly. A ’oss is pretty much like a man in many respects. If you make him do more than he ought to do it’s pretty sure to find him out, even as it finds us out. He’s a purty creature, was a free goer-he was none of you sleepy-headed brutes. Worse luck, perhaps, seeing as how he’s done so much for his master. Why, lor’ bless yer, he’d ha’ gone till he dropped—that’s what he’d ha’ done. Don’t I know it—haven’t I put him into a pelting pace myself afore now?”“You have, and he was none the worse for it.”“That’s just where it is—he was none the worse for it, but I expect as how it was nothing to what you made him do.”“I dare say not, but in my case there was no help for it.”“I don’t deny that. I aint a blamin’ you. Should have done the same thing myself under similar circumstances, but that doesn’t alter matters as far as he is concerned. I’m afraid he’s done for.”“Done for! You surely don’t mean that?”“Ye see,” said Mr. Rawton, in an oracular manner, “I’ve had to do with ’osses ever since I was a youngster—a mere kid in a manner of speaking—and can therefore judge pretty well about this ’ere animal. He’s got a fever, he’s dull and heavy, his head hangs down, there’s a chilliness about him, a staring coat, coldness on the surface and at the extremities, and every now and then a shivering fit. These are the first symptoms of what we call symptomatic fever.”“Well, but can’t you do something for him?” cried Peace.“I’ll do all I can—that you may rest assured of, but I can’t promise you to effect a cure. I may, it is true, but I’m doubtful. He’s been overdriven, that is one thing against him, but no doubt the disease would have come on whether he had been overdriven or not.”Bill Rawton went out at once and purchased at the nearest chemist’s some drugs, which he made up into laxative balls, two of which he gave to the pony. After this he took a small quantity of blood from his patient, which seemed to afford great relief.“Oh, you’ll pull him through,” cried Peace.The gipsy shook his head.“I’m afraid of it, Charlie,” said he. “It’s no manner of use attempting to buoy oneself up by false hopes. I am afraid you must make up your mind to lose the faithful little creature who’s done his best for you, and has paid the penalty.”Peace was sadly depressed as he listened to the words the gipsy had let fall. Still he clung to hope, even as a drowning man clings to a straw.“It’s a bad business,” he murmured in a sorrowful tone—“a dreadful business. It was a fatal evening, upon which I had to fly for my very life.”“It’s ugly altogether,” returned Rawton, “for one doesn’t know what may follow.”“There, that will do. Don’t make matters worse for us by anticipating fresh misfortunes. Look after Tommy, and do your best for him. I’ll leave him in your hands.”“Are you going anywhere, then?”“Yes, to Whitechapel.”“Very well, I’ll do my best.”“And so I leave my favourite in your hands for the present.”Peace took his departure, and Rawton remained.He did not leave the Evalina-road for the remainder of that day.Peace returned at about dusk.To his inquiry in the house, he was informed by Mrs. Thompson that the gipsy was in the stable, and that he, the gipsy, had informed her some hour or more ago that the pony was not expected to live.Peace went into the stable, and found his equine pet stretched on the floor. Rawton was kneeling by its side, and had its head on one of his knees.“Well,” cried Peace—“what news?”“He’s a dead un,” returned the gipsy. “All his troubles are over. I’ve done all it was possible for a man to do, but couldn’t save him, poor little fellow!”Peace sat himself down on an inverted pail, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.“It aint of no manner of use giving way so,” said Rawton. “It was to be. I said so the moment I set eyes upon him this ’ere morning. There wasn’t a ghost of a chance.”“I’ve lost my best friend—my faithful companion,” murmured Peace. “Ah, Bill, but this is terrible.”“It may be so, but there are worse misfortunes than this. Keep your pecker up, and don’t take on so. You laughed at me a few days ago when I gave you an account of Hester Teige. Now you are worse than what I was.”“I would have given anything to have saved him.”“So would I, but it wasn’t to be done—so it’s no manner of use talking about it; ’cause why, talking or mourning won’t bring him to life again.”“Of course, I know that very well, but I can’t help grieving. He was my pet, was to me as faithful and docile as a dog. There never was such a faithful creature, and I have killed him. That’s what makes me so miserable—I have killed him.”“You’ve done nothing of the sort. He was bad at the time, and it is likely enough that he would have died just the same if he had not been put out to such a killing pace. Cheer up, Charlie, it can’t be helped, there are other ponies in the world.”“Ah, but not like him, none like him.”“Maybe there are, who knows?”“Ah, who, indeed? Not I.”Despite the exhortations of Rawton, Peace could not readily get over the poignant sorrow he felt at the loss of his pony.This may appear strange with one of his callous temperament. But the fact remains the same, and many persons could testify to the great grief he demonstrated on this occasion.It passed over, however, in the course of a few days, and Charles Peace was then himself again.
When Charles Peace arrived at his own residence he was almost as bad as his steed. It was only by a miracle that he had escaped being captured. Stackhouse was of course very well acquainted with all the particulars concerning the Bannercross murder, and should he, Peace, come across him, an ignominous death would be sure to follow as a natural consequence, for the “gentleman of independent means” felt that he could not impose upon the Sheffield detective. All things considered, it was most necessary that the latter should not trace the murder of Mr. Dyson to his residence in Peckham. Stackhouse, although he affected to be quite certain as to our hero’s identity, was by no means so well assured as he professed to be to his brother officer. And in addition to this there were other circumstances which conspired to break the thread of the clue.
Stackhouse was only in London for a few days, and after the chase described in our last chapter, he returned to Sheffield upon other but less important business. He told the officials there that he believed he saw Charles Peace in front of a roadside inn at Sydenham; but the general impression seemed to be that he was mistaken, and so the matter was suffered to drop.
When the pony had been taken out of the trap, its master saw that it was in a very sad condition; there was no use attempting to disguise this fact, which was self-evident.
Tommy had not been quite right for some days before this. It had a cold, and was out of order in other ways, but nothing very serious was supposed to be the matter. A mash was given, and the usual remedies applied, but the enormous stress that had been put upon it on this ill-fated evening seemed too much for the beautiful little creature.
Peace removed the valuables from his trap, and concealed them in his usual hiding-place. When this had been done he rubbed down the pony, and tended it as carefully and affectionately as a mother does her pet child. He was greatly concerned about the animal, perhaps quite as much so as he had been about himself during the fearful half hour or so he had driven so recklessly to save his worthless life. He was greatly dispirited and depressed, and in this instance he had to keep all his troubles to himself. It would never do to let the women of his establishment know the danger he had passed through, or the real cause of the change that had come so suddenly over his Tommy.
His thoughts, as may be readily imagined, were by no means pleasant ones, and for upwards of two hours did he sit in the stable watching his steed and musing upon the present and the past, and it might be trembling for the future, like a guilty remorseless miscreant as he was, for however callous and selfish a man of his type may be, he cannot be altogether dead to the silent monitor within.
He had obtained a considerable amount of booty by his night’s depredation, and it is surprising, seeing the amount of property that fell into his hands, that he was not a rich man. It is a wonder where all the money went to, and the probability is that he did not know himself. It came and it went, how it would be difficult to say.
Upon his entering his domicile, he found both his ladies in the parlour with Willie Ward. As a rule they did not ask him any questions, or rather no more than was absolutely necessary, but they were at no loss to divine that something had “put him out.” His brow grew dark when spoken to, and his answers were sharp and by no means agreeable in either tone or manner, and so but little was said by any member of the select family. When he did not desire conversation, he had recourse to an ingenious device—he took up his violin and directed Willie Ward to accompany him with the guitar. He knew perfectly well that his female companions would much prefer “magging,” as he termed it, and sometimes he was disposed to indulge them, but he was not on this particular evening; he was not in a mood to listen to their discourse; he therefore laid hold of the fiddle he had bought at the sale of Doctor Bourne’s effects, and began to play a prelude. Willie was always but too glad to join in, and he began twanging at one of the guitars.
The two females listened to the music complacently enough, but they, of course, had had quite enough of it, and, first of all, Mrs. Peace went into the kitchen on some excuse or another; in a short time she was followed by Mrs. Thompson. Then a discussion ensued as to the cause of Peace’s moody manner, and both agreed that something or someone had put him out.
However, after putting his goat through some tricks and amusing himself with one or two more of his pets, his ruffled temper became a little more smooth, and Charles Peace was himself again.
The women returned to the parlour. A game or two of whist was played, and then Peace arose, and said he must go into the stable.
“Into the stable?” said Mrs. Thompson, in surprise.
“Yes,” cried our hero. “I don’t like the look of Tommy—he’s very queer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed Mrs. Peace; “but he’ll be better in a day or two, I suppose?”
“I’m not so sure about that. He’s very bad, poor little fellow—refuses his food.”
“May I go with you?” said Willie.
“Aye, if you like. Come along.”
“Oh, that’s what’s put him out,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“I knew there was something the matter. It’s the pony. Well, that’s a bad job.”
“He cares a deal more for Tommy than he does for either of us—you may rest assured of that. But then, you see, the faithful little animal don’t cross him; so there is, after all, good reason for his attachment.”
“He likes to have it all his own way. It’s the case with most men.”
“He’s got a temper—that all who know anything of him will readily admit. But so have we all, I suppose.”
“I hope I’ve got a better temper than he has.”
“I dare say you have; but you mustn’t run Charles down. He’s not such a bad sort after all—there’s many worse than him.”
The two women went on bandying words for some time. There was nothing new in this; it was their custom, and had been so ever since they had become acquainted with each other. It was, as we have before indicated, not altogether perfect harmony in the house in the Evalina-road, and wrangles were of frequent occurrence. It was perhaps in the nature and order of things that this should be so.
Meanwhile Peace and Willie were busily engaged in the stables. The pony seemed to be in great pain—he would not take his food for all Peace’s coaxing—he was restless and fidgetty; nevertheless he pricked up his ears, and strove to put a better face on matters when spoken to and caressed by his master, but with all this it was easy to perceive that he was not in his usual health. As a rule our hero was not accustomed to give way to despair—his naturally sanguine temperament led him to look difficulties or troubles in the face. Had this not been so, he never could possibly have gone through what he had throughout his guilty and chequered career. Without doubt he was a most remarkable individual. The sanguine man can bridge over difficulties, which one of the opposite nature would perhaps sink under. His future, he will admit, presents the possibility of failure or mischance, as well as the possibility of good fortune and success, but with him the preponderance is immensely in favour of the realisation of his wishes.
Let him make up his mind that the attainment of a certain object is desirable and he has a wonderful knack of persuading himself that it is easily attainable.
He will muse over it until he has clearly realised not merely the bare object that would be all that would present itself to an ordinary imagination, but the thing itself, decked out in all the tinsel and trappings which a fervid fancy can create.
With him it is the goal which shines out large and luminous, and it is the obstacles to be overcome in reaching it that are too hazy and insignificant to be worth serious consideration.
The future always presents probabilities of both, but to the naturally despondent and apprehensive the balance is always in favour of mischance.
Both these peculiarities of character are open to serious objections, and if a man might choose his mental constitution for himself no doubt he would be wise to keep clear of both extremes. For all the ordinary purposes of life the capability of regarding the future under the clear and cold light of reason, untinged by the delusive colouring of hopes and fears, is very valuable.
He who can do this will not be daunted by imaginary difficulties, or waste his powers by needless preparation to meet them, and, on the other hand, he will not court failure by undertaking the tasks that lie before him, and neglecting to make due allowances for contingencies.
But if the choice lay between the over-anxious and the over-sanguine temperament, then for all the purposes of an active and happy life the hopeful is infinitely preferable.
It is just possible that excessive care and caution would in the long run more often prove right in judgment than injudicious hope; but even that is perhaps doubtful.
Not merely the unforeseen, but that which cannot be foreseen by the most anxious vigilance, is so potent a factor in human affairs that the fortuitous and accidental may perhaps be said to shape as many of our ends as all our cares can do.
Moreover, anxiety and fear and morbid apprehension are quite as distorting as high-flown hope and confidence.
But even though it be granted that the more cautious temperament is the safer of the two, any advantage in this way is more than counterbalanced by the pluck and energy which a boundless hopefulness is able to inspire.
There is, it must be confessed, very little “go” to be got out of those who are habitually given to a despondent and over-anxious view of things, however useful they may be as skids upon wheels that are apt to go too fast; while, all the world over, it is and always has been those who are dazzled by the brilliancy and colour in which they themselves deck out the future who have done the greatest deeds and excited the greatest influence.
All history almost has been made, wars have been waged, freedoms have been won, dynasties have been overthrown, reforms have been brought about, inventions have been perfected, not by men who have been pre-eminent for their skill in forecasting difficulties, but by those who have insanely “laughed at impossibilities.”
No doubt great caution as well as great hope has been characteristic of many of the foremost men of history, but as a rule the greatest of human works have been accomplished by those whose cautious fears and prudent foresight have continually been borne down by their sanguine temperament or some equivalent to it.
The utterances of oracles, the reading of the stars, omens and prophecies, witchcraft and palmistry, and every other species of infatuation have at all times been called in to inspire just that confident hope with which capricious Nature has so largely endowed some of her children, while to others of them she seems to have denied it altogether.
That an over-sanguine person is incapable of taking an altogether safe view of things, and that he is always in more or less peril, is true; but it is also true that his very delusions are the source of an energy and daring which must always be wanting to the timorous and despondent.
His infatuation may, no doubt, be regarded as merely a mild phase of insanity, since he will often see that which to the soberest sense is undiscernible, while he often appears blind and deaf to the most obvious facts before him. But if the delusions are akin to those of a madman, the strength and the daring are the madman’s too.
Undoubtedly he who has this temperament should be regarded as one of fortune’s favourites. The light that leads him on may often prove delusive, but it does not always do so, and even when it does it sheds a cheery glow upon his path that enables him to enjoy his life as he goes along, and at times permits him to revel in the anticipation of successes that are never to be his.
Cowards die many times before their death;The valiant never taste of death but once,
Cowards die many times before their death;The valiant never taste of death but once,
Cowards die many times before their death;
The valiant never taste of death but once,
says Cæsar. In the same sense the hopeful individual enjoys good fortune many times, the anxious and despondent only once; and sometimes not at all.
A more important consideration is the fact that whereas the cares, and worries, and disappointments of life have a natural tendency to intensify the over anxiety and apprehensiveness of those who yield to a proneness in that direction, they tend in an ordinary way to correct the opposite fault.
There are, it is true, some to whom experience seems to bring little wisdom, and there are still more to whom experience brings wisdom, only when it is too late to be very effective; but as a rule the individual who starts in life with a superabundant dash of the buoyant and hopeful in his composition, starts with, no doubt, a somewhat perilous fault, but yet with a fault which time and experience will greatly modify and reduce; while he who is wanting in this faculty of hope has a no less serious flaw in his composition, and one which, unless he strive against it, time and experience will but increase.
The sanguine temperament and self-reliant nature of Peace caused him to surmount difficulties which other men would have sunk under. And had he turned his thoughts and mind more in a proper direction, he had sufficient qualities to have caused him to have cut a respectable figure in the world; but it was not in his nature to abstain from wrong-doing.
He was guided by no moral principle, but had been radically wrong from his earliest childhood.
But we must return to the stable to which Peace and Willie Ward had betaken themselves. The former was much concerned at beholding the pony rear on its hind legs as if in pain; then the faithful animal dropped on all fours again and looked inquiringly at his master.
In a minute or so after this a sudden shivering seemed to seize the pony, who trembled in every limb, at the same time snorting like a war charger.
“Poor little fellow! he is bad,” cried Willie, in a tone of alarm. “I never saw him like this before. What can be the matter with him?”
“That’s not easy to say. He’s dreadfully bad at present, but he’ll get better after a bit.”
“I hope so.”
“Oh! he’ll get better.”
Peace, despite the symptoms, which were of a serious character, was still sanguine.
He strove to put the best face on the matter, and proceeded at once to prepare a bran mash.
In this he was assisted by his step-son. “Tommy” was the most docile, tractable little animal it was well possible to conceive, and took his mash without hesitation.
“Will that do him good?” said the lad.
“I hope so,” returned Peace. “It is a simple remedy, and can’t do him any harm.”
Peace endeavoured to get the pony to take his food; he led him to the manger, and strove by every means in his power to persuade him to eat.
Tommy swallowed a few mouthfuls of oats, but this was evidently an effort.
Presently he turned away from the manger and lay down upon the clean straw which his master had previously prepared for him.
“We will leave him now,” said Peace. “Quiet and rest will do more than we can do for him. Come along.”
The two passed out of the stable and returned to the parlour ofNo.4.
“How is the poor little fellow?” inquired Mrs. Peace.
“I don’t like his looks. Very bad. I wish to goodness Bill would drop in.”
“He was here when you were away,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“What! this afternoon?”
“Yes, between five and six o’clock.”
“Did he leave any message?”
“Said he would call to-morrow, in the early part of the day.”
“That’s well. Bill will be able to set him right if any man can. I wish he was here now.”
“Whatever is the matter with the animal?” cried Mrs. Peace.
“He’s been driven at too sharp a pace for one thing, and in the next he has been ailing for some days past. Bill will pull him together.”
“I’m sure I hope he may, but——”
“But what?” said our hero, sharply.
“Why drive him beyond his pace?”
“Mind your own business. What do you know about the matter? Nobody asked you for your opinion, which aint worth much at any time.”
His partner was silent. She knew perfectly well that he was irritable, and would, to use a common phrase, “quarrel with a straw,” so she said no more.
Peace bore up bravely against adverse circumstances, but his rencontre with the Sheffield policeman troubled him much. There was no telling what might follow. If he discovered the burglar’s snug retreat at Peckham the game would be up.
As he reflected on this Peace’s brow grew dark, and his face wore a troubled expression.
He had, however, a great desire to conceal from his two female associates the trouble that for a time so seriously depressed him; he therefore assumed an air of bravado, and discoursed upon matters in a reckless and over-confident tone. Luckily at this juncture a neighbour dropped in; this was a great relief, a little music followed, and finally a game of cards, so by this means he was enabled to get through the remainder of the evening. Before he went to bed, however, he went into the stable and had another look at “Tommy,” who was evidently in great pain; the poor animal could not rest for long in one position. After attending to him Peace retired to rest.
Between twelve and one on the following morning Bandy-legged Bill presented himself at the house in the Evalina-road. Peace was overjoyed to see him.
“Well, Bill, old man, I’m glad you’ve called—have been anxiously watching for you,” cried Peace.
“Oh, indeed; anything up?”
“Tommy’s very bad, cursedly bad. I don’t know what to make of him. I want you to see if you can put him right.”
“Bad—eh? Attacked suddenly?”
“Well, yes, it is a bit sudden. But come into the stable and have a look at him.”
“Right you are; I’ll see to him.”
The two went into the stable, and Mr. Rawton at once proceeded in the most professional manner possible to make a careful examination of his equine patient.
“Well, what do you make of him? inquired Peace, in an anxious tone.
“Umph!” murmured the gipsy. “He’s as bad as a ’oss well can be, that’s what I make of him. He’s got a fever.”
“A fever!”
“There aint the least doubt of that, and the chances are——”
“Are what?” cried our hero.
“That it ull finish him.”
“Don’t say that, Bill.”
“Aye, but I must say it. I think I ought to know something about ’osses by this time. Can’t you see that he keeps grinding his teeth, that his eyes are distended, and that every now and then he is convulsed. His sight and hearing, too, are both evidently affected, and he is unable to swallow.”
Peace groaned and said—
“As bad as that, eh?”
“Has he been overdriven?” observed the gipsy.
“Yes, he has.”
“I thought so, and by whom?”
“By me.”
Peace hereupon proceeded to put the gipsy in possession of all those facts with which the reader is already acquainted.
“Ah, Charlie,” said Rawton, after the narrative had been brought to a conclusion; “you’ve knocked him silly. A ’oss is pretty much like a man in many respects. If you make him do more than he ought to do it’s pretty sure to find him out, even as it finds us out. He’s a purty creature, was a free goer-he was none of you sleepy-headed brutes. Worse luck, perhaps, seeing as how he’s done so much for his master. Why, lor’ bless yer, he’d ha’ gone till he dropped—that’s what he’d ha’ done. Don’t I know it—haven’t I put him into a pelting pace myself afore now?”
“You have, and he was none the worse for it.”
“That’s just where it is—he was none the worse for it, but I expect as how it was nothing to what you made him do.”
“I dare say not, but in my case there was no help for it.”
“I don’t deny that. I aint a blamin’ you. Should have done the same thing myself under similar circumstances, but that doesn’t alter matters as far as he is concerned. I’m afraid he’s done for.”
“Done for! You surely don’t mean that?”
“Ye see,” said Mr. Rawton, in an oracular manner, “I’ve had to do with ’osses ever since I was a youngster—a mere kid in a manner of speaking—and can therefore judge pretty well about this ’ere animal. He’s got a fever, he’s dull and heavy, his head hangs down, there’s a chilliness about him, a staring coat, coldness on the surface and at the extremities, and every now and then a shivering fit. These are the first symptoms of what we call symptomatic fever.”
“Well, but can’t you do something for him?” cried Peace.
“I’ll do all I can—that you may rest assured of, but I can’t promise you to effect a cure. I may, it is true, but I’m doubtful. He’s been overdriven, that is one thing against him, but no doubt the disease would have come on whether he had been overdriven or not.”
Bill Rawton went out at once and purchased at the nearest chemist’s some drugs, which he made up into laxative balls, two of which he gave to the pony. After this he took a small quantity of blood from his patient, which seemed to afford great relief.
“Oh, you’ll pull him through,” cried Peace.
The gipsy shook his head.
“I’m afraid of it, Charlie,” said he. “It’s no manner of use attempting to buoy oneself up by false hopes. I am afraid you must make up your mind to lose the faithful little creature who’s done his best for you, and has paid the penalty.”
Peace was sadly depressed as he listened to the words the gipsy had let fall. Still he clung to hope, even as a drowning man clings to a straw.
“It’s a bad business,” he murmured in a sorrowful tone—“a dreadful business. It was a fatal evening, upon which I had to fly for my very life.”
“It’s ugly altogether,” returned Rawton, “for one doesn’t know what may follow.”
“There, that will do. Don’t make matters worse for us by anticipating fresh misfortunes. Look after Tommy, and do your best for him. I’ll leave him in your hands.”
“Are you going anywhere, then?”
“Yes, to Whitechapel.”
“Very well, I’ll do my best.”
“And so I leave my favourite in your hands for the present.”
Peace took his departure, and Rawton remained.
He did not leave the Evalina-road for the remainder of that day.
Peace returned at about dusk.
To his inquiry in the house, he was informed by Mrs. Thompson that the gipsy was in the stable, and that he, the gipsy, had informed her some hour or more ago that the pony was not expected to live.
Peace went into the stable, and found his equine pet stretched on the floor. Rawton was kneeling by its side, and had its head on one of his knees.
“Well,” cried Peace—“what news?”
“He’s a dead un,” returned the gipsy. “All his troubles are over. I’ve done all it was possible for a man to do, but couldn’t save him, poor little fellow!”
Peace sat himself down on an inverted pail, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
“It aint of no manner of use giving way so,” said Rawton. “It was to be. I said so the moment I set eyes upon him this ’ere morning. There wasn’t a ghost of a chance.”
“I’ve lost my best friend—my faithful companion,” murmured Peace. “Ah, Bill, but this is terrible.”
“It may be so, but there are worse misfortunes than this. Keep your pecker up, and don’t take on so. You laughed at me a few days ago when I gave you an account of Hester Teige. Now you are worse than what I was.”
“I would have given anything to have saved him.”
“So would I, but it wasn’t to be done—so it’s no manner of use talking about it; ’cause why, talking or mourning won’t bring him to life again.”
“Of course, I know that very well, but I can’t help grieving. He was my pet, was to me as faithful and docile as a dog. There never was such a faithful creature, and I have killed him. That’s what makes me so miserable—I have killed him.”
“You’ve done nothing of the sort. He was bad at the time, and it is likely enough that he would have died just the same if he had not been put out to such a killing pace. Cheer up, Charlie, it can’t be helped, there are other ponies in the world.”
“Ah, but not like him, none like him.”
“Maybe there are, who knows?”
“Ah, who, indeed? Not I.”
Despite the exhortations of Rawton, Peace could not readily get over the poignant sorrow he felt at the loss of his pony.
This may appear strange with one of his callous temperament. But the fact remains the same, and many persons could testify to the great grief he demonstrated on this occasion.
It passed over, however, in the course of a few days, and Charles Peace was then himself again.