University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Ross felt anything but gratified at his unsuccessful
effort to affix the guilt of robbery on Gordon. If
there is one passion predominant in the heart of a
constable over another, 'tis the desire to be successful
in such operations. And it is very natural—such success
is the means whereby they live—or rather, it is
the source of their most profitable emolument. Beside
the general esprit de cœur common to his class, Ross,
from his great reputation for success in such matters,
felt peculiarly the dishonour of a failure. It was
touching him in his tenderest point. It was like
doubting the valour of a soldier, the eloquence of an
orator, the skill of a statesman, or the imagination of
a poet. He determined, come what might, without
fee or reward, for the sake of his own honour and
reputation, to follow him up, and fix the guilt upon him,
for guilty he felt satisfied he was.

Ross, besides his constabulary dignity, was the
keeper of a livery stable, and in that way, as Gordon
was fond of swapping and trading in horses, he
became acquainted somewhat with his character.

About eleven o'clock on the night after the adventure
at Benbow's, Ross hurried from the theatre to his
domicil, and entirely changed his clothes, selecting,
from a number of suits, one which seemed made for
a country wagoner, in which, with great attention to
the character in which he was to appear, he arrayed

himself. From a number of wigs in a drawer he
selected a carroty, uncombed one, which he adjusted
so as entirely to hide his own hair. He then combed
back his whiskers, and, selecting a false pair of the
same colour with his wig, he fixed them carefully to
his face, having, before his glass, four candles lit, that
he might make no mistake. This accomplished, he
opened a box of paints, and with the skill of an artist
adapted his eyebrows to his wig and whiskers. He
then gave his cheeks a saffron hue, tied a coarse
striped neckcloth carelessly round his neck, and
drew on a foxy pair of thick-soled country boots.
Having done these things to his satisfaction, he took
a wagon whip from the corner of the room, and
placing the glass so that he could see his whole form
reflected, he scanned himself closely and complacently:

“I have learned a great deal from Vidocq,” said
he to himself; “but now, were he in my place, he
would not hesitate to shave off his whiskers and do
the thing completely; but I think I'll do pretty well
without. To take off my whiskers would be paying
rather too dear for the whistle. I'll step into the
Eagle as I go along, and see if any of the fellows
recognise me.”

Thus soliloquising, he left his house by the backway,
without suffering even any of his family to see him.
He walked in the gangling gate of a wagoner, to
whose tread the hard basement is disagreeable, though
it was night, and he could not be observed. He
seemed, when he assumed a character, to possess it
completely. In ten minutes he entered the Eagle,
which was an eating and drinking-house, where many
of his acquaintance resorted. There were some
dozen persons within, eating, drinking, and smoking.
Gaping around as though the establishment was new
to him, he asked:

“I say, strangers, does any one of you know a
constable named Ross?”

“Yes,” replied several persons.

“What manner of a man may he be?”

“A tall, good looking man, with big whiskers and a
red cheek, and he dresses very neatly. Why?” replied
one of the party, who was himself a constable,
and a friend of Ross:

“Because I wants him on particular business.”

“Ah! what's turned up—”

“That's the pint I want to see Ross upon.”

“Well, I'm a constable—tell me.”

“Yes, but you ain't Ross, though, stranger; I reckon
every lawyer what pleads ain't a Squire Mason.”

“I don't see how in the devil,” said the constable,
“Ross has got such a name. I'm told he went to
arrest a man for robbery last night; actually found
him in Benbow's, a magistrate, and couldn't come
it.”

“They say,” said the assumed wagoner, “that he
can scent out a rogue as a dog would a rabbit.”

“That may be,” replied the constable, “but from
what I heard of the business last night, he can't catch
him even when he has earthed him.”

“Can't! maybe he didn't want to catch him.”

“Then he ought to be earthed himself,” retorted
the constable. “A bird in the hand is worth two in
the bush.”

“You're right, stranger; but if Ross can't do my
business, who in the devil can?”

“Speak out; what's the matter?”

“Speak out then, stranger; there would be no use
in either the hand bird or the bush birds—they'd be a
good ways beyond the reach of the school-boy's salt
upon their tails.”

“Business is business,” retorted the constable, “as

Ross says; and if you can't say what your business
is, you can't have it done.”

“That's a fact,” replied the wagoner; “is Ross as
high a man as I am?”

“Taller, but not so thick; black hair and whiskers,
with a touch of high living in his face: lately, since
he's got a name—got his name up—he's given too
much to high living and dandyism, and that accounts
for the reason why he is not so successful as
formerly—but as I say he's got his name up, and now
he can lie abed.”

“Why don't you get your name up, then, and lie
abed too? it's bed-time.”

“Look here, my country friend; if you're for any
high lark, just say so, and I'll give you a bed in the
watch-house in no time.”

“Thank ye, stranger; I sleeps in my wagon; but I
wants to find Ross.”

“Go down to Rose Alley, then, and rap him up;
he lives next door to his livery stable.”

“I'm obliged to you, stranger; I knows the place—
in Rose Alley, hey? I'll find him.” So speaking, our
wagoner left the Eagle followed by the constable.

“Look here, stranger,” said that worthy, resting
himself carelessly against the lamp-post in front of the
door; “tell us what's the matter?”

“I'd like to, for I think high of you. I told you—
but there's a friend of mine concerned, and he charged
me by all means to tell it to nobody but Ross.”

“How do you know that I'm not Ross?”

“By the best of tokens; you're neither tall nor
good looking, nor you ain't no whiskers.”

At this the constable turned on his heels and entered
the Eagle again, and our wagoner walked off.

“I've learnt a good lesson from Bartlett,” said Ross
to himself as he walked away; “that puts me in

mind—hang it—here I've forgot my pistols; I must
back and get 'em.”

Quickly Ross hastened to secure the weapons. The
light suspended from the middle of his stable was yet
burning, and, gliding in the backway, he pocketed
his “barkers,” and departed. Satisfied with the
trial of his disguise at the Eagle, he proceeded
to fulfil his errand. He avoided the street in which
the Engle was situated, and, taking a direct route,
bent his steps to a less respectable portion of the city.
When he nearly reached the outskirts, he stopped for
a moment and eyed his locality. A broad street,
which soon broke into the open road which led to
Springdale, lay before him, while on his right was an
obscure alley, illuminated by the light of a single
lamp. At its mouth he stopped, and gazed steadily
down the avenue. No voice was heard—no light was
seen. “I have overstaid my hour,” said Ross to himself;
“I see no light from the window. I'll step down
the alley, at any rate; maybe it is not to be seen from
here.”

Accordingly he walked down the alley, which was
without a side pavement, and when he had got about
midway, he looked up at a house which was better
than its neighbours, but in which the inhabitants
seemed to have retired, as there was no light to be
seen about it. Loitering with a slackened step as he
drew near, Ross observed it with much care, and
passed on to the other end of the alley. Here he
paused a while, irresolute, and returned again. Still
there was no light. He reached the mouth of the
alley, determined to return home, when, in turning
round, he observed a light streaming from the window
of the house we have designated. Instantly he advanced
towards it, and, after observing the situation of
the candle, which could be seen from the window, he

passed up an alley which divided the house from the
one next to it, and, opening the back door without
rapping, trod, with a loud, careless step, up stairs.
His foot had scarcely touched the first step of the
stairway, when a door was opened at its head above,
and a female voice, said:

“Is that you, Jemmy?”

“Indeed it is; and I am glad to see you,” replied
Ross. “This is market night at the fish-market, and
I've been kept away, Debby.”

“Better late than never,” said Debby, holding the
light to show our worthy the way.

“Pretty big market to-night,” said he, quickening
his pace; “truck will be dog-cheap to-morrow.”

“I suspected as much,” said the woman, as she
re-entered the room, into which Ross followed, closing
the door after him.

The apartment in which Ross entered was scrupulously
clean; but there was nothing in it but what
the necessaries of life required. A bed, a few chairs,
a trunk, with two or three cooking utensils, and an
unpainted pine cupboard, were all the furniture it
contained. The woman was about the middle age,
decent in her attire and demeanor, and evidently one
who had seen better days. She was the widow of a
former partner of Ross's, who had been killed by a
kick from a horse, and who had left her pennyless.
Ross, whose heart was not an unkind one, was in the
habit of assisting her when she could not get work sufficient
for her maintenance. She was one of that
meritorious class of females, in whose behalf the late
venerable and philanthropic Mathew Carey, just before
he died, so successfully exerted himself. She
supported herself by taking in sewing.

“I thought,” said Ross in a whisper, “when I
missed the light, that I was too late.”

“No,” said she, “he came in but a minute ago,
while you, I expect, for I think I heard you go by
(Ross nodded assent), were at the other end of the
alley. He is very uncertain; and I began to think
he would not be here to-night at all. He treats the
poor thing shockingly; and if you could fix anything
on him that would send him to the penitentiary, you'd
serve him right. I know nothing about him, except
that I know him from having seen him one day at
your stable. He don't know me at all; for I was in
the room with you where you keep your accounts, and
I saw him by looking through the window that looks
from it into the stable. I'm glad I happened to hear
you mention his name when I was down there this
morning—they'll take you for my country-cousin
that I told her off. He has inquired before this who
you are. I never should have known you.”

“How shall I continue to see and overhear him?”
asked Ross.

“In the closet under the stairs I keep my wood,”
replied the widow; “and there is only a board partition
between that and their room, in which there
are large cracks. I removed the wood away from
the largest, and you can see and overhear distinctly:
the door is unlocked, and I have left it ajar; so you
can easily slip down into the closet.”

“Good!” replied Ross, laying his whip upon the
bed, and disencumbering himself of his boots. He
then told the woman to move a chair, so as to hide
the noise of turning the bolt. When he had turned
it, instead of opening the door slowly, which would in
all probability have made it creak, he drew it back
quickly, and prevented that effect. With a step accustomed
to such purposes, he stole down stairs, and
entered the closet without making the least noise.
Through a broad crack he had nearly a full view of
the adjoining chamber, which bespoke more poverty

than the one above it, without any of its tidiness. A
rag of carpet covered a few feet of the floor
near the hearth, in which there were a few coals; a
bedstead with one leg broken, the place of which was
supplied by a bit of rough board nailed clumsily on,
stood in the corner, with a bed on it, scantily covered,
which, with three chairs, a rough table, and an old
trunk under the bed, composed the furniture. A
kettle and a broken skillet stood in the chimney corner.
Gordon sat before the hearth, with his left arm
leaning on the table, on which was a black bottle of
brandy, and a tumbler. He looked out of sorts, and
dispirited.

A woman, careless in her attire, but whose countenance
and form exhibited the faded remains of what
once had been great beauty, busied herself about the
apartment, seemingly with no other purpose than to
notice, unobserved, her companion, for she drew out
the trunk, and replaced it without taking any article
from it—the while throwing hurried and anxious
glances on him.

“Damn it! have done fussing so,” said Gordon,
pettishly.

“Oh, John!” exclaimed the woman, in accents of the
deepest tenderness; “I hav'nt seen you much lately,
and I am so sorry to see you troubled;” and, as she
spoke, she went up to him and wept upon his shoulder,
but he rudely pushed her aside, remarking:

“Damn it! why do you come with your tears to
me; be contented now; that hussey that I wanted
you to fix up here for, is not coming: I don't know
that I am ever coming again; so content yourself.
Where's the money I gave you to fit up here.”

“I have it, John—I have it.”

“I don't see that you have spent any of it,” angrily
retorted Gordon, looking round.

“No, no! none of it; here it is,” said she, rising

from a little stool on which she had thrown herself,
and stepping to her trunk.

“Why did you not get it changed, as I asked you?
I'll whale you to death some of these days—you know
me.”

“John, I would do anything for you—but not that
—not that; let me be honest, in God's name. Terribly
have I suffered for one violation of the law to
please you; and John, passing this money, and being
convicted of it, would not punish me so much in the
disgrace, as in being separated from you. That's my
fear. No! let me live here, and drudge daily at the
wash-tub or the ironing-table, and hire out when I
can—in that way I can support myself; only come
and see me, John, and let me see you oftener,—yes,
and I will change the money for you, if it must be so;
but do not ask me to change it to bring another
woman here. John, if you knew my heart, and how
devotedly I love you, you would not so break it.”

“According to your account of what it stands, I
hardly think there can be any such thing as breaking
it; but that jig's up about that hussey in the country.
I'm a gone man; and if she don't look out, she'll be
a gone woman. Will you change the money?”

“Yes; but not for her.”

Gordon raised his fist in the act of striking her,
when she said:

“John, don't strike me; the woman up stairs will
hear you, and she's decent and orderly, and has
promised to get me something to do.”

“She has—has she! Well, what money have you
got? I don't mean what I gave you;—what change
—what good money?”

“Don't speak loud, John; she might overhear you.
I have a half of a dollar, which I got yesterday for
washing; will you have it?”

“Yes; I shall want it to night. I'm going out to

the tavern at the forks of the road not far short of
Springdale, and the pewter in these times is the best
thing there. The woman up stairs promised to get
work for you?”

“Yes; and she is quite a decent kind of a body.
She's a widow, and that man we heard go up stairs
is a country friend of her's. I don't know what her
husband was—

“A country cousin, hey? I expect he's pretty
much of a green horn. He treads like a fellow who
cares not who knows his comings and goings; I can't
tread that way myself of late; I've had dark misgivings.
I believe that the liquor I've taken lately has
unnerved me—blast it! love your enemies! I'll take
another glass,”—and he proceeded to fill his cup accordingly.

“John, don't drink any more; you always seem to
fear most when you have drank the most—”

“Woman, afterwards—afterwards, but at the time
not; the boldest things I've done was then. Want
some?”

“No, John.”

“Who do you think I saw last night? If it wasn't
that I have so many fears upon other matters, I'd make
a speculation. Your old mistress.”

“Who? not Miss Clara?”

“Yes; she's Miss, or Mrs. somebody; and if it
wasn't for Tom Fenton, who I expect has peached,
I could frighten hush-money out of a certain quarter.
She'd give something for me to keep dark, I reckon.”

“John, what motive have you to injure her? I am
sure she was a friend of yours in great need; and she
has always been a great friend of mine.”

“Yes, I understand; very well—we'll see; but,
by Jove, I know that which will cost her dear. I
suppose you call her a friend of mine in making me
marry you.”

“Well, John, a friend of mine, then. What harm
can you do her, John?”

“That's my business.”

“Did she ask for me, John?”

“Yes. I told her you were dead.”

“Where does she live, John?”

“What! you want to go and see her, do you?
make a call, and prove me a liar?”

“John, why should you object to my seeing her?”

“If for no other reason, because I told her you
were dead.”

“John, do let me go and see her.”

“Not another word, if you don't want to be knocked
down.” Saying which, Gordon filled himself another
glass of brandy, and turned away from the woman,
who, musingly, and with a sorrowful countenance,
gazed into the fire.