CHAPTERXCII.AN OUTCAST IN LONDON—THE GIPSY’S TRIALS AND TROUBLES.The London career of Charles Peace was the most remarkable and daring one it is well possible to conceive. Indeed, we have nothing on record equal to it in the life of any criminal of ancient or modern times. We shall have occasion to shadow this forth in the succeeding chapters of our work.We have followed the footsteps of our hero up to the time of his becoming a resident in Evelina-road, Peckham. For the present we shall have to leave him, that we may turn back to an earlier period and chronicle the doings of some of the other personages who have figured on the stage of our drama.Mr. William Rawton, the gipsy, better known to the reader as “Bandy-legged Bill,” left Sheffield after Peace’s last conviction. To use his own phrase, he saw “the game was up,” and that his quondam companion had a “pretty good dose.” The gipsy, therefore, turned his thoughts in another direction, and sought out his patron, as he was pleased to term him.The gentleman in question was distantly related to the Ethalwoods, but he was the black sheep of the flock—a restless, careless, ne’er-do-well, who ran through his patrimony by betting largely. In addition to this, he had other vices, which are too numerous to mention. To do him justice, however, he had been kind to the gipsy on several occasions. He advanced him money when very hard pushed, and put many jobs in his way.It was, therefore, a sad blow to Rawton when he was informed of his patron’s demise. He felt that he had lost a good friend, and deeply deplored the loss.In addition to this misfortune, another befel him.The groom in Park-lane, who had been so staunch and true to him in times of great necessity, mistook his master’s property for his own, and had to decamp to save himself from a worse fate. So the ill-fated gipsy was left without a friend in the metropolis.He went from bad to worse, and finally became so reduced that he was on the verge of starvation.“He deserved no better fate!” the reader may exclaim. Possibly so, but it is hard for a fellow-creature to be in the most opulent city in the world without being able to obtain the common necessaries of life. Nevertheless, this is of almost daily occurrence.The reports of similar cases in our public newspapers furnish us with proofs of this.We have no desire to enlist anybody’s sympathy for wretches like Charles Peace, or Bill Rawton, or others who figure in this work; but starvation in a land of plenty is a melancholy fact which every right-minded person must of necessity deplore.Starving, homeless, friendless, despised, and desperate, Bandy-legged Bill wandered through the streets of the metropolis.It was a cold winter’s night, and the gipsy’s teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled.“Nothing remains for me but death,” he ejaculated, “for most assuredly my life must soon come to an end if things go on in this way. The crimes and injustice of others have brought me to this, not my own.”This is the specious way scoundrels of this type invariably delude themselves by false reasoning.“It aint been my fault,” he repeated. “I always acted on the square with all my pals. Curse it!—but it’s hard lines to be in this sorry plight. I’ll cast all conscience scruples in one scale hereafter, and will be an outlaw as well as an outcast. A man gets no thanks for being honest in this world. I am at war with the world, even as mankind are at war with me.”Bill crawled towards a street lamp as if he could derive warmth from its flickering flame.“I aint a bit like myself,” he exclaimed. “Am as weak as a rat, and as down-hearted as a man just sentenced to a ‘lagging.’ Peace is better off than I am; he has food and shelter, such as it is, at the expense of Government. I should like to be in his place just now, and the chances are I shall be before long.”The hour was late—approaching towards midnight, and the street in which he was stationed was pretty nigh deserted. Presently he heard the measured tread of a policeman, and the gipsy not being desirous of an official interview with the arm of the law, skulked away and hid himself in a dark alley until the constable had passed on.“I must find some place to crawl to, but where?” exclaimed Bill. “That’s easier asked than answered. Mercy on me! how my teeth do chatter! I wish the night was over; but, lor’, what’s the use of wishing that? Morning will bring me no relief.”Presently he heard footsteps. He guessed shrewdly enough that they were not those of a policeman. He grasped a thick cudgel he had in his hand and said, “Now for it!”A well-dressed gentlemanly-looking person was advancing towards him with stately tread. He was a handsome man, in the prime of life, and was evidently a favourite of fortune; yet the expression of his face was evil.The gipsy sprang forward, and grasped him by the collar of his coat.“Quick! haul over your cash!” he exclaimed, “or I will knock you senseless. Do you hear? I’m driven to desperation, and money I must have.”“Well,” exclaimed the gentleman, “you are either a madman or else one of the most audacious fellows I ever met with.”“I am no madman. If you refuse or attempt to utter a single cry for assistance I’ll brain you.”“You are a most extraordinary man.”“Your money!—I am starving. Do not drive me to desperation. I am not to be trifled with. Do not drive me to commit murder.”“Upon my word you really amuse me,” said the gentleman. “I thought the time was past for footpads or highway robbers, but we live and learn, it would appear. Unhand me.”“Not until you have given me what I demand.”“If I summon a policeman and hand you over to justice, which, to say the truth is my duty, you will be severely punished, but as you are starving, according to your own account—”“I am dying with hunger, and don’t care about being sent to prison. It’s preferable to dying like a dog in the streets.”“I will take compassion on you. This is something like an adventure. Again, I say take your hand from my coat. I will assist you. There, will that satisfy you?”“It will,” observed the gipsy, in a softened tone; “for once I have met with one who has compassion on a fellow-creature.”“You would not be very scrupulous, I suppose, in rendering services for kindness received—eh?” inquired the gentleman.“Scrupulous!—well no, not very.”“I should imagine not.”“A starving man is not likely to be over particular,” said the gipsy, laughing bitterly, and looking attentively at the face of his questioner.“Well, then, you must understand that this is not the place for a conference. I rather think you will suit my purpose. So, if you will accompany me, I will take you where you can enjoy both warmth and food. Then we can talk over this business. Follow me.”Bandy-legged Bill strode onward.He and his companion threaded their way through a number of streets, through which the winter’s blast howled dismally.Nothing can be more desolate than the deserted streets of a great city at midnight.The busy thoroughfares are as silent as the grave, and every house seems a tomb enclosing some tremendous secret.What if, in the silent hours of the night, the walls of the dwellings should suddenly become transparent, revealing all that might be passing inside?What astounding disclosures would be made!Imagination shrinks from the picture, appalled.“Here we are,” said the gipsy’s companion, pausing before a house of handsome exterior, and leading the way down into the basement.Over one of the windows of this basement was a gilded sign, bearing the name “Doctor Bourne.”The doctor unlocked a door, entered a room, and turned up the gas.The gipsy now found himself in a very comfortable apartment fitted up like a surgery. There was a book-case, surmounted by the usual skull—there was the inevitable skeleton grinning in a corner—there were anatomical pictures, a case of surgical instruments, shelves of bottles and phials, nice sofas, a crimson carpet, and a highly-polished stove, in which a cheerful fire blazed.“Sit down, my man,” said the doctor, with an air of superiority and condescension.The gipsy thanked his host, and seated himself.“Now in the first place I must get you something to eat and drink,” said the doctor. “By my faith, but you look like a starved cat, and yet now I glance at your face it seems familiar to me.”“Does it? We have never met before, not to my knowledge.”“No, no, of course not—I know that. Our spheres of life are widely different, I hope; but what the devil ever brought you so low as to set you prowling about the streets at night, dressed in rags, and threatening to brain people with a bludgeon?”“The story of my life is hardly worth the telling,” returned Bill.“Well, I should suppose not, but I suppose your downfall is partly owing to drink.”“Partly,” observed the gipsy.“Ah, so I thought.”The doctor unlocked a cupboard, and took from it about two thirds of a cold boiled ham, a loaf of bread and sundry other articles, which he placed before Bill, inviting him to fall to and help himself.The starving man needed no second invitation; he ate most ravenously. Meanwhile the doctor, rummaging in the cupboard, brought forth more eatables, which he placed before his guest.After the gipsy had satisfied his hunger a glass of warm grog was mixed by his benefactor, which the gipsy was nothing loth to partake of.He was, however, greatly puzzled at the reception he met with—it was altogether so much out of the common order of things, and he was curious to ascertain in what way his services were required, for he was acute enough to divine that all these attentions were not shown him without some ulterior object.“Ahem—you spoke of some service, something you required me to do. May I ask its nature?” observed the gipsy carelessly.“Oh, we won’t enter on the business just now,” said Bourne. “It is not of any immediate importance, but I suppose you will pass your word to do me a good turn when I require you to do so?”“It is only my duty, sir. Anything I can do shall be done, provided it be such as a man can consistently perform.”“Yes, precisely. Well, we will discuss this question when we are better acquainted with one another.”“He’s jolly artful,” murmured the gipsy to himself, “and don’t let every fool see his cards. Well, he’s not to blame for that.”“By the way,” said Bourne, “you have not told me your name?”“My name?”“Yes; don’t be afraid. I am not likely to hand you over to justice,” and at this the doctor laughed.“I don’t expect you are. Well, I am not ashamed of my name. It is William Rawton—Bandy-legged Bill my pals call me, because, you see, my legs were a little warped in the drying process.”The doctor gave an involuntary start. “Rawton, eh!”“Yes, Bill Rawton. Have you heard the name before?”“Well I rather think some of my patients have mentioned that name. To all appearance you are a gipsy?”“Yes, I was born a gipsy, but our camp broke up years and years ago.”No.49.Illustration: BOURNE QUESTIONING RAWTON.DR. BOURNE QUESTIONING BILL RAWTON, THE GIPSY.“Have you been a jockey at anytime of your life?”“I should rather think I had. I might say that I was, in a manner of speaking, brought up on the back of a horse.”“Oh, that accounts for it. I have heard your name mentioned by some of my sporting and aristocratic patients.”“And who might they be?” inquired Bill.“I cannot at the present moment call to mind. You are a single man, eh?”“I am single now, but I have been married.”“Ah, I see. Wife dead, I suppose?”“I haven’t seen her for years, but she may be alive for what I know.”Then suddenly looking hard at his questioner, he said, in an altered tone—“What makes you ask that question?”“Faith, I don’t know why I made the inquiry. I was thinking if you had any one to share your troubles.”“No, I have not, and what’s more, I dont want anyone to share my misery. It’s hard lines for one; it would be doubly hard if there were two doomed to the misery I have had to endure.”“You are quite right, my friend, it would.”The gipsy regarded the speaker with another furtive glance.“By the way, you are not getting on. Let me mix you another glass—the night is cold, and drinking in moderation is beneficial. I am not an advocate for total abstinence.”“Nor am I,” observed Rawton, with a laugh, “but of late I have been compelled to be a total abstainer.”“Another glass and a cigar?”“You are very kind, sir, I’m sure. I won’t refuse, since you are so pressing.”The grog was mixed, and the gipsy lighted a cigar of the first quality.“Take it altogether this is a strange night’s adventure,” observed Bourne. “Most remarkable. It pleases me, and for this reason: I am fond of searching into the character of man, and I feel convinced your history must be strange one.”“I’ve seen something of life. Have had my ups and downs, more of the latter than the former, and as I feel just now—or rather as I did when we first met—I don’t think there is much worth living for in this world—not as far as I am concerned at any rate.”“You mustn’t give way to despondency and look at the dark side of the picture. Brighter days may be in store for you—who knows?”The gipsy shook his head.“I doubt it,” he observed, sententiously.There was a pause, after which the doctor said, carelessly—“And so you have been married, have lost your wife, and don’t know where she is?”“Haven’t the slightest notion, and don’t care to inquire. Ah, she left me of her own accord. It must be—well, let’s see—ah, it must be getting on for twenty years ago.”“Dear me, how very remarkable! Did she”—then pausing suddenly, as if to check himself, the doctor added, “But then I don’t know that I have any right to inquire into your private affairs, which, after all, cannot be of any great interest to me.”“Oh! I don’t mind telling you the whole history if you think it worth listening to. You see, in my early youth I was a very different sort of chap to what I am now—I was what you might call a smart young fellow, who got on pretty well with the girls.”“Oh! I dare say. No doubt.”“But since those days I’ve had a rough time of it, and had fallen into evil ways. At one time I associated with the upper classes—not quite as a companion, I don’t mean that, but I was in the secrets of a few of the big guns—but, zounds! that is all past now. I’ve come down right on my haunches, and the chances are I shall never get up again. This is a beautiful flavoured cigar.”“Yes, I’ve got a very choice brand; the best I’ve had for many a day.” The doctor lighted one for himself. “Very good flavour indeed. Well, as you were saying—go on with your history.”“Oh, I was merely observing that I was at one time thought a goodish bit of by some heavy swells.”“Yes. Proceed. And your wife—was she with you at this time?”“We didn’t live many months together.”“Not many months! Your nuptial bliss was, indeed, of but a short duration.”“No, not many months. You see she was too good for me. The fact is, she was but a chit of a girl when I married her, who didn’t know her own mind. It was a runaway match. I was passionately fond of her at the time, but I found out afterwards that I had made a mistake. She was a delicate sensitive thing, had been well brought up, and I was not the sort of man she ought to have chosen for a husband. She soon found that out. She got sick and weary of me, and——”“And what?”“Well, we parted. She said she wished to leave me, and I knew she would do so in any case, whether I liked it or not; so I thought it best to consent to a separation. ’Cause, you see, she had an admirer.”“An admirer, eh?”“Yes.”“A gentleman—a man of property, I suppose.”“Oh, yes, a baronight. She went to live with him. He took her over to India, and I have never seen her from that day to this. If she’s alive, which I don’t feel at all certain about, I hope she’s happy, for she was a right down good sort.”“And pray, my complacent friend, is it a fair question to inquire the name of the baronet?”“I don’t mind telling you. Sir Digby M‘Bride was his name.”“And he went to India, you say?”“So I was told.”“Sir William has been dead for the last fifteen years,” said the doctor. “He fell on the field of battle, like a brave soldier as he was.”“Did he though? I never heard that bit of news before.”“It is a fact, I assure you.”“Did you know him then?”“No, not personally, but I was acquainted with those who did know him. What was your wife’s maiden name?”“Hester Teige. Upon my word you seem greatly interested about her,” cried Rawton, with sudden warmth.His companion coloured slightly. “No, oh dear no—not at all. You are mistaken,” he ejaculated, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference. “I know not why I asked the question, but I suppose she passed as Lady M‘Bride.”“I dare say she did. She might have done for aught I know. She may have had a good many names in her time. She went on the stage, so I was told, and played under another name.”“Oh, indeed, then possibly she’s had some strange alternations of fortune.”Rawton shook his head.“I know nothing about her. She’s passed away, and is nothing to me now—has not been anything to me for years.”“You are evidently a character in your way. You’ve endeavoured to play the part of a highwayman—not very successfully, it is true—but you’ve made the attempt, and doubtless you have played many other parts in the drama of life. I must learn something more of you. Take my advice for the future—abstain from the committal of any lawless act. I have a wish to befriend you; for the present I will give you some temporary assistance—something to help you over your immediate difficulties—and for the rest you have my permission to visit mo again, when I will see what can be done for you.”The doctor gave Rawton a sovereign, which the latter took, and at the same time overwhelmed his benefactor with thanks.“That will suffice,” said Bourne. “I am glad to be of service to you, and will see what more can be done. Possibly I may be instrumental in procuring you a situation, but you must first of all be furnished with better garments than those you have on at present. Well, we will see what can be done.”“You are very kind, I’m sure, and I ought to be grateful. Indeed I am, much more than I can express.”The gipsy rose to take his departure, being under the impression that his company was not wanted any longer.“You can give me a look in to-morrow, or next day, if you like. The most convenient hour to see me is after seven o’clock in the evening. As a rule my professional duties are over by that time, except in urgent cases, which happily don’t occur every day.”“I’ll make bold to call again if you will permit it.”“Certainly I desire you to do so,” returned Bourne, as he accompanied his visitor to the door.Rawton was about to pass out of the house when the doctor beckoned him back.“What might you want?” he inquired.“Oh, just this,” returned Bourne. “It is a matter of no very great moment, and which I cannot exactly explain at present, but could you procure your marriage certificate and bring it with you when you call again?”The gipsy was dumfounded, and hardly knew what reply to make.“Can you do so?” again repeated his companion.“Why what on earth do you want a worthless bit of paper like that for?” ejaculated the gipsy. “It aint of no use to mortal man.”“Well, that’s a matter it is hardly worth while discussing, but I take it for granted that you wish to oblige me.”“Most certainly I do.”“Then you will greatly oblige me by doing this little favour.”“But what for?”“As a matter of good faith—as a proof that you have not been deceiving me.”“Deceive you in what way?”“It will give me assurance that you have spoken the truth.”“Oh, that’s it. You don’t believe a word I have been saying, then?”“I believe all you have said, but I tell you again, I should be much more satisfied if you would bring with you the marriage certificate when you next call. Now do you understand?”“Of course I understand, as far as it goes. Well, I’m blest if this aint a new start.”“Well, never mind. Let it be for the present. I will explain more fully when we next meet. Now go, for I am perishing with cold.”The gipsy bade his companion good night, and left the house without further ado.
The London career of Charles Peace was the most remarkable and daring one it is well possible to conceive. Indeed, we have nothing on record equal to it in the life of any criminal of ancient or modern times. We shall have occasion to shadow this forth in the succeeding chapters of our work.
We have followed the footsteps of our hero up to the time of his becoming a resident in Evelina-road, Peckham. For the present we shall have to leave him, that we may turn back to an earlier period and chronicle the doings of some of the other personages who have figured on the stage of our drama.
Mr. William Rawton, the gipsy, better known to the reader as “Bandy-legged Bill,” left Sheffield after Peace’s last conviction. To use his own phrase, he saw “the game was up,” and that his quondam companion had a “pretty good dose.” The gipsy, therefore, turned his thoughts in another direction, and sought out his patron, as he was pleased to term him.
The gentleman in question was distantly related to the Ethalwoods, but he was the black sheep of the flock—a restless, careless, ne’er-do-well, who ran through his patrimony by betting largely. In addition to this, he had other vices, which are too numerous to mention. To do him justice, however, he had been kind to the gipsy on several occasions. He advanced him money when very hard pushed, and put many jobs in his way.
It was, therefore, a sad blow to Rawton when he was informed of his patron’s demise. He felt that he had lost a good friend, and deeply deplored the loss.
In addition to this misfortune, another befel him.
The groom in Park-lane, who had been so staunch and true to him in times of great necessity, mistook his master’s property for his own, and had to decamp to save himself from a worse fate. So the ill-fated gipsy was left without a friend in the metropolis.
He went from bad to worse, and finally became so reduced that he was on the verge of starvation.
“He deserved no better fate!” the reader may exclaim. Possibly so, but it is hard for a fellow-creature to be in the most opulent city in the world without being able to obtain the common necessaries of life. Nevertheless, this is of almost daily occurrence.
The reports of similar cases in our public newspapers furnish us with proofs of this.
We have no desire to enlist anybody’s sympathy for wretches like Charles Peace, or Bill Rawton, or others who figure in this work; but starvation in a land of plenty is a melancholy fact which every right-minded person must of necessity deplore.
Starving, homeless, friendless, despised, and desperate, Bandy-legged Bill wandered through the streets of the metropolis.
It was a cold winter’s night, and the gipsy’s teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled.
“Nothing remains for me but death,” he ejaculated, “for most assuredly my life must soon come to an end if things go on in this way. The crimes and injustice of others have brought me to this, not my own.”
This is the specious way scoundrels of this type invariably delude themselves by false reasoning.
“It aint been my fault,” he repeated. “I always acted on the square with all my pals. Curse it!—but it’s hard lines to be in this sorry plight. I’ll cast all conscience scruples in one scale hereafter, and will be an outlaw as well as an outcast. A man gets no thanks for being honest in this world. I am at war with the world, even as mankind are at war with me.”
Bill crawled towards a street lamp as if he could derive warmth from its flickering flame.
“I aint a bit like myself,” he exclaimed. “Am as weak as a rat, and as down-hearted as a man just sentenced to a ‘lagging.’ Peace is better off than I am; he has food and shelter, such as it is, at the expense of Government. I should like to be in his place just now, and the chances are I shall be before long.”
The hour was late—approaching towards midnight, and the street in which he was stationed was pretty nigh deserted. Presently he heard the measured tread of a policeman, and the gipsy not being desirous of an official interview with the arm of the law, skulked away and hid himself in a dark alley until the constable had passed on.
“I must find some place to crawl to, but where?” exclaimed Bill. “That’s easier asked than answered. Mercy on me! how my teeth do chatter! I wish the night was over; but, lor’, what’s the use of wishing that? Morning will bring me no relief.”
Presently he heard footsteps. He guessed shrewdly enough that they were not those of a policeman. He grasped a thick cudgel he had in his hand and said, “Now for it!”
A well-dressed gentlemanly-looking person was advancing towards him with stately tread. He was a handsome man, in the prime of life, and was evidently a favourite of fortune; yet the expression of his face was evil.
The gipsy sprang forward, and grasped him by the collar of his coat.
“Quick! haul over your cash!” he exclaimed, “or I will knock you senseless. Do you hear? I’m driven to desperation, and money I must have.”
“Well,” exclaimed the gentleman, “you are either a madman or else one of the most audacious fellows I ever met with.”
“I am no madman. If you refuse or attempt to utter a single cry for assistance I’ll brain you.”
“You are a most extraordinary man.”
“Your money!—I am starving. Do not drive me to desperation. I am not to be trifled with. Do not drive me to commit murder.”
“Upon my word you really amuse me,” said the gentleman. “I thought the time was past for footpads or highway robbers, but we live and learn, it would appear. Unhand me.”
“Not until you have given me what I demand.”
“If I summon a policeman and hand you over to justice, which, to say the truth is my duty, you will be severely punished, but as you are starving, according to your own account—”
“I am dying with hunger, and don’t care about being sent to prison. It’s preferable to dying like a dog in the streets.”
“I will take compassion on you. This is something like an adventure. Again, I say take your hand from my coat. I will assist you. There, will that satisfy you?”
“It will,” observed the gipsy, in a softened tone; “for once I have met with one who has compassion on a fellow-creature.”
“You would not be very scrupulous, I suppose, in rendering services for kindness received—eh?” inquired the gentleman.
“Scrupulous!—well no, not very.”
“I should imagine not.”
“A starving man is not likely to be over particular,” said the gipsy, laughing bitterly, and looking attentively at the face of his questioner.
“Well, then, you must understand that this is not the place for a conference. I rather think you will suit my purpose. So, if you will accompany me, I will take you where you can enjoy both warmth and food. Then we can talk over this business. Follow me.”
Bandy-legged Bill strode onward.
He and his companion threaded their way through a number of streets, through which the winter’s blast howled dismally.
Nothing can be more desolate than the deserted streets of a great city at midnight.
The busy thoroughfares are as silent as the grave, and every house seems a tomb enclosing some tremendous secret.
What if, in the silent hours of the night, the walls of the dwellings should suddenly become transparent, revealing all that might be passing inside?
What astounding disclosures would be made!
Imagination shrinks from the picture, appalled.
“Here we are,” said the gipsy’s companion, pausing before a house of handsome exterior, and leading the way down into the basement.
Over one of the windows of this basement was a gilded sign, bearing the name “Doctor Bourne.”
The doctor unlocked a door, entered a room, and turned up the gas.
The gipsy now found himself in a very comfortable apartment fitted up like a surgery. There was a book-case, surmounted by the usual skull—there was the inevitable skeleton grinning in a corner—there were anatomical pictures, a case of surgical instruments, shelves of bottles and phials, nice sofas, a crimson carpet, and a highly-polished stove, in which a cheerful fire blazed.
“Sit down, my man,” said the doctor, with an air of superiority and condescension.
The gipsy thanked his host, and seated himself.
“Now in the first place I must get you something to eat and drink,” said the doctor. “By my faith, but you look like a starved cat, and yet now I glance at your face it seems familiar to me.”
“Does it? We have never met before, not to my knowledge.”
“No, no, of course not—I know that. Our spheres of life are widely different, I hope; but what the devil ever brought you so low as to set you prowling about the streets at night, dressed in rags, and threatening to brain people with a bludgeon?”
“The story of my life is hardly worth the telling,” returned Bill.
“Well, I should suppose not, but I suppose your downfall is partly owing to drink.”
“Partly,” observed the gipsy.
“Ah, so I thought.”
The doctor unlocked a cupboard, and took from it about two thirds of a cold boiled ham, a loaf of bread and sundry other articles, which he placed before Bill, inviting him to fall to and help himself.
The starving man needed no second invitation; he ate most ravenously. Meanwhile the doctor, rummaging in the cupboard, brought forth more eatables, which he placed before his guest.
After the gipsy had satisfied his hunger a glass of warm grog was mixed by his benefactor, which the gipsy was nothing loth to partake of.
He was, however, greatly puzzled at the reception he met with—it was altogether so much out of the common order of things, and he was curious to ascertain in what way his services were required, for he was acute enough to divine that all these attentions were not shown him without some ulterior object.
“Ahem—you spoke of some service, something you required me to do. May I ask its nature?” observed the gipsy carelessly.
“Oh, we won’t enter on the business just now,” said Bourne. “It is not of any immediate importance, but I suppose you will pass your word to do me a good turn when I require you to do so?”
“It is only my duty, sir. Anything I can do shall be done, provided it be such as a man can consistently perform.”
“Yes, precisely. Well, we will discuss this question when we are better acquainted with one another.”
“He’s jolly artful,” murmured the gipsy to himself, “and don’t let every fool see his cards. Well, he’s not to blame for that.”
“By the way,” said Bourne, “you have not told me your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes; don’t be afraid. I am not likely to hand you over to justice,” and at this the doctor laughed.
“I don’t expect you are. Well, I am not ashamed of my name. It is William Rawton—Bandy-legged Bill my pals call me, because, you see, my legs were a little warped in the drying process.”
The doctor gave an involuntary start. “Rawton, eh!”
“Yes, Bill Rawton. Have you heard the name before?”
“Well I rather think some of my patients have mentioned that name. To all appearance you are a gipsy?”
“Yes, I was born a gipsy, but our camp broke up years and years ago.”
No.49.
Illustration: BOURNE QUESTIONING RAWTON.DR. BOURNE QUESTIONING BILL RAWTON, THE GIPSY.
DR. BOURNE QUESTIONING BILL RAWTON, THE GIPSY.
“Have you been a jockey at anytime of your life?”
“I should rather think I had. I might say that I was, in a manner of speaking, brought up on the back of a horse.”
“Oh, that accounts for it. I have heard your name mentioned by some of my sporting and aristocratic patients.”
“And who might they be?” inquired Bill.
“I cannot at the present moment call to mind. You are a single man, eh?”
“I am single now, but I have been married.”
“Ah, I see. Wife dead, I suppose?”
“I haven’t seen her for years, but she may be alive for what I know.”
Then suddenly looking hard at his questioner, he said, in an altered tone—
“What makes you ask that question?”
“Faith, I don’t know why I made the inquiry. I was thinking if you had any one to share your troubles.”
“No, I have not, and what’s more, I dont want anyone to share my misery. It’s hard lines for one; it would be doubly hard if there were two doomed to the misery I have had to endure.”
“You are quite right, my friend, it would.”
The gipsy regarded the speaker with another furtive glance.
“By the way, you are not getting on. Let me mix you another glass—the night is cold, and drinking in moderation is beneficial. I am not an advocate for total abstinence.”
“Nor am I,” observed Rawton, with a laugh, “but of late I have been compelled to be a total abstainer.”
“Another glass and a cigar?”
“You are very kind, sir, I’m sure. I won’t refuse, since you are so pressing.”
The grog was mixed, and the gipsy lighted a cigar of the first quality.
“Take it altogether this is a strange night’s adventure,” observed Bourne. “Most remarkable. It pleases me, and for this reason: I am fond of searching into the character of man, and I feel convinced your history must be strange one.”
“I’ve seen something of life. Have had my ups and downs, more of the latter than the former, and as I feel just now—or rather as I did when we first met—I don’t think there is much worth living for in this world—not as far as I am concerned at any rate.”
“You mustn’t give way to despondency and look at the dark side of the picture. Brighter days may be in store for you—who knows?”
The gipsy shook his head.
“I doubt it,” he observed, sententiously.
There was a pause, after which the doctor said, carelessly—
“And so you have been married, have lost your wife, and don’t know where she is?”
“Haven’t the slightest notion, and don’t care to inquire. Ah, she left me of her own accord. It must be—well, let’s see—ah, it must be getting on for twenty years ago.”
“Dear me, how very remarkable! Did she”—then pausing suddenly, as if to check himself, the doctor added, “But then I don’t know that I have any right to inquire into your private affairs, which, after all, cannot be of any great interest to me.”
“Oh! I don’t mind telling you the whole history if you think it worth listening to. You see, in my early youth I was a very different sort of chap to what I am now—I was what you might call a smart young fellow, who got on pretty well with the girls.”
“Oh! I dare say. No doubt.”
“But since those days I’ve had a rough time of it, and had fallen into evil ways. At one time I associated with the upper classes—not quite as a companion, I don’t mean that, but I was in the secrets of a few of the big guns—but, zounds! that is all past now. I’ve come down right on my haunches, and the chances are I shall never get up again. This is a beautiful flavoured cigar.”
“Yes, I’ve got a very choice brand; the best I’ve had for many a day.” The doctor lighted one for himself. “Very good flavour indeed. Well, as you were saying—go on with your history.”
“Oh, I was merely observing that I was at one time thought a goodish bit of by some heavy swells.”
“Yes. Proceed. And your wife—was she with you at this time?”
“We didn’t live many months together.”
“Not many months! Your nuptial bliss was, indeed, of but a short duration.”
“No, not many months. You see she was too good for me. The fact is, she was but a chit of a girl when I married her, who didn’t know her own mind. It was a runaway match. I was passionately fond of her at the time, but I found out afterwards that I had made a mistake. She was a delicate sensitive thing, had been well brought up, and I was not the sort of man she ought to have chosen for a husband. She soon found that out. She got sick and weary of me, and——”
“And what?”
“Well, we parted. She said she wished to leave me, and I knew she would do so in any case, whether I liked it or not; so I thought it best to consent to a separation. ’Cause, you see, she had an admirer.”
“An admirer, eh?”
“Yes.”
“A gentleman—a man of property, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, a baronight. She went to live with him. He took her over to India, and I have never seen her from that day to this. If she’s alive, which I don’t feel at all certain about, I hope she’s happy, for she was a right down good sort.”
“And pray, my complacent friend, is it a fair question to inquire the name of the baronet?”
“I don’t mind telling you. Sir Digby M‘Bride was his name.”
“And he went to India, you say?”
“So I was told.”
“Sir William has been dead for the last fifteen years,” said the doctor. “He fell on the field of battle, like a brave soldier as he was.”
“Did he though? I never heard that bit of news before.”
“It is a fact, I assure you.”
“Did you know him then?”
“No, not personally, but I was acquainted with those who did know him. What was your wife’s maiden name?”
“Hester Teige. Upon my word you seem greatly interested about her,” cried Rawton, with sudden warmth.
His companion coloured slightly. “No, oh dear no—not at all. You are mistaken,” he ejaculated, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference. “I know not why I asked the question, but I suppose she passed as Lady M‘Bride.”
“I dare say she did. She might have done for aught I know. She may have had a good many names in her time. She went on the stage, so I was told, and played under another name.”
“Oh, indeed, then possibly she’s had some strange alternations of fortune.”
Rawton shook his head.
“I know nothing about her. She’s passed away, and is nothing to me now—has not been anything to me for years.”
“You are evidently a character in your way. You’ve endeavoured to play the part of a highwayman—not very successfully, it is true—but you’ve made the attempt, and doubtless you have played many other parts in the drama of life. I must learn something more of you. Take my advice for the future—abstain from the committal of any lawless act. I have a wish to befriend you; for the present I will give you some temporary assistance—something to help you over your immediate difficulties—and for the rest you have my permission to visit mo again, when I will see what can be done for you.”
The doctor gave Rawton a sovereign, which the latter took, and at the same time overwhelmed his benefactor with thanks.
“That will suffice,” said Bourne. “I am glad to be of service to you, and will see what more can be done. Possibly I may be instrumental in procuring you a situation, but you must first of all be furnished with better garments than those you have on at present. Well, we will see what can be done.”
“You are very kind, I’m sure, and I ought to be grateful. Indeed I am, much more than I can express.”
The gipsy rose to take his departure, being under the impression that his company was not wanted any longer.
“You can give me a look in to-morrow, or next day, if you like. The most convenient hour to see me is after seven o’clock in the evening. As a rule my professional duties are over by that time, except in urgent cases, which happily don’t occur every day.”
“I’ll make bold to call again if you will permit it.”
“Certainly I desire you to do so,” returned Bourne, as he accompanied his visitor to the door.
Rawton was about to pass out of the house when the doctor beckoned him back.
“What might you want?” he inquired.
“Oh, just this,” returned Bourne. “It is a matter of no very great moment, and which I cannot exactly explain at present, but could you procure your marriage certificate and bring it with you when you call again?”
The gipsy was dumfounded, and hardly knew what reply to make.
“Can you do so?” again repeated his companion.
“Why what on earth do you want a worthless bit of paper like that for?” ejaculated the gipsy. “It aint of no use to mortal man.”
“Well, that’s a matter it is hardly worth while discussing, but I take it for granted that you wish to oblige me.”
“Most certainly I do.”
“Then you will greatly oblige me by doing this little favour.”
“But what for?”
“As a matter of good faith—as a proof that you have not been deceiving me.”
“Deceive you in what way?”
“It will give me assurance that you have spoken the truth.”
“Oh, that’s it. You don’t believe a word I have been saying, then?”
“I believe all you have said, but I tell you again, I should be much more satisfied if you would bring with you the marriage certificate when you next call. Now do you understand?”
“Of course I understand, as far as it goes. Well, I’m blest if this aint a new start.”
“Well, never mind. Let it be for the present. I will explain more fully when we next meet. Now go, for I am perishing with cold.”
The gipsy bade his companion good night, and left the house without further ado.