CHAPTERCXXI.MISS STANBRIDGE’S PEREGRINATIONS—HER VISIT TO CHARLES PEACE.Laura Stanbridge succeeded in reaching London without attracting any attention or arousing the suspicions of any one. She walked on for miles until she was fairly worn out with excitement and fatigue; nevertheless she persevered, being at the time under the full impression that messengers would be despatched from the gaol in all directions for the purpose of recapturing her.This was done, but as frequently occurs in cases of this sort, the messengers went in every possible direction but the right one.Laura did not deem it advisable to continue for very long in any of the high roads. She went through bye-lanes and unfrequented footpaths, and thereby dodged her pursuers. When fairly worn out with fatigue, so that she could barely drag one leg after the other—to make use of a common saying—she bethought her of what she could do. To betake herself to a house of public entertainment would be running a great risk, as the chances were that these establishments would be the first places the police would visit.She espied at no very great distance a large-sized barn, and at once made for this as a haven of rest.She had not much difficulty in unfastening the door, which was only secured by a wooden peg. This done, she crept in and stretched herself at full length upon some trusses of straw. She was so overpowered and prostrated, that she soon sank off to sleep, and did not awaken till the voices of men fell upon her ear. She then suddenly sprang to her feet and looked through the crevice of the barn-door.It was by this time early dawn, and the hilltops were tinted with the rays of the rising sun.In an adjacent field she beheld two farm labourers at work, and a milkmaid with her pail.When their backs were turned she crept out of the barn, and passed into the lane which she had traversed on the night previous.She had sufficient money on her person for her immediate wants; this had been given her by her friend, Mr. Leverall.As the milkmaid came along with her pail she wished her a good morning.She was a good-looking buxom wench, with red cheeks and mottled arms—the very personification of rude health and good-nature.“An’ good morning to you, ma’am,” said the girl, staring with wonder, “but ye be up wi’ the lark, missus.”“Yes,” said Miss Stanbridge; “I lost my way last night and took shelter in the barn till the morning. I could not find any place open.”“Maybe you’re a stranger to these parts?” observed the girl.“Quite a stranger. Don’t even know where I am or the name of this place.”“Ye be London-bred and London-born if I aint mistaken?”“You are quite correct in your surmise. I am a Cockney. That’s what you country people term us Londoners.”The girl gave a broad grin and a chuckle at this last observation.“I dunno how you could manage to rest in such a place as that,” said she, nodding with her head towards the barn.“There was no help for it, my good girl; beggars must not be choosers, you know. But I say—listen to me a moment,” added Laura, slipping a shilling into the maid’s hand—“can you tell me, like a kind, good girl, as I am sure you are, where I can get a conveyance about here—a post-chaise, or something of that sort? It matters not what it is.”“Where ee goin’ too, then?”“I want to get to the nearest station. How far might that be off?”“Well, better nor five miles—not a morsel less.”“And, can you tell me where they let out flys?”“Lord, no—not I. You won’t find any here about, I’m thinking.”“Dear me, that’s unfortunate. No conveyance—eh?”“Will ee coom inside the house and see missus?” cried the girl, as if a sudden thought had struck her.“Ah, that I will; shall be but too glad to do so. Where is the master?”“There aint no master. He be dead and gone.”“Oh, only a missus?”“Ah, that be all, but she be a good sort.”“I shall be most delighted to make her acquaintance.”Laura Stanbridge was conducted into a primitive-looking parlour, and introduced to a comely, cheerful-looking old lady, the mistress of the establishment.“Your sarvint, ma’am,” said the old dame. “Glad to see you.”The milkmaid informed her mistress that the London lady had lost her way on the previous night, and had sought shelter in the granary, and, furthermore, that she wanted to reach the railway-station as soon as possible.“I be sorry you had no better accommodation,” oberved the old lady, “but ee must be faint for want of summut to eat and drink. Sit ee down, and ha’ some breakfast, ma’am. Ye sha’n’t go away wi’ an empty belly.”“I am sure you’re very kind. I have the wherewithal to pay for what I have.”“Tush, tush, child; don’t ee be talking after that fashion. You are freely welcome to all I have. It be a poor tale indeed if we can’t help a fellow-creature in distress. Don’t you see—eh?”“Yes.”“An’ what brought ee to these parts, if it be a fair question?”Miss Stanbridge hesitated, and turned away her head with mock modesty.“Oh, well, if it be a secret, don’t say a word.”“It isn’t much of a secret, as I know of,” observed the escaped prisoner. “I came unbeknown to my relatives. Had to meet a young man to whom I have been engaged.”“Oh, I see, lass—I understand; and maybe your parents object to him as a suitor for your hand.”“Yes they do, but—” here she hesitated again.“You love the chap—is that it?”“I do.” She tried to blush, and partially succeeded.Her companion tapped her playfully on the elbow.“Well, well,” she ejaculated “I don’t blame ee. Ha’ done the same thing myself years agone. I don’t know as ye are to be blamed—we none of us can help our likes and dislikes, and we all like to choose for ourselves in cases of this sort—it is but natural. And did he keep his appointment—did ee see him?”“Yes; Alf—he is obliged to go abroad, and wrote to me to beg me that I would meet him and wish him farewell before he took his departure.”“Umph, thee beest a brave girl to coom all this distance by yerself. And I be glad ee saw him.”It is, perhaps, needless to observe that the whole of this story was invented on the spot by the acute and mendacious Laura Stanbridge. It was the first that occurred to her, and, as the old adage has it, “any excuse is better than none.”The old lady snapped at the bait, and believed every word the other had spoken.After Laura had partaken of a substantial breakfast, which, to say the truth, she did ample justice to, she began to consider how she could get to the station.It was so remarkably early—not six o’clock—that the chances were that she might be able to make a clean run of it and get clear off before the myrmidons of the law were abroard hunting for their prey.“I wish I could meet with a conveyance, madam,” said Laura, addressing herself to her elder companion. “It is essential that I should be in town as early as possible, but I cannot at present see how it is to be compassed.”“Not unless you’ll consent to ride in a milk cart,” returned the other.“In a milk cart! Goodness me, I shall be but too delighted. What matters it what sort of vehicle?”“Well then, I tell ee what ee can do, if ye’re amind, and don’t care about it. In less than a quarter of an hour Nat will start w’ the milk to the station, and he can take you with un.”“Oh, my dear lady, I am so much obliged by this offer! In a quarter of an hour, say you?”“Aye, surely. It be better nor nine miles. And if so be as ye are in a hurry—”“I am in a great hurry.”“Well, then, it ’ud take a goodish while to walk—at least it would me. My health ain’t so good as what it yused to be, nor my legs either, for the matter of that, but ye be strong and lithe of limb, but still it be too far for ee to walk, so ee’d better go wi’ Nat.As she spoke these last words a raw-boned lad of about eighteen thrust his shock head in at the doorway.“Oh, here be Nat,” cried, the old lady; “so that be all right. Now, lad, you’re going to ha’ coompany to the station.”“Coompany!” repeated the lad. “Who be it, missus?”“This lady. I know you’re fond of the ladies.”The lad blushed up to the roots of his hair, and went his way without further ado.“Don’t care about taking me, I fancy,” said Laura.“Not care! he’s but too delighted. Don’t ee mind him lass, that’s his way—he’s rather sheepish and queer wi’ strangers. Oh he’ll tek ee right enough. Here, Nat—Nat, I say, aint ee got yer ears this morning, or ha’ ee left em behind ee? Coom here, lad.”The lad came into the room.“Now, look here, you’ve got to tek this leddy to the station—so mind ee drive careful and don’t get the wheels into the ruts any more than you can help. Do ee understand?”“Yes, missus,” said the yokel, scratching his head; “I’ll be very careful.”“Good lad. The leddy wants to get to the station as soon as possible. Is the horse put to?”“Yes, and the milk is in the cart, but yer see, missus, it beant much of a trap—I mean there aint much room to spare. I wish I’d a better turn out, ’taint good enough for the loikes of un.” This was said in a whisper, but Miss Stanbridge heard every word.“I am quite content,” said she, addressing herself to the lad. “Nobody knows me hereabouts. If we had to travel through the streets of London, it would be a different matter, you know.”In a minute or so after this the milk cart was at the door of the farmhouse, and Laura, who had gone upstairs to arrange her hair, and to make something like a rude toilette, quickly descended, and after thanking her hostess and wishing her farewell, stepped into the cart and sat herself beside the lad.“Be careful, be very careful, and mind the ruts,” was the last injunction his mistress gave him as he drove off.“Now for it,” murmured Miss Stanbridge. “If we should chance to run across any of the warders I am lost. But the probability is that they won’t any of them be about thus early. They never are in places where they are wanted. Not that I want to see any of their ugly visages. Anyway there’s no help for it now. I must take my chance as many have done before me under similar circumstances.”The road to the station was evidently not much frequented; for some considerable time after the horse and cart had left the farmhouse not a solitary passenger or vehicle met the eyes of either Nat or Miss Stanbridge.So far all went on well.“Not many vehicles about it would seem,” observed the latter.“No, not many. Seldom is at this time. Ye see it’s a cross road, and people doesn’t care about driving over it, except them as is obliged, and there beant many of those. It be very lonely by night though.”“So I should imagine, but it’s a bright beautiful morning, and the birds are singing so gaily, I wish I could live in the country instead of London.”“Ah, I dessay ye do, marm, but may be ye’d get tired of it after a bit.”“I think not. Don’t you like it?”“Ah, ah,” said the lad, with a loud guffaw, “I loike Lunnon. There beant any place loike Lunnon to my thinking.”“Ah, well, it is of course all a matter of taste, and I suppose we most of us like any place better than the one we are in.”Miss Stanbridge did not force the conversation beyond reasonable bounds, but she thought it quite as well to be on familiar and friendly terms with the farmer’s boy, who was as good-natured as he was unsophisticated; so they continued to chat familiarly until the station was reached.Then alighting from the vehicle, she put half-a-crown in the lad’s hand, which seemed to have a marvellous effect on him.At first he obstinately refused to accept the gratuity, but Laura was equally obstinate in forcing it upon him.He was profuse in his thanks, and when he returned to the farmhouse he declared his fellow-passenger to be a perfect “leddy.”Miss Stanbridge took a first-class ticket for London, and then went into the ladies’ waiting-room, where she remained till the train was upon the point of starting.She succeeded in reaching the metropolis in safety.After paying a short visit to her house in the neighbourhood of Regent-street, and assuring her maid that she was a good deal better for her trip into the country, she set off for the Evalina-road.She found Charles Peace at home; the time had not arrived for him to sally forth upon his depredating excursions, and he was busily occupied with his mechanical inventions.“What, Lorrie!” he ejaculated, upon catching sight of his visitor. “Well, I am staggered! What’s up? No true bill found, or what?”“I didn’t wait for the grand jury, old man,” returned Laura, indulging in a loud laugh.“Didn’t wait—eh?” returned Peace, looking at the speaker from over his spectacles.“No, Charlie. Gave ’em the slip, my boy. Ah, it’s been a lesson to me. I’ll take good care never to be caught on the same hook. It’s been a hard fight, but I’ve won, and now——”“Well, and now, old girl—what now?”“It won’t do for me to remain in London.”“Oh, that’s it—eh?”“Well, you know, they’ll be on the look-out, and to remain at my old quarters would be too risky.”“I don’t know so much about that. Lord bless ye, Lorrie, those fellows’ heads are as thick as a skittleball. If you’ve got clean off—which it’s pretty certain you have, seeing that you are here safe and sound and looking better than ever for your—ahem—country trip—you’ve no cause to fear. Aint the blokes after me, and haven’t I dodged them to rights?”“Ah, but I’m not a Charles Peace.”“Hush, silence!” cried our hero in a tone of alarm, placing his hand before the mouth of the speaker. Then in a tone more serious he added, “Drop that name for ever more. Drop it—as you love me do this. I am Mr. Thompson. Didn’t Bill tell you this?”“I beg ten thousand pardons! Of course he did. What a donkey I am, to be sure! I am not as a rule so incautious, Thompson,” said she, emphasising the last word.“Enough. Say no more about it, then. But don’t forget.”“I will not.”Laura Stanbridge now put him in possession of all the circumstances which took place respecting her escape, and wound up by thanking him most heartily for his kindness.“Oh, bother that,” said our hero; “Bill’s behaved like a trump card, which to say the truth he is. Why, Laura, I’d trust him with my life; and if you have gratitude towards anyone it should be shown to him.”“I shall never forget his kindness—never!” ejaculated Laura. “He’s worth his weight in gold. Indeed, I could never have believed it possible he had so much goodness in him if I had not had such unmistakeable proof of it. But I shan’t remain in London, though; so before I go I will return you the money you were kind enough to send me.”“Any time will do for that; I am not in want of it.”“No time like the present; so here you are, Thompson.”She drew from her purse notes for the amount, and handed them to her companion.“Oh, if you are so beastly particular, so be it, then,” observed Peace, taking them from her and pocketing them.“There’s an end of that, then,” said he. “Well, I’m as pleased as Punch to see you once more free. Why it’s the first time you’ve been in gaol—aint it?”“Yes, the very first, and I hope, Thompson, it will be the last.”“I hope so, I’m sure,” returned Peace, in a sanctimonious tone and manner, which would have done credit to a Dissenting minister.Miss Stanbridge stopped for some little time. After this she was introduced to the two ladies of the establishment, but, of course, not a word was said either by herself or our hero upon past circumstances or the nature of her connection with Peace. The women had to be kept in the dark as much as possible, and certainly their lord and master contrived somehow or other to throw dust in their eyes, which, all things considered, must be deemed almost marvellous to all reasonable persons. But Peace was a wonder in many ways, this being by no means the least remarkable trait in his diversified character.Laura Stanbridge, as we have already seen, knew very well how to make herself agreeable, and her two female companions declared, after she had left the house in the Evalina-road, that she was a most delightful woman—a declaration which we don’t expect any of our readers will endorse.
Laura Stanbridge succeeded in reaching London without attracting any attention or arousing the suspicions of any one. She walked on for miles until she was fairly worn out with excitement and fatigue; nevertheless she persevered, being at the time under the full impression that messengers would be despatched from the gaol in all directions for the purpose of recapturing her.
This was done, but as frequently occurs in cases of this sort, the messengers went in every possible direction but the right one.
Laura did not deem it advisable to continue for very long in any of the high roads. She went through bye-lanes and unfrequented footpaths, and thereby dodged her pursuers. When fairly worn out with fatigue, so that she could barely drag one leg after the other—to make use of a common saying—she bethought her of what she could do. To betake herself to a house of public entertainment would be running a great risk, as the chances were that these establishments would be the first places the police would visit.
She espied at no very great distance a large-sized barn, and at once made for this as a haven of rest.
She had not much difficulty in unfastening the door, which was only secured by a wooden peg. This done, she crept in and stretched herself at full length upon some trusses of straw. She was so overpowered and prostrated, that she soon sank off to sleep, and did not awaken till the voices of men fell upon her ear. She then suddenly sprang to her feet and looked through the crevice of the barn-door.
It was by this time early dawn, and the hilltops were tinted with the rays of the rising sun.
In an adjacent field she beheld two farm labourers at work, and a milkmaid with her pail.
When their backs were turned she crept out of the barn, and passed into the lane which she had traversed on the night previous.
She had sufficient money on her person for her immediate wants; this had been given her by her friend, Mr. Leverall.
As the milkmaid came along with her pail she wished her a good morning.
She was a good-looking buxom wench, with red cheeks and mottled arms—the very personification of rude health and good-nature.
“An’ good morning to you, ma’am,” said the girl, staring with wonder, “but ye be up wi’ the lark, missus.”
“Yes,” said Miss Stanbridge; “I lost my way last night and took shelter in the barn till the morning. I could not find any place open.”
“Maybe you’re a stranger to these parts?” observed the girl.
“Quite a stranger. Don’t even know where I am or the name of this place.”
“Ye be London-bred and London-born if I aint mistaken?”
“You are quite correct in your surmise. I am a Cockney. That’s what you country people term us Londoners.”
The girl gave a broad grin and a chuckle at this last observation.
“I dunno how you could manage to rest in such a place as that,” said she, nodding with her head towards the barn.
“There was no help for it, my good girl; beggars must not be choosers, you know. But I say—listen to me a moment,” added Laura, slipping a shilling into the maid’s hand—“can you tell me, like a kind, good girl, as I am sure you are, where I can get a conveyance about here—a post-chaise, or something of that sort? It matters not what it is.”
“Where ee goin’ too, then?”
“I want to get to the nearest station. How far might that be off?”
“Well, better nor five miles—not a morsel less.”
“And, can you tell me where they let out flys?”
“Lord, no—not I. You won’t find any here about, I’m thinking.”
“Dear me, that’s unfortunate. No conveyance—eh?”
“Will ee coom inside the house and see missus?” cried the girl, as if a sudden thought had struck her.
“Ah, that I will; shall be but too glad to do so. Where is the master?”
“There aint no master. He be dead and gone.”
“Oh, only a missus?”
“Ah, that be all, but she be a good sort.”
“I shall be most delighted to make her acquaintance.”
Laura Stanbridge was conducted into a primitive-looking parlour, and introduced to a comely, cheerful-looking old lady, the mistress of the establishment.
“Your sarvint, ma’am,” said the old dame. “Glad to see you.”
The milkmaid informed her mistress that the London lady had lost her way on the previous night, and had sought shelter in the granary, and, furthermore, that she wanted to reach the railway-station as soon as possible.
“I be sorry you had no better accommodation,” oberved the old lady, “but ee must be faint for want of summut to eat and drink. Sit ee down, and ha’ some breakfast, ma’am. Ye sha’n’t go away wi’ an empty belly.”
“I am sure you’re very kind. I have the wherewithal to pay for what I have.”
“Tush, tush, child; don’t ee be talking after that fashion. You are freely welcome to all I have. It be a poor tale indeed if we can’t help a fellow-creature in distress. Don’t you see—eh?”
“Yes.”
“An’ what brought ee to these parts, if it be a fair question?”
Miss Stanbridge hesitated, and turned away her head with mock modesty.
“Oh, well, if it be a secret, don’t say a word.”
“It isn’t much of a secret, as I know of,” observed the escaped prisoner. “I came unbeknown to my relatives. Had to meet a young man to whom I have been engaged.”
“Oh, I see, lass—I understand; and maybe your parents object to him as a suitor for your hand.”
“Yes they do, but—” here she hesitated again.
“You love the chap—is that it?”
“I do.” She tried to blush, and partially succeeded.
Her companion tapped her playfully on the elbow.
“Well, well,” she ejaculated “I don’t blame ee. Ha’ done the same thing myself years agone. I don’t know as ye are to be blamed—we none of us can help our likes and dislikes, and we all like to choose for ourselves in cases of this sort—it is but natural. And did he keep his appointment—did ee see him?”
“Yes; Alf—he is obliged to go abroad, and wrote to me to beg me that I would meet him and wish him farewell before he took his departure.”
“Umph, thee beest a brave girl to coom all this distance by yerself. And I be glad ee saw him.”
It is, perhaps, needless to observe that the whole of this story was invented on the spot by the acute and mendacious Laura Stanbridge. It was the first that occurred to her, and, as the old adage has it, “any excuse is better than none.”
The old lady snapped at the bait, and believed every word the other had spoken.
After Laura had partaken of a substantial breakfast, which, to say the truth, she did ample justice to, she began to consider how she could get to the station.
It was so remarkably early—not six o’clock—that the chances were that she might be able to make a clean run of it and get clear off before the myrmidons of the law were abroard hunting for their prey.
“I wish I could meet with a conveyance, madam,” said Laura, addressing herself to her elder companion. “It is essential that I should be in town as early as possible, but I cannot at present see how it is to be compassed.”
“Not unless you’ll consent to ride in a milk cart,” returned the other.
“In a milk cart! Goodness me, I shall be but too delighted. What matters it what sort of vehicle?”
“Well then, I tell ee what ee can do, if ye’re amind, and don’t care about it. In less than a quarter of an hour Nat will start w’ the milk to the station, and he can take you with un.”
“Oh, my dear lady, I am so much obliged by this offer! In a quarter of an hour, say you?”
“Aye, surely. It be better nor nine miles. And if so be as ye are in a hurry—”
“I am in a great hurry.”
“Well, then, it ’ud take a goodish while to walk—at least it would me. My health ain’t so good as what it yused to be, nor my legs either, for the matter of that, but ye be strong and lithe of limb, but still it be too far for ee to walk, so ee’d better go wi’ Nat.
As she spoke these last words a raw-boned lad of about eighteen thrust his shock head in at the doorway.
“Oh, here be Nat,” cried, the old lady; “so that be all right. Now, lad, you’re going to ha’ coompany to the station.”
“Coompany!” repeated the lad. “Who be it, missus?”
“This lady. I know you’re fond of the ladies.”
The lad blushed up to the roots of his hair, and went his way without further ado.
“Don’t care about taking me, I fancy,” said Laura.
“Not care! he’s but too delighted. Don’t ee mind him lass, that’s his way—he’s rather sheepish and queer wi’ strangers. Oh he’ll tek ee right enough. Here, Nat—Nat, I say, aint ee got yer ears this morning, or ha’ ee left em behind ee? Coom here, lad.”
The lad came into the room.
“Now, look here, you’ve got to tek this leddy to the station—so mind ee drive careful and don’t get the wheels into the ruts any more than you can help. Do ee understand?”
“Yes, missus,” said the yokel, scratching his head; “I’ll be very careful.”
“Good lad. The leddy wants to get to the station as soon as possible. Is the horse put to?”
“Yes, and the milk is in the cart, but yer see, missus, it beant much of a trap—I mean there aint much room to spare. I wish I’d a better turn out, ’taint good enough for the loikes of un.” This was said in a whisper, but Miss Stanbridge heard every word.
“I am quite content,” said she, addressing herself to the lad. “Nobody knows me hereabouts. If we had to travel through the streets of London, it would be a different matter, you know.”
In a minute or so after this the milk cart was at the door of the farmhouse, and Laura, who had gone upstairs to arrange her hair, and to make something like a rude toilette, quickly descended, and after thanking her hostess and wishing her farewell, stepped into the cart and sat herself beside the lad.
“Be careful, be very careful, and mind the ruts,” was the last injunction his mistress gave him as he drove off.
“Now for it,” murmured Miss Stanbridge. “If we should chance to run across any of the warders I am lost. But the probability is that they won’t any of them be about thus early. They never are in places where they are wanted. Not that I want to see any of their ugly visages. Anyway there’s no help for it now. I must take my chance as many have done before me under similar circumstances.”
The road to the station was evidently not much frequented; for some considerable time after the horse and cart had left the farmhouse not a solitary passenger or vehicle met the eyes of either Nat or Miss Stanbridge.
So far all went on well.
“Not many vehicles about it would seem,” observed the latter.
“No, not many. Seldom is at this time. Ye see it’s a cross road, and people doesn’t care about driving over it, except them as is obliged, and there beant many of those. It be very lonely by night though.”
“So I should imagine, but it’s a bright beautiful morning, and the birds are singing so gaily, I wish I could live in the country instead of London.”
“Ah, I dessay ye do, marm, but may be ye’d get tired of it after a bit.”
“I think not. Don’t you like it?”
“Ah, ah,” said the lad, with a loud guffaw, “I loike Lunnon. There beant any place loike Lunnon to my thinking.”
“Ah, well, it is of course all a matter of taste, and I suppose we most of us like any place better than the one we are in.”
Miss Stanbridge did not force the conversation beyond reasonable bounds, but she thought it quite as well to be on familiar and friendly terms with the farmer’s boy, who was as good-natured as he was unsophisticated; so they continued to chat familiarly until the station was reached.
Then alighting from the vehicle, she put half-a-crown in the lad’s hand, which seemed to have a marvellous effect on him.
At first he obstinately refused to accept the gratuity, but Laura was equally obstinate in forcing it upon him.
He was profuse in his thanks, and when he returned to the farmhouse he declared his fellow-passenger to be a perfect “leddy.”
Miss Stanbridge took a first-class ticket for London, and then went into the ladies’ waiting-room, where she remained till the train was upon the point of starting.
She succeeded in reaching the metropolis in safety.
After paying a short visit to her house in the neighbourhood of Regent-street, and assuring her maid that she was a good deal better for her trip into the country, she set off for the Evalina-road.
She found Charles Peace at home; the time had not arrived for him to sally forth upon his depredating excursions, and he was busily occupied with his mechanical inventions.
“What, Lorrie!” he ejaculated, upon catching sight of his visitor. “Well, I am staggered! What’s up? No true bill found, or what?”
“I didn’t wait for the grand jury, old man,” returned Laura, indulging in a loud laugh.
“Didn’t wait—eh?” returned Peace, looking at the speaker from over his spectacles.
“No, Charlie. Gave ’em the slip, my boy. Ah, it’s been a lesson to me. I’ll take good care never to be caught on the same hook. It’s been a hard fight, but I’ve won, and now——”
“Well, and now, old girl—what now?”
“It won’t do for me to remain in London.”
“Oh, that’s it—eh?”
“Well, you know, they’ll be on the look-out, and to remain at my old quarters would be too risky.”
“I don’t know so much about that. Lord bless ye, Lorrie, those fellows’ heads are as thick as a skittleball. If you’ve got clean off—which it’s pretty certain you have, seeing that you are here safe and sound and looking better than ever for your—ahem—country trip—you’ve no cause to fear. Aint the blokes after me, and haven’t I dodged them to rights?”
“Ah, but I’m not a Charles Peace.”
“Hush, silence!” cried our hero in a tone of alarm, placing his hand before the mouth of the speaker. Then in a tone more serious he added, “Drop that name for ever more. Drop it—as you love me do this. I am Mr. Thompson. Didn’t Bill tell you this?”
“I beg ten thousand pardons! Of course he did. What a donkey I am, to be sure! I am not as a rule so incautious, Thompson,” said she, emphasising the last word.
“Enough. Say no more about it, then. But don’t forget.”
“I will not.”
Laura Stanbridge now put him in possession of all the circumstances which took place respecting her escape, and wound up by thanking him most heartily for his kindness.
“Oh, bother that,” said our hero; “Bill’s behaved like a trump card, which to say the truth he is. Why, Laura, I’d trust him with my life; and if you have gratitude towards anyone it should be shown to him.”
“I shall never forget his kindness—never!” ejaculated Laura. “He’s worth his weight in gold. Indeed, I could never have believed it possible he had so much goodness in him if I had not had such unmistakeable proof of it. But I shan’t remain in London, though; so before I go I will return you the money you were kind enough to send me.”
“Any time will do for that; I am not in want of it.”
“No time like the present; so here you are, Thompson.”
She drew from her purse notes for the amount, and handed them to her companion.
“Oh, if you are so beastly particular, so be it, then,” observed Peace, taking them from her and pocketing them.
“There’s an end of that, then,” said he. “Well, I’m as pleased as Punch to see you once more free. Why it’s the first time you’ve been in gaol—aint it?”
“Yes, the very first, and I hope, Thompson, it will be the last.”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” returned Peace, in a sanctimonious tone and manner, which would have done credit to a Dissenting minister.
Miss Stanbridge stopped for some little time. After this she was introduced to the two ladies of the establishment, but, of course, not a word was said either by herself or our hero upon past circumstances or the nature of her connection with Peace. The women had to be kept in the dark as much as possible, and certainly their lord and master contrived somehow or other to throw dust in their eyes, which, all things considered, must be deemed almost marvellous to all reasonable persons. But Peace was a wonder in many ways, this being by no means the least remarkable trait in his diversified character.
Laura Stanbridge, as we have already seen, knew very well how to make herself agreeable, and her two female companions declared, after she had left the house in the Evalina-road, that she was a most delightful woman—a declaration which we don’t expect any of our readers will endorse.