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