“What can be said about Peace, then?” some of our readers may exclaim. It is true he was a bold bad man, who had but little to recommend him; he was about as bad a sample of the human species as it is possible for us to find. Nevertheless, he had some lighter shades in his character. He was fond of animals, of music; he was not an unkind father. Perhaps there may be what we may term negative qualities, for taken altogether he cannot be deemed anything else than a ruffian or freebooter of the very worst type.
Rawton remained for some time silent, with his head resting on his hands, and Peace was so taken back by the narrative and the deep dejection of the gipsy, that he had not the heart to question him further, and so the two sat in the front parlour of the house in the Evelina-road for some minutes without exchanging a word.
“I’ve known this bloke for a good while,” murmured Peace to himself, “but I’m blessed if he haven’t queered me now and no mistake. Hang the fellow! I’m afraid some parson has got hold of him.”
He took his violin and began to play a prelude to a new piece of music.
“Ah, that’s right,” cried Rawton. “Give us something soft and touching; you know I always like to hear you play.”
“You want something lively, old fellow, to cheer you up,” returned our hero. “You’re down among the dead men just now, and seem inclined to do the snivelling business, which, to say the truth, I should have thought quite out of your line.”
“Don’t be hard on a cove, Charlie—I’m a bit down, I confess; but, fire away, let’s have a tune.”
Peace played a surprising bravura air upon his violin. As the strains of music reached the ears of the gipsy his countenance became radiated with pleasurable emotion.
“That’s grand, an’ no mistake,” he ejaculated. “I wish I could handle the instrument as you do; but that I never shall, it ain’t in me—not, mind you, but I’ve a great liking for it—always had.”
“Well do you feel better, old man?” inquired Peace, with a lurking smile upon his countenance.