CHAPTERXCIV.BILL AND THE DOCTOR’S WIFE—A TALE OF SORROW AND MISERY.Mr. William Rawton, when he left the doctor’s residence, returned to the wretched lodging-house where he had taken up his quarters for a brief period during his sojourn in the metropolis. The events of the last two or three days had made a deep impression on him.He was not a man given to sentimental or moral reflections upon either the past, present, or future, but he was, nevertheless, forcibly impressed with the remarkable series of coincidences which had recently taken place, and the appearance and manner of the woman whom he had wooed and won in the outset of his career gave unmistakable indication of the dark mystery which was hanging over her and enshrouding her even as a funeral pall.Bandy-legged Bill was puzzled—there was evidently something lying beneath the surface, but what that something was he was at a loss to divine.He felt abashed and humiliated when in the presence of Mrs. Bourne, and had it not been for his strong desire to learn something more about her, the chances were that he would never have sought her again; but he was “down upon his luck,” as he termed it, and did not know which way to turn. He had never in the whole course of his life been at so low an ebb as at this particular period; nevertheless, to do him justice, it was not for himself that he was so much concerned, as for the woman whom he had known in an earlier day as Hester Teige.Bill Rawton, beyond a certain amount of good nature, had but little to recommend him. He had been a dodger and a cheat from boyhood, and his moral principles had in no way improved as he grew older. Nevertheless, deep down in the bottom of the heart of this coarse, common man there was one touch of honour and good feeling. Under any circumstances he would not of his “own free will” round upon the girl whom he had once loved; nay, more, he would not harm her by word or deed; and if he had thought she was happy in her present position he had sufficient respect for her never to trouble her again with his presence. For he had sunk so low in the social scale that he felt he was a disgrace to her. When he thought of this his dark, swarthy face wore a troubled expression, and something like a tear stood in his eyes. Many of my readers will find it difficult to believe that anything good and pure could be found left in the callous and hardened nature of the gipsy. My answer to this is, that it is nevertheless a fact. Bandy-legged Bill is sketched from nature, and many of the incidents I have described in his course are founded on actual facts, and are in short real occurrences.Bill pondered over the words which had fallen from the lips of Doctor Bourne, and as he did so he felt they had a significant meaning. What this was he could not at present determine.“He thinks me a bad lot, of course,” muttered the gipsy. “And I suppose he’s not far out in his reckoning. I look about as great a wretch as it is well possible to conceive—so people tell me. They seldom flatter a bloke who is so low down as I am at present. The fact is, I’m ashamed to present myself at a respectable house. That’s not to be wondered at.”He glanced at his ragged dirty garments, and as he did so, his countenance wore an expression of disgust.“I don’t know as I shall go there any more,” he exclaimed with sudden warmth. “It isn’t the cheese for me to do so. I shall only disgust her. Let things take their chance. I can but call when I am better off, if that ever comes to pass.”He drank the lodging-house coffee—or a decoction of horse-beans would, perhaps, be the better term—and sallied forth. He had no particular place to go to, no business to transact, and was certainly not a pleasure-seeker, but, like the rest of the idlers in the great human hive, he paced the streets and stared about him. In the course of an hour or so, he discerned a face which was not unfamiliar to him. A fashionably dressed lady turned her head as she passed by, and came to a sudden halt. The gipsy was bold enough to walk up to her, as her manner seemed to be encouraging.“Goodness me, it is you, then, but how strangely altered!” said the lady.“I hardly know myself, and it’s a wonder you recognised me, Miss Stanbridge,” cried Bill.“Why what in the name of all that’s wonderful have you been doing with yourself? You look the greatest ragamuffin out,” observed Laura Stanbridge. “Why, my friend, you are down upon your luck.”“I should just think I was, and no mistake.”“And Peace—Charles Peace—what became of him?”“Don’t know. He had seven years, and I haven’t set eyes on him since he came out. He’s left Sheffield.”“Left Sheffield, eh! And is he in London? I should suppose not, or I must have seen something of him?”“No; I don’t think he can be in London.”“And you—what are you supposed to be doing?”“Nothing at all at present.”The lady laughed. “Then how do you live?”“I don’t live; I exist; how I cannot tell you.”“Why, Rawton, this is a bad business.”“Precious bad; but there are others as badly off as myself. I am too honest for this world.”And here the speaker laughed, but it was a forced hollow sort of laugh.“Well, I am vexed to see you in such a sorry plight; but you’ll never do any good while you present such a wretched appearance as this. Call on me this evening.”“Where? At the old place?”The woman nodded.“At what time?”“You will be sure to find me in after eight o’clock.”“I’ll call, if you give me permission to do so.”“Good! Call by all means. Adieu for the present. You won’t forget?”And with these parting words she tripped lightly over the pavement.“Ah! I’ll call; she may depend upon that,” muttered Bill, after she had left; “there won’t be any harm in my giving her a look in. Probably she may put me up to a thing or two. A clever woman—a mighty clever woman—and isn’t she up to the knocker? As fresh as a four-year-old, and jolly well groomed too!”When the specified time arrived, Mr. Rawton gave a modest knock at the door, and was thrown into the presence of the mistress of the house, who treated him hospitably enough. A substantial repast was placed before him, together with some old ale. The gipsy elected to partake of the last-named beverage. He was not much of a hand at wine, but as to malt liquor, he could take any quantity of it.“Here’s to you, marm,” said he, raising a foaming tankard to his lips. “My respects and thanks at the same time. You aint one of those who deserts a cove when he’s down, and I aint one as is likely to forget your kindness.”“Never mind that. I don’t want any protestations. Eat and drink, and make yourself as happy as you can under existing circumstances. And so Peace had to do his seven years—had he?”“Well, I ’spose they let him off after a five years’ stretch; they usually do that if a man behaves himself anything near the mark, and he’d be sure to get the blind side of them, if any man could.”Miss Stanbridge was silent for some minutes.“Oh!” she at length ejaculated, “poor Charles! he was very unfortunate to be nabbed; but the wisest men are caught napping at times.”“You’ve known him for a long time, marm?” inquired Bill.“Dear me, yes—since I was a child.”“He was always square enough with me. I’ve no reason to complain of him. I only wish I knew where to find him.”“Why?”“Because I don’t think he’d let me go away empty-handed.”“Neither do I intend you to go away empty-handed,” cried Bill’s companion.The gipsy looked hard at the speaker.“Do you mean it?” he said.“Of course I do. You must not go about in your present plight. Everybody suspects a man who is in rags—and the police in particular. You must make a better appearance.”“I wish I could.”“Aye, but you must, my friend. Now, look here—I will advance you five pounds. You can pay me back when you are better off, you know.”“Ah, my dear good creature, I’ll pay you back the first money I get hold of—never fear that. Five pounds! It’s a little fortune to me just now.”“Will you promise to make good use of it?”“Yes, I do promise.”“And not give way to drink?”“It aint likely.”“I don’t know so much about that. I am afraid it is more than likely.”“I have suffered too much for that. You may trust me—believe me you may.”“Well, I will trust you. See, here are the five sovereigns. This sum will suffice for your present necessities. Possibly, in a week or two’s time, you will be able to turn yourself round and get something to do. You are not a fool, and I hope you are not an idler.”“I am not afraid of work, marm.”“No, no; Peace told me. I know but little about you from my own personal knowledge, but I am proud to say that Charley always spoke well of you, and it is for his sake that I am rendering you this timely assistance.”“I don’t know how to thank you sufficiently. You are a downright good sort, and no mistake; and I shall never forget your kindness,” observed Bill, who was really grateful for the service rendered him.He pocketed the money, and, after again expressing his thanks, took his departure.He proceeded at once to the nearest clothier’s, and had what he termed “a complete rig out.” He then returned to the lodging-house, where he washed, shaved, and put on his new garments.When this had been done, he did not appear to be the same man. His appearance was not aristocratic, it is true, but he looked a respectable member of society. In addition to this, he felt in better spirits and looked hopefully towards the future.“If I am not up to the knocker,” he observed, “I am at any rate neat and tidy, and don’t look the forlorn and dilapidated wretch I did yesterday. Oh, I shall do, and I don’t mind paying a visit to the doctor’s establishment. To say the truth, I did feel down-hearted when I last called there.”The gipsy made himself pretty comfortable till the evening, which had been appointed for him to pay a visit to Mr. Bourne.He counted the hours till the time arrived.As the hour approached he made himself look as presentable as possible, and then bent his steps in the direction of the doctor’s residence. He gave a timid knock at the door, which was presently opened by the servant girl, Amy.To his inquiry, “whether her missus was in?” the maid gave a nod, and the gipsy entered. He was conducted into a room on the front floor, in which was seated the doctor’s wife.“Ah, ’tis you,” she said; “I am glad you have come.”“Are you alone?” inquired Bill.The answer was in the affirmative.“You are in much better trim than when I first saw you,” she said, glancing at his attire.“Yes, a little better.”“How came that about?”“I have had assistance from a friend, marm.”It is astonishing how respectful he was towards her. He treated her as a superior being to himself, and was humble and submissive to the last degree. He could not fail to observe that she looked pale and delicate, and that a settled melancholy seemed to be indelibly fixed on her thin but beautiful features.“You have something to tell me,” she observed, languidly.“Ahem—yes,” he stammered, not knowing very well what to say.“In the first place, be good enough to inform me how you became first acquainted with Dr. Bourne?”This was an awkward question—not a very agreeable one to answer—but the gipsy thought it best to tell the truth; so he made his companion acquainted with the attempted highway robbery, and all that followed after this.“You have sunk so low as that,” she murmured, as a dark shade of sadness passed over her countenance. “Oh, but this is very dreadful!”“I was driven to it, and bitterly regretted the act,” he returned, turning away his head. “Had I known—”“It is of no use repining—it is done,” she interrupted; “so let that pass. Now for the rest.”“I don’t so much regret the lawless act I was guilty of, not half so much as letting him know that I was married. He wants my marriage certificate, as I have already told you—what for I am at a loss to imagine.”“He has a motive, and a strong one, or he would not be so importunate. I know him, and can read him like a book. Don’t give him any further information upon that or any other subject.”“I will not. I am sorry I said so much.”“Dear me, this is the most wonderful thing that ever occurred. It seems to me to be altogether impossible. I deemed you dead—I felt assured of it; and now in the hour of trouble and travail you rise up in judgment against me—you whom I have not seen for nearly twenty years.”“Don’t imagine I am likely to trouble you,” cried Bill; “I’d sooner cut off this hand than harm a hair of your head. When I leave this house it will be for good and for all, and you may rest assured that, as far as you are concerned, Bill Rawton, the gipsy, will never cross your path. He’ll change his name, and no one will ever know that he is crawling about on the face of the earth. No, no, Mrs. Bourne; you have nothing to fear from me. This meeting is an accidental one, but our ways—our paths of life—are too far asunder for you to be in any fear of being troubled with my presence. I’ll go this very moment if you wish it.”There was a tone of sincerity in Bill’s manner which went far towards reassuring the doctor’s wife.“You speak fairly enough, and I have no reason to doubt you; indeed, in earlier days I was taught by experience that you were mindful of me, and never that I can remember thwarted me in one solitary instance.”“You told me the last time we met that you were not happy. Is that so?” inquired the gipsy.“Alas! yes. Happy! I am supremely miserable, more wretched than I can possibly tell you.”“And the reason for this?” he inquired. “You are the mistress of this establishment, are the wife of a physician of good repute.”“Good repute!” she exclaimed, with bitterness.“Well, I should imagine so; and I hope I am not mistaken?”“It is hardly worth while discussing that question. It was an unlucky hour that you ever met with my husband. Most of all fatal for me. You have made him acquainted with too much already, and he will never rest till he gets all from you.”“He’ll get no more from me,” exclaimed Rawton; “I wish my tongue had been cut out before I told him what I have; but, Lord bless us, I had no idea I was doing anything wrong—had no notion that it would injure anyone, still less you.”“Ah, you don’t know all, or you would not talk like that. Listen. This man—this Docter Bourne, my husband—hates me—he wants to be rid of me at any cost. The lady who was with him when you were last here is a rich widow, to whom he is paying attention. I am the one person too many in this house, and at any cost or sacrifice I must be removed. He has tried poison, but as yet has not succeeded.”“Poison!” exclaimed Rawton, turning suddenly pale. “Do not tell me that.”“It is a fact; I know it but too well. Every day, every hour I am in fear of my life. Oh, the miserable life I have led!”She paused suddenly, and her eyes were suffused with tears.Bill Rawton was touched. He could hardly believe his senses.“The wretch!” he ejaculated—“the abominable, merciless wretch. If I thought that I’d——”“Hush, silence! Don’t be rash. It was wrong of me to say thus much, but it was done without due consideration. It is enough to know that he wants to get rid of me either by fair means or foul. I have good reason to know this. He has been placed in his present position through me, or, rather, through one who was my protector.”The gipsy gave a prolonged “oh!” The real state of affairs began to dawn upon him.“That’s it—eh?” said he.“Yes, it is,” answered Mrs. Bourne. “He married for the handsome dowry he had with me. Nothing else induced him to make me his wife.”“And who gave the dowry—if I may make so bold as to inquire?” said Rawton.“Oh, it’s no secret; I’ll tell you—Lord Fullerton. It answered Bourne’s purpose, for at that time he was a poor man. With the money he had with me he was enabled to make a good appearance, without which a doctor has but little chance of getting on. He is mercenary, cold, cruel, and crafty, and is desirous of espousing the rich widow you saw in the carriage with him the other day. I am the only stumbling-block in the way. Now do you understand why he wanted the marriage certificate?”“Well, not exactly. How is it possible that he could connect my marriage with you?”“Doubtless he has heard of something of the sort. Perhaps he is better acquainted with my past history than either you or I imagine. There is no telling. If the idea once entered his head he would cling to it as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw.”“Well, this quite gets over me—I never heard of such a thing. I wish I had died of starvation before I saw the varmint. That’s all I wish, and bad luck to him! I’m knocked clean out of time, and no mistake.”“I have told you all, because I believe I can trust you. If he could prove a former marriage, he would have no scruples in casting me adrift without a shilling in the world.”“He’d never do that, surely.”“Aye, but he would. Too well I know it. It was a most fatal night for me when you met the doctor, for it will bring ruin and disgrace upon me.”“Ruin and disgrace!” exclaimed Bill, in a tone of deep dejection and concern. “Your words drive me mad. I wish—I—I can’t express myself. Hang it all, I have been a fool; but, never fear, I’ll make it all right, if it costs me my life.”“How can you possibly do that?” said Mrs. Bourne. “The mischief’s done. You have been most rash and imprudent. Oh, that I could see my way out of this difficulty!”“I confess I have been imprudent, but what of that? It was not done wilfully. Who could or would have supposed for one moment the doctor’s object in questioning me so closely about my private affairs?”“He seldom takes the trouble to question people closely upon any subject without a special reason. He has the wiles of the serpent, the cunning of the fox. Oh, he had an object in so kindly becoming your patron; he has some well-devised scheme in his head—some plot to be rid of me.”“I would not stay with such a wretch if I were you,” exclaimed Bill.“I would leave him to-morrow—be too glad to leave him—upon certain conditions. I cannot consent to go out of this house penniless; but enough of this. As I before observed, the mischief’s done, the train is formed, and it cannot be undone. I do not blame you, William Rawton. You had no desire to injure me, nevertheless I cannot conceal from myself that your presence here is likely to prove fatal to me.”“Fatal to you—how so?”“Oh, do not torment me with questions,” cried Mrs. Bourne. “The mischief’s done. This man—this Dr. Bourne, my husband—if he could by any means in his power find out that I had been married years and years ago, would not scruple to put the machinery of the law to work to ruin and crush me. He would be but too glad of the chance of prosecuting me for bigamy.”“Bigamy—he can’t do anything of the sort. In the first place, you were what the law calls an infant at the time; and, in the second place, there was an inquest on the body of a man who was found drowned in a millstream, and whose body was identified as that of William Rawton, or supposed to be him.”“Ah! supposed won’t do.”“Well, hang it all, if my existence is so baneful to you—if there is no other way of repairing the mischief I had so unwittingly done—then I can throw myself into a millstream, or any other way to make an end of myself. I am only an encumbrance on the face of the earth. It is quite time for me to trot off into another world.”“Peace! don’t be so rash. Your death would not make any difference now; and if it did, it is perfectly purposeless to make such a suggestion. I will consider the matter over, look at it from every point of view, and determine what had best be done.”“Ah, I think I shall have to determine,” remarked the gipsy.“You! What do you mean? How can you determine?”“Well, you see it’s simply this. It unfortunately happens that I have been imprudent enough to blow the gaff; but I beg pardon—you don’t understand this sort of language?”“I confess I do not.”“Well then I’ve let my tongue run too fast—that you understand?”“Most certainly I do.”“If it costs me my life I’ll put matters straight. He may be jolly artful this same doctor, and no doubt he is; but I’ll take good care, if so be as it lays in my power, which I believe it does, to circumvent him.”“Your language is altogether so foreign to what I have been accustomed to listen to that I hardly know what reply to make.”“Don’t you trouble yourself to reply. I know my way about. It is true I have been most imprudent, but I will repair the evil. Oh! Mrs. Bourne—Hester I used to call you—be of good cheer; do not give way to despair. I can see my way out of this business.”“But how? Tell me how.”“Never you mind. Leave it to me.”“I cannot possibly do otherwise now.”“Very good, then rest satisfied. I think I can see through his little caper. I never liked him—now I hate and despise him, ’specially after what you have said. I’ll do him yet as dead as a nail. But——”“But what? Do you want my assistance?”“In what way? You can’t render me any.”“I mean as far as money is concerned.”“I don’t care to take money from you. Still a trifle would be of service. I can return it you at some future time.”Shortly will be published, “The Life and Recollections of Calcraft the Hangman” in Penny Weekly Numbers.No.50.Illustration: RAWTON SEARCHING REGISTER.BILL RAWTON SEARCHING THE CHURCH REGISTER.“I will give you what you require, for I believe you are sincere, and mean what you say.”Opening her desk Mrs. Bourne drew therefrom several gold pieces, which she placed on the table in front of the gipsy.“Take what you require,” she said. “The money is at your service.”“I will not rob you of a shilling!” exclaimed Bill, resolutely. “Not a penny.”“You are much more self-sacrificing and scrupulous than I gave you credit for. I say again take what you require for your immediate necessities. Surely you are not so proud as to refuse what is offered freely, and with the best intentions.”The gipsy hesitated.“Well,” he observed, after a long pause, “perhaps you are right, marm. I may need a little ready rhino to carry out a little bit of business on my own account.“I hope it is not a dishonest one,” cried Mrs. Bourne, with some concern.“You’ve no call to be alarmed. What I am agoing to do is right enough—leastways what I hope to do.”Mrs. Bourne had no very exalted notion of her companion’s honesty, or way of life, about which, however, she knew nothing, but she guessed rightly enough that he had fallen into evil courses, and was therefore a discredit to her, and all who might happen to be acquainted with him; nevertheless she felt assured that he would not willingly harm her by word or deed. It was a terrible thing that he had become acquainted with her husband, as from this very fact ruin and disgrace might fall upon her in a way that she had never for a moment contemplated.“I will not make any further inquiries,” said she. “All I might say would not alter your course of action, and therefore the least said the better, but I am free to confess that I tremble for the future. Your presence here has been most fatal to my happiness and peace of mind. If this man, my husband, could find any means of getting rid of me he would be but too glad to avail himself of the same, for I feel assured that I am a stumbling block in his way, which doubtless he will find some means of removing. Oh, no one knows but myself what I have suffered—what daily, what hourly dread I am in of this man. What if he should find out the church in which we were married? What if he should produce the certificate of the same? Oh, why has all this come to pass? I deemed you dead; could have sworn it.”“You have not seen or heard anything of me for over twenty years, and you had a right to conclude I was dead. He can do nothing, rest assured of that. Hang him, I’ll take very good care that he won’t have it in his power. Be of good cheer, marm; when next we meet I hope to bring you good news, and so farewell for the present.”Rawton rose from his seat, and, taking four sovereigns from the heap of gold before him, he descended the stairs and passed out of the house.“Oh, heaven save me,” ejaculated Mrs. Bourne, “I am now in his power, but still I think I may trust him. I hope so, lost and fallen man as he is. Oh, Amy, it’s you?”“Yes, marm,” answered the girl, who had crept into the room immediately after she heard the gipsy take his departure. “But how troubled you look!” cried the maid, as she glanced at her mistress. “What does that dreadful man want?”“Oh, he’s better than you suppose him. He wanted a little assistance—that’s all.”“Why, he’s quite a swell to what he was the other day. I hardly knew him when I opened the door, he looked so respectable. But he has such odd ways, and is so familiar—too familiar by half, to my thinking.”Mrs. Bourne laughed. It was the first time she had done so for several days.“Familiar is he, Amy?”“Well, marm, I think so; not rude, you know, but he makes use of such odd words, and has such an easy, confident manner with him. Oh, he’s a card in his way—there’s no doubt about that.”“Yes, he is a character; but there is no occasion for you to mention to the doctor that he’s been here.”“Me, marm? Lord bless me, no—I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.”“Because, you see, he’s a man I knew when little more than a child. He appears to be so strangely altered since those days that I can hardly believe him to be the same person. He’s evidently quite a lost man; but this is only as I guess, for I know nothing of his mode of life, which, however, I fear, is not altogether a respectable one.”“I wonder what the doctor wanted him here for. He wouldn’t have encouraged him unless he had some motive.”“That’s not your business—neither is it mine,” observed Mrs. Bourne, reprovingly.“No, of course not, marm; anyway it aint any business of mine.”
Mr. William Rawton, when he left the doctor’s residence, returned to the wretched lodging-house where he had taken up his quarters for a brief period during his sojourn in the metropolis. The events of the last two or three days had made a deep impression on him.
He was not a man given to sentimental or moral reflections upon either the past, present, or future, but he was, nevertheless, forcibly impressed with the remarkable series of coincidences which had recently taken place, and the appearance and manner of the woman whom he had wooed and won in the outset of his career gave unmistakable indication of the dark mystery which was hanging over her and enshrouding her even as a funeral pall.
Bandy-legged Bill was puzzled—there was evidently something lying beneath the surface, but what that something was he was at a loss to divine.
He felt abashed and humiliated when in the presence of Mrs. Bourne, and had it not been for his strong desire to learn something more about her, the chances were that he would never have sought her again; but he was “down upon his luck,” as he termed it, and did not know which way to turn. He had never in the whole course of his life been at so low an ebb as at this particular period; nevertheless, to do him justice, it was not for himself that he was so much concerned, as for the woman whom he had known in an earlier day as Hester Teige.
Bill Rawton, beyond a certain amount of good nature, had but little to recommend him. He had been a dodger and a cheat from boyhood, and his moral principles had in no way improved as he grew older. Nevertheless, deep down in the bottom of the heart of this coarse, common man there was one touch of honour and good feeling. Under any circumstances he would not of his “own free will” round upon the girl whom he had once loved; nay, more, he would not harm her by word or deed; and if he had thought she was happy in her present position he had sufficient respect for her never to trouble her again with his presence. For he had sunk so low in the social scale that he felt he was a disgrace to her. When he thought of this his dark, swarthy face wore a troubled expression, and something like a tear stood in his eyes. Many of my readers will find it difficult to believe that anything good and pure could be found left in the callous and hardened nature of the gipsy. My answer to this is, that it is nevertheless a fact. Bandy-legged Bill is sketched from nature, and many of the incidents I have described in his course are founded on actual facts, and are in short real occurrences.
Bill pondered over the words which had fallen from the lips of Doctor Bourne, and as he did so he felt they had a significant meaning. What this was he could not at present determine.
“He thinks me a bad lot, of course,” muttered the gipsy. “And I suppose he’s not far out in his reckoning. I look about as great a wretch as it is well possible to conceive—so people tell me. They seldom flatter a bloke who is so low down as I am at present. The fact is, I’m ashamed to present myself at a respectable house. That’s not to be wondered at.”
He glanced at his ragged dirty garments, and as he did so, his countenance wore an expression of disgust.
“I don’t know as I shall go there any more,” he exclaimed with sudden warmth. “It isn’t the cheese for me to do so. I shall only disgust her. Let things take their chance. I can but call when I am better off, if that ever comes to pass.”
He drank the lodging-house coffee—or a decoction of horse-beans would, perhaps, be the better term—and sallied forth. He had no particular place to go to, no business to transact, and was certainly not a pleasure-seeker, but, like the rest of the idlers in the great human hive, he paced the streets and stared about him. In the course of an hour or so, he discerned a face which was not unfamiliar to him. A fashionably dressed lady turned her head as she passed by, and came to a sudden halt. The gipsy was bold enough to walk up to her, as her manner seemed to be encouraging.
“Goodness me, it is you, then, but how strangely altered!” said the lady.
“I hardly know myself, and it’s a wonder you recognised me, Miss Stanbridge,” cried Bill.
“Why what in the name of all that’s wonderful have you been doing with yourself? You look the greatest ragamuffin out,” observed Laura Stanbridge. “Why, my friend, you are down upon your luck.”
“I should just think I was, and no mistake.”
“And Peace—Charles Peace—what became of him?”
“Don’t know. He had seven years, and I haven’t set eyes on him since he came out. He’s left Sheffield.”
“Left Sheffield, eh! And is he in London? I should suppose not, or I must have seen something of him?”
“No; I don’t think he can be in London.”
“And you—what are you supposed to be doing?”
“Nothing at all at present.”
The lady laughed. “Then how do you live?”
“I don’t live; I exist; how I cannot tell you.”
“Why, Rawton, this is a bad business.”
“Precious bad; but there are others as badly off as myself. I am too honest for this world.”
And here the speaker laughed, but it was a forced hollow sort of laugh.
“Well, I am vexed to see you in such a sorry plight; but you’ll never do any good while you present such a wretched appearance as this. Call on me this evening.”
“Where? At the old place?”
The woman nodded.
“At what time?”
“You will be sure to find me in after eight o’clock.”
“I’ll call, if you give me permission to do so.”
“Good! Call by all means. Adieu for the present. You won’t forget?”
And with these parting words she tripped lightly over the pavement.
“Ah! I’ll call; she may depend upon that,” muttered Bill, after she had left; “there won’t be any harm in my giving her a look in. Probably she may put me up to a thing or two. A clever woman—a mighty clever woman—and isn’t she up to the knocker? As fresh as a four-year-old, and jolly well groomed too!”
When the specified time arrived, Mr. Rawton gave a modest knock at the door, and was thrown into the presence of the mistress of the house, who treated him hospitably enough. A substantial repast was placed before him, together with some old ale. The gipsy elected to partake of the last-named beverage. He was not much of a hand at wine, but as to malt liquor, he could take any quantity of it.
“Here’s to you, marm,” said he, raising a foaming tankard to his lips. “My respects and thanks at the same time. You aint one of those who deserts a cove when he’s down, and I aint one as is likely to forget your kindness.”
“Never mind that. I don’t want any protestations. Eat and drink, and make yourself as happy as you can under existing circumstances. And so Peace had to do his seven years—had he?”
“Well, I ’spose they let him off after a five years’ stretch; they usually do that if a man behaves himself anything near the mark, and he’d be sure to get the blind side of them, if any man could.”
Miss Stanbridge was silent for some minutes.
“Oh!” she at length ejaculated, “poor Charles! he was very unfortunate to be nabbed; but the wisest men are caught napping at times.”
“You’ve known him for a long time, marm?” inquired Bill.
“Dear me, yes—since I was a child.”
“He was always square enough with me. I’ve no reason to complain of him. I only wish I knew where to find him.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think he’d let me go away empty-handed.”
“Neither do I intend you to go away empty-handed,” cried Bill’s companion.
The gipsy looked hard at the speaker.
“Do you mean it?” he said.
“Of course I do. You must not go about in your present plight. Everybody suspects a man who is in rags—and the police in particular. You must make a better appearance.”
“I wish I could.”
“Aye, but you must, my friend. Now, look here—I will advance you five pounds. You can pay me back when you are better off, you know.”
“Ah, my dear good creature, I’ll pay you back the first money I get hold of—never fear that. Five pounds! It’s a little fortune to me just now.”
“Will you promise to make good use of it?”
“Yes, I do promise.”
“And not give way to drink?”
“It aint likely.”
“I don’t know so much about that. I am afraid it is more than likely.”
“I have suffered too much for that. You may trust me—believe me you may.”
“Well, I will trust you. See, here are the five sovereigns. This sum will suffice for your present necessities. Possibly, in a week or two’s time, you will be able to turn yourself round and get something to do. You are not a fool, and I hope you are not an idler.”
“I am not afraid of work, marm.”
“No, no; Peace told me. I know but little about you from my own personal knowledge, but I am proud to say that Charley always spoke well of you, and it is for his sake that I am rendering you this timely assistance.”
“I don’t know how to thank you sufficiently. You are a downright good sort, and no mistake; and I shall never forget your kindness,” observed Bill, who was really grateful for the service rendered him.
He pocketed the money, and, after again expressing his thanks, took his departure.
He proceeded at once to the nearest clothier’s, and had what he termed “a complete rig out.” He then returned to the lodging-house, where he washed, shaved, and put on his new garments.
When this had been done, he did not appear to be the same man. His appearance was not aristocratic, it is true, but he looked a respectable member of society. In addition to this, he felt in better spirits and looked hopefully towards the future.
“If I am not up to the knocker,” he observed, “I am at any rate neat and tidy, and don’t look the forlorn and dilapidated wretch I did yesterday. Oh, I shall do, and I don’t mind paying a visit to the doctor’s establishment. To say the truth, I did feel down-hearted when I last called there.”
The gipsy made himself pretty comfortable till the evening, which had been appointed for him to pay a visit to Mr. Bourne.
He counted the hours till the time arrived.
As the hour approached he made himself look as presentable as possible, and then bent his steps in the direction of the doctor’s residence. He gave a timid knock at the door, which was presently opened by the servant girl, Amy.
To his inquiry, “whether her missus was in?” the maid gave a nod, and the gipsy entered. He was conducted into a room on the front floor, in which was seated the doctor’s wife.
“Ah, ’tis you,” she said; “I am glad you have come.”
“Are you alone?” inquired Bill.
The answer was in the affirmative.
“You are in much better trim than when I first saw you,” she said, glancing at his attire.
“Yes, a little better.”
“How came that about?”
“I have had assistance from a friend, marm.”
It is astonishing how respectful he was towards her. He treated her as a superior being to himself, and was humble and submissive to the last degree. He could not fail to observe that she looked pale and delicate, and that a settled melancholy seemed to be indelibly fixed on her thin but beautiful features.
“You have something to tell me,” she observed, languidly.
“Ahem—yes,” he stammered, not knowing very well what to say.
“In the first place, be good enough to inform me how you became first acquainted with Dr. Bourne?”
This was an awkward question—not a very agreeable one to answer—but the gipsy thought it best to tell the truth; so he made his companion acquainted with the attempted highway robbery, and all that followed after this.
“You have sunk so low as that,” she murmured, as a dark shade of sadness passed over her countenance. “Oh, but this is very dreadful!”
“I was driven to it, and bitterly regretted the act,” he returned, turning away his head. “Had I known—”
“It is of no use repining—it is done,” she interrupted; “so let that pass. Now for the rest.”
“I don’t so much regret the lawless act I was guilty of, not half so much as letting him know that I was married. He wants my marriage certificate, as I have already told you—what for I am at a loss to imagine.”
“He has a motive, and a strong one, or he would not be so importunate. I know him, and can read him like a book. Don’t give him any further information upon that or any other subject.”
“I will not. I am sorry I said so much.”
“Dear me, this is the most wonderful thing that ever occurred. It seems to me to be altogether impossible. I deemed you dead—I felt assured of it; and now in the hour of trouble and travail you rise up in judgment against me—you whom I have not seen for nearly twenty years.”
“Don’t imagine I am likely to trouble you,” cried Bill; “I’d sooner cut off this hand than harm a hair of your head. When I leave this house it will be for good and for all, and you may rest assured that, as far as you are concerned, Bill Rawton, the gipsy, will never cross your path. He’ll change his name, and no one will ever know that he is crawling about on the face of the earth. No, no, Mrs. Bourne; you have nothing to fear from me. This meeting is an accidental one, but our ways—our paths of life—are too far asunder for you to be in any fear of being troubled with my presence. I’ll go this very moment if you wish it.”
There was a tone of sincerity in Bill’s manner which went far towards reassuring the doctor’s wife.
“You speak fairly enough, and I have no reason to doubt you; indeed, in earlier days I was taught by experience that you were mindful of me, and never that I can remember thwarted me in one solitary instance.”
“You told me the last time we met that you were not happy. Is that so?” inquired the gipsy.
“Alas! yes. Happy! I am supremely miserable, more wretched than I can possibly tell you.”
“And the reason for this?” he inquired. “You are the mistress of this establishment, are the wife of a physician of good repute.”
“Good repute!” she exclaimed, with bitterness.
“Well, I should imagine so; and I hope I am not mistaken?”
“It is hardly worth while discussing that question. It was an unlucky hour that you ever met with my husband. Most of all fatal for me. You have made him acquainted with too much already, and he will never rest till he gets all from you.”
“He’ll get no more from me,” exclaimed Rawton; “I wish my tongue had been cut out before I told him what I have; but, Lord bless us, I had no idea I was doing anything wrong—had no notion that it would injure anyone, still less you.”
“Ah, you don’t know all, or you would not talk like that. Listen. This man—this Docter Bourne, my husband—hates me—he wants to be rid of me at any cost. The lady who was with him when you were last here is a rich widow, to whom he is paying attention. I am the one person too many in this house, and at any cost or sacrifice I must be removed. He has tried poison, but as yet has not succeeded.”
“Poison!” exclaimed Rawton, turning suddenly pale. “Do not tell me that.”
“It is a fact; I know it but too well. Every day, every hour I am in fear of my life. Oh, the miserable life I have led!”
She paused suddenly, and her eyes were suffused with tears.
Bill Rawton was touched. He could hardly believe his senses.
“The wretch!” he ejaculated—“the abominable, merciless wretch. If I thought that I’d——”
“Hush, silence! Don’t be rash. It was wrong of me to say thus much, but it was done without due consideration. It is enough to know that he wants to get rid of me either by fair means or foul. I have good reason to know this. He has been placed in his present position through me, or, rather, through one who was my protector.”
The gipsy gave a prolonged “oh!” The real state of affairs began to dawn upon him.
“That’s it—eh?” said he.
“Yes, it is,” answered Mrs. Bourne. “He married for the handsome dowry he had with me. Nothing else induced him to make me his wife.”
“And who gave the dowry—if I may make so bold as to inquire?” said Rawton.
“Oh, it’s no secret; I’ll tell you—Lord Fullerton. It answered Bourne’s purpose, for at that time he was a poor man. With the money he had with me he was enabled to make a good appearance, without which a doctor has but little chance of getting on. He is mercenary, cold, cruel, and crafty, and is desirous of espousing the rich widow you saw in the carriage with him the other day. I am the only stumbling-block in the way. Now do you understand why he wanted the marriage certificate?”
“Well, not exactly. How is it possible that he could connect my marriage with you?”
“Doubtless he has heard of something of the sort. Perhaps he is better acquainted with my past history than either you or I imagine. There is no telling. If the idea once entered his head he would cling to it as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw.”
“Well, this quite gets over me—I never heard of such a thing. I wish I had died of starvation before I saw the varmint. That’s all I wish, and bad luck to him! I’m knocked clean out of time, and no mistake.”
“I have told you all, because I believe I can trust you. If he could prove a former marriage, he would have no scruples in casting me adrift without a shilling in the world.”
“He’d never do that, surely.”
“Aye, but he would. Too well I know it. It was a most fatal night for me when you met the doctor, for it will bring ruin and disgrace upon me.”
“Ruin and disgrace!” exclaimed Bill, in a tone of deep dejection and concern. “Your words drive me mad. I wish—I—I can’t express myself. Hang it all, I have been a fool; but, never fear, I’ll make it all right, if it costs me my life.”
“How can you possibly do that?” said Mrs. Bourne. “The mischief’s done. You have been most rash and imprudent. Oh, that I could see my way out of this difficulty!”
“I confess I have been imprudent, but what of that? It was not done wilfully. Who could or would have supposed for one moment the doctor’s object in questioning me so closely about my private affairs?”
“He seldom takes the trouble to question people closely upon any subject without a special reason. He has the wiles of the serpent, the cunning of the fox. Oh, he had an object in so kindly becoming your patron; he has some well-devised scheme in his head—some plot to be rid of me.”
“I would not stay with such a wretch if I were you,” exclaimed Bill.
“I would leave him to-morrow—be too glad to leave him—upon certain conditions. I cannot consent to go out of this house penniless; but enough of this. As I before observed, the mischief’s done, the train is formed, and it cannot be undone. I do not blame you, William Rawton. You had no desire to injure me, nevertheless I cannot conceal from myself that your presence here is likely to prove fatal to me.”
“Fatal to you—how so?”
“Oh, do not torment me with questions,” cried Mrs. Bourne. “The mischief’s done. This man—this Dr. Bourne, my husband—if he could by any means in his power find out that I had been married years and years ago, would not scruple to put the machinery of the law to work to ruin and crush me. He would be but too glad of the chance of prosecuting me for bigamy.”
“Bigamy—he can’t do anything of the sort. In the first place, you were what the law calls an infant at the time; and, in the second place, there was an inquest on the body of a man who was found drowned in a millstream, and whose body was identified as that of William Rawton, or supposed to be him.”
“Ah! supposed won’t do.”
“Well, hang it all, if my existence is so baneful to you—if there is no other way of repairing the mischief I had so unwittingly done—then I can throw myself into a millstream, or any other way to make an end of myself. I am only an encumbrance on the face of the earth. It is quite time for me to trot off into another world.”
“Peace! don’t be so rash. Your death would not make any difference now; and if it did, it is perfectly purposeless to make such a suggestion. I will consider the matter over, look at it from every point of view, and determine what had best be done.”
“Ah, I think I shall have to determine,” remarked the gipsy.
“You! What do you mean? How can you determine?”
“Well, you see it’s simply this. It unfortunately happens that I have been imprudent enough to blow the gaff; but I beg pardon—you don’t understand this sort of language?”
“I confess I do not.”
“Well then I’ve let my tongue run too fast—that you understand?”
“Most certainly I do.”
“If it costs me my life I’ll put matters straight. He may be jolly artful this same doctor, and no doubt he is; but I’ll take good care, if so be as it lays in my power, which I believe it does, to circumvent him.”
“Your language is altogether so foreign to what I have been accustomed to listen to that I hardly know what reply to make.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself to reply. I know my way about. It is true I have been most imprudent, but I will repair the evil. Oh! Mrs. Bourne—Hester I used to call you—be of good cheer; do not give way to despair. I can see my way out of this business.”
“But how? Tell me how.”
“Never you mind. Leave it to me.”
“I cannot possibly do otherwise now.”
“Very good, then rest satisfied. I think I can see through his little caper. I never liked him—now I hate and despise him, ’specially after what you have said. I’ll do him yet as dead as a nail. But——”
“But what? Do you want my assistance?”
“In what way? You can’t render me any.”
“I mean as far as money is concerned.”
“I don’t care to take money from you. Still a trifle would be of service. I can return it you at some future time.”
Shortly will be published, “The Life and Recollections of Calcraft the Hangman” in Penny Weekly Numbers.
No.50.
Illustration: RAWTON SEARCHING REGISTER.BILL RAWTON SEARCHING THE CHURCH REGISTER.
BILL RAWTON SEARCHING THE CHURCH REGISTER.
“I will give you what you require, for I believe you are sincere, and mean what you say.”
Opening her desk Mrs. Bourne drew therefrom several gold pieces, which she placed on the table in front of the gipsy.
“Take what you require,” she said. “The money is at your service.”
“I will not rob you of a shilling!” exclaimed Bill, resolutely. “Not a penny.”
“You are much more self-sacrificing and scrupulous than I gave you credit for. I say again take what you require for your immediate necessities. Surely you are not so proud as to refuse what is offered freely, and with the best intentions.”
The gipsy hesitated.
“Well,” he observed, after a long pause, “perhaps you are right, marm. I may need a little ready rhino to carry out a little bit of business on my own account.
“I hope it is not a dishonest one,” cried Mrs. Bourne, with some concern.
“You’ve no call to be alarmed. What I am agoing to do is right enough—leastways what I hope to do.”
Mrs. Bourne had no very exalted notion of her companion’s honesty, or way of life, about which, however, she knew nothing, but she guessed rightly enough that he had fallen into evil courses, and was therefore a discredit to her, and all who might happen to be acquainted with him; nevertheless she felt assured that he would not willingly harm her by word or deed. It was a terrible thing that he had become acquainted with her husband, as from this very fact ruin and disgrace might fall upon her in a way that she had never for a moment contemplated.
“I will not make any further inquiries,” said she. “All I might say would not alter your course of action, and therefore the least said the better, but I am free to confess that I tremble for the future. Your presence here has been most fatal to my happiness and peace of mind. If this man, my husband, could find any means of getting rid of me he would be but too glad to avail himself of the same, for I feel assured that I am a stumbling block in his way, which doubtless he will find some means of removing. Oh, no one knows but myself what I have suffered—what daily, what hourly dread I am in of this man. What if he should find out the church in which we were married? What if he should produce the certificate of the same? Oh, why has all this come to pass? I deemed you dead; could have sworn it.”
“You have not seen or heard anything of me for over twenty years, and you had a right to conclude I was dead. He can do nothing, rest assured of that. Hang him, I’ll take very good care that he won’t have it in his power. Be of good cheer, marm; when next we meet I hope to bring you good news, and so farewell for the present.”
Rawton rose from his seat, and, taking four sovereigns from the heap of gold before him, he descended the stairs and passed out of the house.
“Oh, heaven save me,” ejaculated Mrs. Bourne, “I am now in his power, but still I think I may trust him. I hope so, lost and fallen man as he is. Oh, Amy, it’s you?”
“Yes, marm,” answered the girl, who had crept into the room immediately after she heard the gipsy take his departure. “But how troubled you look!” cried the maid, as she glanced at her mistress. “What does that dreadful man want?”
“Oh, he’s better than you suppose him. He wanted a little assistance—that’s all.”
“Why, he’s quite a swell to what he was the other day. I hardly knew him when I opened the door, he looked so respectable. But he has such odd ways, and is so familiar—too familiar by half, to my thinking.”
Mrs. Bourne laughed. It was the first time she had done so for several days.
“Familiar is he, Amy?”
“Well, marm, I think so; not rude, you know, but he makes use of such odd words, and has such an easy, confident manner with him. Oh, he’s a card in his way—there’s no doubt about that.”
“Yes, he is a character; but there is no occasion for you to mention to the doctor that he’s been here.”
“Me, marm? Lord bless me, no—I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.”
“Because, you see, he’s a man I knew when little more than a child. He appears to be so strangely altered since those days that I can hardly believe him to be the same person. He’s evidently quite a lost man; but this is only as I guess, for I know nothing of his mode of life, which, however, I fear, is not altogether a respectable one.”
“I wonder what the doctor wanted him here for. He wouldn’t have encouraged him unless he had some motive.”
“That’s not your business—neither is it mine,” observed Mrs. Bourne, reprovingly.
“No, of course not, marm; anyway it aint any business of mine.”