PEACE RETURNS TO HIS NATIVE TOWN, SHEFFIELD――HE TAKES UNTO HIMSELF A
WIFE.
On the day after his interview with Tom Gatliffe Peace returned to
Sheffield.
The first visit he paid was to his mother, who was overjoyed to see
him. It has been alleged that he was her favourite child. Be this as
it may she always demonstrated a great amount of affection for him.
The poor old lady was not much to boast of as far as education or
social position is concerned, but she was not credited with either
refinement or gentility. Nevertheless, it is likely enough that she
had occasion to deeply deplore the evil course some of her progeny
fell into, more especially the ways of her son Charles.
The matrimonial alliance which Peace had contemplated forming with the
discreet and virtuous Miss James was rudely interrupted by the
sentence passed by the judge upon Charles Peace for the Crooksemmoor
House burglary. Miss James and his sister had to do their six months
as accomplices of the greater villain.
When Peace returned after the expiration of the time he had passed in
“durance vile” he found that Emma James had not been so constant as he
had fondly hoped.
The fact is she was thoroughly disgusted with the course he had taken
at the time of the trial. He had vainly striven to throw the onus upon
the two women. Miss James therefore allied herself――matrimonially or
otherwise, it would perhaps be hard to say――with a young man more
congenial to her own disposition, and Peace was fairly jilted.
This did not trouble him much. He was vexed at the time, but that was
all. He consoled himself by flirting with several of the opposite sex.
Upon his return to Sheffield he resumed his old practice of playing
the violin at public-houses. Although this was not particularly
remunerative it brought him in some little ready cash, and in the day
time he hawked spectacles and other articles.
It was during his peregrinations that he first met Hannah Ward, whom
he is said to have married in July, 1858. This, however, is a little
doubtful, for according to the prison statistics he was not discharged
from gaol till the October of that year.
This is a matter which we shall find it difficult to determine, and we
therefore give Mrs. Thompson’s version.
He went long distances sometimes (observes that charming lady). It was
on one of these excursions that he first met Hannah Peace――not Hannah
Peace, if you please, but Mrs. William Ward.
I will tell you what he told me about their first meeting. It was at
the side of a canal on the road to Hanley, in Staffordshire, he met
Hannah, who had a baby in her arms, then six months old.
She stated, after they had got into conversation, that she was going
along that way to find out her brother-in-law, who was the only friend
she had in the world.
She was then a widow of William Ward, a pensioner, and she told Peace
so. He asked her what she was going to do if she did not find her
brother-in-law, and she answered, “I think of committing suicide.”
Peace said, “You are surely not going to do that――a nice-looking woman
like you.” She was much older than he was, and I have no doubt was a
good-looking woman.
Peace said that they stayed all night at an inn. He promised her that
if she would live with him he would prove a good father to Willie.
They went to Worksop for a while, and when there he perpetrated
several burglaries in the neighbourhood. I can’t tell you how many.
But there, if I had taken his advice, I would have put down everything
and written his life.
That child is now Willie Ward, who is twenty-one years of age, and
Peace is not his father.
He (Willie) never showed strong affection for Peace, but when he came
to live at our house in London he would do anything for me.
I think Peace took Mrs. Ward and her child to Sheffield and introduced
her to his mother as his wife there.
The testimony of Mrs. Thompson, however, it must be admitted, must be
looked upon with distrust, if not with suspicion――and whether this is
the true story of the meeting it is not so easy to determine. It is,
however, quite certain that after his marriage or connection with the
woman whom he always acknowledged as his wife, that he resumed his old
courses.
He professed at this time to be earning a living by hawking spectacles
and cutlery, but his ingrained fondness for entering the houses of
others and for appropriating goods that did not belong to him had not
been eradicated by the prison discipline to which he had been
subjected. His unhappy wife soon found out the character of the man
with whom she had formed an alliance.
Peace at this time had no possible excuse for committing the numerous
robberies with which he is credited. He was well able to maintain
himself by an honest calling, and in addition to this he had friends
who were both able and willing to assist him in an emergency.
It was not many weeks after her marriage that Mrs. Peace’s eyes were
enlightened as to the extra professional avocation of her husband, by
a visit of the police to her house. His alliance with this ill-fated
woman did not appear to have any influence over him, in the shape of
turning him from his evil courses.
It would be a great misfortune if the boldness and fearlessness of
this bad man were to blind even the most thoughtless to the utter
worthlessness and depravity of his character.
In nothing does his baseness more transparently appear than in the
miserable apologies and self-justifications with which his religious
experiences are interlarded.
Assuming, as we are anxious to do, that these pious utterances of his
later days are not wilfully insincere, they nonetheless betray an
utter moral blindness.
He was very willing to call his past life base and wicked in general
terms, but for his worst transgressions he had some extenuating plea
which destroyed the validity of his assumed penitence.
If he could have been turned loose upon society again, one can hardly
venture to hope that his future life would have corresponded with his
edifying conduct in gaol.
The curiosity of the public to know all about Peace and his life need
not be regarded with too despondent an eye, provided it goes no
further than curiosity.
But whilst qualities like his command so much reverence and win such
high rewards in other fields of activity, it would be vain to hope
that our full-blooded and high-spirited youth will not see something
to admire in his career.
If there are any such they will do well to remember that the grandest
successes of a criminal course are at the best wretched failures.
Peace has probably had a far smoother life than most offenders of
equal activity. Yet he has spent no inconsiderable part of his time in
prison, and in the full noontide of his prosperity hardly reaped as
much fruit from his misapplied talents as those talents would have
yielded in any honest walk of life.
Thomas Carlyle, the philosopher of Chelsea, bewailing the degeneracy
of the age, complains that we no longer, as in the old days, worship
heroes.
To us it seems there is no lack of hero-worshippers in the nineteenth
century, but that our heroes are of the wrong sort――imperial
tricksters like the Third Napoleon, garotters of liberty such as
Bismarck, and super-cunning criminals of whom the man who suffered on
the scaffold for the murder of Arthur Dyson, at Bannercross, on the
29th of November, 1876, was a shameful example.
There are thousands of kindly, well-nurtured folk, with a taste for
the marvellous, who openly proclaim their sympathy for Peace.
They tell us that every time he went out to rob, and, if necessity
should arise, to murder, he carried his life in his hand: that he
waged a daring and unequal war against the police and society; and
that his courage, his resources, and his presence or mind in moments
of the utmost danger, point him out as a man capable of greatness in a
legitimate calling.
The argument is as worthless as it is spacious, for those very
qualities are shared in greater degree by predatory wild beasts of the
jungle. If, however, sympathy for this sort of social outlaw were
confined to ladies and ladylike men, very little harm to society would
ensue.
The mischief lies on another and a lower level.
It is a notorious fact that the criminal classes are themselves unduly
proud of this sort of superlative villain; and if by any chance he
were, at the eleventh hour, to elude the hangman, there would be much
joy in many thieves’ kitchens.
Nor does the public danger arising from such a career as that of Peace
end there.
His evil example, in spite of its fatal ending, is calculated to
debauch the wild imagination of foolish lads, and every atom of
sympathy wasted upon him, every misguided attempt to cast the glamour
of romance around his sordid, rapacious, and beastly life, is as a
hand held out from the darkness to help the saplings of crime up the
steps of the gallows.
Our sympathies are not for such as he.
We are sorry for the respectable man whom he sent suddenly out of the
world, the man whom he sought to rob of his honour, and did rob of his
life, with as little compunction as he was wont to display in robbing
his neighbours of their goods and chattels.
We wonder how sane men can feel, much less express, sympathy for the
midnight burglar. A man leads an honest, laborious, and thrifty life,
and after many years of self-denial surrounds himself with home
luxuries, such as plate, jewellery, clocks, and what not.
Suddenly a thief comes in the dark, and in a moment casts the shadow
of irreparable loss over the decent citizen’s existence.
Admit that the robber does display a certain sort of brute courage; so
does the fox when he steals the poultry; so does the tiger that lies
crouching in the jungle and waits for the unsuspecting traveller.
But the farmer traps the fox, and the hunter shoots the tiger, and
perhaps praises their courage――over their carcases.
Peace, as we have already demonstrated during the progress of this
work, was a very fair musician, a clever carver and gilder, and a man
of good natural ability in many ways.
He was very proud of his proficiency in those arts, which he displayed
even in prison, once carving the wood pulpit for the prison chaplain.
His favourite device in prison, indeed, for obtaining lenient
treatment was to exhibit a kind of universal “handiness,” which
conciliated the officials, until, though he had once headed a mutiny,
he twice obtained remissions of his sentences.
He was ingenious, too, as well as artistic. He was a mechanician of
some skill, having invented and made the false arm on which he greatly
relied to conceal his crimes, as no one would suspect a one-armed
burglar, and if advertised, he would be described as a one-armed man.
When father told us (continued Willie) where he was stopping, we asked
him if he was not afraid of the sergeant’s seeing his hand.
He said he could not see it, as he covered it up.
We asked him how he did it, and he took from his pocket the
guttapercha arm you have heard about.
He told us he made it himself, and he certainly is very clever at
making things.
He had got a piece of fine guttapercha, and he made it into a tube
large enough to allow his arm to pass down it. Secured to the bottom
of the guttapercha was a thin steel plate, in the middle of which was
a hole with screw thread.
Into this hole he screwed a small hook, and at meal times he said that
he took out the hook and screwed into the hole a fork which he had
made for the purpose, and with it he used to eat his meals.
At the top of the guttapercha was a strap, which he used to fasten
over his shoulder, and in that way keep the thing in its place.
No one who saw it could have told that it was not a false arm. He made
his own tools, which were at once exceedingly simple and exceedingly
effective, and once made a saw out of a piece of tin-plate.
He had, moreover, very considerable histrionic faculty, acting all
sorts of characters to the police, whom he specially liked to deceive,
and “changing his face” in a way which astonished those who knew him
best, and made them declare that even they could not recognise him as
he passed in the street.
He certainly could effect remarkable change in a moment, and the one
which most disguises dark faces, by bringing the blood into his face
till he looked bloated, instead of thin, and this without holding his
breath, or any preparation.
There can scarcely be any doubt that he could have lived, and lived
well as a carver and gilder; while as an engineer, with his gift for
invention, and his very peculiar daring, which was not so much courage
as a force of will, enabling him to do exactly what he intended to do,
he might, had he possessed any virtues, have risen to competence and
credit.
He was just the man for a mining engineer in a dangerous mine, or to
superintend torpedo experiments, or in fact to perform any one of the
functions in which ingenuity and recklessness have to be displayed at
one and the same time.
He had the power, as he showed in his leap from the railway-carriage
at Darnall, of compelling himself to accept any risk, however
appalling, that stood in the way of his design, and this without
losing the full control of all the intellect he possessed.
That form of courage is very rare――the impulse caused by danger seldom
increasing both the courage and the brain-power even of brave men. It
was noticed by the comrades of General Picton and Lord Gough that this
was the case with them, and noticed as a peculiarity very exceptional
even in armies.
Peace’s daring seems to have been of this kind, and never failed him
by night or day, under any circumstances of danger or solitude, any
more than it fails a ferret or an otter.
That such a man should have deliberately elected to lead a life of
unsuccessful crime and violent crime can be explained only by an
inborn propensity to evil, which, if Mrs. Thompson’s sketch of her
paramour’s life is in any part correct, seems to have distinguished
Peace.
For, be it remembered, he was no successful criminal, living in luxury
through a long life, and only found out by accident at last.
From the time he was nineteen, and robbed Mrs. Ward’s house in
Sheffield, to his final arrest, a period of twenty-eight years, Peace
was always a hunted man, always in danger from the police, and so
repeatedly convicted, that he passed sixteen years of his life, more
than half the period of his criminal career, in penal servitude; and
his last sentence, of which only a year had elapsed, when he was tried
for murder, was for life.
His “life of luxury” was only the life of a small tradesman who
prospers, and was maintained by constant exertion at a risk which, in
spite of his daring and his health, made him an old man before he was
fifty――so old that the police thought him too feeble for the usual
fetters to be needed.
The bravest dread assassination, and it was that kind of terror,
always present and always invisible, which Peace had constantly to
face.
It was in spite of constant detection and severe punishment――once
including a prison flogging――that Peace persisted in a career of
crime, much of which, like his shooting at policemen, and, above all,
his murdering Mr. Dyson, was entirely unnecessary, and, as it were, a
superfluity of evil.
That he did murder Dyson intentionally seems, on the face of the
evidence, certain; and whether his own account of his relations with
Mrs. Dyson, or her account, or the third and most probable
theory――that she was a foolish woman of a vulgar type, who accepted
attentions from vanity, and was concealing something in her evidence,
but not much――is the true one, does not signify a jot.
If the evidence was true, Peace resolved to shoot Dyson whenever
Dyson’s jealousy became inconvenient, and did shoot him, and if that
is not murder there is no such crime.
The man, in fact, liked crime for crime’s sake, and it was not
possible for him to remain long without having recourse to his old
practices――he was irreclaimable.
After his marriage he installed his unhappy partner in a house at
Sheffield, and professed to be earning a living as a hawker.
It is quite certain that at this period of his career he was looked
upon with suspicion by the police, who watched him most zealously; but
he was so specious a rascal, that he half persuaded them he was
pursuing an honest course of life.
Returning one day from one of his depredatory excursions, he met
Sergeant Marsland, one of the officers who gave evidence against him
in the inquiry respecting the Crookam-house robbery.
The sergeant regarded him with a look of suspicion.
“Well!” cried Peace, with the utmost effrontery, “what are you
stagging me for? Suppose I’m doing something on the cross, eh? You
fellows can never let a chap alone. When he is disposed to be honest
he’s hunted about like a wild beast because he was once in trouble.”
“Don’t you be so cheeky, my friend,” observed the sergeant. “I haven’t
accused you of doing anything wrong, neither shall I, unless there is
strong reason for my doing so. I only hope you are acting on the
square; and if you take my advice you’ll continue to do so. You don’t
suppose we――any of us――want to see you go wrong?”
“Well, then, you just leave me alone, and don’t be watching me about
in the way you and others of your calling have been doing. I’m right
enough. Have got a wife to look after, and don’t mean to get into
trouble again, if I can help it.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” returned the police officer. “And
understand, Peace, that I shan’t interfere with you as long as you
keep clear of the law. It does not afford me, or any of us, pleasure
to get you into trouble.”
“Oh, doesn’t it?”
“No, certainly not. I tell you again to keep as straight as you can,
stick to your business, and act on the square, and nobody will
interfere with you.”
“I only ask you to leave me alone. I am all right enough now, but it
isn’t any reason because I have been once in trouble that I should be
for ever suspected, and watched or followed about.”
“I will take no notice of you provided you keep clear.”
“All right――that’s understood then,” cried Peace, in a cheery tone.
The police-sergeant made no further reply, but walked on at a steady,
measured pace.
“The stealthy beggars have got their eyes upon me,” murmured our hero,
“and I must act with caution, or I shall be ‘copped’ as safe as
houses.”
To “work” at Sheffield, as he termed it, or in other words to commit
robberies in that town, was not to be thought of; he, therefore, paid
occasional visits to other towns, and on many occasions he went about
disguised as a navvy, pretending to be looking for work, but he was
really “spotting” the houses he meant to attack.
He broke into a clothes warehouse at Bradford, and was detected in the
act, and, to cover his escape, he fired “wide” at a policeman and the
watchman.
This adventure put an end to his depredations in that town for some
considerable period, for he was, naturally enough, afraid to pursue
his favourite calling after the narrow escape he had had.
He therefore changed the scene of action, and betook himself to Leeds,
where he remained for three weeks, during which period he forwarded
remittances to his wife at Sheffield.
While at Leeds, he met with an adventure, which caused him some
anxiety, for it was only by a miracle that he escaped discovery.
He entered a house on the outskirts of the town just as it was getting
dusk.
He proceeded at once to the front floor of the establishment, and
possessed himself of several articles of value.
As he was engaged in transferring them to his bag, he heard footsteps
on the stairs. Quick as lightning he flew out of the room, and managed
to reach the next story without attracting the notice of any of the
occupants.
The room in which he now found himself was an elegantly furnished
sleeping apartment. He stood breathless, listening to the movements of
those below.
He heard the sound of a female voice addressing a companion, who was
evidently another female, to judge from the tones of the voice.
To his horror he heard the footsteps of two persons who were evidently
making for either the room in which he was ensconced, or else one on
the same floor.
He was seriously alarmed, but did not lose his presence of mind.
He looked out of the window of the bedchamber, and saw several persons
on the lawn in front of the house, they were playing at croquet.
Escape by means of the window was, therefore, impossible, his
movements would be sure to attract the attention of the croquet
players, and if he passed out of the room through the door, he would,
in all probability, be confronted by the two females.
At such a crisis as this every moment was precious.
“What could he do?”
A sudden thought struck him. In the bedroom was a large press or
wardrobe. A key was in the door of this. Peace withdrew it as
noiselessly as possible, crept into the press, and then locked himself
in.
Any way it would give him time to determine upon his course of action.
Possibly the ladies were about to enter some other apartment.
He listened till his ears tingled again. He was not kept long in
suspense.
The footsteps on the floor told him that other inmates were there
besides himself. He knew also that they were of the softer sex.
He breathed as softly as possible and durst not move.
The words which fell from the lips of the newcomers he heard most
distinctly.
A horrible thought crossed his mind. It was this――
Suppose the articles he had purloined were missed, a search would be
made, and the doors of the press would be broken open without
ceremony.
He felt half inclined to unlock the door and make a rush for it, but
then the fact that there were some dozen persons or more on the grass
plot warned him of the danger attendant upon such a course.
No, he would patiently await the issue.
The two personages who had entered the bedroom were the mistress of
the house and her maid. He very soon became aware of this from the
conversation which was being carried on.
The lady sat herself down before the looking-glass, and the maid began
to dress her hair.
She was about to make an elaborate toilette before sitting down to
dinner. Through the keyhole of the door of his prison-house Peace
commanded a view of both females, and was, therefore, able to
appreciate to its full extent the elaborate performance that was going
on. He inwardly cursed the absurd customs of ladies adorning
themselves before presenting themselves in the banquetting room.
He watched the long tresses of the beautiful woman as they fell over
her shoulders, and were gathered up by the taper fingers of her
handmaiden. The time occupied in dressing and decorating the head
seemed to be an age to the imprisoned burglar――who was half stifled in
his hiding place.
“I don’t like the way you’ve arranged my hair,” said the lady, viewing
herself in the glass. “It appears to be drawn too much back, Kate.”
[Sidenote: No. 39.]
[Illustration: PEACE ESCAPES THROUGH THE BEDROOM WINDOW.]
“Well, marm,” said the girl, “it’s as you wished; but if I might be
allowed to have my own way I should dress it as I did on Tuesday last.
I am sure you looked lovely then.”
“Hush, you silly girl. Don’t flatter.”
“No, madam, I’ll leave that for the gentlemen to do; or rather, I
mean, I’ll let them speak the truth.”
“Well, do it as you did it the other night. You shall have your way.”
The hair had to be undone, and further manipulations had to be gone
through, much to Peace’s disgust.
The sound of merry voices, which proceeded from the party on the lawn,
reached the apartment, and occasional bursts of laughter were also
audible.
“The major’s voice,” said the lady.
“Yes, marm, what good spirits he is in to-day! He’s always merry, but
he’s more than usually so now. Oh, he is a nice gentleman.”
“Yes, kind and considerate to everyone, and he’s so full of anecdote,
too.”
“He’s been in the Crimea――has he not, marm?”
“Oh, dear yes, all through the Crimean war――at Balaclava, Inkerman,
and Sebastopol.”
“Oh!” murmured Peace; “there’s a major in the case, eh. This is
lively. I’m in a pretty pickle, and it will be a wonderful thing to me
if I succeed in getting clean off. Hang the woman!――how long does she
intend to sit before that blooming glass?”
Our hero soon discovered that only part of the toilette had been
performed.
The lady had to change her dress, but luckily for Peace the garment in
question was not in the wardrobe. Had this been the case he would have
been lost. He had the satisfaction of seeing her maid produce the
dress from some part of the room which he was not able to ascertain.
He was, therefore, greatly relieved upon beholding the mistress of the
establishment disrobe, and put on the costume which was handed to her
by the maid.
It took some time to arrange this in a satisfactory manner. Jewels,
cuffs, and collar had to be added, and after some further time had
been expended in adornment the lady and the maid crept noiselessly out
of the room.
Peace felt greatly relieved.
The question was, how could he manage to get clear off. He unlocked
the door of the wardrobe and peered out.
No other person was in the bedchamber besides himself. He looked out
of the window, the croquet players were no longer visible.
They had in all probability betaken themselves to the dining-room. He
felt assured of this as he heard the confused number of voices
proceeding from the lower portion of the house.
He waited till he thought they had taken their seats at the
dinner-table, then he went to the landing and listened.
A savoury odour found its way up the staircase, and the clatter of
dishes was distinctly audible.
“Now is my time,” murmured the burglar.
He passed down the front flight of stairs and beheld servants passing
to and fro in the hall.
What was to be done? His retreat was cut off. If he attempted to
descend into the hall detection was certain, and to remain where he
was would be almost as bad.
By this time it was nearly dark on the outside of the house, but the
blaze of light came from the rooms below and the gas lamp in the hall.
Peace was sadly perplexed. Every moment he expected the articles he
had purloined would be missed.
He went once more to the window. In the front of the house was an old
vine, one stem of which was near to the side of the window.
When he made this discovery he at once determined upon his mode of
escape. Hanging the bag containing the stolen property round his neck
he crept out of the window, and supported himself by the stem of the
vine by means of which he managed to reach the grass-plot in front of
the house.
He had hardly succeeded in doing this when he heard shouts and cries
of alarm proceeding from some persons in one of the rooms at the
basement of the habitation. He did not wait to ascertain the reason
for the cries, but fled as fast as his legs could carry him, and
vaulting over the railings which encircled the garden he reached a
narrow bye-lane.
He still heard cries in the distance, and saw several persons emerge
from the side gate of the garden.
Two or three shouted to him, and ordered him to stop, but Peace knew a
trick worth two of that. He fled, but found, to his dismay, that a
party of gentlemen had rushed off in pursuit of him.
He heard the clatter of their footsteps on the hard road.
Shouldering his bag he rushed madly on until he reached a dense
thicket of trees; into this he crept and passed on as quickly as the
nature of the trees and underwood would admit.
He now arrived at the open country again; running across two meadows
he came to a narrow pathway skirted by two hedges.
At the end of this was an old dilapidated-looking mansion, on the
front of which was a board with the words “To be Let or Sold” written
on its face.
Peace passed through the hedge by the side of the mansion, and made
for the back door. He succeeded in turning the lock of this by means
of one of his skeleton keys.
He opened the door, slid in, and closed it noiselessly after him. Then
he bolted it from the inside.
He was now the solitary occupant of a large red brick building, which
had the unenviable reputation of being haunted, and hence it was that
it had been so long tenantless.
But, cheerless and dilapidated as the place was, it afforded him a
temporary shelter, and as no one suspected that he had effected an
entrance he was safe for the present.
He listened and heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs――the footsteps of
men, who were carrying on an animated conversation.
“I tell you he went this way,” cried one; “I saw his shadow on the
path. He’s not far ahead, and can’t escape us, the villain.”
“No――no!” cried another, “he turned down the lane to the right, and
is, doubtless, making for the high road.”
“Well, if you are so positive about it, Vensill, have your own way.
You and one or two more go that road, while I and some of the others
go my way.”
“All right――so be it. We will separate into two parties, and hunt the
scoundrel down.”
“Very wise of you to do so,” murmured Peace. “You may go to the devil
for what I care! I wish you success.”
The party of pursuers separated into two detachments, and soon the
silence of the night was still and unbroken, as far as the ruined
mansion or its occupant was concerned.
Peace had with him one of his long, thin screws, and if any attack had
been made on his place of refuge he had made up his mind to fasten
himself in one of the rooms by means of the screw, but as the pursuing
party had left him unmolested in his retreat there was no occasion to
have recourse to such an alternative.
He felicitated himself upon the successful nature of his _ruse_. It
was not likely the enemy would return that way, and if they did it was
still less likely that they would make any attempt to storm him in his
castle.
He was therefore determined to remain concealed till such time as he
might reasonably suppose that his enemies had given up the chase as
hopeless.
The old habitation in which he found himself was cheerless and
depressing to the last degree. He soon found out that it was infested
with rats, for he heard them squeaking and scampering about in all
directions.
Fond as he was of animals, rats were not included in the list. He held
them in the greatest abhorrence, and so when the throng of persons on
the outside had taken themselves off he stamped and knocked against
the walls to scare away his four-footed associates.
The house was miserably dark and dismal, and he would have been
greatly relieved if he had a light.
But this was not to be thought of; if he ignited his wax taper it
would most likely betray him, for anybody passing the house would be
apprised of his presence by the gleam of light from one of the
windows. He had therefore no other alternative than to endure the
gloom of the place as he best could.
An hour passed away――an hour of misery and suspense――an hour of
bitterness and depression.
Still Peace did not deem it safe as yet to sally forth.
He might pass the night in the old mansion and leave by early dawn,
but he was not disposed to do so. Sleep would of course be out of the
question.
There was not a solitary article of furniture in any of the rooms.
He was not a superstitious man, but, nevertheless, could not conceal
from himself that the place seemed to be admirably adapted for the
haunt of witches, warlocks, and gnomes.
Anyway Peace was most anxious to leave it as soon as possible, but it
would not do to be too precipitate.
The party of gentlemen who had started in pursuit of him might be
looking about, and Peace deemed it advisable not to give them a chance
of effecting a capture.
Miserable and lonely as were his quarters, they were preferable to
running a chance of being sent to penal servitude.
He therefore waited for nearly another hour, at the expiration of
which time he sallied forth, bag in hand.
No one was visible; he argued that the party must have returned to the
house, so shouldering his bag he walked boldly on, taking care to keep
on the dark side of the road as he watched for the appearance of any
chance wayfarer.
Two or three men passed him, and, as they did so, wished him good
night, but they evidently belonged to the working class, and he had no
misgiving as to them.
In a short time he reached the high road, when, at some distance ahead
of him, he beheld a night patrol. He took good care to conceal himself
in a bye lane till the officer of the law had passed; then he emerged
from his place of concealment, and proceeded along with greater
confidence.