CHAPTERXCV.MR. WILLIAM RAWTON’S CUNNING DEVICE—THE MISSING PAGE.With all the gipsy’s faults—and it must be confessed he had a few—want of consideration for Mrs. Bourne was not one of them.He saw pretty clearly that a concurrence of circumstances, as unlooked for as unpropitious, threatened to environ the doctor’s wife in a labyrinth of difficulties. It is true that, morally speaking, no blame could be attached to her for consenting to become the wife of a needy and heartless physician.She had not the faintest notion that Rawton was in the land of the living. Indeed, she had quite forgotten in the vortex of fashionable life that such a person ever did exist; but facts are stubborn things, and there was no getting over the horrible one which so immediately concerned herself.Nothing would please Dr. Bourne better than having it in his power to cast her adrift on the world, to be released from the tie that bound him, and to espouse the rich and fascinating widow whom he had been dangling after for so long a time.He knew perfectly well that his present wife regarded him with the greatest possible aversion, and the chances were that she would offer no impediment to a divorce, provided he gave her only a portion of the dowry he had received from the nobleman who was her former protector, but Bourne’s cupidity was so great that he could not bear to part with money. His device was to obtain a release by other means.He had learned from a gossiping mischief-making Frenchwoman, who, at one time had been lady’s maid to his wife when she was in India with Sir Digby McBride, that in her early youth her ladyship, as she was termed, had been espoused by a gipsy named Rawton. Indeed the lady’s maid in question aided further than this, she gave the doctor a small miniature, which she said was a correct likeness of the gipsy in question. This the doctor treasured, and it was from this same miniature that he traced some similarity in the features of Bill Rawton, when he met him on the eventful night of the attempted robbery.Well might his wife say that he had the cunning of the fox. He had a motive, and a strong one too, in patronising the gipsy. His motive was to worm out of him all respecting his—the doctor’s—wife. He had already become possessed of facts which he deemed might be of infinite service to him in carrying out his nefarious and contemptible plans.He had, as may be readily imagined, married the nobleman’s cast-off mistress for the purpose of his own personal aggrandisement.It was not a very creditable course of procedure; nevertheless it is one which has been frequently adopted. Bourne had no very nice sense of honour, and not much self-respect, or he never would have acted as he had done throughout the greatest portion of his selfish life.He now thought he saw his way out of the difficulty. He believed if he could obtain the certificate of the marriage of the two persons named, William Rawton and Hester Teige, his own marriage contract would be rendered thereby null and void.The chances were that he would have found out that he was, after all, only deluding himself with false hopes; but he was very much charmed with the idea, and believed in its efficacy.Bill Rawton was under the impression that the plea would not hold good—nevertheless, he was sorely troubled in his mind. There was no telling; he did not understand much about the law—certainly not that part of it which related to matrimonial and divorce suits, but he was determined not to throw a chance away. He felt that he had already done an incalculable amount of mischief, and was determined to repair the evil at all hazards.How he proposed to do this we shall presently see.While at the common lodging-house, he met with Cooney, whom the reader will remember as being connected with Gregson and Charles Peace in the Oakfield House burglary described in the opening chapters of this work.We have had no occasion to take notice of Cooney since he was captured by Mr. Wrench in the bar of Sanderson’s hotel. Since that time Cooney had gone through a series of gradations in crime.How he obtained his living when Bill Rawton lighted on him it would be difficult to say. He did not, however, appear to be in very prosperous circumstances, being, as of yore, very glad to turn his hand to anything.The gipsy came to the conclusion he was just the man for his purpose; so he at once made a pal of him, and told him what he required him to do.Bill Rawton was married at a primitive village in Hampshire, called Wratton, and to this place he forthwith proceeded in company with Cooney.“It’s a delicate little bit of business we are going on,” said Rawton; “and will require a good deal of artfulness to work properly, but it must be done, that’s certain. It is not a profitable job I admit, but we must take the fat with the lean.”“All right, old man,” said Cooney. “I don’t much care what it is, as long as it’s worked to rights. Let me know what I’ve got to do, and I’ll be on to it like a shot.”Upon arriving at the village in question Mr. Rawton was more communicative to his companion.“Now, old sinner, I am going to the church.”Cooney opened his eyes to the fullest extent.“To the church, eh! Oh, I tumble; the plate I spose?”“No such thing. I want to search for a register.”Cooney nodded.“And when I give you a signal, all I want is for you to throw a stone at one of the windows of the church, and then take to your heels.”“Well I’m blessed, if you aint a rum un. What! break a window. What’s the good of that ere?”“Never you mind, do as I tell you, and all will be as right as the nail. I know every inch of the ground in this neighbourhood, and every stone in Wratton church.”“Does yer?”“Certainly.”“And what’s the good on it if yer do?”“Nothing in particular as I can see; but that ain’t the question. You play your part, and I’ll play mine. Yours is an easy one enough.”“It aint wery difficult, if that’s all you want me to do.”“That’s all; but here we are at the church.”The two confederates passed through the gate, and reached the churchyard.“Ah, it’s the same old place—not altered in the least,” cried the gipsy. “Just the same, but how changed to me!”“Ah, cut that; don’t go for to be sentimental. You aint come down here to moralise,” cried Cooney. “I say, leave that to some other bloke; it’s out of our line.”“Perhaps you’re right; but, you know, this place I remember when but a bit of a boy, and I haven’t set eyes on it for many and many a year.”“At it again,” cried Cooney, with a sort of double shuffle. “Well, I’m blest. It’s the green trees and the dicky birds as does it for you. Makes you feel alloverish like, just the same as ye’d be if yer were once more on your mountain heather—like the man who ses his ’art’s in the islands.”Mr. Cooney, after this speech, indulged in a prolonged whistle.“There’s no occasion for that,” observed the gipsy, reprovingly. “We’ve come on very serious business, and must look very grave.”“Mustn’t indulge in unseemly mirth, as our parson used to say. Werry good, I’m all there—not, mind you, but this is quite a new line of business to me.”“But you are equal to anything.”“In course I am.”“So now keep quiet. Listen. Do you see that little window in that part of the church which abuts out?”“Yes, I does see it, with these ’ere blessed eyes.”“Good. There’s nobody about just now, which is all the better, as we must not be seen together. I have shown you the window?”“Yes, yer have.”“At that end of the church there is a clump of yew trees—you can easily conceal yourself in those.”“I’ll go at once then.”“No, not now; all is not ready at present. Wait patiently. I am merely explaining what you are to do, because if we don’t pull this off this time we shan’t have another chance; so we must be careful not to make a muddle of it. I shall have to go round to the clerk’s house I expect, for he doesn’t seem to be here. What I want you to do is this: go out yonder into that lane, watch, and wait there till you see me and the clerk enter the church.”“Yes.”“But don’t be seen yourself if you can help it.”“All right—drive on.”“When you see us enter the church together, creep down from the lane where you have been stationed, and conceal yourself in the clump of yew trees; then keep your eye fixed on that little window.”“Yes, and what then?”“You will see me looking over a big book. When I draw my hand across my forehead, thus, throw a stone at one of the end windows, and make off as fast as your legs will carry you; but mind, Cooney, don’t attempt to throw the stone till I have given the sign.”“Oh, no, in course not. I aint likely to do that. And what else?”“You are pretty sure to get clean off. Make for the station, and remain in the waiting-room till I come. Now, you understand?”“I hopes as how I do.”“Now make off, and I will go and find the clerk.”Cooney at once betook himself to the lane, and Rawton returned to the village.Upon arriving at the clerk’s house, he found that worthy at dinner—so he took a stroll till the meal was over, and then called again.He explained his business, saying he wished to get a copy of the register of two persons who were married at the church some twenty or two-and-twenty years back.The clerk was a very old man, with tottering limbs and defective sight; he had held his present office for over fifty years. He carried with him a huge bunch of keys, and walked by the side of the gipsy conversing in a friendly manner till they reached the church.“You are not quite certain as to the year, you say,” he observed, as he opened the door of the sacred edifice.“No, not quite certain, but I can’t be very far out.”“The names you have with you?”“Yes, they are Jane Jenkins and Robert Bessant.”“I dare say we shall find them. This way, if you please.”Rawton was led by the old man into a small apartment, in which were a number of ponderous volumes ranged on shelves.“We had better search the volume for 1858 first.”“As you please.”“Have you the paper with the names?”“Yes—here it is.”The old clerk began to look over the book. Page after page was gone over, but no such names could be found.“Can I be looking over the volume for the preceding year?” said Rawton, carelessly.“Oh, certainly, sir, if you please. My eyesight is not so good as it was, but my memory is good, and I think I can recollect two persons bearing the names here written down.”The gipsy meanwhile turned over the pages of the other volume. He soon came to the page on which his own name and that of Hester Teige was inscribed. He slid a piece of paper between the leaf and turned over the others. Then he drew his hand across his forehead.Immediately after this a loud crash was heard. The sound reverberated through the aisles with terrible force.“Mercy on us, what’s the matter?—some accident to the church!” cried the gipsy, in a tone of alarm. “Pray see what it is.”The clerk was seriously alarmed, and, upon the impulse of the moment, rushed out into the body of the church.This was Bill Rawton’s opportunity. With almost incredible rapidity he drew forth his penknife, which he had kept open in his coat pocket, passed the blade along at that side of the page which was fastened to the book, and drew it forth; then, folding it up, he thrust it into the breast pocket of his coat. When this had been done he went out of the little room and anxiously inquired what was the matter.The clerk informed him that some evil-disposed person had thrown a stone at the church windows, one of the panes of which was broken. The stone was picked up inside the edifice.“The mischievous, audacious scoundrel!” exclaimed Rawton. “Shall I try and catch him? He can’t be far off.”“I wish you could.”“I’ll try,” said Rawton, who at once rushed out. He brought in a lubberly boy, who was staring, open-mouthed, at the broken glass.“It aint me as did it, sir—indeed it aint. I never heaved a stone at the window,” cried the lad, bursting into tears.“Oh, it’s you, Jim Starling—eh?” said the clerk. “And if it wasn’t you, perhaps you can tell who did it.”“I dunno. I heard a smash, and saw the window shivered, but I did not see him as heaved the stone.”“Was there anyone else about besides him?” said the clerk, addressing himself to Rawton.“I did not see anyone else.”“This must be inquired into. It’s a most scandalous, wicked act, and you must do your best, Starling, to find out who it was.”“Yes, I will, sir—I will do my best.”“Am I to let him go?” said Rawton.“Yes, I suppose so. Ah, yes, he is well known here. I don’t think he would be wicked enough to do such a thing, for we consider him to be a well-conducted lad; but as I said before, it must be inquired into. A reward must be offered, and the police must be made acquainted with the circumstance. Dear me, sir, young people of the present day are not a bit like those I remember when I was young; they are audacious, mischievous, and uncontrollable; but, as I said before, this matter must not be allowed to drop without a searching inquiry.”“No, certainly not. I’m a stranger to these parts,” observed Rawton, “and certainly never expected to find such a lawless act committed like this in open daylight. It so alarmed me that I have not as yet recovered from the shock.”“I dare say not, sir; I can well understand that, and indeed I am very sorry,” replied the clerk, apologetically, “extremely sorry. Such a thing never occurred before. I can’t make it out; but your pardon, sir; you have not found what you want.”“No, the interruption was so sudden and unlooked for that for the moment I had almost forgotten my errand.”The blubbering boy scampered off the moment he was released, and the clerk and Rawton returned to the room.“May I take the next volume to this?” said the gipsy.“Yes, sir, if you please.”Rawton turned over the leaves of the other volume and in the space of a few minutes found the two names of which he professed to be in search, but which, as the reader can readily imagine, he cared nothing about. It so chanced that he remembered the persons bearing these names being married in the year 1852, and they did very well as a blind to his proceedings.When he found them he professed to be very anxious to have a copy of the entry in the book, which the clerk at once proceeded to make. The clergyman had to sign it as a matter of form, and when this had been done, it was handed to the gipsy, who paid the usual fee, wished the clerk good day, and walked rapidly on towards the station.“I’ve done my worthy friend, the doctor, now, and no mistake. Hester can defy him. After all there was not much to fear, but I should have been on the grizzle, and as savage as a meat hatchet if he’d got the better of her. It was about as neat a job as I can remember doing, and Cooney did his part to rights, just in the nick of time. Nobody will be any the wiser, and the chances are the leaf will never be missed; but if it is I can’t help it.”Upon arriving at the station, he found Cooney seated in front of the refreshment bar, devouring the remains of half a pork-pie, which he washed down with a pint of bitter.“Thought you’d never come,” he cried, upon catching sight of the gipsy; “been waiting here till I was so hungry that I couldn’t hold out any longer, so thought it best to stick up a score to you.”“Gammon and all,” said Rawton. “They don’t give credit at these places.”“I aint paid for nuffin as yet.”“Then I will,” said Rawton, who forthwith put a shilling on the counter and called for a pint of the best Burton, paying for that and what his friend had had at the same time.When the two entered one of the carriages of the next London train their tongues were unloosed, for there were no other persons besides themselves in the compartment, and they had purposely forborne talking about the business that had brought them down before the barmaids and loiterers in the refreshment bar. All restraint was, however, now thrown off.“Well,” said Cooney, “how did you work it—all right?”“Right as the mail. Never did anything so neatly in my life. Went out and collared a boy for throwing the stone.”“Oh scissors! What a spree!”“Yes, and did the indignant to rights, I can tell you. The old clerk took it all in like a gudgeon, and was mighty civil and obliging.”“Oh! he’s a very decent old boy.”“Well,” said Cooney, “this one is about the rummest start I ever knew. Coming all these miles for the purpose of throwing a stone at the window of a church. Why, when you come to look at it in a serious light it seems ridiculous, don’t it?”“Oh! as for that, in a manner of speaking, it is ridiculous; but what of that? It has answered our purpose. You don’t want more. I suppose we’ve done what we came to do. It’s a matter of duty—leastways as far as I’m concerned, and as to you a trip in the country, and a sniff of the fresh air won’t do you any harm.”“It’s the dicky birds and the trees and the green grass as does it. Makes you preach like a parson, and talk like a book—blowed if they don’t; but I’m glad you’ve brought it in all right. Why, Lord bless us, I wonder what has become of Charles Peace—haven’t set eyes on him for years.”“He got into a little bit of a mess at Sheffield,” observed the gipsy, “and had to do seven years’ ‘stretch.’ Since his conviction I haven’t seen anything of him.”“Nor don’t know what he’s up to, I s’pose?”“No, haven’t the slightest notion. Poor Charlie! He was always straight and square with me. Many people run him down, but I speak of a man as I find him.”“Same here. He was always right enough; but Lord bless you, things aren’t a bit like what they used to be—you can’t trust anybody nowadays.”“That’s true enough, Cooney—you’re right there, old man.”“But, I say,” observed the gipsy’s companion after a pause; “what might be yer little game at this blessed old church? You haven’t come all the way for nuffin, that’s quite certain.”“For nothing-why of course not, ’taint likely.”“Well then, what’s yer lay?”“Merely to serve a friend, that’s all.”“Hang your artful old eyes, it’s something more than that. I ’xpect you’ll make a jolly lot of couters out on it.”“Nothing of the sort—I shan’t make a single quid out of it. I pledge my word that it is a mere matter of friendship.”“S’help my taters, I’m jolly glad to find there’s so much friendship left in the world, but it’s hard to believe for all that.”“You can please yourself about believing it. I have only to say again what I’ve said is the solemn truth.”“All right—I don’t want to pry into any man’s secrets. You’ve done the trick cleverly, and that’s what you may call a jolly artful dodge and no mistake, but I’m as dry as a piece of old chunk. Stand a drop of something to drink at the next station.”“Right you are—you shall have as much as you like.”When the train arrived at the station the two companions repaired to the refreshment bar, and regaled themselves with some “heavy wet.”Upon their arrival in London, they betook themselves to their lodging-house, and Bill Rawton presented Cooney with two sovereigns for his services, which the latter considered a handsome recompense. The gipsy, with all his faults, had never been a mean or selfish man, and, certainly, in this case, he did not take the lion’s share, but he was well pleased with the result of his visit to the village church, and was, consequently, in the best of spirits.He considered he had put into practice a master stroke of diplomacy, and began to ruminate upon the best course to adopt in seeking an interview with Mrs. Bourne.He had no desire to see the doctor—he wished to have a tête-à-tête with his wife.
With all the gipsy’s faults—and it must be confessed he had a few—want of consideration for Mrs. Bourne was not one of them.
He saw pretty clearly that a concurrence of circumstances, as unlooked for as unpropitious, threatened to environ the doctor’s wife in a labyrinth of difficulties. It is true that, morally speaking, no blame could be attached to her for consenting to become the wife of a needy and heartless physician.
She had not the faintest notion that Rawton was in the land of the living. Indeed, she had quite forgotten in the vortex of fashionable life that such a person ever did exist; but facts are stubborn things, and there was no getting over the horrible one which so immediately concerned herself.
Nothing would please Dr. Bourne better than having it in his power to cast her adrift on the world, to be released from the tie that bound him, and to espouse the rich and fascinating widow whom he had been dangling after for so long a time.
He knew perfectly well that his present wife regarded him with the greatest possible aversion, and the chances were that she would offer no impediment to a divorce, provided he gave her only a portion of the dowry he had received from the nobleman who was her former protector, but Bourne’s cupidity was so great that he could not bear to part with money. His device was to obtain a release by other means.
He had learned from a gossiping mischief-making Frenchwoman, who, at one time had been lady’s maid to his wife when she was in India with Sir Digby McBride, that in her early youth her ladyship, as she was termed, had been espoused by a gipsy named Rawton. Indeed the lady’s maid in question aided further than this, she gave the doctor a small miniature, which she said was a correct likeness of the gipsy in question. This the doctor treasured, and it was from this same miniature that he traced some similarity in the features of Bill Rawton, when he met him on the eventful night of the attempted robbery.
Well might his wife say that he had the cunning of the fox. He had a motive, and a strong one too, in patronising the gipsy. His motive was to worm out of him all respecting his—the doctor’s—wife. He had already become possessed of facts which he deemed might be of infinite service to him in carrying out his nefarious and contemptible plans.
He had, as may be readily imagined, married the nobleman’s cast-off mistress for the purpose of his own personal aggrandisement.
It was not a very creditable course of procedure; nevertheless it is one which has been frequently adopted. Bourne had no very nice sense of honour, and not much self-respect, or he never would have acted as he had done throughout the greatest portion of his selfish life.
He now thought he saw his way out of the difficulty. He believed if he could obtain the certificate of the marriage of the two persons named, William Rawton and Hester Teige, his own marriage contract would be rendered thereby null and void.
The chances were that he would have found out that he was, after all, only deluding himself with false hopes; but he was very much charmed with the idea, and believed in its efficacy.
Bill Rawton was under the impression that the plea would not hold good—nevertheless, he was sorely troubled in his mind. There was no telling; he did not understand much about the law—certainly not that part of it which related to matrimonial and divorce suits, but he was determined not to throw a chance away. He felt that he had already done an incalculable amount of mischief, and was determined to repair the evil at all hazards.
How he proposed to do this we shall presently see.
While at the common lodging-house, he met with Cooney, whom the reader will remember as being connected with Gregson and Charles Peace in the Oakfield House burglary described in the opening chapters of this work.
We have had no occasion to take notice of Cooney since he was captured by Mr. Wrench in the bar of Sanderson’s hotel. Since that time Cooney had gone through a series of gradations in crime.
How he obtained his living when Bill Rawton lighted on him it would be difficult to say. He did not, however, appear to be in very prosperous circumstances, being, as of yore, very glad to turn his hand to anything.
The gipsy came to the conclusion he was just the man for his purpose; so he at once made a pal of him, and told him what he required him to do.
Bill Rawton was married at a primitive village in Hampshire, called Wratton, and to this place he forthwith proceeded in company with Cooney.
“It’s a delicate little bit of business we are going on,” said Rawton; “and will require a good deal of artfulness to work properly, but it must be done, that’s certain. It is not a profitable job I admit, but we must take the fat with the lean.”
“All right, old man,” said Cooney. “I don’t much care what it is, as long as it’s worked to rights. Let me know what I’ve got to do, and I’ll be on to it like a shot.”
Upon arriving at the village in question Mr. Rawton was more communicative to his companion.
“Now, old sinner, I am going to the church.”
Cooney opened his eyes to the fullest extent.
“To the church, eh! Oh, I tumble; the plate I spose?”
“No such thing. I want to search for a register.”
Cooney nodded.
“And when I give you a signal, all I want is for you to throw a stone at one of the windows of the church, and then take to your heels.”
“Well I’m blessed, if you aint a rum un. What! break a window. What’s the good of that ere?”
“Never you mind, do as I tell you, and all will be as right as the nail. I know every inch of the ground in this neighbourhood, and every stone in Wratton church.”
“Does yer?”
“Certainly.”
“And what’s the good on it if yer do?”
“Nothing in particular as I can see; but that ain’t the question. You play your part, and I’ll play mine. Yours is an easy one enough.”
“It aint wery difficult, if that’s all you want me to do.”
“That’s all; but here we are at the church.”
The two confederates passed through the gate, and reached the churchyard.
“Ah, it’s the same old place—not altered in the least,” cried the gipsy. “Just the same, but how changed to me!”
“Ah, cut that; don’t go for to be sentimental. You aint come down here to moralise,” cried Cooney. “I say, leave that to some other bloke; it’s out of our line.”
“Perhaps you’re right; but, you know, this place I remember when but a bit of a boy, and I haven’t set eyes on it for many and many a year.”
“At it again,” cried Cooney, with a sort of double shuffle. “Well, I’m blest. It’s the green trees and the dicky birds as does it for you. Makes you feel alloverish like, just the same as ye’d be if yer were once more on your mountain heather—like the man who ses his ’art’s in the islands.”
Mr. Cooney, after this speech, indulged in a prolonged whistle.
“There’s no occasion for that,” observed the gipsy, reprovingly. “We’ve come on very serious business, and must look very grave.”
“Mustn’t indulge in unseemly mirth, as our parson used to say. Werry good, I’m all there—not, mind you, but this is quite a new line of business to me.”
“But you are equal to anything.”
“In course I am.”
“So now keep quiet. Listen. Do you see that little window in that part of the church which abuts out?”
“Yes, I does see it, with these ’ere blessed eyes.”
“Good. There’s nobody about just now, which is all the better, as we must not be seen together. I have shown you the window?”
“Yes, yer have.”
“At that end of the church there is a clump of yew trees—you can easily conceal yourself in those.”
“I’ll go at once then.”
“No, not now; all is not ready at present. Wait patiently. I am merely explaining what you are to do, because if we don’t pull this off this time we shan’t have another chance; so we must be careful not to make a muddle of it. I shall have to go round to the clerk’s house I expect, for he doesn’t seem to be here. What I want you to do is this: go out yonder into that lane, watch, and wait there till you see me and the clerk enter the church.”
“Yes.”
“But don’t be seen yourself if you can help it.”
“All right—drive on.”
“When you see us enter the church together, creep down from the lane where you have been stationed, and conceal yourself in the clump of yew trees; then keep your eye fixed on that little window.”
“Yes, and what then?”
“You will see me looking over a big book. When I draw my hand across my forehead, thus, throw a stone at one of the end windows, and make off as fast as your legs will carry you; but mind, Cooney, don’t attempt to throw the stone till I have given the sign.”
“Oh, no, in course not. I aint likely to do that. And what else?”
“You are pretty sure to get clean off. Make for the station, and remain in the waiting-room till I come. Now, you understand?”
“I hopes as how I do.”
“Now make off, and I will go and find the clerk.”
Cooney at once betook himself to the lane, and Rawton returned to the village.
Upon arriving at the clerk’s house, he found that worthy at dinner—so he took a stroll till the meal was over, and then called again.
He explained his business, saying he wished to get a copy of the register of two persons who were married at the church some twenty or two-and-twenty years back.
The clerk was a very old man, with tottering limbs and defective sight; he had held his present office for over fifty years. He carried with him a huge bunch of keys, and walked by the side of the gipsy conversing in a friendly manner till they reached the church.
“You are not quite certain as to the year, you say,” he observed, as he opened the door of the sacred edifice.
“No, not quite certain, but I can’t be very far out.”
“The names you have with you?”
“Yes, they are Jane Jenkins and Robert Bessant.”
“I dare say we shall find them. This way, if you please.”
Rawton was led by the old man into a small apartment, in which were a number of ponderous volumes ranged on shelves.
“We had better search the volume for 1858 first.”
“As you please.”
“Have you the paper with the names?”
“Yes—here it is.”
The old clerk began to look over the book. Page after page was gone over, but no such names could be found.
“Can I be looking over the volume for the preceding year?” said Rawton, carelessly.
“Oh, certainly, sir, if you please. My eyesight is not so good as it was, but my memory is good, and I think I can recollect two persons bearing the names here written down.”
The gipsy meanwhile turned over the pages of the other volume. He soon came to the page on which his own name and that of Hester Teige was inscribed. He slid a piece of paper between the leaf and turned over the others. Then he drew his hand across his forehead.
Immediately after this a loud crash was heard. The sound reverberated through the aisles with terrible force.
“Mercy on us, what’s the matter?—some accident to the church!” cried the gipsy, in a tone of alarm. “Pray see what it is.”
The clerk was seriously alarmed, and, upon the impulse of the moment, rushed out into the body of the church.
This was Bill Rawton’s opportunity. With almost incredible rapidity he drew forth his penknife, which he had kept open in his coat pocket, passed the blade along at that side of the page which was fastened to the book, and drew it forth; then, folding it up, he thrust it into the breast pocket of his coat. When this had been done he went out of the little room and anxiously inquired what was the matter.
The clerk informed him that some evil-disposed person had thrown a stone at the church windows, one of the panes of which was broken. The stone was picked up inside the edifice.
“The mischievous, audacious scoundrel!” exclaimed Rawton. “Shall I try and catch him? He can’t be far off.”
“I wish you could.”
“I’ll try,” said Rawton, who at once rushed out. He brought in a lubberly boy, who was staring, open-mouthed, at the broken glass.
“It aint me as did it, sir—indeed it aint. I never heaved a stone at the window,” cried the lad, bursting into tears.
“Oh, it’s you, Jim Starling—eh?” said the clerk. “And if it wasn’t you, perhaps you can tell who did it.”
“I dunno. I heard a smash, and saw the window shivered, but I did not see him as heaved the stone.”
“Was there anyone else about besides him?” said the clerk, addressing himself to Rawton.
“I did not see anyone else.”
“This must be inquired into. It’s a most scandalous, wicked act, and you must do your best, Starling, to find out who it was.”
“Yes, I will, sir—I will do my best.”
“Am I to let him go?” said Rawton.
“Yes, I suppose so. Ah, yes, he is well known here. I don’t think he would be wicked enough to do such a thing, for we consider him to be a well-conducted lad; but as I said before, it must be inquired into. A reward must be offered, and the police must be made acquainted with the circumstance. Dear me, sir, young people of the present day are not a bit like those I remember when I was young; they are audacious, mischievous, and uncontrollable; but, as I said before, this matter must not be allowed to drop without a searching inquiry.”
“No, certainly not. I’m a stranger to these parts,” observed Rawton, “and certainly never expected to find such a lawless act committed like this in open daylight. It so alarmed me that I have not as yet recovered from the shock.”
“I dare say not, sir; I can well understand that, and indeed I am very sorry,” replied the clerk, apologetically, “extremely sorry. Such a thing never occurred before. I can’t make it out; but your pardon, sir; you have not found what you want.”
“No, the interruption was so sudden and unlooked for that for the moment I had almost forgotten my errand.”
The blubbering boy scampered off the moment he was released, and the clerk and Rawton returned to the room.
“May I take the next volume to this?” said the gipsy.
“Yes, sir, if you please.”
Rawton turned over the leaves of the other volume and in the space of a few minutes found the two names of which he professed to be in search, but which, as the reader can readily imagine, he cared nothing about. It so chanced that he remembered the persons bearing these names being married in the year 1852, and they did very well as a blind to his proceedings.
When he found them he professed to be very anxious to have a copy of the entry in the book, which the clerk at once proceeded to make. The clergyman had to sign it as a matter of form, and when this had been done, it was handed to the gipsy, who paid the usual fee, wished the clerk good day, and walked rapidly on towards the station.
“I’ve done my worthy friend, the doctor, now, and no mistake. Hester can defy him. After all there was not much to fear, but I should have been on the grizzle, and as savage as a meat hatchet if he’d got the better of her. It was about as neat a job as I can remember doing, and Cooney did his part to rights, just in the nick of time. Nobody will be any the wiser, and the chances are the leaf will never be missed; but if it is I can’t help it.”
Upon arriving at the station, he found Cooney seated in front of the refreshment bar, devouring the remains of half a pork-pie, which he washed down with a pint of bitter.
“Thought you’d never come,” he cried, upon catching sight of the gipsy; “been waiting here till I was so hungry that I couldn’t hold out any longer, so thought it best to stick up a score to you.”
“Gammon and all,” said Rawton. “They don’t give credit at these places.”
“I aint paid for nuffin as yet.”
“Then I will,” said Rawton, who forthwith put a shilling on the counter and called for a pint of the best Burton, paying for that and what his friend had had at the same time.
When the two entered one of the carriages of the next London train their tongues were unloosed, for there were no other persons besides themselves in the compartment, and they had purposely forborne talking about the business that had brought them down before the barmaids and loiterers in the refreshment bar. All restraint was, however, now thrown off.
“Well,” said Cooney, “how did you work it—all right?”
“Right as the mail. Never did anything so neatly in my life. Went out and collared a boy for throwing the stone.”
“Oh scissors! What a spree!”
“Yes, and did the indignant to rights, I can tell you. The old clerk took it all in like a gudgeon, and was mighty civil and obliging.”
“Oh! he’s a very decent old boy.”
“Well,” said Cooney, “this one is about the rummest start I ever knew. Coming all these miles for the purpose of throwing a stone at the window of a church. Why, when you come to look at it in a serious light it seems ridiculous, don’t it?”
“Oh! as for that, in a manner of speaking, it is ridiculous; but what of that? It has answered our purpose. You don’t want more. I suppose we’ve done what we came to do. It’s a matter of duty—leastways as far as I’m concerned, and as to you a trip in the country, and a sniff of the fresh air won’t do you any harm.”
“It’s the dicky birds and the trees and the green grass as does it. Makes you preach like a parson, and talk like a book—blowed if they don’t; but I’m glad you’ve brought it in all right. Why, Lord bless us, I wonder what has become of Charles Peace—haven’t set eyes on him for years.”
“He got into a little bit of a mess at Sheffield,” observed the gipsy, “and had to do seven years’ ‘stretch.’ Since his conviction I haven’t seen anything of him.”
“Nor don’t know what he’s up to, I s’pose?”
“No, haven’t the slightest notion. Poor Charlie! He was always straight and square with me. Many people run him down, but I speak of a man as I find him.”
“Same here. He was always right enough; but Lord bless you, things aren’t a bit like what they used to be—you can’t trust anybody nowadays.”
“That’s true enough, Cooney—you’re right there, old man.”
“But, I say,” observed the gipsy’s companion after a pause; “what might be yer little game at this blessed old church? You haven’t come all the way for nuffin, that’s quite certain.”
“For nothing-why of course not, ’taint likely.”
“Well then, what’s yer lay?”
“Merely to serve a friend, that’s all.”
“Hang your artful old eyes, it’s something more than that. I ’xpect you’ll make a jolly lot of couters out on it.”
“Nothing of the sort—I shan’t make a single quid out of it. I pledge my word that it is a mere matter of friendship.”
“S’help my taters, I’m jolly glad to find there’s so much friendship left in the world, but it’s hard to believe for all that.”
“You can please yourself about believing it. I have only to say again what I’ve said is the solemn truth.”
“All right—I don’t want to pry into any man’s secrets. You’ve done the trick cleverly, and that’s what you may call a jolly artful dodge and no mistake, but I’m as dry as a piece of old chunk. Stand a drop of something to drink at the next station.”
“Right you are—you shall have as much as you like.”
When the train arrived at the station the two companions repaired to the refreshment bar, and regaled themselves with some “heavy wet.”
Upon their arrival in London, they betook themselves to their lodging-house, and Bill Rawton presented Cooney with two sovereigns for his services, which the latter considered a handsome recompense. The gipsy, with all his faults, had never been a mean or selfish man, and, certainly, in this case, he did not take the lion’s share, but he was well pleased with the result of his visit to the village church, and was, consequently, in the best of spirits.
He considered he had put into practice a master stroke of diplomacy, and began to ruminate upon the best course to adopt in seeking an interview with Mrs. Bourne.
He had no desire to see the doctor—he wished to have a tête-à-tête with his wife.