The descent of George Aspel became very rapid in course of time. As he lost self-respect he became reckless and, as a natural consequence, more dissipated. Remonstrances from his friend Mr Blurt, which were repelled at first with haughty disdain, came to be received with sullen indifference. He had nothing to say for himself in reply, because, in point of fact, there was nothing in his case to justify his taking so gloomy and despairing a view of life. Many men, he knew, were at his age out of employment, and many more had been crossed in love. He was too proud to condescend to false reasoning with his lips, though he encouraged it in his heart. He knew quite well that drink and bad companionship were ruining him, and off-hand, open-hearted fellow though he was said to be, he was mean enough, as we have already said, to growlingly charge his condition and his sins on Fate.
At last he resolved to give up the business that was so distasteful to him. Unable to give a satisfactory reason for so doing, or to say what he meant to attempt next, and unwilling or ashamed to incur the remonstrances and rebut the arguments of his patron, the bold descendant of the sea-kings adopted that cowardly method of departure called taking French leave. Like some little schoolboy, he ran away! In other words, he disappeared, and left no trace behind him.
Deep was Mr Enoch Blurt’s regret, for he loved the youth sincerely, and made many fruitless efforts to find him—for lost in London means lost indeed! He even employed a detective, but the grave man in grey—who looked like no class of man in particular, and seemed to have no particular business in hand, and who talked with Mr Blurt, at their first meeting, in a quiet, sensible, easy way, as though he had been one of his oldest friends—could find no clue to him, for the good reason that Mr Bones had taken special care to entice Aspel into a distant locality, under pretence of putting him in the way of finding semi-nautical employment about the docks. Moreover, he managed to make Aspel drunk, and arranged with boon companions to strip him, while in that condition, of his garments, and re-clothe him in the seedy garb peculiar to those gentlemen who live by their wits.
“Very strange,” muttered Aspel, on recovering sufficiently to be led by his friend towards Archangel Court,—“very strange that I did not feel the scoundrels robbing me. I must have slept very soundly.”
“Yes, you slep’ wery sound, and they’re a bad lot, and uncommon sharp in that neighbourhood. It’s quite celebrated. I tried to get you away, but you was as obstinate as a mule, an’ kep’ on singing about some sort o’ coves o’ the old times that must have bin bigger blackguards than we ’ave about us now-a-days, though the song calls ’em glorious.”
“Well, well,” said Aspel, shrinking under the public gaze as he passed through the streets, “don’t talk about that. Couldn’t you get into some by-lanes, where there are not so many people? I don’t like to be seen, even by strangers, in this disreputable guise. I wish the sun didn’t shine so brightly. Come, push on, man.”
“W’y, sir,” said Bones, becoming a little more respectful in spite of himself, “you’ve no need to be ashamed of your appearance. There’s not ’alf a dozen people in a mile walk in London as would look twice at you whatever appearance you cut—so long as it was only disreputable.”
“Never mind—push on,” said Aspel sternly; “I am ashamed whether I have need to be or not. I’m a fool. I’m more—I’m a brute. I tell you what it is, Bones, I’m determined to turn over a new leaf. I’ll write to Mr Blurt and tell him where I am, for, of course, I can’t return to him in such clothes as these, and—and—I’ll give up drink.”
Bones met this remark with an unexpected and bitter laugh.
“What d’you mean?” demanded Aspel, turning fiercely upon him.
“I mean,” replied Bones, returning his stare with the utmost coolness, “that you can’t give up drink, if you was to try ever so much. You’re too far gone in it. I’ve tried it myself, many a time, and failed, though I’ve about as strong a will as your own—maybe stronger.”
“We shall see,” returned Aspel, as they moved on again and turned into the lane which led to the wretched abode of Bones.
“Bring me pen, ink, and paper!” he exclaimed, on entering the room, with a grand air—for a pint of ale, recently taken, had begun to operate.
Bones, falling in with his friend’s humour, rummaged about until he found the stump of a quill, a penny inkbottle, and a dirty sheet of paper. These he placed on a rickety table, and Aspel wrote a scrawly note, in which he gave himself very bad names, and begged Mr Blurt to come and see him, as he had got into a scrape, and could by no means see his way out of it. Having folded the note very badly, he rose with the intention of going out to post it, but his friend offered to post it for him.
Accepting the offer, he handed him the note and flung himself down in a heap on the straw mattress in the dark corner, where he had first become acquainted with Bones. In a few seconds he was in a deep lethargic slumber.
“What a wretched spectacle!” exclaimed Bones, touching him with his toe, and, in bitter mockery, quoting the words that Aspel had once used regarding himself.
He turned to leave the room, and was met by Mrs Bones.
“There’s a friend o’ yours in the corner, Molly. Don’t disturb him. I’m goin’ to post a letter for him, and will be back directly.”
Bones went out, posted the letter in the common sewer, and returned home.
During the brief interval of his absence Tottie had come in—on a visit after her prolonged sojourn in the country. She was strangling her mother with a kiss when he entered.
“Oh, mother! I’m so happy, and so sorry!” she exclaimed, laughing and sobbing at once.
Tottie was obviously torn by conflicting emotions. “Take your time, darling,” said Mrs Bones, smoothing the child’s hair with her red toil-worn hand.
“Ay, take it easy, Tot,” said her father, with a meaning glance, that sent a chill to the child’s heart, while he sat down on a stool and began to fill his pipe. “What’s it all about?”
“Oh! it’s the beautiful country I’ve been in. Mother, you can’t think—the green fields and the trees, and, oh! the flowers, and no bricks—almost no houses—and—But did you know”—her grief recurred here—“that Mr Aspel ’as bin lost? an’ I’ve been tellin’ such lies! We came in to town, Miss Lillycrop an’ me, and we’ve heard about Mr Aspel from old Mr Blurt, who’s tryin’ to find him out with ’vertisements in the papers an’ detectives an’ a message-boy they call Phil, who’s a friend of Mr Aspel, an’ also of Peter.”
“Who’s Peter?” asked Mrs Bones.
“Ah, who’s Peter?” echoed Mr Bones, with a somewhat sly glance under his brows.
“He’s a message-boy, and such a dear fellow,” replied Tottie. “I don’t know his other name, he didn’t mention it, and they only call him little Peter, but he saved me from the fire; at least he tried—”
“Saved you from the fire!” exclaimed Mrs Bones in amazement.
“Yes; didn’t Miss Lillycrop tell you?” asked Tottie in no less surprise.
Now it is but justice to Miss Lillycrop to say that even in the midst of her perturbation after the fire she sought to inform Mrs Bones of her child’s safety, and sent her a note, which failed to reach her, owing to her being away at the time on one of her prolonged absences from home, and the neighbour to whose care it had been committed had forgotten all about it. As Mrs Bones read no newspapers and took no interest in fires, she knew nothing about the one that had so nearly swallowed up Tottie.
“Come, tell us all about it, Tot. You mentioned it to me, but we couldn’t go into details at the time,” said her father, puffing a vigorous cloud of smoke into the chimney.
Nothing loath, the child gave her parents an account of the event, which was as glowing as the fire itself. As she dwelt with peculiar delight on the brave rescue effected by Aspel at the extreme peril of his life, conscience took Abel Bones by surprise and gave him a twinge.
At that moment the sleeper in the corner heaved a deep sigh and turned round towards the light. Mrs Bones and the child recognised him at once, and half rose.
“Keep still!” said Bones, in a low savage growl, which was but too familiar to his poor wife and child. “Now, look here,” he continued in the same voice, laying down his pipe,—“if either of you two tell man, woman, or child w’ere George Aspel is, it’ll be the death of you both, and of him too.”
“Oh, Abel! don’t be hard on us,” pleaded his wife. “You would—no, you can’t mean to do ’im harm!”
“No, I won’t hurt him,” said Bones, “but you must both give me your word that you’ll make no mention of him or his whereabouts to any one till I give you leave.”
They were obliged to promise, and Bones, knowing from experience that he could trust them, was satisfied.
“But you’ll make a promise to me too, Abel, won’t you, dear?” said Mrs Bones; “you’ll promise not to do ’im harm of any kind—not to tempt ’im?”
“Yes, Molly, I promise that.”
Mrs Bones knew, by some peculiarity in the tone of her husband’s voice, that he meant what he said, and was also satisfied.
“Now, Molly,” said Bones, with a smile, “I want you to write a letter for me, so get another sheet of paper, if you can; Mr Aspel used up my last one.”
A sheet was procured from a neighbouring tobacconist. Mrs Bones always acted as her husband’s amanuensis (although he wrote very much better than she did), either because he was lazy, or because he entertained some fear of his handwriting being recognised by his enemies the police! Squaring her elbows, and with her head very much on one side—almost reposing on the left arm—Mrs Bones produced a series of hieroglyphics which might have been made by a fly half-drowned in ink attempting to recover itself on the paper. The letter ran as follows:—
“Deer bil i am a-goin to doo it on mundy the 15th tother cove wont wurk besides Iv chaningd my mind about him. Don’t fale.”
“What’s the address, Abel?” asked Mrs Bones.
“Willum Stiggs,” replied her husband.
“So—i—g—s,” said Mrs Bones, writing very slowly, “Rosebud Cottage.”
“What!” exclaimed the man fiercely, as he started up.
“Oh, I declare!” said Mrs Bones, with a laugh, “if that place that Tottie’s been tellin’ us of ain’t runnin’ in my ’ead. But I’ve not writ it, Abel, I only said it.”
“Well, then, don’t say it again,” growled Bones, with a suspicious glance at his wife; “write number 6 Little Alley, Birmingham.”
“So—numr sx littlaly bringinghum,” said Mrs Bones, completing her task with a sigh.
When Bones went out to post this curious epistle, his wife took Tottie on her knee, and, embracing her, rocked to and fro, uttering a moaning sound. The child expressed anxiety, and tried to comfort her.
“Come what’s the use o’ strivin’ against it?” she exclaimed suddenly. “She’s sure to come to know it in the end, and I need advice from some one—if it was even from a child.”
Tottie listened with suspense and some anxiety.
“You’ve often told me, mother, that the best advice comes from God. So has Miss Lillycrop.”
Mrs Bones clasped the child still closer, and uttered a short, fervent cry for help.
“Tottie,” she said, “listen—you’re old enough to understand, I think. Your father is a bad man—at least, I won’t say he’s altogether bad, but—but, he’s not good.”
Tottie quite understood that, but said that she was fond of him notwithstanding.
“Fond of ’im, child!” cried Mrs Bones, “that’s the difficulty. I’m so fond of ’im that I want to save him, but I don’t know how.”
Hereupon the poor woman explained her difficulties. She had heard her husband murmuring in his sleep something about committing a burglary, and the words Rosebud Cottage had more than once escaped his lips.
“Now, Tottie dear,” said Mrs Bones firmly, “when I heard you tell all about that Rosebud Cottage, an’ the treasure Miss Stiffinthegills—”
“Stivergill, mother.”
“Well, Stivergill. It ain’t a pretty name, whichever way you put it. When I heard of the treasure she’s so foolish as to keep on her sideboard, I felt sure that your father had made up his mind to rob Miss Stivergill—with the help of that bad man Bill Stiggs—all the more w’en I see how your father jumped w’en I mentioned Rosebud Cottage. Now, Tottie, we must save your father. If he had only got me to post his letter, I could easily have damaged the address so as no one could read it. As it is, I’ve writ it so bad that I don’t believe there’s a man in the Post-Office could make it out. This is the first time, Tottie, that your father has made up his mind to break into a ’ouse, but when he do make up his mind to a thing he’s sure to go through with it. He must be stopped, Tottie, somehow—must be stopped—but I don’t see how.”
Tottie, who was greatly impressed with the anxious determination of her mother, and therefore with the heinous nature of her father’s intended sin, gave her entire mind to this subject, and, after talking it over, and looking at it in all lights, came to the conclusion that she could not see her way out of the difficulty at all.
While the two sat gazing on the ground with dejected countenances, a gleam of light seemed to shoot from Tottie’s eyes.
“Oh! I’ve got it!” she cried, looking brightly up. “Peter!”
“What! the boy you met at Rosebud Cottage?” asked Mrs Bones.
“Yes. He’s such a nice boy, and you’ve no idea, mother, what a inventor he is. He could invent anythink, I do believe—if he tried, and I’m sure he’ll think of some way to help us.”
Mrs Bones was not nearly so hopeful as her daughter in regard to Peter, but as she could think of nothing herself, it was agreed that Tottie should go at once to the Post-Office and inquire after Peter. She did so, and returned crestfallen with the news that Peter was away on a holiday until the following Monday.
“Why, that’s the 15th,” said Mrs Bones anxiously. “You must see him that day, Tottie dear, though I fear it will be too late. How did you find him out? There must be many Peters among the telegraph-boys.”
“To be sure there are, but there are not many Peters who have helped to save a little girl from a fire, you know,” said Tottie, with a knowing look. “They knew who I wanted at once, and his other name is such a funny one; it is Pax—”
“What?” exclaimed Mrs Bones, with a sudden look of surprise.
“Pax, mother; Peter Pax.”
Whatever Mrs Bones might have replied to this was checked by the entrance of her husband. She cautioned Tottie, in earnest, hurried tones, to say nothing about Rosebud Cottage unless asked, and especially to make no mention whatever of the name of Pax.
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