THE CONCERT.――PEACE AS A PUBLIC ENTERTAINER.――THE SURPRISE.
The ill-fated weaver who had succumbed to the injuries received in the
mill in which he worked was a man of steady habits, an excellent
husband and father, and altogether a worthy member of society. He was,
in consequence, greatly respected in the town. A committee of
influential persons was formed for the purpose of carrying out
successfully all the necessary arrangements for the forthcoming
concert.
Peace, who was to a certain extent popular with a section of the
operatives, was introduced to Mr. Knight, the musical director of the
proposed entertainment. At the first interview a discussion took place
as to the part he was to play on the eventful evening. He tried over
several difficult pieces with the pianist, who professed himself well
satisfied with the burglar’s ability.
“I see you have paid some attention to chamber or classic music, as
well as sacred,” observed Mr. Knight.
“I commenced with sacred,” returned Peace, and always took great
delight in both, but at the same time it doesn’t go down with the
multitude so well as livelier strains, such as ballads, music-hall
songs, and nigger melodies.”
“We are most of us aware of that,” observed the director and pianist,
“and hence it is that we purpose dividing the entertainment into two
or three parts. The first will be devoted to the better class of
music, both sacred and secular; the next will be a mixed
entertainment, consisting of varieties of various descriptions. You
can, of course, appear in one or both parts. The first we shall have
no difficulty in arranging. Your assistance will be required in
several pieces which I may say are of exceptional beauty, and will
require very careful rendering. We must have a few rehearsals before
appearing in public. Can you find time to attend these?”
“I will make it my business to do so.”
“Good. And now, as to the second part, Mr. Peace?”
“I leave it to your better judgment, sir.”
“Nay, I think you are the best qualified to determine as to that,”
returned his companion, courteously.
“If I might suggest, then,” said Peace, “I will come on as a nigger,
give a sort of medley on the violin, and finish up by performing on
one string only. I have been tolerably successful in this, and find it
generally pleases the people.”
“I’ve no doubt it does. We’ve got a young gentleman――a volunteer――who
is well up in nigger melodies. Would you like him to assist you in
this part of the performance?”
“Yes, most certainly. He will black his face, I suppose?”
“Oh, most willingly; nothing would please him better. I will introduce
you to him, and there will be but little difficulty, I think, about
the matter. You can consult together.”
The preliminaries being satisfactorily settled, nothing remained but
the rehearsals.
These Peace attended with unvarying punctuality, and the several
performers got tolerably perfect before the night on which they were
to appear.
A large building――one of the parish schoolrooms, and which was
frequently made use of as a lecture hall, was placed at the disposal
of the managing committee.
Bills containing a programme of the performance were posted all over
the town, and on these the name of Charles Peace figured as the
“Modern Paganini,” who would, by special desire, perform on one string
only, after the manner of his great predecessor.
Little did those who purchased tickets for the concert imagine that
they were about to listen to the performance of one of the greatest
and most notorious burglars of modern times.
Peace at this time was led or rather fell into good society; and he
was too astute and cunning a rascal to show the cloven foot. He was
discreet and very proper in his conduct, and indeed it may be said
that he was highly popular in the select circle in which he moved.
Peace throughout his career was fond of notoriety――this has been
evidenced in the latter part of his sinful life――and he looked forward
with something like pleasure to the evening upon which he was to
appear in conjunction with some worthy and honourable gentlemen who
were acting in unison in the cause of charity.
The Bradford people, in common with those of Birmingham, Liverpool,
Norwich, and other manufacturing towns, love music for music’s sake;
this is evidenced by the enormous gatherings at the festivals held at
these great centres.
The assertion made by people of other nations that the English are not
a musical people is without a shadow of foundation――this fact is well
known to all who are conversant with the subject.
When the doors were opened at the schoolroom in which the
entertainment was to take place crowds of persons rushed forward to
obtain seats. The area was filled in an incredibly short space of
time.
By the time the performance commenced the whole place was full from
floor to roof.
Bessie Dalton, in company with Mrs. Bristow, the wife of an artisan
residing in the parlours of the house in which Peace lived, had taken
up her station at the entrance some half an hour or more before the
public were admitted.
Bessie and Mrs. Bristow therefore contrived to get a tolerably good
position in the fourth row of the area.
A young man, evidently moving in a superior class to themselves, had
been of essential service to the two females in protecting them from
the pressure of the crowd during their progress towards the entrance.
He took a seat beside them.
After waiting patiently for some considerable time the audience began
to be restive.
Many began to hammer on the boards with their feet, while others
clapped their hands.
“Hush! silence! order!” exclaimed several voices.
“What are they making a noise for?” inquired Bessie, of the gentleman
by her side.
“Oh! it is time the performance commenced,” he answered, “and the
people are getting impatient. They ought not to do so, seeing that the
performers give their services gratuitously; and that, moreover, many
of them are novices, and, perhaps, appear publicly this evening for
the first time.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Bristow. “People are so inconsiderate――so
unreasonable.”
These were stereotyped phrases which the speaker was accustomed to
make use of on every occasion.
The gentleman merely nodded his acquiescence to the proposition.
A burst of applause announced the appearance of a young man on the
platform, who proceeded in a most deliberate manner to place the piano
in a better position. When this had been done he placed some music on
the instrument, and drew forth a small music-stand, which he furnished
in a similar manner.
Having completed these arrangements he retired.
A titter was heard in the house as he left.
Nobody knew why or wherefore.
Mr. Knight now came forward.
He was well known to most of those present, and, as a natural
consequence, he was loudly cheered.
He bowed, and then sat down to the piano.
He played a difficult piece by Mendelssohn in a masterly manner. It
was too long to encore, so they contented themselves with applauding
it.
The performer still retained his position at the instrument.
A group of choristers entered. These were composed of boys and adults.
They sang a selection from the “Messiah” in a way which appeared to
give great satisfaction, some portions of it being encored.
Two other performers now made their appearance, the first being
Charles Peace, the other a tall gentleman, whose name was not
announced; he, however, bore in his hands a bass viol.
Two chairs were brought forward in close proximity with the piano, and
on these the musicians sat.
After the usual formula of scraping and twanging the strings, one of
Beethoven’s magnificent symphonies was attacked――to use a newspaper
phrase.
It was played with great feeling, being, in fact, a gem to those who
could appreciate first-class music.
It was re-demanded.
“That was well played――was it not, sir?” said Bessie, to the
gentleman.
“Oh, dear, yes; highly creditable to all three of the performers――
exceedingly good!”
While this had been going on, Peace appeared to be a little
disconcerted. Despite the encore, he arose from his seat, and was
about to make a precipitate retreat; but Mr. Knight signified by a
movement of his hand and head that the symphony was to be repeated.
Notwithstanding this, Peace still hesitated.
At length he returned to his seat.
Many persons attributed his manner to timidity, and the tender-hearted
gave him a vociferous round of applause by way of encouragement.
They were, however, quite mistaken in their surmise.
Timidity was not one of Peace’s characteristics.
There was another and more potent reason for his trepidation.
It was this.
In one of the side boxes sat an elderly gentleman and a young lady.
The features of the last-named were familiar to the violinist.
She was the beautiful and ravishing creature whom he had seen
slumbering at the millionaire’s house on the night of the burglary.
She was within a few paces of him, being in one of the lower boxes,
and she looked the very personification of female loveliness.
Peace was bewildered. He did play his part in the symphony, and he
played it well, but it was a desperate struggle to get through it. Any
other man placed in a similar position must certainly have broken
down.
And as it was Peace was very nearly doing so.
He would have given anything he was possessed of to have been spared
this trial, for most assuredly it was the greatest trial he had as yet
experienced.
He had in a measure recovered his confidence when the symphony was
given for the second time; nevertheless he kept casting furtive
glances in the direction of the box in which the young lady was
seated.
The performers bowed and retired.
“Three pieces have been successfully got through, and as yet there has
been no apology,” said a young man behind Bessie and her companion.
“What do you mean?” observed another of the audience.
“Why, only this――that in entertainments of this sort, where amateurs
are to appear, there is generally some hitch, some mistake, and as a
natural consequence an apology has to be made.”
“Oh, no doubt we shall have one before the evening is over.”
A young lady was now led on by the director. She had a piece of music
in her hand, which shook and trembled like an aspen bough agitated by
a passing breeze.
It was painfully evident that she was nervous, and those who have
experienced that sensation upon facing an audience for the first time
will, I am sure, pity her.
She was set down in the programme for Haydn’s canzonet, “My mother
bids me bind my hair.”
Luckily for her the piece in question has a lovely introductory
pianoforte prelude. This gave the singer time to recover her first
shock at seeing the sea of heads before her.
There was no help for it――she had to commence. The prelude was over,
and in faltering accents she began to warble Haydn’s plaintive music.
But her throat was dry and husky――a thing by no means uncommon with
nervous singers, and even the applause she received did not appear to
lubricate it.
It was evident she had a magnificent organ――I say organ advisedly, as
it is a term invariably made use of by musical critics, and if they
don’t know who should? Vulgar, commonplace people would perhaps call
it a voice, but that’s no matter; organ is the “properer” term, as
Artemus Ward would say.
The young lady, however, could not possibly display her full powers in
consequence of timidity; yet she did contrive to get through the piece
creditably. In the morning she had sung it in Mr. Knight’s room
magnificently.
But despite her shortcomings the audience encored her.
She, however, bowed and retired.
There was a clamour for her return.
The director had to rise from his seat for the purpose of bringing her
back, but she declined.
The clamour continued.
Mr. Knight apologised, and pleaded indisposition, a cold, and hence
the young lady’s inability to repeat the canzonet.
The tumult was hushed.
Charles appeared――he was accompanied this time by a harpist.
A trio for harp, piano, and violin. This proved to be a very taking
piece; it seemed to give general satisfaction.
It was encored.
It was not, however, repeated, the performers substituting another in
its stead. This was done to give a greater variety to the
entertainment.
After another song and a harp solo, the first part was brought to a
conclusion by the choir singing a magnificent chorus from one of the
oratorios.
While all this had been going on, the young man or gentleman it might
be, who sat beside Bessie, was unremitting in his attentions to her
and her companion, Mrs. Bristow, who, albeit a married woman, was not
much older than the girl.
In the second part of the performance Peace made a still greater
impression on the audience, who applauded him to the very echo.
After two or three popular ballads had been sung, he and another young
man came forward with their faces blacked, as a couple of nigger
delineators. After some patter, in which some old jokes were given,
Peace commenced a mild and meek-like prelude on the violin, his
companion the while working vigorously on the concertina.
The sounds he produced from his instrument were so novel, not to say
bewildering, that the house was convulsed with laughter. He imitated
animals, the shriek of the railway whistle, the noise of a passing
train, and a variety of other noises which were familiar to all
persons present.
After which he threw aside all the strings of the instrument save one,
and upon this he played, _a la Paganini_. Of course no one present had
heard his great predecessor, and most persons took it for granted that
the performance of the black gentleman before them was most wonderful.
It was certainly received with greater favour than many admirably
performed pieces in the earlier part of the evening.
When the two niggers left the stage there was a general clamour for
their reappearance.
They returned and favoured the company by giving a few more specimens
of their musical eccentricities.
The concert was universally acknowledged to be a great success. It was
brought to a close by a well-known elocutionist delivering a parting
address, which a local poet had written especially, as a conclusion to
the evening’s entertainment.
The chairman of the committee then came forward, and thanked all
present for their attendance.
After partaking of some of the wine and other refreshments provided
for the performers by the managing committee, Peace prepared to take
his departure; but he did not find it so easy to get away, there were
so many persons present who sought to detain him.
In addition to his brother artists, who were by this time loquacious
enough, he had to run the fire of many of the town’s folk, who were
very profuse in their thanks for the diligence and attention he had
displayed in furthering the ends of charity. Some who had partaken
pretty freely of the champagne went further, and spoke in laudatory
terms of his talent.
He was, of course, greatly flattered by these encomiums, as many
better men have been under similar circumstances both before and
since; but he was uneasy, and was desirous of beating a retreat.
There was good reason for this. The young lady whose acquaintance he
made for the first time at Dudley Hill was among the throng of persons
in the little room, which had been placed at the disposal of the
artists.
There was something so heavenly and bewitching in the expression of
the face of this fair young creature that Peace felt abashed and
crest-fallen in her presence. He found it impossible to meet the
glance of her dark, lustrous eyes without quailing. Conscious of his
own weakness in this respect, he was fearful lest it might be observed
by others.
He therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself, passed
out of the room unobserved, and crept along the passage towards the
side door, by means of which he gained the street.
Then he breathed again more freely.
He saw Bessie Dalton and Mrs. Bristow some distance ahead, in company
with a gentleman, and walked on quickly, that he might overtake them;
but his progress was checked by a shabby, dilapidated-looking man
addressing him――
“Be your name Peace, sir?” inquired that personage.
“Maybe it is, and maybe it is not. What matters it to you?”
“I’ve got a letter.”
“Indeed. Who from?”
“I don’t know the party’s name, but he said I was to give it to you.”
Peace snatched a dirty piece of paper from the speaker’s hand, opened
it, and read the following words, which were written in a miserable
scrawl――
“Dear Charlie,――‘Cheeks’ (a flash name for an accomplice) is
nabbed――want to see you――am at the ‘Bag o’ Nails’――hard
by――bearer will show you where it is――don’t delay. Yours,
COONEY.”
“Here in this town,” muttered Peace to himself. “How can he have
possibly guessed? Why, of course, my name in the bills. Curse it, I
must have been mad to play in my own name.”
“Any answer, sir?” said the man, touching his forehead.
“Answer. Well, yes, I s’pose so. He wants to see me. Where’s this
house, the ‘Bag o’ Nails?’”
“Not a quarter of a mile from here.”
“Very good, then I’ll go at once with you.”
Peace and his dilapidated companion walked on in silence for some
time; they threaded three of the dingiest and most miserable streets
in the town. The locality was in consonance with the character of the
tinker.
“Do you know the person who gave you that letter?” said Peace.
“I’ve seen him once or twice before, I think. Don’t know much on him.
Guv’nor does, I believe.”
“Umph. Has he been long in the town?”
“Came yesterday, I b’lieve.”
They now arrived in front of a dirty-looking beershop, which was the
house they were bound for. The man, who was potman to the
establishment, led the way in. He passed the bar, and pointed to a
room in the rear of the premises.
Peace entered. A solitary person was in the apartment. This was
Cooney.
“Well,” said Peace, offering his hand, “we meet again once more. How
goes it with you?”
“Precious bad――jolly bad; haven’t got a stiver. Am bust up――that’s how
I am.”
Peace took hold of one of the ricketty wooden chairs, which he drew
towards the fire, and sat down beside his quondam pal.
“You managed to give ’em the slip, then?” said Cooney, with a chuckle.
“But the old un’s grabbed.”
“So I’ve heard. It was a bad night’s work altogether.”
“Aye, that it was.”
“How did you manage to get away?”
“I gave ’em the double,” returned the tinker, with a grin. “I’ll tell
yer all about it another time, if so be ye’re interested in a
miserable bloke like me, which aint at all likely, seeing as how yer
a-keeping company with the hupper classes.”
There was a tone of irony in the man’s manner which jarred upon the
feelings of Peace, who, however, thought it best to take no notice of
it.
“We’d better have something to drink first, and then I can hear what
you have to say,” remarked Peace, as he touched the bell.
Glasses of grog were ordered and promptly served. Peace paid for the
liquor, and gave the potman a shilling as a gratuity.
“Here’s to our noble selves,” said the tinker, raising his glass to
his lips. “Ah, that does a cove a world o’ good!”
“Well, now, then, we’ll proceed to business,” observed Peace. “You’re
hard up.”
“I’m done up――bust up, and ha’ been pretty nigh starving. That’s how I
am, and seeing as how I aint got bite nor sup――same what we’ve jest
now had in――I’ve made so bold as to lay my case afore one who won’t
send me away empty-handed――leastways not if he ’ave the means to hold
a ’elping ’and to a pal vot’s in distress.”
“I’m in no very good position myself, but whatever I can spare you are
welcome to.”
“Blessed if I didn’t say so. I know’d it――vot yer can do you vill do.”
“Yes, here’s a quid for your immediate wants. It’s all I can spare
now, for I must tell you I’ve cut the old game――don’t intend to have
any more of it.”
“Oh, goin’ to do the respectable, eh?” said Cooney, with a very low
whistle. “That’s yer game, is it?”
“Yes, I am at work now at my old business, and to that I intend to
stick. No more night work for me――it’s a deal too risky.”
“Vell, perhaps you are right. But I say, old boy, can you spare
another quid?”
“Yes, provided you leave the town and don’t bother me any more.”
“Oh, ye’ve no call to be afeard. I aint a-goin’ to stay in this here
place――not if I know it.”
“Good――then here’s the other.”
“Thanks――you’re a good fellow Charlie, arter all, but I ’spose yer’ll
be glad to get shut o’ me――eh? Here the speaker winked his eye.
“Well, you see we are on a different lay now.”
“Right yer are, old man. Vell, there, I aint a-goin’ to bother yer; so
make yer mind easy on that score, but the old un, Charlie, it’s duced
hard lines wi’ him.”
“Ah, he’s charged with murder――is he not?”
“Sartin shure he is.”
“How came that about?”
“I’ll tell yer. Yer see, the Badger, some years ago, cracked a crib in
the country, and, as ill luck would ha’ it, jest as he vos a-making
off with the swag who should cross his path but the blessed old fool
hisself. He’d up an’ give him one for hisself. A young man as vos
a-keeping company vith the servant rushes forward and ketches ’old o’
Gregson. Vell, there the two vere struggling like anythink on the
grass plat, and Gregson couldn’t get away not no how, although he
tried his utmost.”
“Couldn’t get away?”
“No, I’m blessed if he could――leastways, that’s what I’ve heerd. Vell,
vot does the Badger do but he whips out his knife, and stabs t’other
chap to the heart? Then the gal comes at him, and clutches hold of his
throat. He managed to shake her off, but you see he left a something
behind――the handkercher he wore round his neck and the knife.”
“What has that to do with the affair at Oakfield House?”
“Ah! it’s a deal to do wi’ it――it has. You shall hear. The last part
on it is like a play――better nor any play, that’s what it is. Yer see,
as I said afore, the Badger gets clean away, a reward is offered by
Guv’nment, likewise a reward by the old bloke――him as was robbed and
knocked down in the passage. The bobbies set to work, the whole biling
on ’em, but they never got the blind side of the old un. Vell, this is
six year ago――aye, more than six year it is now, and a durin’ them six
years the gal has had but one thought――this was to ketch the murderer
of her love, and she’s a done it, Charlie――there aint no mistake about
that ’ere――she done it. The Badger, like a fool, fired a pistol at
random when he were in that bedroom. The gal sees his face by the
pistol’s flash, and she shoots him down――that’s what she does.”
“Of course we know he was shot, but I did not know who by.”
“By the gal, I tell yer. She’s been afore the magistrates, and has
sworn to him like anythink, and she means to hang him――leastways, it
won’t be any fault of her’s if he doesn’t swing. Ah! it’s all up with
the Badger,” said Cooney, with a sigh, at the same time draining off
the liquor left in his glass.
“It’s a bad bisness――a precious bad bisness, there aint no manner o’
doubt on’t.”
“It is, indeed,” returned Peace; “but it is a lesson to both of us――a
lesson I hope you will profit by.”
“Oh, there aint no call for you to preach, or to try and make me
better nor I am. But I am sorry for the old un――he was always square
enough with me――always.”
“I tell you, Cooney, sadly and seriously, that if you don’t intend to
profit by the warning already given to both of us, I shall; and I
advise you to follow my example.”
“Oh, I’ll profit by it one way or t’other; I sed as how it ed come to
this sooner or later, he was so rash, so headstrong. Didn’t I always
say that I liked to do business in a quiet sort o’ way? Answer me
that.”
“I admit you did,” said Peace in a conciliatory tone of voice. “But
now we must part――I durst not stay any longer,” he added rising from
his seat.
“Are yer agoin’?”
“Yes, you don’t want anything more of me.”
“No, not a morsel. I’m thankful enough for what yer have given me――but
I say, Charlie, you’re a knockin’ up a tidy business in the town, aint
yer?”
“Oh no; but very middling at present. What are your movements?”
“I leave to-morrow morning――and so good-bye and good luck to yer.”
The two companions in crime shook hands and parted.
Peace when he reached the street, walked on as fast as possible. He
was greatly relieved when he lost sight of the beershop in which this
interview had taken place.
Peace greatly regretted having had anything to do with the Badger or
his jackall, Cooney. This association with others of an equally
lawless character had doubtless a marked influence on his late career.
He had got into trouble more than once through evil and lawless
companions; hence it was that he afterwards went alone upon his
predatory and nocturnal visits; and these, as it afterwards
transpired, were singularly successful and lucrative.