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<title>
Jack Sheppard, by W. Harrison Ainsworth
</title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44521 ***</div>
<div style="height: 8em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h1>
JACK SHEPPARD
</h1>
<h3>
VOLUME I (of III)
</h3>
<h2>
A Romance
</h2>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<h2>
By W. Harrison Ainsworth
</h2>
<h4>
1839
</h4>
<div class="middle">
<pre xml:space="preserve">
<i>“Upon my word, friend,” said I, “you have almost made me
long to try what a robber I should make.” “There is a great
art in it, if you did,” quoth he. “Ah! but,” said I,
“there's a great deal in being hanged.”</i>
<i>Life and Actions of Guzman d'Alfarache.</i>
</pre>
</div>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img src="images/008m.jpg" alt="008m" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img src="images/009m.jpg" alt="009m" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
<b>CONTENTS</b>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2H_ILL"> ILLUSTRATIONS: </a>
</p>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703, JONATHAN WILD</b> </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. THE WIDOW AND HER CHILD. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. THE OLD MINT. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. THE MASTER OF THE MINT. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. THE ROOF AND THE WINDOW. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. THE DENUNCIATION. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. THE STORM. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. OLD LONDON BRIDGE. </a>
</p>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2H_4_0009"> <b>EPOCH THE SECOND, 1715, THAMES DARRELL</b>
</a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER I. THE IDLE APPRENTICE. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER II. THAMES DARRELL. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER III. THE JACOBITE. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER IV. MR. KNEEBONE AND HIS FRIENDS. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER V. HAWK AND BUZZARD. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST STEP TOWARDS THE LADDER.
</a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER VII. BROTHER AND SISTER. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER VIII. MICHING MALLECHO. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER IX. CONSEQUENCES OF THE THEFT. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER X. MOTHER AND SON. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XI. THE MOHOCKS. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XII. SAINT GILES'S ROUND-HOUSE. </a>
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2H_ILL" id="link2H_ILL"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<p>
<b>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</b>
</p>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0003"> Mr. Wood offers to adopt little Jack Sheppard
</a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0004"> Jonathan Wild discovers Darrell in the Loft
</a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0009"> The Murder on the Thames </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0010"> The Storm </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0011"> The Name on the Beam </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0013"> “May I be cursed if ever I try to be honest
again” </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0014"> Jack Sheppard exhibits a vindictive character
</a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
<a href="#linkimage-0015"> Jack Sheppard accuses Thames Darrell of Theft
</a>
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703, JONATHAN WILD
</h2>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER I. THE WIDOW AND HER CHILD.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of
eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter
of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man,
with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. This person, whose
age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze
coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget
waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey
worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters,
fastened by small silver buckles. He wore a three-cornered hat, a
sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round
his throat. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were
plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. Still he had a decent
look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. In stature, he
was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek,
snub-nosed, and demure.
</p>
<p>
Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman,
whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable
physiognomy. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured
by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty
crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb
of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds
of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
</p>
<p>
Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a
pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been
for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a
freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue
of the rest of her complexion. She could not be more than twenty; and
though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her
frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not
extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Checking
an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman
addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the
doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well
know how to communicate.
</p>
<p>
“Well, good night, Mr. Wood,” said she, in the deep, hoarse accents of
consumption; “and may God Almighty bless and reward you for your kindness!
You were always the best of masters to my poor husband; and now you've
proved the best of friends to his widow and orphan boy.”
</p>
<p>
“Poh! poh! say no more about it,” rejoined the man hastily. “I've done no
more than my duty, Mrs. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your
thanks. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my comfort.
And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered earlier,
if I'd known where you'd taken refuge after your unfortunate husband's—”
</p>
<p>
“Execution, you would say, Sir,” added Mrs. Sheppard, with a deep sigh,
perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word. “You show
more consideration to the feelings of a hempen widow, than there is any
need to show. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown
callous to both; but I'm <i>not</i> used to compassion, and know not how
to take it. My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full. There
was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes
unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Wood; but they
never come now. I have never wept since that day.”
</p>
<p>
“And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul,”
replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his
eyes, “unless it be tears of joy. Pshaw!” added he, making an effort to
subdue his emotion, “I can't leave you in this way. I must stay a minute
longer, if only to see you smile.”
</p>
<p>
So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the
widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently
just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.
</p>
<p>
The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable
look. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the
floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all
over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the punishment
of Nebuchadnezzar. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red
chalk and charcoal. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths
had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped
and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. Over an old
crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the
counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous
form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other
articles of female attire. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood
a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a
handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a
fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled “<i>Rosa Solis</i>.”
Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be said to be littered,
which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor and filth.
</p>
<p>
Over the chimney-piece was pasted a handbill, purporting to be “<i>The
last Dying Speech and Confession of</i> TOM SHEPPARD, <i>the Notorious
Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of February, 1703.</i>”
This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut, representing the unhappy
malefactor at the place of execution. On one side of the handbill a print
of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of
William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were
just visible above the diadem of the queen. On the other a wretched
engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the
label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that
the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of
Jacobitism.
</p>
<p>
Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed
certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, “<i>Paul
Groves, cobler;</i>” and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the
following record of the poor fellow's fate, “<i>Hung himsel' in this rum
for luv off licker;</i>” accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy
suicide dangling from a beam. A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck,
shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident
kindness of Mr. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables than might
have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and
a flask of wine.
</p>
<p>
“You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood, glancing round the
chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.
</p>
<p>
“It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir,” rejoined the widow; “but, poor as it
is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course—of course,” returned Wood, hastily; “anything's better
than that. But take a drop of wine,” urged he, filling a drinking-horn and
presenting it to her; “it's choice canary, and'll do you good. And now,
come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together.
When things are at the worst, they'll mend. Take my word for it, your
troubles are over.”
</p>
<p>
“I hope they are, Sir,” answered Mrs. Sheppard, with a faint smile and a
doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside him, “for
I've had my full share of misery. But I don't look for peace on this side
the grave.”
</p>
<p>
“Nonsense!” cried Wood; “while there's life there's hope. Never be
down-hearted. Besides,” added he, opening the shawl in which the infant
was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly,
but placid features, “it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this
to comfort you. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. Like
carpenter, like chips.”
</p>
<p>
“That likeness is the chief cause of my misery,” replied the widow,
shuddering. “Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and a
comfort to me. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but
lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him
now. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to
his father,—when I think of that father's shameful ending, and
recollect how free from guilt <i>he</i> once was,—at such times, Mr.
Wood, despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far
dearer than my own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any
minute, I have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow
up to be a man, and be exposed to his father's temptations—rather
than he should live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father.
And, when I have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and
thinner every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard.”
</p>
<p>
“Marriage and hanging go by destiny,” observed Wood, after a pause; “but I
trust your child is reserved for a better fate than either, Mrs.
Sheppard.”
</p>
<p>
The latter part of this speech was delivered with so much significance of
manner, that a bystander might have inferred that Mr. Wood was not
particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections.
</p>
<p>
“Goodness only knows what he's reserved for,” rejoined the widow in a
desponding tone; “but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at
the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his
bed.”
</p>
<p>
“Save us!” exclaimed Wood. “And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's
his outlandish name?”
</p>
<p>
“Van Galgebrok,” replied the widow. “He's the famous Dutch conjuror who
foretold King William's accident and death, last February but one, a month
before either event happened, and gave out that another prince over the
water would soon enjoy his own again; for which he was committed to
Newgate, and whipped at the cart's tail. He went by another name then,—Rykhart
Scherprechter I think he called himself. His fellow-prisoners nicknamed
him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had of picking out all those who
were destined to the gibbet. He was never known to err, and was as much
dreaded as the jail-fever in consequence. He singled out my poor husband
from a crowd of other felons; and you know how right he was in that case,
Sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, marry,” replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not
think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict
the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might
entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the
conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. “What did the old fellow
judge from, eh, Joan?” asked he.
</p>
<p>
“From a black mole under the child's right ear, shaped like a coffin,
which is a bad sign; and a deep line just above the middle of the left
thumb, meeting round about in the form of a noose, which is a worse,”
replied Mrs. Sheppard. “To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little
thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in
Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever
finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping or
waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible
visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir—but,
perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his
time, on the very day his poor father suffered.”
</p>
<p>
“Lord bless us!” ejaculated Wood, “how shocking! No, I did <i>not</i> know
that.”
</p>
<p>
“You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir,” urged
the widow.
</p>
<p>
“See the devil!—not I,” cried Wood impatiently. “I didn't think
you'd been so easily fooled, Joan.”
</p>
<p>
“Fooled or not,” returned Mrs. Sheppard mysteriously, “old Van told me <i>one</i>
thing which has come true already.”
</p>
<p>
“What's that?” asked Wood with some curiosity.
</p>
<p>
“He said, by way of comfort, I suppose, after the fright he gave me at
first, that the child would find a friend within twenty-four hours, who
would stand by him through life.”
</p>
<p>
“A friend is not so soon gained as lost,” replied Wood; “but how has the
prediction been fulfilled, Joan, eh?”
</p>
<p>
“I thought you would have guessed, Sir,” replied the widow, timidly. “I'm
sure little Jack has but one friend beside myself, in the world, and
that's more than I would have ventured to say for him yesterday. However,
I've not told you all; for old Van <i>did</i> say something about the
child saving his new-found friend's life at the time of meeting; but how
that's to happen, I'm sure I can't guess.”
</p>
<p>
“Nor any one else in his senses,” rejoined Wood, with a laugh. “It's not
very likely that a babby of nine months old will save <i>my</i> life, if
I'm to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. Sheppard. But I've not
promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest
lad,—mind that. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his
poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever
handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all
crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. As long as your
son observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't desire it, Sir,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, meekly.
</p>
<p>
“There's an old proverb,” continued Wood, rising and walking towards the
fire, “which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll
creep out at your elbow.' But I don't value that, because I think it
applies to one who marries a widow with encumbrances; and that's not my
case, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Sir,” gasped Mrs. Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“Well, my dear, I've a proposal to make in regard to this babby of yours,
which may, or may not, be agreeable. All I can say is, it's well meant;
and I may add, I'd have made it five minutes ago, if you'd given me the
opportunity.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/034s.jpg" alt="034s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/034.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/034m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
“Pray come to the point, Sir,” said Mrs. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed by
this preamble.
</p>
<p>
“I <i>am</i> coming to the point, Joan. The more haste, the worse speed—better
the feet slip than the tongue. However, to cut a long matter short, my
proposal's this:—I've taken a fancy to your bantling, and, as I've
no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and that of Mrs. Wood,
(for I never do anything without consulting my better half,) I'll take the
boy, educate him, and bring him up to my own business of a carpenter.”
</p>
<p>
The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Joan,” said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her
steadfastly for a few moments, “what say you?—silence gives consent,
eh?”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by
emotion.
</p>
<p>
“Shall I take the babby home with me!” persisted Wood, in a tone between
jest and earnest.
</p>
<p>
“I cannot part with him,” replied the widow, bursting into tears; “indeed,
indeed, I cannot.”
</p>
<p>
“So I've found out the way to move her,” thought the carpenter; “those
tears will do her some good, at all events. Not part with him!” added he
aloud. “Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune <i>surely</i>?
I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. Remember what the conjuror
said.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>do</i> remember it, Sir,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, “and am most
grateful for your offer. But I dare not accept it.”
</p>
<p>
“Dare not!” echoed the carpenter; “I don't understand you, Joan.”
</p>
<p>
“I mean to say, Sir,” answered Mrs. Sheppard in a troubled voice, “that if
I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. I have
neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only <i>him</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“If I ask you to part with him, my good woman, it's to better his
condition, I suppose, ain't it?” rejoined Wood angrily; for, though he had
no serious intention of carrying his proposal into effect, he was rather
offended at having it declined. “It's not an offer,” continued he, “that
I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year.”
</p>
<p>
And muttering some remarks, which we do not care to repeat, reflecting
upon the consistency of the sex, he was preparing once more to depart,
when Mrs. Sheppard stopped him.
</p>
<p>
“Give me till to-morrow,” implored she, “and if I <i>can</i> bring myself
to part with him, you shall have him without another word.”
</p>
<p>
“Take time to consider of it,” replied Wood sulkily, “there's no hurry.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't be angry with me, Sir,” cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, “pray
don't. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you
what hardships I have undergone—to what frightful extremities I have
been reduced—and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty
subsistence for this child's sake,—if you could feel what it is to
stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me,
and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the
wretched,—if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the
knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to
me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,—if
you were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach
me, because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would
break my heart. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I
may be able to part with him then.”
</p>
<p>
The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had
previously been with Mrs. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could command his
feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention of her
distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty execration upon
his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither separate her from her
child, nor suffer any one else to separate them.
</p>
<p>
“Plague on't!” added he: “I never meant to take your babby from you. But
I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended. I
was to blame to carry the matter so far. However, confession of a fault
makes half amends for it. A time <i>may</i> come when this little chap
will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in
Owen Wood.”
</p>
<p>
As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of
his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused him
from his slumbers. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed
them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a
low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the
caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if
imploring protection.
</p>
<p>
“I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,” observed
Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.
</p>
<p>
“I don't think he would,” acquiesced the carpenter. “No friend like the
mother, for the babby knows no other.”
</p>
<p>
“And that's true,” rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; “for if I had <i>not</i> been a
mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a widow.”
</p>
<p>
“You mustn't think of that, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood in a soothing tone.
</p>
<p>
“I can't help thinking of it, Sir,” answered the widow. “I can never get
poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at
Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify
myself somehow. The dismal tolling of St. Sepulchre's bell is for ever
ringing in my ears—oh!”
</p>
<p>
“If that's the case,” observed Wood, “I'm surprised you should like to
have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the
chimney-piece.”
</p>
<p>
“I'd good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don't question me about
them now, or you'll drive me mad,” returned Mrs. Sheppard wildly.
</p>
<p>
“Well, well, we'll say no more about it,” replied Wood; “and, by way of
changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong
waters for consolation, Joan. One nail drives out another, it's true; but
the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin Lane's the nearest
road to the churchyard.”
</p>
<p>
“It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I
care not,” retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused
into sudden eloquence. “To those who, like me, have never been able to get
out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge,
and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it
may kill me,—perhaps it <i>is</i> killing me:—but so would
hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. I should have gone
mad without it. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off
against the rich man's luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It
may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures
present happiness, and that is sufficient. When I have traversed the
streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I
have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought
shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and
stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or,
worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible
temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when
I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of
this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. Old
thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and
I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now.” And she burst
into a wild hysterical laugh.
</p>
<p>
“Poor creature!” ejaculated Wood. “Do you call this frantic glee
happiness?”
</p>
<p>
“It's all the happiness I have known for years,” returned the widow,
becoming suddenly calm, “and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. I
tell you what, Mr. Wood,” added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly
look, “gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage
exist, it will be drunk.”
</p>
<p>
“God forbid!” exclaimed Wood, fervently; and, as if afraid of prolonging
the interview, he added, with some precipitation, “But I must be going:
I've stayed here too long already. You shall hear from me to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“Stay!” said Mrs. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. “I've just
recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to
give you when I could find an opportunity.”
</p>
<p>
“A key!” exclaimed Wood eagerly. “I lost a very valuable one some time
ago. What's it like, Joan?”
</p>
<p>
“It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards.”
</p>
<p>
“It's mine, I'll be sworn,” rejoined Wood. “Well, who'd have thought of
finding it in this unexpected way!”
</p>
<p>
“Don't be too sure till you see it,” said the widow. “Shall I fetch it for
you, Sir?”
</p>
<p>
“By all means.”
</p>
<p>
“I must trouble you to hold the child, then, for a minute, while I run up
to the garret, where I've hidden it for safety,” said Mrs. Sheppard. “I
think I <i>may</i> trust him with you, Sir,” added she, taking up the
candle.
</p>
<p>
“Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear,” replied Wood,
receiving the little burthen with a laugh. “Poor thing!” muttered he, as
the widow departed on her errand, “she's seen better days and better
circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. Strange, I could never
learn her history. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never
tell whom he married. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much too good
for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's wife, still
less what is she now. Her heart's in the right place, at all events; and,
since that's the case, the rest may perhaps come round,—that is, if
she gets through her present illness. A dry cough's the trumpeter of
death. If that's true, she's not long for this world. As to this little
fellow, in spite of the Dutchman, who, in my opinion, is more of a
Jacobite than a conjurer, and more of a knave than either, he shall never
mount a horse foaled by an acorn, if I can help it.”
</p>
<p>
The course of the carpenter's meditations was here interrupted by a loud
note of lamentation from the child, who, disturbed by the transfer, and
not receiving the gentle solace to which he was ordinarily accustomed,
raised his voice to the utmost, and exerted his feeble strength to escape.
For a few moments Mr. Wood dandled his little charge to and fro, after the
most approved nursery fashion, essaying at the same time the soothing
influence of an infantine melody proper to the occasion; but, failing in
his design, he soon lost all patience, and being, as we have before
hinted, rather irritable, though extremely well-meaning, he lifted the
unhappy bantling in the air, and shook him with so much good will, that he
had well-nigh silenced him most effectually. A brief calm succeeded. But
with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter,
with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his
lantern, opened the door, and walked out.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER II. THE OLD MINT.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>rs. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings,
called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane,
running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the
brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens
in the direction of Saint George's Fields. The neighbouring houses were
tenanted by the lowest order of insolvent traders, thieves, mendicants,
and other worthless and nefarious characters, who fled thither to escape
from their creditors, or to avoid the punishment due to their different
offenses; for we may observe that the Old Mint, although it had been
divested of some of its privileges as a sanctuary by a recent statute
passed in the reign of William the Third, still presented a safe asylum to
the debtor, and even continued to do so until the middle of the reign of
George the First, when the crying nature of the evil called loudly for a
remedy, and another and more sweeping enactment entirely took away its
immunities. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to
dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the
Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the
grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. Infested
by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few
degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate
neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. And yet, on the very site
of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the
felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the
object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago,
stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of
Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes
of loyalty and valour. Suffolk House, as Brandon's palace was denominated,
was subsequently converted into a mint by his royal brother-in-law, Henry
the Eighth; and, after its demolition, and the removal of the place of
coinage to the Tower, the name was still continued to the district in
which it had been situated.
</p>
<p>
Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of
desolation and misery. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. The roof
was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the side-walls bulged,
and were supported by a piece of timber propped against the opposite
house; the glass in most of the windows was broken, and its place supplied
with paper; while, in some cases, the very frames of the windows had been
destroyed, and the apertures were left free to the airs of heaven. On the
groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly,
altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being
patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of
iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment,
Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded.
</p>
<p>
It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Sheppard
was enabled to take possession of the premises. In a fit of despondency,
superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself; and when the body
was discovered, after a lapse of some months, such was the impression
produced by the spectacle—such the alarm occasioned by the crazy
state of the building, and, above all, by the terror inspired by strange
and unearthly noises heard during the night, which were, of course,
attributed to the spirit of the suicide, that the place speedily enjoyed
the reputation of being haunted, and was, consequently, entirely
abandoned. In this state Mrs. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed
her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in discovering
that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols of a legion
of rats.
</p>
<p>
A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main
thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood
Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.
</p>
<p>
As Mrs. Sheppard did not make her appearance quite so soon as he expected,
the carpenter became a little fidgetty, and, having succeeded in
tranquillizing the child, he thought proper to walk so far down the entry
as would enable him to reconnoitre the upper windows of the house. A light
was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere,
for the night was raw and overcast. This light did not remain stationary,
but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof,
and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes
of the casement. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but
he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if
she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud
noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen
upon the floor.
</p>
<p>
Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his
attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the
swiftness of desperation. This individual apparently met with some
impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps
when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood
stood.
</p>
<p>
Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,—for he was completely out
of breath,—the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the
carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast
of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to
divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he threw over Wood's
shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the
approach of his pursuers.
</p>
<p>
The appearance of the new-comer was extremely prepossessing; and, after
his trepidation had a little subsided, Wood began to regard him with some
degree of interest. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely
less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature;
and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be
worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. His figure was
tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though
somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern.
</p>
<p>
At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the
weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood
altered the position of the bundle. The stranger turned his head at the
sound.
</p>
<p>
“By Heaven!” cried he in a tone of surprise, “you have an infant there?”
</p>
<p>
“To be sure I have,” replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the
intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he
thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit. “It's very
well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to death with this
confounded clothes'-bag. But some people have no consideration.”
</p>
<p>
“That child may be the means of saving me,” muttered the stranger, as if
struck by a new idea: “I shall gain time by the expedient. Do you live
here?”
</p>
<p>
“Not exactly,” answered the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“No matter. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter.
Ha!” exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded
at no great distance along the thoroughfare, “not a moment is to be lost.
Give me that precious charge,” he added, snatching the bundle from Wood.
“If I escape, I will reward you. Your name?”
</p>
<p>
“Owen Wood,” replied the carpenter; “I've no reason to be ashamed of it.
And now, a fair exchange, Sir. Yours?”
</p>
<p>
The stranger hesitated. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen
flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses.
</p>
<p>
“My name is Darrell,” said the fugitive hastily. “But, if you are
discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life. Wrap yourself in
my cloak, and keep it. Remember! not a word!”
</p>
<p>
So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood's shoulders, dashed the lantern
to the ground, and extinguished the light. A moment afterwards, the door
was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone.
</p>
<p>
“Mercy on us!” cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his
frame. “The Dutchman was right, after all.”
</p>
<p>
This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a pistol
was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.
</p>
<p>
“I have him!” cried a voice in triumph.
</p>
<p>
A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by
the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. This person was
speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux.
</p>
<p>
“Mur—der!” roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his
assailant, by whom he was half strangled.
</p>
<p>
“Damnation!” exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious tone,
snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full upon the
face of the carpenter; “this is not the villain, Sir Cecil.”
</p>
<p>
“So I find, Rowland,” replied the other, in accents of deep
disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. “I could
have sworn I saw him enter this passage. And how comes his cloak on this
knave's shoulders?”
</p>
<p>
“It is his cloak, of a surety,” returned Rowland “Harkye, sirrah,”
continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; “where is the person from whom
you received this mantle?”
</p>
<p>
“Throttling a man isn't the way to make him answer questions,” replied the
carpenter, doggedly. “You'll get nothing out of me, I can promise you,
unless you show a little more civility.”
</p>
<p>
“We waste time with this fellow,” interposed Sir Cecil, “and may lose the
object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this building.
Let us search it.”
</p>
<p>
Just then, the infant began to sob piteously.
</p>
<p>
“Hist!” cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. “Do you hear that! We are
not wholly at fault. The dog-fox cannot be far off, since the cub is
found.”
</p>
<p>
With these words, he tore the mantle from Wood's back, and, perceiving the
child, endeavoured to seize it. In this attempt he was, however, foiled by
the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the door, against
which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously with his heel.
</p>
<p>
“Joan! Joan!” vociferated he, “open the door, for God's sake, or I shall
be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I say.”
</p>
<p>
“Knock him on the head,” thundered Sir Cecil, “or we shall have the watch
upon us.”
</p>
<p>
“No fear of that,” rejoined Rowland: “such vermin never dare to show
themselves in this privileged district. All we have to apprehend is a
rescue.”
</p>
<p>
The hint was not lost upon Wood. He tried to raise an outcry, but his
throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland.
</p>
<p>
“Another such attempt,” said the latter, “and you are a dead man. Yield up
the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested.”
</p>
<p>
“I will yield it to no one but its mother,” answered Wood.
</p>
<p>
“'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?” cried Rowland fiercely. “Give me
the child, or—”
</p>
<p>
As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Sheppard staggered forward.
She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though bewildered, did
not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been anticipated from the
strange and perplexing scene presented to her view.
</p>
<p>
“Take it,” cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; “take it, and fly.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. But before the child could be
committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland.
</p>
<p>
“These people are all in league with him,” cried the latter. “But don't
wait for me, Sir Cecil. Enter the house with your men. I'll dispose of the
brat.”
</p>
<p>
This injunction was instantly obeyed. The knight and his followers crossed
the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them.
</p>
<p>
“Davies,” said Rowland, delivering the babe, with a meaning look, to his
attendant.
</p>
<p>
“I understand, Sir,” replied Davies, drawing a little aside. And, setting
down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.
</p>
<p>
“My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not so
much as scream for help?” said Wood, staring at the widow with a look of
surprise and horror. “Woman, your wits are fled!”
</p>
<p>
And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur
distractedly, “I can't find the key.”
</p>
<p>
“Devil take the key!” ejaculated Wood. “They're about to murder your child—<i>your</i>
child, I tell you! Do you comprehend what I say, Joan?”
</p>
<p>
“I've hurt my head,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her
temples.
</p>
<p>
And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood
coursing slowly down her cheek.
</p>
<p>
At this moment, Davies, who had completed his preparations, extinguished
the torch.
</p>
<p>
“It's all over,” groaned Wood, “and perhaps it's as well her senses are
gone. However, I'll make a last effort to save the poor little creature,
if it costs me my life.”
</p>
<p>
And, with this generous resolve, he shouted at the top of his voice,
“Arrest! arrest! help! help!” seconding the words with a shrill and
peculiar cry, well known at the time to the inhabitants of the quarter in
which it was uttered.
</p>
<p>
In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of the
street.
</p>
<p>
“Arrest!” vociferated Wood. “Mint! Mint!”
</p>
<p>
“Death and hell!” cried Rowland, making a furious pass at the carpenter,
who fortunately avoided the thrust in the darkness; “will nothing silence
you?”
</p>
<p>
“Help!” ejaculated Wood, renewing his cries. “Arrest!”
</p>
<p>
“Jigger closed!” shouted a hoarse voice in reply. “All's bowman, my covey.
Fear nothing. We'll be upon the ban-dogs before they can shake their
trotters!”
</p>
<p>
And the alarm was sounded more loudly than ever.
</p>
<p>
Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the thoroughfare;
this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and more remote
blast, took up the note of alarm. The whole neighbourhood was disturbed. A
garrison called to arms at dead of night on the sudden approach of the
enemy, could not have been more expeditiously, or effectually aroused.
Rattles were sprung; lanterns lighted, and hoisted at the end of poles;
windows thrown open; doors unbarred; and, as if by magic, the street was
instantaneously filled with a crowd of persons of both sexes, armed with
such weapons as came most readily to hand, and dressed in such garments as
could be most easily slipped on. Hurrying in the direction of the supposed
arrest, they encouraged each other with shouts, and threatened the
offending parties with their vengeance.
</p>
<p>
Regardless as the gentry of the Mint usually were (for, indeed, they had
become habituated from their frequent occurrence to such scenes,) of any
outrages committed in their streets; deaf, as they had been, to the recent
scuffle before Mrs. Sheppard's door, they were always sufficiently on the
alert to maintain their privileges, and to assist each other against the
attacks of their common enemy—the sheriff's officer. It was only by
the adoption of such a course (especially since the late act of
suppression, to which we have alluded,) that the inviolability of the
asylum could be preserved. Incursions were often made upon its territories
by the functionaries of the law; sometimes attended with success, but more
frequently with discomfiture; and it rarely happened, unless by stratagem
or bribery, that (in the language of the gentlemen of the short staff) an
important caption could be effected. In order to guard against accidents
or surprises, watchmen, or scouts, (as they were styled,) were stationed
at the three main outlets of the sanctuary ready to give the signal in the
manner just described: bars were erected, which, in case of emergency;
could be immediately stretched across the streets: doors were attached to
the alleys; and were never opened without due precautions; gates were
affixed to the courts, wickets to the gates, and bolts to the wickets. The
back windows of the houses (where any such existed) were strongly
barricaded, and kept constantly shut; and the fortress was, furthermore,
defended by high walls and deep ditches in those quarters where it
appeared most exposed. There was also a Maze, (the name is still retained
in the district,) into which the debtor could run, and through the
intricacies of which it was impossible for an officer to follow him,
without a clue. Whoever chose to incur the risk of so doing might enter
the Mint at any hour; but no one was suffered to depart without giving a
satisfactory account of himself, or producing a pass from the Master. In
short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by
this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or molestation.
Whitefriars had lost its privileges; Salisbury Court and the Savoy no
longer offered places of refuge to the debtor; and it was, therefore,
doubly requisite that the Island of Bermuda (as the Mint was termed by its
occupants) should uphold its rights, as long as it was able to do so.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. Aware that not a moment was to
be lost, if he meant to render any effectual assistance to the child, he
ceased shouting, and defending himself in the best way he could from the
attacks of Rowland, by whom he was closely pressed, forced his way, in
spite of all opposition, to Davies, and dealt him a blow on the head with
such good will that, had it not been for the intervention of the wall, the
ruffian must have been prostrated. Before he could recover from the
stunning effects of the blow, Wood possessed himself of the child: and,
untying the noose which had been slipped round its throat, had the
satisfaction of hearing it cry lustily.
</p>
<p>
At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold.
</p>
<p>
“He has escaped!” exclaimed the knight; “we have searched every corner of
the house without finding a trace of him.”
</p>
<p>
“Back!” cried Rowland. “Don't you hear those shouts? Yon fellow's clamour
has brought the whole horde of jail-birds and cut-throats that infest this
place about our ears. We shall be torn in pieces if we are discovered.
Davies!” he added, calling to the attendant, who was menacing Wood with a
severe retaliation, “don't heed him; but, if you value a whole skin, come
into the house, and bring that woman with you. She may afford us some
necessary information.”
</p>
<p>
Davies reluctantly complied. And, dragging Mrs. Sheppard, who made no
resistance, along with him, entered the house, the door of which was
instantly shut and barricaded.
</p>
<p>
A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of torchlight,
and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of weapons, and the
braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first detachment of
Minters.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood rushed instantly to meet them.
</p>
<p>
“Hurrah!” shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. “Saved!”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, ay, it's all bob, my covey! You're safe enough, that's certain!”
responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around him
like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; “but, where are
the lurchers?”
</p>
<p>
“Who?” asked Wood.
</p>
<p>
“The traps!” responded a bystander.
</p>
<p>
“The shoulder-clappers!” added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the
party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments
for her own petticoats.
</p>
<p>
“The ban-dogs!” thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations
had procured him the nickname of “The long drover of the Borough market.”
</p>
<p>
“Where are they?”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, where are they?” chorussed the mob, flourishing their various
weapons, and flashing their torches in the air; “we'll starve 'em out.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood trembled. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very
difficult, if not impossible, to allay. He knew not what to say, or what
to do; and his confusion was increased by the threatening gestures and
furious looks of the ruffians in his immediate vicinity.
</p>
<p>
“I don't understand you, gentlemen,” stammered he, at length.
</p>
<p>
“What does he say?” roared the long drover.
</p>
<p>
“He says he don't understand flash,” replied the lady in gentleman's
attire.
</p>
<p>
“Cease your confounded clutter!” said a young man, whose swarthy visage,
seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. “You
frighten the cull out of his senses. It's plain he don't understand our
lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;” and as he said this he
strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him on the shoulder, propounded
the following questions, accompanying each interrogation with a formidable
contortion of countenance. “Curse you! Where are the bailiffs? Rot you!
have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could bawl loud enough a
moment ago!”
</p>
<p>
“Silence, Blueskin!” interposed an authoritative voice, immediately behind
the ruffian. “Let me have a word with the cull!”
</p>
<p>
“Ay! ay!” cried several of the bystanders, “let Jonathan kimbaw the cove.
He's got the gift of the gab.”
</p>
<p>
The crowd accordingly drew aside, and the individual, in whose behalf the
movement had been made immediately stepped forward. He was a young man of
about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in
dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the
indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. His eyes
were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. A
physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and
it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a
comparison. The nose was long and sharp, the chin pointed, the forehead
broad and flat, and connected, without any intervening hollow, with the
eyelid; the teeth when displayed, seemed to reach from ear to ear. Then
his beard was of a reddish hue, and his complexion warm and sanguine.
Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes
open. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his
customary vigilance. Certain it was, that the slightest sound aroused him.
This astute personage was somewhat under the middle size, but fairly
proportioned, inclining rather to strength than symmetry, and abounding
more in muscle than in flesh.
</p>
<p>
It would seem, from the attention which he evidently bestowed upon the
hidden and complex machinery of the grand system of villany at work around
him, that his chief object in taking up his quarters in the Mint, must
have been to obtain some private information respecting the habits and
practices of its inhabitants, to be turned to account hereafter.
</p>
<p>
Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him, and
demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken refuge in the
adjoining house, were bailiffs.
</p>
<p>
“Not that I know of,” replied the carpenter, who had in some degree
recovered his confidence.
</p>
<p>
“Then I presume you've not been arrested?”
</p>
<p>
“I have not,” answered Wood firmly.
</p>
<p>
“I guessed as much. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have occasioned
this disturbance.”
</p>
<p>
“Because this child's life was threatened by the persons you have
mentioned,” rejoined Wood.
</p>
<p>
“An excellent reason, i' faith!” exclaimed Blueskin, with a roar of
surprise and indignation, which was echoed by the whole assemblage. “And
so we're to be summoned from our beds and snug firesides, because a kid
happens to squall, eh? By the soul of my grandmother, but this is too
good!”
</p>
<p>
“Do you intend to claim the privileges of the Mint?” said Jonathan, calmly
pursuing his interrogations amid the uproar. “Is your person in danger?”
</p>
<p>
“Not from my creditors,” replied Wood, significantly.
</p>
<p>
“Will he post the cole? Will he come down with the dues? Ask him that?”
cried Blueskin.
</p>
<p>
“You hear,” pursued Jonathan; “my friend desires to know if you are
willing to pay your footing as a member of the ancient and respectable
fraternity of debtors?”
</p>
<p>
“I owe no man a farthing, and my name shall never appear in any such
rascally list,” replied Wood angrily. “I don't see why I should be obliged
to pay for doing my duty. I tell you this child would have been strangled.
The noose was at its throat when I called for help. I knew it was in vain
to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Sir, I must say you deserve some credit for your ingenuity, at all
events,” replied Jonathan, repressing a smile; “but, before you put out
your foot so far, it would have been quite as prudent to consider how you
were to draw it back again. For my own part, I don't see in what way it is
to be accomplished, except by the payment of our customary fees. Do not
imagine you can at one moment avail yourself of our excellent regulations
(with which you seem sufficiently well acquainted), and the next break
them with impunity. If you assume the character of a debtor for your own
convenience, you must be content to maintain it for ours. If you have not
been arrested, we have been disturbed; and it is but just and reasonable
you should pay for occasioning such disturbance. By your own showing you
are in easy circumstances,—for it is only natural to presume that a
man who owes nothing must be in a condition to pay liberally,—and
you cannot therefore feel the loss of such a trifle as ten guineas.”
</p>
<p>
However illogical and inconclusive these arguments might appear to Mr.
Wood, and however he might dissent from the latter proposition, he did not
deem it expedient to make any reply; and the orator proceeded with his
harangue amid the general applause of the assemblage.
</p>
<p>
“I am perhaps exceeding my authority in demanding so slight a sum,”
continued Jonathan, modestly, “and the Master of the Mint may not be
disposed to let you off so lightly. He will be here in a moment or so, and
you will then learn his determination. In the mean time, let me advise you
as a friend not to irritate him by a refusal, which would be as useless as
vexatious. He has a very summary mode of dealing with refractory persons,
I assure you. My best endeavours shall be used to bring you off, on the
easy terms I have mentioned.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you call ten guineas easy terms?” cried Wood, with a look of dismay.
“Why, I should expect to purchase the entire freehold of the Mint for less
money.”
</p>
<p>
“Many a man has been glad to pay double the amount to get his head from
under the Mint pump,” observed Blueskin, gruffly.
</p>
<p>
“Let the gentleman take his own course,” said Jonathan, mildly. “I should
be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might
disapprove.”
</p>
<p>
“Exactly my sentiments,” rejoined Blueskin. “I wouldn't force him for the
world: but if he don't tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he don't get a
taste of the <i>aqua pompaginis</i>. Let's have a look at the kinchen that
<i>ought</i> to have been throttled,” added he, snatching the child from
Wood. “My stars! here's a pretty lullaby-cheat to make a fuss about—ho!
ho!”
</p>
<p>
“Deal with me as you think proper, gentlemen,” exclaimed Wood; “but, for
mercy's sake don't harm the child! Let it be taken to its mother.”
</p>
<p>
“And who is its mother?” asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. “Tell me
frankly, and speak under your breath. Your own safety—the child's
safety—depends upon your candour.”
</p>
<p>
While Mr. Wood underwent this examination, Blueskin felt a small and
trembling hand placed upon his own, and, turning at the summons, beheld a
young female, whose features were partially concealed by a loo, or half
mask, standing beside him. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of
feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness
of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. Her figure
was, in some measure, hidden by a large scarf, and a deep hood drawn over
the head contributed to her disguise; still it was evident, from her lofty
bearing, that she had nothing in common, except an interest in their
proceedings, with the crew by whom she was surrounded.
</p>
<p>
Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were
questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was
about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a
gesture of silence from the lady.
</p>
<p>
“Hush!” said she, in a low, but agitated voice; “would you earn this
purse?”
</p>
<p>
“I've no objection,” replied Blueskin, in a tone intended to be gentle,
but which sounded like the murmuring whine of a playful bear. “How much is
there in it!”
</p>
<p>
“It contains gold,” replied the lady; “but I will add this ring.”
</p>
<p>
“What am I to do to earn it?” asked Blueskin, with a disgusting leer,—“cut
a throat—or throw myself at your feet—eh, my dear?”
</p>
<p>
“Give me that child,” returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the
loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! I see!” replied Blueskin, winking significantly, “Come nearer, or
they'll observe us. Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. I'm always
agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse into
my hand. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it
better. And now for the fawney—the ring I mean. I'm no great judge
of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste
upon me.”
</p>
<p>
“It is a diamond,” said the lady, in an agony of distress,—“the
child!”
</p>
<p>
“A diamond! Here, take the kid,” cried Blueskin, slipping the infant
adroitly under her scarf. “And so this is a diamond,” added he,
contemplating the brilliant from the hollow of his hand: “it does sparkle
almost as brightly as your ogles. By the by, my dear, I forgot to ask your
name—perhaps you'll oblige me with it now? Hell and the devil!—gone!”
</p>
<p>
He looked around in vain. The lady had disappeared.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER III. THE MASTER OF THE MINT.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>onathan, meanwhile, having ascertained the parentage of the child from
Wood, proceeded to question him in an under tone, as to the probable
motives of the attempt upon its life; and, though he failed in obtaining
any information on this point, he had little difficulty in eliciting such
particulars of the mysterious transaction as have already been recounted.
When the carpenter concluded his recital, Jonathan was for a moment lost
in reflection.
</p>
<p>
“Devilish strange!” thought he, chuckling to himself; “queer business!
Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand
the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. He must be
a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my knowledge. I've a shrewd guess
where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. These bloods will pay
well for his capture; if not, <i>he'll</i> pay well to get out of their
hands; so I'm safe either way—ha! ha! Blueskin,” he added aloud, and
motioning that worthy, “follow me.”
</p>
<p>
Upon which, he set off in the direction of the entry. His progress,
however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the
Master of the Mint and his train.
</p>
<p>
Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a “goodly portly man,
and a corpulent,” whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he
entertained for good liquor and good living. He had a quick, shrewd, merry
eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. It
was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to perceive
that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no means of
rare occurrence. So far as regards his attire, Baptist was not seen to
advantage. No great lover of state or state costume at any time, he was
generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in dishabille, and
in this condition he now presented himself to his subjects. His shirt was
unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck
into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown,
his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a
gold-edged hat. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron
was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a
rolling-pin.
</p>
<p>
The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as
portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. The costume
of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a
masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour
forbidden any such supposition. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown
frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch slops,
made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red stockings with
black clocks, and a fur cap. The owner of this dress had a broad
weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled beard.
Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word
with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a
broadbowled Dutch pipe.
</p>
<p>
Behind the illustrious personages just described marched a troop of
stalwart fellows, with white badges in their hats, quarterstaves, oaken
cudgels, and links in their hands. These were the Master's body-guard.
</p>
<p>
Advancing towards the Master, and claiming an audience, which was
instantly granted, Jonathan, without much circumlocution, related the sum
of the strange story he had just learnt from Wood, omitting nothing except
a few trifling particulars, which he thought it politic to keep back; and,
with this view, he said not a word of there being any probability of
capturing the fugitive, but, on the contrary, roundly asserted that his
informant had witnessed that person's escape.
</p>
<p>
The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at
its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of
his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his
phlegmatic companion. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply,
coughed as only a Dutchman <i>can</i> cough, and raising his hand from the
bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as
the Master.
</p>
<p>
Putting his own construction upon this mute interchange of opinions,
Jonathan ventured to observe, that it certainly was a very perplexing
case, but that he thought something <i>might</i> be made of it, and, if
left to him, he would undertake to manage the matter to the Master's
entire satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
“Ja, ja, Muntmeester,” said the Dutchman, removing the pipe from his
mouth, and speaking in a deep and guttural voice, “leave the affair to
Johannes. He'll settle it bravely. And let ush go back to our brandewyn,
and hollandsche genever. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers
on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb,
dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant
complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened,
and of which its poor vader died. Myn Got! hanging runs in some families,
Muntmeester. It's hereditary, like de jigt, vat you call it—gout—haw!
haw!”
</p>
<p>
“If the child <i>is</i> destined to the gibbet, Van Galgebrok,” replied
the Master, joining in the laugh, “it'll never be choked by a footman's
cravat, that's certain; but, in regard to going back empty-handed,”
continued he, altering his tone, and assuming a dignified air, “it's quite
out of the question. With Baptist Kettleby, to engage in a matter is to go
through with it. Besides, this is an affair which no one but myself can
settle. Common offences may be decided upon by deputy; but outrages
perpetrated by men of rank, as these appear to be, must be judged by the
Master of the Mint in person. These are the decrees of the Island of
Bermuda, and I will never suffer its excellent laws to be violated.
Gentlemen of the Mint,” added he, pointing with his truncheon towards Mrs.
Sheppard's house, “forward!”
</p>
<p>
“Hurrah!” shouted the mob, and the whole phalanx was put in motion in that
direction. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from cow's
horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut, with other
sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this harmonious
accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best possible
spirits for an encounter.
</p>
<p>
“Let us in,” said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively
against the boards, “or we'll force an entrance.”
</p>
<p>
But as no answer was returned to the summons, though it was again, and
more peremptorily, repeated, Baptist seized a mallet from a bystander and
burst open the door. Followed by Van Galgebrok and others of his retinue,
he then rushed into the room, where Rowland, Sir Cecil, and their
attendants, stood with drawn swords prepared to receive them.
</p>
<p>
“Beat down their blades,” cried the Master; “no bloodshed.”
</p>
<p>
“Beat out their brains, you mean,” rejoined Blueskin with a tremendous
imprecation; “no half measures now, Master.”
</p>
<p>
“Hadn't you better hold a moment's parley with the gentlemen before
proceeding to extremities?” suggested Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“Agreed,” responded the Master. “Surely,” he added, staring at Rowland,
“either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—”
</p>
<p>
“You are not mistaken, Baptist,” returned Rowland with a gesture of
silence; “it is your old friend. I'm glad to recognise you.”
</p>
<p>
“And I'm glad your worship's recognition doesn't come too late,” observed
the Master. “But why didn't you make yourself known at once?”
</p>
<p>
“I'd forgotten the office you hold in the Mint, Baptist,” replied Rowland.
“But clear the room of this rabble, if you have sufficient authority over
them. I would speak with you.”
</p>
<p>
“There's but one way of clearing it, your worship,” said the Master,
archly.
</p>
<p>
“I understand,” replied Rowland. “Give them what you please. I'll repay
you.”
</p>
<p>
“It's all right, pals,” cried Baptist, in a loud tone; “the gentlemen and
I have settled matters. No more scuffling.”
</p>
<p>
“What's the meaning of all this?” demanded Sir Cecil. “How have you
contrived to still these troubled waters?”
</p>
<p>
“I've chanced upon an old ally in the Master of the Mint,” answered
Rowland. “We may trust him,” he added in a whisper; “he is a staunch
friend of the good cause.”
</p>
<p>
“Blueskin, clear the room,” cried the Master; “these gentlemen would be
private. They've <i>paid</i> for their lodging. Where's Jonathan?”
</p>
<p>
Inquiries were instantly made after that individual, but he was nowhere to
be found.
</p>
<p>
“Strange!” observed the Master; “I thought he'd been at my elbow all this
time. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow,
and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. Hark ye,
Blueskin,” continued he, addressing that personage, who, in obedience to
his commands, had, with great promptitude, driven out the rabble, and
again secured the door, “a word in your ear. What female entered the house
with us?”
</p>
<p>
“Blood and thunder!” exclaimed Blueskin, afraid, if he admitted having
seen the lady, of being compelled to divide the plunder he had obtained
from her among his companions, “how should I know? D'ye suppose I'm always
thinking of the petticoats? I observed no female; but if any one <i>did</i>
join the assault, it must have been either Amazonian Kate, or Fighting
Moll.”
</p>
<p>
“The woman I mean did not join the assault,” rejoined the Master, “but
rather seemed to shun observation; and, from the hasty glimpse I caught of
her, she appeared to have a child in her arms.”
</p>
<p>
“Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard,” answered Blueskin,
sulkily.
</p>
<p>
“Right,” said the Master, “I didn't think of her. And now I've another job
for you.”
</p>
<p>
“Propose it,” returned Blueskin, inclining his head.
</p>
<p>
“Square accounts with the rascal who got up the sham arrest; and, if he
don't tip the cole without more ado, give him a taste of the pump, that's
all.”
</p>
<p>
“He shall go through the whole course,” replied Blueskin, with a ferocious
grin, “unless he comes down to the last grig. We'll lather him with mud,
shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with <i>aqua pompaginis</i>.
Master, your humble servant.—Gentlemen, your most obsequious trout.”
</p>
<p>
Having effected his object, which was to get rid of Blueskin, Baptist
turned to Rowland and Sir Cecil, who had watched his proceedings with much
impatience, and remarked, “Now, gentlemen, the coast's clear; we've
nothing to interrupt us. I'm entirely at your service.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IV. THE ROOF AND THE WINDOW.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>eaving them to pursue their conference, we shall follow the footsteps of
Jonathan, who, as the Master surmised, and, as we have intimated, had
unquestionably entered the house. But at the beginning of the affray, when
he thought every one was too much occupied with his own concerns to remark
his absence, he slipped out of the room, not for the purpose of avoiding
the engagement (for cowardice was not one of his failings), but because he
had another object in view. Creeping stealthily up stairs, unmasking a
dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he was startled in
one of them by the appearance of Mrs. Sheppard, who seemed to be crouching
upon the floor. Satisfied, however, that she did not notice him, Jonathan
glided away as noiselessly as he came, and ascended another short flight
of stairs leading to the garret. As he crossed this chamber, his foot
struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw him down, and
stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key. “Never throw away a
chance,” thought Jonathan. “Who knows but this key may open a golden lock
one of these days?” And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
</p>
<p>
Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass
through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor, which
appeared to have been recently dislodged. “He <i>has</i> passed this way,”
cried Jonathan, exultingly; “I have him safe enough.” He then closed the
lantern, mounted without much difficulty upon the roof, and proceeded
cautiously along the tiles.
</p>
<p>
The night was now profoundly dark. Jonathan had to feel his way. A single
false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had
trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it.
He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily
below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. The venturous
climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage beneath, to ascertain that he
was not discovered; and, having satisfied himself in this particular, he
stepped out more boldly. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the
house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. Nothing,
however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. “Confusion!”
ejaculated Jonathan: “can he have escaped? No. The walls are too high, and
the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a
supposition. He can't be far off. I shall find him yet. Ah! I have it,” he
added, after a moment's deliberation; “he's there, I'll be sworn.” And,
once more enveloping himself in darkness, he pursued his course.
</p>
<p>
He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached
another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its
neighbours. Apparently, Jonathan was well acquainted with the premises;
for, feeling about in the dark, he speedily discovered a ladder, up the
steps of which he hurried. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern
with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door
into a small loft.
</p>
<p>
The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of
defence, with the child in his arms.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/093s.jpg" alt="093s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/093.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/093m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
“Aha!” exclaimed Jonathan, acting upon the information he had obtained
from Wood; “I have found you at last. Your servant, Mr. Darrell.”
</p>
<p>
“Who are you!” demanded the fugitive, sternly.
</p>
<p>
“A friend,” replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in his
pocket.
</p>
<p>
“How do I know you are a friend?” asked Darrell.
</p>
<p>
“What should I do here alone if I were an enemy? But, come, don't let us
waste time in bandying words, when we might employ it so much more
profitably. Your life, and that of your child, are in my power. What will
you give me to save you from your pursuers?”
</p>
<p>
“<i>Can</i> you do so?” asked the other, doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
“I can, and will. Now, the reward?”
</p>
<p>
“I have but an ill-furnished purse. But if I escape, my gratitude—”
</p>
<p>
“Pshaw!” interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. “Your gratitude will vanish
with your danger. Pay fools with promises. I must have something in hand.”
</p>
<p>
“You shall have all I have about me,” replied Darrell.
</p>
<p>
“Well—well,” grumbled Jonathan, “I suppose I must be content. An
ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. However,
come along. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. You know the danger of
this breakneck road as well as I do. The light would betray us.” So
saying, he closed the lantern.
</p>
<p>
“Harkye, Sir,” rejoined Darrell; “one word before I move. I know not who
you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an
injustice. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust
you. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of
your life.”
</p>
<p>
“I have already hazarded my life in this attempt to save you,” returned
Jonathan boldly, and with apparent frankness; “this ought to be sufficient
answer to your doubts. Your pursuers are below. What was to hinder me, if
I had been so inclined, from directing them to your retreat?”
</p>
<p>
“Enough,” replied Darrell. “Lead on!”
</p>
<p>
Followed by Darrell, Jonathan retraced his dangerous path. As he
approached the gable of Mrs. Sheppard's house, loud yells and
vociferations reached his ears; and, looking downwards, he perceived a
great stir amid the mob. The cause of this uproar was soon manifest.
Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. The unfortunate
carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. His hat was placed upon
one pole, his wig on another. His shouts for help were answered by roars
of mockery and laughter. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air,
or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. The spectacle
seemed to afford as much amusement to Jonathan as to the actors engaged in
it. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his
hands with delight.
</p>
<p>
“By Heaven!” cried Darrell, “it is the poor fellow whom I placed in such
jeopardy a short time ago. I am the cause of his ill-usage.”
</p>
<p>
“To be sure you are,” replied Jonathan, laughing. “But, what of that?
It'll be a lesson to him in future, and will show him the folly of doing a
good-natured action!”
</p>
<p>
But perceiving that his companion did not relish his pleasantry and
fearing that his sympathy for the carpenter's situation might betray him
into some act of imprudence, Jonathan, without further remark, and by way
of putting an end to the discussion, let himself drop through the roof.
His example was followed by Darrell. But, though the latter was somewhat
embarrassed by his burthen, he peremptorily declined Jonathan's offer of
assistance. Both, however, having safely landed, they cautiously crossed
the room, and passed down the first flight of steps in silence. At this
moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the
figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the
stairs.
</p>
<p>
Darrell stopped, and drew his sword.
</p>
<p>
“You have betrayed me,” said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; “but
you shall reap the reward of your treachery.”
</p>
<p>
“Be still!” returned Jonathan, in the same under tone, and with great
self-possession: “I can yet save you. And see!” he added, as the figures
drew back, and the lights disappeared; “it's a false alarm. They have
retired. However, not a moment is to be lost. Give me your hand.”
</p>
<p>
He then hurried Darrell down another short flight of steps, and entered a
small chamber at the back of the house. Closing the door, Jonathan next
produced his lantern, and, hastening towards the window, undrew a bolt by
which it was fastened. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being
removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. This obstacle, which appeared
to preclude the possibility of egress in that quarter, was speedily got
rid of. Withdrawing another bolt, and unhooking a chain suspended from the
top of the casement, Jonathan pushed the iron framework outwards. The bars
dropped noiselessly and slowly down, till the chain tightened at the
staple.
</p>
<p>
“You are free,” said he, “that grating forms a ladder, by which you may
descend in safety. I learned the trick of the place from one Paul Groves,
who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. He used to call it
his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own
convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. And
now, Sir, have I kept faith with you?”
</p>
<p>
“You have,” replied Darrell. “Here is my purse; and I trust you will let
me know to whom I am indebted for this important service.”
</p>
<p>
“It matters not who I am,” replied Jonathan, taking the money. “As I said
before, I have little reliance upon <i>professions</i> of gratitude.”
</p>
<p>
“I know not how it is,” sighed Darrell, “but I feel an unaccountable
misgiving at quitting this place. Something tells me I am rushing on
greater danger.”
</p>
<p>
“You know best,” replied Jonathan, sneeringly; “but if I were in your
place I would take the chance of a future and uncertain risk to avoid a
present and certain peril.”
</p>
<p>
“You are right,” replied Darrell; “the weakness is past. Which is the
nearest way to the river?”
</p>
<p>
“Why, it's an awkward road to direct you,” returned Jonathan. “But if you
turn to the right when you reach the ground, and keep close to the Mint
wall, you'll speedily arrive at White Cross Street; White Cross Street, if
you turn again to the right, will bring you into Queen Street; Queen
Street, bearing to the left, will conduct you to Deadman's Place; and
Deadman's Place to the water-side, not fifty yards from Saint Saviour's
stairs, where you're sure to get a boat.”
</p>
<p>
“The very point I aim at,” said Darrell as he passed through the outlet.
</p>
<p>
“Stay!” said Jonathan, aiding his descent; “you had better take my
lantern. It may be useful to you. Perhaps you'll give me in return some
token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet
again. Your glove will suffice.”
</p>
<p>
“There it is;” replied the other, tossing him the glove. “Are you sure
these bars touch the ground?”
</p>
<p>
“They come within a yard of it,” answered Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“Safe!” shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. “Good night!”
</p>
<p>
“So,” muttered Jonathan, “having started the hare, I'll now unleash the
hounds.”
</p>
<p>
With this praiseworthy determination, he was hastening down stairs, with
the utmost rapidity, when he encountered a female, whom he took, in the
darkness, to be Mrs. Sheppard. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in
spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him.
</p>
<p>
“Where is he?” asked she, in an agitated whisper. “I heard his voice; but
I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of giving
the alarm.”
</p>
<p>
“If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back
window,” replied Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“Thank Heaven!” she gasped.
</p>
<p>
“Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say,” observed Jonathan,
sarcastically. “You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his
best to get your child's neck twisted.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean?” asked the female, in astonishment.
</p>
<p>
“I mean what I say,” replied Jonathan. “Perhaps you don't know that this
Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his
own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can
assure you. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got
off with his own brat.”
</p>
<p>
“Then this is not my child?” exclaimed she, with increased astonishment.
</p>
<p>
“If you have a child there, it certainly is not,” answered Jonathan, a
little surprised; “for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin, who is
still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not unlikely, he's gone
to see your other friend disciplined at the pump.”
</p>
<p>
“Merciful providence!” exclaimed the female. “Whose child can this be?”
</p>
<p>
“How the devil should I know!” replied Jonathan gruffly. “I suppose it
didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and
blood?” asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain.
</p>
<p>
“My child! my child!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, rushing from the adjoining
room. “Where is it?”
</p>
<p>
“Are you the mother of this child?” inquired the person who had first
spoken, addressing Mrs. Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“I am—I am!” cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to
her breast with rapturous delight “God be thanked, I have found it!”
</p>
<p>
“We have both good reason to be grateful,” added the lady, with great
emotion.
</p>
<p>
“'Sblood!” cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing conversation
with angry wonder, “I've been nicely done here. Fool that I was to part
with my lantern! But I'll soon set myself straight. What ho! lights!
lights!”
</p>
<p>
And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.
</p>
<p>
“Where shall I fly?” exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. “They
will kill me, if they find me, as they would have killed my husband and
child. Oh God! my limbs fail me.”
</p>
<p>
“Make an effort, Madam,” cried Mrs. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices
resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; “they are
coming!—they are coming!—fly!—to the roof! to the roof.”
</p>
<p>
“No,” cried the lady, “this room—I recollect—it has a back
window.”
</p>
<p>
“It is shut,” said Mrs. Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“It is open,” replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing through
the outlet.
</p>
<p>
“Where is she?” thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs.
Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“She has flown up stairs,” replied the widow.
</p>
<p>
“You lie, hussy!” replied Jonathan, rudely pushing her aside, as she
vainly endeavoured to oppose his entrance into the room; “she is here.
Hist!” cried he, as a scream was heard from without. “By G—! she has
missed her footing.”
</p>
<p>
There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble
groans.
</p>
<p>
Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to
the window with a torch.
</p>
<p>
He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched
cheek, to Rowland.
</p>
<p>
“Your sister is dead,” said he, in a deep whisper.
</p>
<p>
“Her blood be upon her own head, then,” replied Rowland, sternly. “Why
came she here?”
</p>
<p>
“She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither,” replied Sir
Cecil, mournfully.
</p>
<p>
“Descend and take charge of the body,” said Rowland, conquering his
emotion by a great effort, “I will join you in a moment. This accident
rather confirms than checks my purpose. The stain upon our family is only
half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain and his bastard, and I
will keep my oath. Now, Sir,” he added, turning to Jonathan, as Sir Cecil
and his followers obeyed his injunctions, “you say you know the road which
the person whom we seek has taken?”
</p>
<p>
“I do,” replied Jonathan. “But I give no information gratis!”
</p>
<p>
“Speak, then,” said Rowland, placing money in his hand.
</p>
<p>
“You'll find him at St. Saviours's stairs,” answered Jonathan. “He's about
to cross the river. You'd better lose no time. He has got five minutes'
start of you. But I sent him the longest way about.”
</p>
<p>
The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared.
</p>
<p>
“And now to see the end of it,” said Jonathan, shortly afterwards passing
through the window. “Good night, Master.”
</p>
<p>
Three persons only were left in the room. These were the Master of the
Mint, Van Galgebrok, and Mrs. Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“A bad business this, Van,” observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of
the head.
</p>
<p>
“Ja, ja, Muntmeester,” said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply;—“very
bad—very.”
</p>
<p>
“But then they're staunch supporters of our friend over the water,”
continued Baptist, winking significantly; “so we must e'en hush it up in
the best way we can.”
</p>
<p>
“Ja,” answered Van Galgebrok. “But—sapperment!—I wish they
hadn't broken my pipe.”
</p>
<p>
“JONATHAN WILD promises well,” observed the Master, after a pause: “he'll
become a great man. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so.”
</p>
<p>
“He'll be hanged nevertheless,” replied the Hollander, giving his collar
an ugly jerk. “Mind, I, Rykhart Van Galgebrok predict it. And now let's go
back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester.”
</p>
<p>
“Alas!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving way
to a passionate flood of tears; “were it not for my child, I should wish
to be in the place of that unfortunate lady.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER V. THE DENUNCIATION.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or a short space, Mrs. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. She then
dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down
beside him. “Open my heart, Father of Mercy!” she murmured, in a humble
tone, and with downcast looks, “and make me sensible of the error of my
ways. I have sinned deeply; but I have been sorely tried. Spare me yet a
little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor
babe.” Her utterance was here choked by sobs. “But if it is thy will to
take me from him,” she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—“if
he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a
mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be
to him what I would have been. Let him not bear the weight of my
punishment. Spare him!—pity me!”
</p>
<p>
With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down
stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the
sound of heavy footsteps entering the house.
</p>
<p>
“Halloa, widow!” shouted a rough voice from below, “where the devil are
you?”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Sheppard returned no answer.
</p>
<p>
“I've got something to say to you,” continued the speaker, rather less
harshly; “something to your advantage; so come out o' your hiding-place,
and let's have some supper, for I'm infernally hungry.—D'ye hear?”
</p>
<p>
Still the widow remained silent.
</p>
<p>
“Well, if you won't come, I shall help myself, and that's unsociable,”
pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the action
to the word. “Devilish nice ham you've got here!—capital pie!—and,
as I live, a flask of excellent canary. You're in luck to-night, widow.
Here's your health in a bumper, and wishing you a better husband than your
first. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper
young man into the bargain. Here's his health likewise. What! mum still.
You're the first widow I ever heard of who could withstand that lure. I'll
try the effect of a jolly stave.” And he struck up the following ballad:—
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/111s.jpg" alt="111s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/111.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/111m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/112s.jpg" alt="112s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/112.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/112m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/113s.jpg" alt="113s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/113.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/113m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
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</p>
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<p>
<a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> </a>
</p>
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<h4>
<a href="images/114.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
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</h4>
<h3>
SAINT GILES'S BOWL.*
</h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
* At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners
conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be
executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were
presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their
last refreshing in this life.—<i>Strype's Stow.</i> Book. IX.
ch. III.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
I. Where Saint-Giles' church stands, once a la-zar-house
stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a ves-sel of wood; A
broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who
pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might
tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown, in a
sea of good li-quor, all fear! For nothing the
tran-sit to Ty-burn beguiles, So well as a
draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
II. By many a highwayman many a draught
Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft,
Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown.
<i>Where the robber may cheer</i>
<i>His spirit with beer,</i>
<i>And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear!</i>
<i>For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles</i>
<i>So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!</i>
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
III. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth,
OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth:
There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up,
And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup!
<i>For a can of ale calms,</i>
<i>A highwayman's qualms,</i>
<i>And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms</i>
<i>And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles</i>
<i>So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!</i>
</pre>
<p>
“Singing's dry work,” observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the
bottle. “And now, widow,” he continued, “attend to the next verse, for it
consarns a friend o' yours.”
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
IV. When gallant TOM SHEPPARD to Tyburn was led,—
“Stop the cart at the Crown—stop a moment,” he said.
He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
Crying, “Keep it till call'd for by JONATHAN WILD!
“<i>The rascal one day,</i>
“<i>Will pass by this way,</i>
“<i>And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!</i>
“<i>And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled</i>
“<i>Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as</i> JONATHAN WILD!”
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
V. Should it e'er be <i>my</i> lot to ride backwards that way,
At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;
I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl,
And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul!
<i>Whatever may hap,</i>
<i>I'll taste of the tap,</i>
<i>To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!</i>
<i>For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles</i>
<i>So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles!</i>
</pre>
<p>
“Devil seize the woman!” growled the singer, as he brought his ditty to a
close; “will nothing tempt her out? Widow Sheppard, I say,” he added,
rising, “don't be afraid. It's only a gentleman come to offer you his
hand. 'He that woos a maid',—fol-de-rol—(hiccupping).—I'll
soon find you out.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Sheppard, whose distress at the consumption of the provisions had
been somewhat allayed by the anticipation of the intruder's departure
after he had satisfied his appetite, was now terrified in the extreme by
seeing a light approach, and hearing footsteps on the stairs. Her first
impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at
the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was
grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without.
Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it
had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment,
staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the
other.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you're here, are you?” said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh:
“I've been looking for you everywhere.”
</p>
<p>
“Let me go,” implored Mrs. Sheppard,—“pray let me go. You hurt the
child. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?”
</p>
<p>
“Throttle the kid!” rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. “If you don't stop its
squalling, I will. I hate children. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em
all like a litter o' puppies.”
</p>
<p>
Well knowing the savage temper of the person she had to deal with, and how
likely he was to put his threat into execution, Mrs. Sheppard did not dare
to return any answer; but, disengaging herself from his embrace,
endeavoured meekly to comply with his request.
</p>
<p>
“And now, widow,” continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and
applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a
bench, “I've a piece o' good news for you.”
</p>
<p>
“Good news will be news to me. What is it?”
</p>
<p>
“Guess,” rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression into
his forbidding countenance.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning
too well, she answered,—“I can't guess.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, then,” returned the ruffian, “to put you out o' suspense, as the
topsman remarked to poor Tom Sheppard, afore he turned him off, I'm come
to make you an honourable proposal o' marriage. You won't refuse me, I'm
sure; so no more need be said about the matter. To-morrow, we'll go to the
Fleet and get spliced. Don't shake so. What I said about your brat was all
stuff. I didn't mean it. It's my way when I'm ruffled. I shall take to him
as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long.—I'll
give him the edication of a prig,—teach him the use of his forks
betimes,—and make him, in the end, as clever a cracksman as his
father.”
</p>
<p>
“Never!” shrieked Mrs. Sheppard; “never! never!”
</p>
<p>
“Halloa! what's this?” demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. “Do you
mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how I please—eh?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't question me, but leave me,” replied the widow wildly; “you had
better.”
</p>
<p>
“Leave you!” echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; “—not
just yet.”
</p>
<p>
“I am not unprotected,” rejoined the poor woman; “there's some one at the
window. Help! help!”
</p>
<p>
But her cries were unheeded. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked
round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than
ever.
</p>
<p>
“It won't do, widow,” said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his
approach, “so you may spare your breath. Come, come, be reasonable, and
listen to me. Your kid has already brought me good luck, and may bring me
still more if his edication's attended to. This purse,” he added, chinking
it in the air, “and this ring, were given me for him just now by the lady,
who made a false step on leaving your house. If I'd been in the way,
instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened.”
</p>
<p>
As he said this, a slight noise was heard without.
</p>
<p>
“What's that?” ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the
window. “Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind.”
</p>
<p>
“It's Jonathan Wild,” returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him. “I
told you I was not unprotected.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>He</i> protect <i>you</i>,” retorted Blueskin, maliciously; “you
haven't a worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. If
you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death
at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify.”
</p>
<p>
“Man!” screamed Mrs. Sheppard, with a vehemence that shook even the
hardened wretch beside her, “begone, and tempt me not.”
</p>
<p>
“What should I tempt you to?” asked Blueskin, in surprise.
</p>
<p>
“To—to—no matter what,” returned the widow distractedly. “Go—go!”
</p>
<p>
“I see what you mean,” rejoined Blueskin, tossing a large case-knife,
which he took from his pocket, in the air, and catching it dexterously by
the haft as it fell; “you owe Jonathan a grudge;—so do I. He hanged
your first husband. Just speak the word,” he added, drawing the knife
significantly across his throat, “and I'll put it out of his power to do
the same by your second. But d—n him! let's talk o' something more
agreeable. Look at this ring;—it's a diamond, and worth a mint o'
money. It shall be your wedding ring. Look at it, I say. The lady's name's
engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. A-L-I-V-A—Aliva—T-R-E-N—Trencher
that's it. Aliva Trencher.”
</p>
<p>
“Aliva Trenchard!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, hastily; “is that the name?”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, ay, now I look again it <i>is</i> Trenchard. How came you to know it?
Have you heard the name before?”
</p>
<p>
“I think I have—long, long ago, when I was a child,” replied Mrs.
Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; “but my memory is gone—quite
gone. Where <i>can</i> I have heard it!”
</p>
<p>
“Devil knows,” rejoined Blueskin. “Let it pass. The ring's yours, and
you're mine. Here, put it on your finger.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her
force to repel his advances.
</p>
<p>
“Set down the kid,” roared Blueskin, savagely.
</p>
<p>
“Mercy!” screamed Mrs. Sheppard, struggling to escape, and holding the
infant at arm's length; “have mercy on this helpless innocent!”
</p>
<p>
And the child, alarmed by the strife, added its feeble cries to its
mother's shrieks.
</p>
<p>
“Set it down, I tell you,” thundered Blueskin, “or I shall do it a
mischief.”
</p>
<p>
“Never!” cried Mrs. Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his
teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. In the
struggle her cap fell off. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held
her fast. The chamber rang with her shrieks. But her cries, instead of
moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Planting his
knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with
the other he sought his knife. The child was now within reach; and, in
another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from
behind had not felled him to the ground.
</p>
<p>
When Mrs. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that prostrated
her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild kneeling beside the
body of Blueskin. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly
examining the inscription.
</p>
<p>
“Trenchard,” he muttered; “Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as
to the name. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who
styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my
fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this
strange affair.”
</p>
<p>
“Is the poor lady alive?” asked Mrs. Sheppard, eagerly.
</p>
<p>
“'Sblood!” exclaimed Jonathan, hastily thrusting the ring into his vest,
and taking up a heavy horseman's pistol with which he had felled Blueskin,—“I
thought you'd been senseless.”
</p>
<p>
“Is she alive?” repeated the widow.
</p>
<p>
“What's that to you?” demanded Jonathan, gruffly.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, nothing—nothing,” returned Mrs. Sheppard. “But pray tell me if
her husband has escaped?”
</p>
<p>
“Her husband!” echoed Jonathan scornfully. “A <i>husband</i> has little to
fear from his wife's kinsfolk. Her <i>lover</i>, Darrell, has embarked
upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's
blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut
by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and
should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take
me. However, as things have turned up, it's fortunate that I came back.”
</p>
<p>
“It is, indeed,” replied Mrs. Sheppard; “most fortunate for me.”
</p>
<p>
“For <i>you</i>!” exclaimed Jonathan; “don't flatter yourself that I'm
thinking of you. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before
I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes
to do so, and <i>he</i> hadn't incurred my displeasure. I never forgive an
injury. Your husband could have told you that.”
</p>
<p>
“How had he offended you?” inquired the widow.
</p>
<p>
“I'll tell you,” answered Jonathan, sternly. “He thwarted my schemes
twice. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when
I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who
visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he
betrayed me. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as
good as my word.”
</p>
<p>
“You were so,” replied Mrs Sheppard; “and for that wicked deed you will
one day be brought to the gallows yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“Not before I have conducted your child thither,” retorted Jonathan, with
a withering look.
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, paralysed by the threat.
</p>
<p>
“If that sickly brat lives to be a man,” continued Jonathan, rising, “I'll
hang him upon the same tree as his father.”
</p>
<p>
“Pity!” shrieked the widow.
</p>
<p>
“I'll be his evil genius!” vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her
torture.
</p>
<p>
“Begone, wretch!” cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts;
“or I will drive you hence with my curses.”
</p>
<p>
“Curse on, and welcome,” jeered Wild.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her
tongue. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness
overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her
arms over her child.
</p>
<p>
“A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings,” she cried, with the
fervour almost of inspiration, “will avail against a fiend's malice.”
</p>
<p>
“We shall see,” rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel.
</p>
<p>
And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the
floor.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VI. THE STORM.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>s soon as he was liberated by his persecutors, Mr. Wood set off at full
speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was
such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his eyes, as almost to
take away the power of reflection), he held on at a brisk pace till his
strength completely failed him.
</p>
<p>
On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led him;
and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre pile, with
a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him. This structure
at once satisfied him as to where he stood. He knew it to be St. Saviour's
Church. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the
hour of midnight. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a
multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep
note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. A feeling of
inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. He
trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of
approaching danger. The peculiar appearance of the sky was not without
some influence in awakening these terrors. Over one of the pinnacles of
the tower a speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon, then
newly born and newly risen. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind,
which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly
across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth.
Sometimes the moon was totally eclipsed; at others, it shed a wan and
ghastly glimmer over the masses rolling in the firmament. Not a star could
be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence
proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the
dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the
night.
</p>
<p>
Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much
exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood
endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh
himself. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left,
and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of
the “Welsh Trumpeter.”
</p>
<p>
“Let me have a glass of brandy,” said he, addressing the host.
</p>
<p>
“Too late, master,” replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly
tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; “just shut
up shop.”
</p>
<p>
“Zounds! David Pugh, don't you know your old friend and countryman?”
exclaimed the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?” cried David in astonishment. “What the devil
makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?—you
seem in a queer plight.”
</p>
<p>
“Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you,” replied Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf
in the corner cupboard.—There, Mr. Wood,” cried David, pouring out a
glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, “that'll warm the
cockles of your heart. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it. It's right
Nantz. I keep it for my own drinking,” he added in a lower tone.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood having disposed of the brandy, and pronounced himself much
better, hurried close to the fire-side, and informed his friend in a few
words of the inhospitable treatment he had experienced from the gentlemen
of the Mint; whereupon Mr. Pugh, who, as well as the carpenter, was a
descendant of Cadwallader, waxed extremely wrath; gave utterance to a
number of fierce-sounding imprecations in the Welsh tongue; and was just
beginning to express the greatest anxiety to catch some of the rascals at
the Trumpeter, when Mr. Wood cut him short by stating his intention of
crossing the river as soon as possible in order to avoid the storm.
</p>
<p>
“A storm!” exclaimed the landlord. “Gadzooks! I thought something was
coming on; for when I looked at the weather-glass an hour ago, it had sunk
lower than I ever remember it.”
</p>
<p>
“We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord,” observed an
old one-eyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. “The glass
never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin', I've
knowed it often do so in the West Injees. Moreover, a souple o' porpusses
came up with the tide this mornin', and ha' bin flounderin' about i' the
Thames abuv Lunnun Bridge all day long; and them say-monsters, you know,
always proves sure fore runners of a gale.”
</p>
<p>
“Then the sooner I'm off the better,” cried Wood; “what's to pay, David?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't affront me, Owen, by asking such a question,” returned the
landlord; “hadn't you better stop and finish the bottle?”
</p>
<p>
“Not a drop more,” replied Wood. “Enough's as good as a feast. Good
night!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen,” observed
the landlord, “there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as
tidy a craft as any on the Thames. Halloa, Ben!” cried he, shaking a
broad-backed fellow, equipped in a short-skirted doublet, and having a
badge upon his arm,—“scullers wanted.”
</p>
<p>
“Holloa! my hearty!” cried Ben, starting to his feet.
</p>
<p>
“This gentleman wants a pair of oars,” said the landlord.
</p>
<p>
“Where to, master?” asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.
</p>
<p>
“Arundel Stairs,” replied Wood, “the nearest point to Wych Street.”
</p>
<p>
“Come along, master,” said the waterman.
</p>
<p>
“Hark 'ee, Ben,” said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe
upon the hob; “you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the
Thames to-night.”
</p>
<p>
“And why not, old saltwater?” inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth.
</p>
<p>
“'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater,”
replied the tar.
</p>
<p>
“It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip,” laughed Ben: “the
gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. The
weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned
my back upon it.”
</p>
<p>
“May be not,” replied the old sailor, drily; “but you'll find it too stiff
for you to-night, anyhow. Howsomdever, if you <i>should</i> reach t'other
side, take an old feller's advice, and don't be foolhardy enough to venter
back again.”
</p>
<p>
“I tell 'ee what, saltwater,” said Ben, “I'll lay you my fare—and
that'll be two shillin'—I'm back in an hour.”
</p>
<p>
“Done!” cried the old sailor. “But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you
von't live to pay me.”
</p>
<p>
“Never fear,” replied Ben, gravely; “dead or alive I'll pay you, if I
lose. There's my thumb upon it. Come along, master.”
</p>
<p>
“I tell 'ee what, landlord,” observed the old sailor, quietly replenishing
his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman and Wood quitted
the house, “you've said good-b'ye to your friend.”
</p>
<p>
“Odd's me! do you think so?” cried the host of the Trumpeter. “I'll run
and bring him back. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any
accident befel him.”
</p>
<p>
“Never mind,” said the old sailor, taking up a piece of blazing coal with
the tongs, and applying it to his pipe; “let 'em try. They'll be back soon
enough—or not at all.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direction of St.
Saviour's Stairs. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison
belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace
formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the
street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness, the
melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements,
the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the right, and
presently arrived at the water-side.
</p>
<p>
Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current,
as if impatient of restraint. Into one of these the waterman jumped, and,
having assisted Mr. Wood to a seat within it, immediately pushed from
land. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was
seen moving towards the bank. A shout was heard at a little distance, and,
the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head.
</p>
<p>
“Boat there!” cried a voice, which Mr. Wood fancied he recognised.
</p>
<p>
“You'll find a waterman asleep under his tilt in one of them ere craft, if
you look about, Sir,” replied Ben, backing water as he spoke.
</p>
<p>
“Can't you take me with you?” urged the voice; “I'll make it well worth
your while. I've a child here whom I wish to convey across the water
without loss of time.”
</p>
<p>
“A child!” thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. “Hold hard,”
cried he, addressing the waterman; “I'll give the gentleman a lift.”
</p>
<p>
“Unpossible, master,” rejoined Ben; “the tide's running down like a
mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. Old saltwater was right.
We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. D'ye hear how the
wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it
ourselves presently. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment longer—so
here goes.” Upon which, he plunged his oars deeply into the stream, and
the bark shot from the strand.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by
hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and,
shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river.
</p>
<p>
“Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this
fine night,” observed Ben. “One'd think it rained fares, as well as blowed
great guns. Why, there's another party on the stair-head inquiring arter
scullers; and, by the mass! they appear in a greater hurry than any on
us.”
</p>
<p>
His attention being thus drawn to the bank, the carpenter beheld three
figures, one of whom bore a torch, leap into a wherry of a larger size
than the others, which immediately put off from shore. Manned by a couple
of watermen, who rowed with great swiftness, this wherry dashed through
the current in the track of the fugitive, of whom it was evidently in
pursuit, and upon whom it perceptibly gained. Mr. Wood strained his eyes
to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. But he could only discern a black
and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a little distance, which,
to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely standing still. To the
practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. He
perceived clearly enough, that the chase was moving quickly; and he was
also aware, from the increased rapidity with which the oars were urged,
that every exertion was made on board to get out of the reach of her
pursuers. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put
to shore. But this plan (probably from its danger) was instantly
abandoned; not, however, before her momentary hesitation had been taken
advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their efforts at this
juncture, materially lessened the distance between them.
</p>
<p>
Ben watched these manoeuvres with great interest, and strained every sinew
in his frame to keep ahead of the other boats.
</p>
<p>
“Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?” he
observed.
</p>
<p>
“Something worse, I fear,” Wood replied.
</p>
<p>
“Why, you don't think as how they're crimps, do you?” Ben inquired.
</p>
<p>
“I don't know what I think,” Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes
upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the
scene.
</p>
<p>
There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in
sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. The sounds that reach the ear,
and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of
sad and serious contemplation. The ripple of the water against the boat,
as its keel cleaves through the stream—the darkling current hurrying
by—the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes, hovering
around, and making their way in ghost-like silence, or warning each other
of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have something doleful
in their note—the solemn shadows cast by the bridges—the
deeper gloom of the echoing arches—the lights glimmering from the
banks—the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on
some stationary barge—the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses,
as discerned through the obscurity;—these, and other sights and
sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one
who may choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a
place.
</p>
<p>
But it was otherwise with the carpenter. This was no night for the
indulgence of dreamy musing. It was a night of storm and terror, which
promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. Not a bark
could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. The
darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been
blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. It was a dead calm. But this calm
was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast.
</p>
<p>
Amid this portentous hush, the report of a pistol reached the carpenter's
ears; and, raising his head at the sound, he beheld a sight which filled
him with fresh apprehensions.
</p>
<p>
By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he saw
that the pursuers had approached within a short distance of the object of
their quest. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed the
chase. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the
stream towards the enemy. Escape was now impossible. Darrell stood erect
in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of
his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the
moment which should deliver him into their power.
</p>
<p>
They had not to tarry long. In another instant, the collision took place.
The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their
oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. Wood, then,
beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board
the chase. A fierce struggle ensued. There was a shrill cry, instantly
succeeded by a deep splash.
</p>
<p>
“Put about, waterman, for God's sake!” cried Wood, whose humanity got the
better of every personal consideration; “some one is overboard. Give way,
and let us render what assistance we can to the poor wretch.”
</p>
<p>
“It's all over with him by this time, master,” replied Ben, turning the
head of his boat, and rowing swiftly towards the scene of strife; “but d—n
him, he was the chap as hit poor Bill Thomson just now, and I don't much
care if he should be food for fishes.”
</p>
<p>
As Ben spoke, they drew near the opposing parties. The contest was now
carried on between Rowland and Darrell. The latter had delivered himself
from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. Hurled over the sides
of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave. It was a
spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and
furiously, bore him instantly away. While the strife raged between the
principals, the watermen in the larger wherry were occupied in stemming
the force of the torrent, and endeavouring to keep the boats, they had
lashed together, stationary. Owing to this circumstance, Mr. Wood's boat,
impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and
before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. For a
few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict. Neither
combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently
superior to his antagonist. The boat rocked violently with the struggle.
Had it not been lashed to the adjoining wherry, it must have been upset,
and have precipitated the opponents into the water. Rowland felt himself
sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. He called to the other
attendant, who held the torch. Understanding the appeal, the man snatched
his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body.
The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned
to the waves.
</p>
<p>
Darrell, however, rose again instantly; and though mortally wounded, made
a desperate effort to regain the boat.
</p>
<p>
“My child!” he groaned faintly.
</p>
<p>
“Well reminded,” answered Rowland, who had witnessed his struggles with a
smile of gratified vengeance; “I had forgotten the accursed imp in this
confusion. Take it,” he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of the
boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father.
</p>
<p>
The child fell within a short distance of Darrell, who, hearing the
splash, struck out in that direction, and caught it before it sank. At
this juncture, the sound of oars reached his ears, and he perceived Mr.
Wood's boat bearing up towards him.
</p>
<p>
“Here he is, waterman,” exclaimed the benevolent carpenter. “I see him!—row
for your life!”
</p>
<p>
“That's the way to miss him, master,” replied Ben coolly. “We must keep
still. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough.”
</p>
<p>
Ben judged correctly. Borne along by the current, Darrell was instantly at
the boat's side.
</p>
<p>
“Seize this oar,” vociferated the waterman.
</p>
<p>
“First take the child,” cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging
to the oar with a dying effort.
</p>
<p>
“Give it me,” returned the carpenter; “all's safe. Now lend me your own
hand.”
</p>
<p>
“My strength fails me,” gasped the fugitive. “I cannot climb the boat.
Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take
it—take it!”
</p>
<p>
“Where?” shouted Wood.
</p>
<p>
Darrell attempted to reply. But he could only utter an inarticulate
exclamation. The next moment his grasp relaxed, and he sank to rise no
more.
</p>
<p>
Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his
attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the
incident just described.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/145s.jpg" alt="145s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/145.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/145m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
“Confusion!” cried he; “there is another boat in our wake. They have
rescued the child. Loose the wherry, and stand to your oars—quick—quick!”
</p>
<p>
These commands were promptly obeyed. The boat was set free, and the men
resumed their seats. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a
manner as unexpected as appalling.
</p>
<p>
During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. But as Rowland
sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar like a volley
of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its bondage. A
moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. It was now
whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. The blast once
more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam,
scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent
blacker than before. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was
the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. Destruction everywhere
marked its course. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury.
Trees were torn up by the roots; many houses were levelled to the ground;
others were unroofed; the leads on the churches were ripped off, and
“shrivelled up like scrolls of parchment.” Nothing on land or water was
spared by the remorseless gale. Most of the vessels lying in the river
were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other,
or blown ashore. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. Men fled from
their tottering habitations, and returned to them scared by greater
dangers. The end of the world seemed at hand.
</p>
<p>
At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked
at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its
utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. The boat in
which he rode was not overset. Fortunately, her course had been shifted
immediately after the rescue of the child; and, in consequence of this
movement, she received the first shock of the hurricane, which blew from
the southwest, upon her stern. Her head dipped deeply into the current,
and she narrowly escaped being swamped. Righting, however, instantly
afterwards, she scudded with the greatest rapidity over the boiling waves,
to whose mercy she was now entirely abandoned. On this fresh outburst of
the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat,
and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare
himself to meet his fate.
</p>
<p>
While he was thus occupied, he felt a rough grasp upon his arm, and
presently afterwards Ben's lips approached close to his ear. The waterman
sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have
been carried away by the violence of the blast.
</p>
<p>
“It's all up, master,” groaned Ben, “nothin' short of a merracle can save
us. The boat's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if she 'scapes stavin'
above, she'll be swamped to a sartainty below. There'll be a fall of above
twelve foot o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud blow a whole
fleet to the devil.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood <i>did</i> think of it, and groaned aloud.
</p>
<p>
“Heaven help us!” he exclaimed; “we were mad to neglect the old sailor's
advice.”
</p>
<p>
“That's what troubles me,” rejoined Ben. “I tell 'ee what, master, if
you're more fortinate nor I am, and get ashore, give old saltwater your
fare. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost;
and I should like to be as good as my word.”
</p>
<p>
“I will—I will,” replied Wood hastily. “Was that thunder?” he
faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead.
</p>
<p>
“No; it's only a fresh gale,” Ben returned: “hark! now it comes.”
</p>
<p>
“Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!” ejaculated Wood, as a
fearful gust dashed the water over the side of the boat, deluging him with
spray.
</p>
<p>
The hurricane had now reached its climax. The blast shrieked, as if
exulting in its wrathful mission. Stunning and continuous, the din seemed
almost to take away the power of hearing. He, who had faced the gale,
would have been instantly stifled. Piercing through every crevice in the
clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his
grasp. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the
faculties. The intense darkness added to the terror of the storm. The
destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. None saw,
though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice.
Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Ten
thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of
devastation. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the
tempest, animating and directing its fury. The actual danger was lost
sight of in these wild apprehensions; and many timorous beings were scared
beyond reason's verge by the excess of their fears.
</p>
<p>
This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. He was roused from
the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who
roared in his ear, “The bridge!—the bridge!”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VII. OLD LONDON BRIDGE.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ondon, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. But
that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses.
Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and
picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the
Thames. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its
magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the
Middlesex to the Surrey shore. The houses were older, the shops gloomier,
and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the
street-like air was the same. Then the bridge had arched gateways,
bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be)
with the heads of traitors. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated
to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed
amid the arches, where “was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch,
who began the Stone Bridge at London:” and it still boasted an edifice
(though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a
palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. The other buildings stood close
together in rows; and so valuable was every inch of room accounted, that,
in many cases, cellars, and even habitable apartments, were constructed in
the solid masonry of the piers.
</p>
<p>
Old London Bridge (the grandsire of the present erection) was supported on
nineteen arches, each of which
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Would a Rialto make for depth and height!
</pre>
<p>
The arches stood upon enormous piers; the piers on starlings, or jetties,
built far out into the river to break the force of the tide.
</p>
<p>
Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive
the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and rendered
indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the windows of
the lofty houses. As he gazed at these lights, they suddenly seemed to
disappear, and a tremendous shock was felt throughout the frame of the
boat. Wood started to his feet. He found that the skiff had been dashed
against one of the buttresses of the bridge.
</p>
<p>
“Jump!” cried Ben, in a voice of thunder.
</p>
<p>
Wood obeyed. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. Though the
starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he alighted
with his little charge—which he had never for an instant quitted—in
safety upon it. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Just as he was preparing to
follow, the wherry containing Rowland and his men, which had drifted in
their wake, was dashed against his boat. The violence of the collision
nearly threw him backwards, and caused him to swerve as he sprang. His
foot touched the rounded edge of the starling, and glanced off,
precipitating him into the water. As he fell, he caught at the projecting
masonry. But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to
feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity. He
could not make good his hold. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away
by the headlong torrent.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood heard the cry. But his own situation was too perilous to admit of
his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. He fancied,
indeed, that he beheld a figure spring upon the starling at the moment
when the boats came in contact; but, as he could perceive no one near him,
he concluded he must have been mistaken.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/155s.jpg" alt="155s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/155.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/155m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
In order to make Mr. Wood's present position, and subsequent proceedings
fully intelligible, it may be necessary to give some notion of the shape
and structure of the platform on which he had taken refuge. It has been
said, that the pier of each arch, or lock of Old London Bridge, was
defended from the force of the tide by a huge projecting spur called a
starling. These starlings varied in width, according to the bulk of the
pier they surrounded. But they were all pretty nearly of the same length,
and built somewhat after the model of a boat, having extremities as sharp
and pointed as the keel of a canoe. Cased and ribbed with stone, and
braced with horizontal beams of timber, the piles, which formed the
foundation of these jetties, had resisted the strong encroachments of the
current for centuries. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the
Thames. The starling, on which the carpenter stood, was the fourth from
the Surrey shore. It might be three yards in width, and a few more in
length; but it was covered with ooze and slime, and the waves continually
broke over it. The transverse spars before mentioned were as slippery as
ice; and the hollows between them were filled ankle-deep with water.
</p>
<p>
The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of
the wind. But in this posture he fared worse than ever. If he ran less
risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed
off, or stifled. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually
slipping off the platform. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror,
he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. He, next,
tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the
hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a
man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were
pierced. But this wild scheme was speedily abandoned; and, nerved by
despair, the carpenter resolved to hazard an attempt, from the execution,
almost from the contemplation, of which he had hitherto shrunk. This was
to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if
possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the bridge, he
would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale.
</p>
<p>
Assured, if he remained much longer where he was, he would inevitably
perish, Wood recommended himself to the protection of Heaven, and began
his perilous course. Carefully sustaining the child which, even in that
terrible extremity, he had not the heart to abandon, he fell upon his
knees, and, guiding himself with his right hand, crept slowly on. He had
scarcely entered the arch, when the indraught was so violent, and the
noise of the wind so dreadful and astounding, that he almost determined to
relinquish the undertaking. But the love of life prevailed over his fears.
He went on.
</p>
<p>
The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. In length the
arch exceeded seventy feet. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless
distance. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway,
something obstructed his further progress. It was a huge stone placed
there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure. Cold drops
stood upon Wood's brow, as he encountered this obstacle. To return was
impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. He glanced
downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past
him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. He listened to the thunder of
the fall now mingling with the roar of the blast; and, driven almost
frantic by what he heard and saw, he pushed with all his force against the
stone. To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled
over the ledge, and sank. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that
the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. His course,
however, was no longer interrupted, and he crept on.
</p>
<p>
After encountering other dangers, and being twice, compelled to fling
himself flat upon his face to avoid slipping from the wet and slimy
pathway, he was at length about to emerge from the lock, when, to his
inexpressible horror, he found he had lost the child!
</p>
<p>
All the blood in his veins rushed to his heart, and he shook in every limb
as he made this discovery. A species of vertigo seized him. His brain
reeled. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over
head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent
was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the
deafening abyss. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity
to the roughened stones. But calmer thoughts quickly succeeded. On taxing
his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful
distinctness. He remembered that, before he attempted to dislodge the
stone, he had placed the child in a cavity of the pier, which the granite
mass had been intended to fill. This obstacle being removed, in his
eagerness to proceed, he had forgotten to take his little charge with him.
It was still possible the child might be in safety. And so bitterly did
the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all
risks, to go back in search of it. Acting upon this humane determination,
he impelled himself slowly backwards,—for he did not dare to face
the blast,—and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the
crevice. His perseverance was amply rewarded. The child was still safe. It
lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess.
</p>
<p>
So overjoyed was the carpenter with the successful issue of his
undertaking, that he scarcely paused a moment to recruit himself; but,
securing the child, set out upon his return. Retracing his steps, he
arrived, without further accident, at the eastern platform of the
starling. As he anticipated, he was here comparatively screened from the
fury of the wind; and when he gazed upon the roaring fall beneath him,
visible through the darkness in a glistening sheet of foam, his heart
overflowed with gratitude for his providential deliverance.
</p>
<p>
As he moved about upon the starling, Mr. Wood became sensible that he was
not alone. Some one was standing beside him. This, then, must be the
person whom he had seen spring upon the western platform at the time of
the collision between the boats. The carpenter well knew from the obstacle
which had interfered with his own progress, that the unknown could not
have passed through the same lock as himself. But he might have crept
along the left side of the pier, and beneath the further arch; whereas,
Wood, as we have seen, took his course upon the right. The darkness
prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the
stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any
communication by words with him. Wood, however, made known his presence to
the individual by laying his hand upon his shoulder. The stranger started
at the touch, and spoke. But his words were borne away by the driving
wind.
</p>
<p>
Finding all attempts at conversation with his companion in misfortune in
vain, Wood, in order to distract his thoughts, looked up at the gigantic
structure standing, like a wall of solid darkness, before him. What was
his transport on perceiving that a few yards above him a light was
burning. The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. He took a handful of the
gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small
pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. A pane of glass was shivered by
each stone. The signal of distress was evidently understood. The light
disappeared. The window was shortly after opened, and a rope ladder, with
a lighted horn lantern attached to it, let down.
</p>
<p>
Wood grasped his companion's arm to attract his attention to this
unexpected means of escape. The ladder was now within reach. Both advanced
towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the
countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of
Rowland.
</p>
<p>
The carpenter trembled; for he perceived Rowland's gaze fixed first upon
the infant, and then on himself.
</p>
<p>
“It <i>is</i> her child!” shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the
howling of the tempest, “risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. Its
parents have perished. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight
my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!” And, with these words, he grasped
Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very
verge of the platform.
</p>
<p>
All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the
bridge. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the
storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones.
</p>
<p>
When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely
knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. The fatal
shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had
stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf.
</p>
<p>
“It's an ill wind that blows nobody good,” thought the carpenter, turning
his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed
that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had
undergone. “Poor little creature!” he muttered, pressing it tenderly to
his breast, as he grasped the rope and clambered up to the window: “if
thou hast, indeed, lost both thy parents, as that terrible man said just
now, thou art not wholly friendless and deserted, for I myself will be a
father to thee! And in memory of this dreadful night, and the death from
which I have, been the means of preserving thee, thou shalt bear the name
of THAMES DARRELL.”
</p>
<p>
No sooner had Wood crept through the window, than nature gave way, and he
fainted. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket
and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. His first
inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find that it
still lived and was doing well. Every care had been taken of it, as well
as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought
shelter.
</p>
<p>
About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he
set out homewards with his little charge.
</p>
<p>
The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. London Bridge had
suffered a degree less than most places. But it was almost choked up with
fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles.
The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust
would precipitate them into the river. With great difficulty, Wood forced
a path through the ruins. It was a work of no slight danger, for every
instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground.
Thames Street was wholly impassable. Men were going hither and thither
with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to
support the tottering habitations. Grace-church Street was entirely
deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of
their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along
it. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. In some cases they were ground
almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as if
discharged from a piece of ordnance. The roofs and gables of many of the
houses had been torn off. The signs of the shops were carried to
incredible distances. Here and there, a building might be seen with the
doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps
of bricks and tilesherds.
</p>
<p>
Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending,
now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at
the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet
Street. The hurricane appeared to have raged in this quarter with tenfold
fury. Mr. Wood scarcely knew where he was. The old aspect of the place was
gone. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on
overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed.
</p>
<p>
It was a dismal and depressing sight to see a great city thus suddenly
overthrown; and the carpenter was deeply moved by the spectacle. As usual,
however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the
streets, whose sole object was plunder. While involved in this crowd, near
Temple Bar,—where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the
masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy
features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous
night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing
his child. In vain Wood protested his innocence. The ruffian's companions
took his part. And the infant, in all probability, would have been
snatched from its preserver, if a posse of the watch (sent out to maintain
order and protect property) had not opportunely arrived, and by a vigorous
application of their halberts dispersed his persecutors, and set him at
liberty.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he
reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. His wife met him at the door, and
into her hands he delivered his little charge.
</p>
<h3>
END THE FIRST EPOCH.
</h3>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
EPOCH THE SECOND, 1715, THAMES DARRELL
</h2>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER I. THE IDLE APPRENTICE.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>welve years! How many events have occurred during that long interval! how
many changes have taken place! The whole aspect of things is altered. The
child has sprung into a youth; the youth has become a man; the man has
already begun to feel the advances of age. Beauty has bloomed and faded.
Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. The fashions of
the day have become antiquated. New customs have prevailed over the old.
Parties, politics, and popular opinions have changed. The crown has passed
from the brow of one monarch to that of another. Habits and tastes are no
longer the same. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years
ago.
</p>
<p>
Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. Dare we look back upon the
darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With
how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never
fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve
years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the
passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate
with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others?
Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one
been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is
not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the
prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this.
Let us proceed with our tale.
</p>
<p>
Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences
detailed in the preceding division of this history. At that time, we were
beneath the sway of Anne: we are now at the commencement of the reign of
George the First. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening
period; leaving in the words of the poet,
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
—The growth untried
Of that wide gap—
</pre>
<p>
we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
</p>
<p>
One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. Wood,
who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day,
returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was
expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to
enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from
within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of
industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment.
Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. But finding
all continue silent, he cautiously lifted the latch, and crept into the
room, resolved to punish the offender in case his suspicions should prove
correct.
</p>
<p>
The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was
crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable
art. Saws, hammers, planes, axes, augers, adzes, chisels, gimblets, and an
endless variety of tools were ranged, like a stand of martial weapons at
an armoury, in racks against the walls. Over these hung levels, bevels,
squares, and other instruments of measurement. Amid a litter of nails
without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a
glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term
“his right hand and his left.” On a shelf was placed a row of paint-jars;
the contents of which had been daubed in rainbow streaks upon the adjacent
closet and window sill. Divers plans and figures were chalked upon the
walls; and the spaces between them were filled up with an almanack for the
year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut, purporting to be “<i>The
History of Chaste Susannah</i>;” an old print of the Seven Golden
Candlesticks; an abstract of the various Acts of Parliament against
drinking, swearing, and all manner of profaneness; and a view of the
interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's Presbyterian meeting-house in Russell
Court, with portraits of the reverend gentleman and the principal members
of his flock. The floor was thickly strewn with sawdust and shavings; and
across the room ran a long and wide bench, furnished at one end with a
powerful vice; next to which three nails driven into the boards served, it
would appear from the lump of unconsumed tallow left in their custody, as
a substitute for a candlestick. On the bench was set a quartern measure of
gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. Attracted by the odour of
the latter dainty, a hungry cat had contrived to scratch open the paper in
which it was wrapped, displaying the following words in large characters:—“THE
HISTORY OF THE FOUR KINGS, OR CHILD'S BEST GUIDE TO THE GALLOWS.” And, as
if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered,
underneath, upon the sawdust. Near the door stood a pile of deal planks,
behind which the carpenter ensconced himself in order to reconnoitre,
unobserved, the proceedings of his idle apprentice.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0011" id="linkimage-0011"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/179s.jpg" alt="179s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/179.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/179m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back
to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of
executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a
beam, overhead. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men
of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling
in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget
waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently
the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. Coat, on the
present occasion, he had none, it being more convenient, as well as
agreeable to him, to pursue his avocations in his shirtsleeves; but, when
fully equipped, he wore a large-cuffed, long-skirted garment, which had
once been the property of his master.
</p>
<p>
In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. Wood could not avoid making a
slight shuffling sound. The noise startled the apprentice, who instantly
suspended his labour, and gazed anxiously in the direction whence he
supposed it proceeded. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking
boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. His figure was
uncommonly slim even for his age, which could not be more than thirteen;
and the looseness of his garb made him appear thinner than he was in
reality. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. He seemed
to possess a penetration and cunning beyond his years—to hide a
man's judgment under a boy's mask. The glance, which he threw at the door,
was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm,
effrontery, and resolution. In the end, resolution triumphed, as it was
sure to do, over the weaker emotions, and he laughed at his fears. The
only part of his otherwise-interesting countenance, to which one could
decidedly object, was the mouth; a feature that, more than any other, is
conceived to betray the animal propensities of the possessor. If this is
true, it must be owned that the boy's mouth showed a strong tendency on
his part to coarse indulgence. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and
shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in
men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. The cheek-bones were
prominent: the nose slightly depressed, with rather wide nostrils; the
chin narrow, but well-formed; the forehead broad and lofty; and he
possessed such an extraordinary flexibility of muscle in this region, that
he could elevate his eye-brows at pleasure up to the very verge of his
sleek and shining black hair, which, being closely cropped, to admit of
his occasionally wearing a wig, gave a singular bullet-shape to his head.
Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads
which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache,
Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces
that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity
and enjoyment. There was all the knavery, and more than all the drollery
of a Spanish picaroon in the laughing eyes of the English apprentice; and,
with a little more warmth and sunniness of skin on the side of the latter,
the resemblance between them would have been complete.
</p>
<p>
Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy
resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled
assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:—
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
THE NEWGATE STONE.
When Claude Du Val was in Newgate thrown,
He carved his name on the dungeon stone;
Quoth a dubsman, who gazed on the shattered wall,
“You have carved your epitaph, Claude Du Val,
<i>With your chisel so fine, tra la</i>!”
</pre>
<p>
“This S wants a little deepening,” mused the apprentice, retouching the
letter in question; “ay, that's better.”
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Du Val was hang'd, and the next who came
On the selfsame stone inscribed his name:
“Aha!” quoth the dubsman, with devilish glee,
“Tom Waters <i>your</i> doom is the triple tree!
<i>With your chisel so fine, tra la</i>!”
</pre>
<p>
“Tut, tut, tut,” he cried, “what a fool I am to be sure! I ought to have
cut John, not Jack. However, it don't signify. Nobody ever called me John,
that I recollect. So I dare say I was christened Jack. Deuce take it! I
was very near spelling my name with one P.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Within that dungeon lay Captain Bew,
Rumbold and Whitney—a jolly crew!
All carved their names on the stone, and all
Share the fate of the brave Du Val!
<i>With their chisels so fine, tra la</i>!
</pre>
<p>
“Save us!” continued the apprentice, “I hope this beam doesn't resemble
the Newgate stone; or I may chance, like the great men the song speaks of,
to swing on the Tyburn tree for my pains. No fear o' that.—Though if
my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. The
prospect of the gallows would never deter me from taking to the road, if I
were so inclined.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold,
Rattled their chains in that dungeon old;
Of all that number there 'scaped not one
Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone.
<i>With his chisel so fine, tra la</i>!
</pre>
<p>
“There!” cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few
paces on the bench to examine his performance,—“that'll do. Claude
du Val himself couldn't have carved it better—ha! ha!”
</p>
<p>
The name inscribed upon the beam (of which, as it has been carefully
preserved by the subsequent owners of Mr. Wood's habitation in Wych
Street, we are luckily enabled to furnish a facsimile) was
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img src="images/185m.jpg" alt="185m" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
“I've half a mind to give old Wood the slip, and turn highwayman,” cried
Jack, as he closed the knife, and put it in his pocket.
</p>
<p>
“The devil you have!” thundered a voice from behind, that filled the
apprentice with dismay. “Come down, sirrah, and I'll teach you how to
deface my walls in future. Come down, I say, instantly, or I'll make you.”
Upon which, Mr. Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him off the
bench.
</p>
<p>
“And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?” continued the
carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—“rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I
suppose.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I will,” replied Jack sullenly, “if you beat me in that way.”
</p>
<p>
Amazed at the boy's assurance, Wood left off boxing his ears for a moment,
and, looking at him steadfastly, said in a grave tone, “Jack, Jack, you'll
come to be hanged!”
</p>
<p>
“Better be hanged than hen-pecked,” retorted the lad with a malicious
grin.
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean by that, sirrah?” cried Wood, reddening with anger. “Do
you dare to insinuate that Mrs. Wood governs me?”
</p>
<p>
“It's plain you can't govern yourself, at all events,” replied Jack
coolly; “but, be that as it may, I won't be struck for nothing.”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing,” echoed Wood furiously. “Do you call neglecting your work, and
singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a
master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your
solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. But
I'll be more lenient, and content myself with merely chastising you, on
condition—”
</p>
<p>
“You may do as you please, master,” interrupted Jack, thrusting his hand
into his pocket, as if in search of the knife; “but I wouldn't advise you
to lay hands on me again.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood glanced at the hardy offender, and not liking the expression of
his countenance, thought it advisable to postpone the execution of his
threats to a more favourable opportunity. So, by way of gaining time, he
resolved to question him further.
</p>
<p>
“Where did you learn the song I heard just now?” he demanded, in an
authoritative tone.
</p>
<p>
“At the Black Lion in our street,” replied Jack, without hesitation.
</p>
<p>
“The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of
reprobates and thieves,” groaned Wood. “And who taught it you—the
landlord, Joe Hind?”
</p>
<p>
“No; one Blueskin, a fellow who frequents the Lion,” answered Jack, with a
degree of candour that astonished his master nearly as much as his
confidence. “It was that song that put it into my head to cut my name on
the beam.”
</p>
<p>
“A white wall is a fool's paper, Jack,—remember that,” rejoined
Wood. “Pretty company for an apprentice to keep!—pretty houses for
an apprentice to frequent! Why, the rascal you mention is a notorious
house-breaker. He was tried at the last Old Bailey sessions; and only
escaped the gallows by impeaching his accomplices. Jonathan Wild brought
him off.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you happen to know Jonathan Wild, master?” inquired Jack, altering his
tone, and assuming a more respectful demeanour.
</p>
<p>
“I've seen him some years ago, I believe,” answered Wood; “and, though he
must be much changed by this time, I dare say I should know him again.”
</p>
<p>
“A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard,
and a face as sly as a fox's?”
</p>
<p>
“Hem!” replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; “the
description's not amiss. But why do you ask?”
</p>
<p>
“Because—” stammered the boy.
</p>
<p>
“Speak out—don't be alarmed,” said Wood, in a kind and encouraging
tone. “If you've done wrong, confess it, and I'll forgive you!”
</p>
<p>
“I don't deserve to be forgiven!” returned Jack, bursting into tears; “for
I'm afraid I've done very wrong. Do you know this, Sir?” he added, taking
a key from his pocket.
</p>
<p>
“Where did you find it!” asked Wood.
</p>
<p>
“It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at
the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled
his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild.”
</p>
<p>
“Where did <i>he</i> get it?” inquired Wood, in surprise.
</p>
<p>
“That I can't say. But he promised to give me a couple of guineas if I'd
ascertain whether it fitted your locks.”
</p>
<p>
“Zounds!” exclaimed Wood; “it's my old master-key. This key,” he added,
taking it from the boy, “was purloined from me by your father, Jack. What
he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. But before he
suffered at Tyburn, he charged your mother to restore it. She lost it in
the Mint. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her.”
</p>
<p>
“He must,” exclaimed Jack, hastily; “but only let me have it till
to-morrow, and if I don't entrap him in a snare from which, with all his
cunning, he shall find it difficult to escape, my name's not Jack
Sheppard.”
</p>
<p>
“I see through your design, Jack,” returned the carpenter, gravely; “but I
don't like under-hand work. Even when you've a knave to deal with, let
your actions be plain, and above-board. That's my maxim; and it's the
maxim of every honest man. It would be a great matter, I must own, to
bring Jonathan Wild to justice. But I can't consent to the course you
would pursue—at least, not till I've given it due consideration. In
regard to yourself, you've had a very narrow escape. Wild's intention,
doubtless, was to use you as far as he found necessary, and then to sell
you. Let this be a caution to you in future—with whom, and about
what you deal. We're told, that 'Whoso is partner with a thief hateth his
own soul.' Avoid taverns and bad company, and you may yet do well. You
promise to become a first-rate workman. But you want one quality, without
which all others are valueless. You want industry—you want
steadiness. Idleness is the key of beggary, Jack. If you don't conquer
this disgraceful propensity in time, you'll soon come to want; and then
nothing can save you. Be warned by your father's fate. As you brew so must
you drink. I've engaged to watch over you as a son, and I <i>will</i> do
so as far as I'm able; but if you neglect my advice, what chance have I of
benefitting you? On one point I've made up my mind—you shall either
obey me, or leave me. Please yourself. Here are your indentures, if you
choose to seek another master.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>will</i> obey you, master,—indeed I will!” implored Jack,
seriously alarmed at the carpenter's calm displeasure.
</p>
<p>
“We shall see. Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. And now
take away those cards, and never let me see them again. Drive away the
cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've
not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I
particularly desired you to complete against my return. It must be sent
home this evening. She leaves town to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“It shall be ready in two hours,” answered Jack, seizing a piece of wood
and a plane; “it isn't more than four o'clock. I'll engage to get the job
done by six. I didn't expect you home before that hour, Sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, Jack,” said Wood, shaking his head, “where there's a will there's a
way. You can do anything you please. I wish I could get you to imitate
Thames Darrell.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm sure I understand the business of a carpenter much better than he
does,” replied Jack, adroitly adjusting the board, and using the plane
with the greatest rapidity.
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps,” replied Wood, doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
“Thames was always your favourite,” observed Jack, as he fastened another
piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper.
</p>
<p>
“I've made no distinction between you, hitherto,” answered Wood; “nor
shall I do so, unless I'm compelled.”
</p>
<p>
“I've had the hard work to do, at all events,” rejoined Jack, “But I won't
complain. I'd do anything for Thames Darrell.”
</p>
<p>
“And Thames Darrell would do anything for you, Jack,” replied a blithe
voice. “What's the matter, father!” continued the new-comer, addressing
Wood. “Has Jack displeased you? If so, overlook his fault this once. I'm
sure he'll do his best to content you. Won't you, Jack?”
</p>
<p>
“That I will,” answered Sheppard, eagerly.
</p>
<p>
“When it thunders, the thief becomes honest,” muttered Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Can I help you, Jack?” asked Thames, taking up a plane.
</p>
<p>
“No, no, let him alone,” interposed Wood. “He has undertaken to finish
this job by six o'clock, and I wish to see whether he'll be as good as his
word.”
</p>
<p>
“He'll have hard work to do it by that time, father,” remonstrated Thames;
“you'd better let me help him.”
</p>
<p>
“On no account,” rejoined Wood peremptorily. “A little extra exertion will
teach him the advantage of diligence at the proper season. Lost ground
must be regained. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed your
appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand.”
</p>
<p>
Thames turned away at the question, which he felt might be construed into
a reproach. But Sheppard answered for him.
</p>
<p>
“Darrell's job was done early this morning,” he said; “and if I'd attended
to his advice, the packing-case would have been finished at the same
time.”
</p>
<p>
“You trusted too much to your own skill, Jack,” rejoined Thames. “If I
could work as fast as you, I might afford to be as idle. See how he gets
on, father,” he added, appealing to Wood: “the box seems to grow under his
hands.”
</p>
<p>
“You're a noble-hearted little fellow, Thames,” rejoined Wood, casting a
look of pride and affection at his adopted son, whose head he gently
patted; “and give promise of a glorious manhood.”
</p>
<p>
Thames Darrell was, indeed, a youth of whom a person of far greater
worldly consequence than the worthy carpenter might have been justly
proud. Though a few months younger than his companion Jack Sheppard, he
was half a head taller, and much more robustly formed. The two friends
contrasted strikingly with each other. In Darrell's open features,
frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's
physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. In all other
respects they differed as materially. Jack could hardly be accounted
good-looking: Thames, on the contrary, was one of the handsomest boys
possible. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and
bright as a rose. Jack's mouth was coarse and large; Darrell's small and
exquisitely carved, with the short, proud upper lip, which belongs to the
highest order of beauty. Jack's nose was broad and flat; Darrell's
straight and fine as that of Antinous. The expression pervading the
countenance of the one was vulgarity; of the other, that which is rarely
found, except in persons of high birth. Darrell's eyes were of that clear
gray which it is difficult to distinguish from blue by day and black at
night; and his rich brown hair, which he could not consent to part with,
even on the promise of a new and modish peruke from his adoptive father,
fell in thick glossy ringlets upon his shoulders; whereas Jack's close
black crop imparted the peculiar bullet-shape we have noticed, to his
head.
</p>
<p>
While Thames modestly expressed a hope that he might not belie the
carpenter's favourable prediction, Jack Sheppard thought fit to mount a
small ladder placed against the wall, and, springing with the agility of
an ape upon a sort of frame, contrived to sustain short spars and blocks
of timber, began to search about for a piece of wood required in the work
on which he was engaged. Being in a great hurry, he took little heed where
he set his feet; and a board giving way, he must have fallen, if he had
not grasped a large plank laid upon the transverse beam immediately over
his head.
</p>
<p>
“Take care, Jack,” shouted Thames, who witnessed the occurrence; “that
plank isn't properly balanced. You'll have it down.”
</p>
<p>
But the caution came too late. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the
equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. Losing his
presence of mind, Jack quitted his hold, and dropped upon the frame. The
plank hung over his head. A moment more and he would have been crushed
beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its
descent.
</p>
<p>
“Get from under it, Jack!” vociferated Thames. “I can't hold it much
longer—it'll break my wrist. Down we come!” he exclaimed, letting go
the plank, which fell with a crash, and leaping after Sheppard, who had
rolled off the frame.
</p>
<p>
All this was the work of a minute.
</p>
<p>
“No bones broken, I hope,” said Thames, laughing at Jack, who limped
towards the bench, rubbing his shins as he went.
</p>
<p>
“All right,” replied Sheppard, with affected indifference.
</p>
<p>
“It's a mercy you both escaped!” ejaculated Wood, only just finding his
tongue. “I declare I'm all in a cold sweat. How came you, Sir,” he
continued, addressing Sheppard, “to venture upon that frame. I always told
you some accident would happen.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't scold him, father,” interposed Thames; “he's been frightened enough
already.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, well, since you desire it, I'll say no more,” returned Wood. “You
hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?” he added, anxiously.
</p>
<p>
“Only sprained it a little, that's all,” answered Thames; “the pain will
go off presently.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you <i>are</i> hurt,” cried the carpenter in alarm. “Come down
stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. She has an
excellent remedy for a sprain. And do you, Jack, attend to your work, and
mind you don't get into further mischief.”
</p>
<p>
“Hadn't Jack better go with us?” said Thames. “His shin may need rubbing.”
</p>
<p>
“By no means,” rejoined Wood, hastily. “A little suffering will do him
good. I meant to give him a drubbing. That bruise will answer the same
purpose.”
</p>
<p>
“Thames,” said Sheppard in a low voice, as he threw a vindictive glance at
the carpenter, “I shan't forget this. You've saved my life.”
</p>
<p>
“Pshaw! you'd do as much for me any day, and think no more about it. It'll
be your turn to save mine next.”
</p>
<p>
“True, and I shan't be easy till my turn arrives.”
</p>
<p>
“I tell you what, Jack,” whispered Thames, who had noticed Sheppard's
menacing glance, and dreaded some further indiscretion on his part, “if
you really wish to oblige me, you'll get that packing-case finished by six
o'clock. You <i>can</i> do it, if you will.”
</p>
<p>
“And I <i>will</i>, if I can, depend upon it,” answered Sheppard, with a
laugh.
</p>
<p>
So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames quitted the
room, and went down stairs.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER II. THAMES DARRELL.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hames Darrell's arm having been submitted to the scrutiny of Mrs. Wood,
was pronounced by that lady to be very much sprained; and she, forthwith,
proceeded to bathe it with a reddish-coloured lotion. During this
operation, the carpenter underwent a severe catechism as to the cause of
the accident; and, on learning that the mischance originated with Jack
Sheppard, the indignation of his helpmate knew no bounds; and she was with
difficulty prevented from flying to the workshop to inflict summary
punishment on the offender.
</p>
<p>
“I knew how it would be,” she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a
shrew, “when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the
house. I told you no good would come of it. And every day's experience
proves that I was right. But, like all your overbearing sex, you must have
your own way. You'll never be guided by me—never!”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken,” returned the carpenter,
endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest
looks, and the meekest deportment.
</p>
<p>
So far, however, was this submission from producing the desired effect,
that it seemed only to lend additional fuel to her displeasure. Forgetting
her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and,
squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped
her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an
inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse.
</p>
<p>
“What!” she exclaimed, almost choked with passion,—“<i>I</i> advised
you to burthen yourself with that idle and good-for-nothing pauper, who'm
you ought rather to send to the workhouse than maintain at your own
expense, did I! <i>I</i> advised you to take him as an apprentice; and, so
far from getting the regular fee with him, to give him a salary? <i>I</i>
advised you to feed him, and clothe him, and treat him like his betters;
to put up with his insolence, and wink at his faults? <i>I</i> counselled
all this, I suppose. You'll tell me next, I dare say, that I recommended
you to go and visit his mother so frequently under the plea of charity; to
give her wine, and provisions, and money; to remove her from the only fit
quarters for such people—the Mint; and to place her in a cottage at
Willesden, of which you must needs pay the rent? Marry, come up! charity
should begin at home. A discreet husband would leave the dispensation of
his bounty, where women are concerned, to his wife. And for my part, if I
were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of
some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene.”
</p>
<p>
“It was the knowledge of this feeling on your part, my love, that made me
act without your express sanction. I did all for the best, I'm sure. Mrs.
Sheppard is—”
</p>
<p>
“I know what Mrs. Sheppard is, without your information, Sir. I haven't
forgotten her previous history. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for
bringing up her son—perhaps, I ought rather to say <i>your</i> son,
Mr. Wood.”
</p>
<p>
“Really, my love, these accusations are most groundless—this
violence is most unnecessary.”
</p>
<p>
“I can't endure the odious baggage. I hope I may never come near her.”
</p>
<p>
“I hope you never may, my love,” humbly acquiesced the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir?
Answer me that.”
</p>
<p>
“Winny,” said Thames, whose glowing cheek attested the effect produced
upon him by the insinuation; “Winny,” said he, addressing a pretty little
damsel of some twelve years of age, who stood by his side holding the
bottle of embrocation, “help me on with my coat, please. This is no place
for me.”
</p>
<p>
“Sit down, my dear, sit down,” interposed Mrs. Wood, softening her
asperity. “What I said about natural children doesn't apply to <i>you</i>.
Don't suppose,” she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, “that I
would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father
of such a boy as you.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair.
</p>
<p>
“Owen, Owen,” pursued Mrs. Wood, sinking into a chair, and fanning herself
violently,—“what a fluster you have put me into with your violence,
to be sure! And at the very time, too, when you know I'm expecting a visit
from Mr. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester. I wouldn't have him see
me in this state for the world. He'd never forgive you.”
</p>
<p>
“Poh, poh, my dear! Mr. Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any
trifling misunderstanding arises between us. I only wish he was not a
Papist and a Jacobite.”
</p>
<p>
“Jacobite!” echoed Mrs. Wood. “Marry, come up! Mightn't he just as
reasonably complain of your being a Hanoverian and a Presbyterian? It's
all matter of opinion. And now, my love,” she added, with a relenting
look, “I'm content to make up our quarrel. But you must promise me not to
go near that abandoned hussy at Willesden. One can't help being jealous,
you know, even of an unworthy object.”
</p>
<p>
Glad to make peace on any terms, Mr. Wood gave the required promise,
though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be
jealous he was the party.
</p>
<p>
And here, we may be permitted to offer an observation upon the peculiar
and unaccountable influence which ladies of a shrewish turn so frequently
exercise over—we can scarcely, in this case, say—their lords
and masters; an influence which seems not merely to extend to the will of
the husband, but even to his inclinations. We do not remember to have met
with a single individual, reported to be under petticoat government, who
was not content with his lot,—nay, who so far from repining, did not
exult in his servitude; and we see no way of accounting for this
apparently inexplicable conduct—for which, among other phenomena of
married life, various reasons have been assigned, though none entirely
satisfactory to us—except upon the ground that these domineering
dames possess some charm sufficiently strong to counteract the irritating
effect of their tempers; some secret and attractive quality of which the
world at large is in ignorance, and with which their husbands alone can be
supposed to be acquainted. An influence of this description appeared to be
exerted on the present occasion. The worthy carpenter was restored to
instant good humour by a glance from his helpmate; and, notwithstanding
the infliction he had just endured, he would have quarrelled with any one
who had endeavoured to persuade him that he was not the happiest of men,
and Mrs. Wood the best of wives.
</p>
<p>
“Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none
when they die,” observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on
the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of
which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent.
</p>
<p>
Lest the carpenter should be taxed with too much uxoriousness, it behoves
us to ascertain whether the personal attractions of his helpmate would, in
any degree, justify the devotion he displayed. In the first place, Mrs.
Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the
sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be
the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of
woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a
term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in
female eyes. In the next place, she really had some pretensions to beauty.
Accounted extremely pretty in her youth, her features and person expanded
as she grew older, without much detriment to their original comeliness.
Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty,
nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion
as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating
as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago.
</p>
<p>
On the present occasion, in anticipation of Mr. Kneebone's visit, Mrs.
Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary
finery. A dove-coloured kincob gown, embroidered with large trees, and
made very low in front, displayed to the greatest possible advantage, the
rounded proportions of her figure; while a high-heeled, red-leather shoe
did not detract from the symmetry of a very neat ankle, and a very small
foot. A stomacher, fastened by imitation-diamond buckles, girded that part
of her person, which should have been a waist; a coral necklace encircled
her throat, and a few black patches, or mouches, as they were termed,
served as a foil to the bloom of her cheek and chin. Upon a table, where
they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's
accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an
enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and
death of Actæon. From her stomacher, to which it was attached by a
multitude of glittering steel chains, depended an immense turnip-shaped
watch, in a pinchbeck case. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of
pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and
pinners with crow-foot edging. A black silk fur-belowed scarf covered her
shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed
with white Persian.
</p>
<p>
But, in spite of her attractions, we shall address ourselves to the
younger, and more interesting couple.
</p>
<p>
“I could almost find in my heart to quarrel with Jack Sheppard for
occasioning you so much pain,” observed little Winifred Wood, as, having
completed her ministration to the best of her ability, she helped Thames
on with his coat.
</p>
<p>
“I don't think you could find in your heart to quarrel with any one,
Winny; much less with a person whom I like so much as Jack Sheppard. My
arm's nearly well again. And I've already told you the accident was not
Jack's fault. So, let's think no more about it.”
</p>
<p>
“It's strange you should like Jack so much dear Thames. He doesn't
resemble you at all.”
</p>
<p>
“The very reason why I like him, Winny. If he <i>did</i> resemble me, I
shouldn't care about him. And, whatever you may think, I assure you,
Jack's a downright good-natured fellow.”
</p>
<p>
Good-natured fellows are always especial favourites with boys. And, in
applying the term to his friend, Thames meant to pay him a high
compliment. And so Winifred understood him.
</p>
<p>
“Well,” she said, in reply, “I may have done Jack an injustice. I'll try
to think better of him in future.”
</p>
<p>
“And, if you want an additional inducement to do so, I can tell you
there's no one—not even his mother—whom he loves so well as
you.”
</p>
<p>
“Loves!” echoed Winifred, slightly colouring.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, loves, Winny. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of
marrying you, when he grows old enough.”
</p>
<p>
“Thames!”
</p>
<p>
“Have I said anything to offend you?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh! no. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard,
you'll never mention such a subject again. Besides,” she added, blushing
yet more deeply, “it isn't a proper one to talk upon.”
</p>
<p>
“Well then, to change it,” replied Thames, gravely, “suppose I should be
obliged to leave you.”
</p>
<p>
Winifred looked as if she could not indulge such a supposition for a
single moment.
</p>
<p>
“Surely,” she said, after a pause, “you don't attach any importance to
what my mother has just said. <i>She</i> has already forgotten it.”
</p>
<p>
“But <i>I</i> never can forget it, Winny. I will no longer be a burthen to
those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion.”
</p>
<p>
As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered
thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes.
</p>
<p>
“If you are in earnest, Thames,” she replied, with a look of gentle
reproach, “you are very foolish; and, if in jest, very cruel. My mother,
I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. She loves you too well for
that. And I'll answer for it, she'll never say a syllable to annoy you
again.”
</p>
<p>
Thames tried to answer her, but his voice failed him.
</p>
<p>
“Come! I see the storm has blown over,” cried Winifred, brightening up.
</p>
<p>
“You're mistaken, Winny. Nothing can alter my determination. I shall quit
this roof to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
The little girl's countenance fell.
</p>
<p>
“Do nothing without consulting my father—<i>your</i> father,
Thames,” she implored. “Promise me that.”
</p>
<p>
“Willingly. And what's more, I promise to abide by his decision.”
</p>
<p>
“Then, I'm quite easy,” cried Winifred, joyfully.
</p>
<p>
“I'm sure he won't attempt to prevent me,” rejoined Thames.
</p>
<p>
The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that <i>she</i>
was not quite so sure. But she made no answer.
</p>
<p>
“In case he should consent—”
</p>
<p>
“He never will,” interrupted Winifred.
</p>
<p>
“In case he <i>should</i>, I say,” continued Thames, “will <i>you</i>
promise to let Jack Sheppard take my place in your affections, Winny?”
</p>
<p>
“Never!” replied the little damsel, “I can never love any one so much as
you.”
</p>
<p>
“Excepting your father.”
</p>
<p>
Winifred was going to say “No,” but she checked herself; and, with cheeks
mantling with blushes, murmured, “I wish you wouldn't tease me about Jack
Sheppard.”
</p>
<p>
The foregoing conversation, having been conducted throughout in a low
tone, and apart, had not reached the ears of Mr. and Mrs. Wood, who were,
furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal <i>tête-à-tête</i> of their own.
The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's
wife.
</p>
<p>
“What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?” she cried.
</p>
<p>
“Thames was just observing—”
</p>
<p>
“Thames!” echoed Mrs. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. “There's
another instance of your wilfulness and want of taste. Who but <i>you</i>
would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a
river, not a Christian. No gentleman was ever called Thames, and Darrell
<i>is</i> a gentleman, unless the whole story of his being found in the
river is a fabrication!”
</p>
<p>
“My dear, you forget—”
</p>
<p>
“No, Mr. Wood, I forget nothing. I've an excellent memory, thank God! And
I perfectly remember that everybody was drowned upon that occasion—except
yourself and the child!”
</p>
<p>
“My love you're beside yourself—”
</p>
<p>
“I was beside myself to take charge of your—”
</p>
<p>
“Mother?” interposed Winifred.
</p>
<p>
“It's of no use,” observed Thames quietly, but with a look that chilled
the little damsel's heart;—“my resolution is taken.”
</p>
<p>
“You at least appear to forget that Mr. Kneebone is coming, my dear,”
ventured Mr. Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Good gracious! so I do,” exclaimed his amiable consort. “But you <i>do</i>
agitate me so much. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes
directly, or I'll send you to bed. Mr. Wood, I desire you'll put on your
best things, and join us as soon as possible. Thames, you needn't tidy
yourself, as you've hurt your arm. Mr. Kneebone will excuse you. Dear me!
if there isn't his knock. Oh! I'm in such a fluster!”
</p>
<p>
Upon which, she snatched up her fan, cast a look into the glass, smoothed
down her scarf, threw a soft expression into her features, and led the way
into the next room, whither she was followed by her daughter and Thames
Darrell.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER III. THE JACOBITE.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of “credit and renown,” whose
place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days,
every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. A
native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch
Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while
fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had
little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house
of Stuart.
</p>
<p>
The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. He had a
handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and
measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic
proportions derived from his father the dragoon. And, if it had not been
for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes,
he might have been accounted a respectable member of society.
</p>
<p>
Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous
complexion. The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained, he
could not remain idle. The spirit of disaffection was busy throughout the
kingdom. It was on the eve of that memorable rebellion which broke forth,
two months later, in Scotland. Since the accession of George the First to
the throne in the preceding year, every effort had been made by the
partisans of the Stuarts to shake the credit of the existing government,
and to gain supporters to their cause. Disappointed in their hopes of the
restoration of the fallen dynasty after the death of Anne, the adherents
of the Chevalier de Saint George endeavoured, by sowing the seeds of
dissension far and wide, to produce a general insurrection in his favour.
No means were neglected to accomplish this end. Agents were dispersed in
all directions—offers the most tempting held out to induce the
wavering to join the Chevalier's standard. Plots were hatched in the
provinces, where many of the old and wealthy Catholic families resided,
whose zeal for the martyr of their religion (as the Chevalier was
esteemed), sharpened by the persecutions they themselves endured, rendered
them hearty and efficient allies. Arms, horses, and accoutrements were
secretly purchased and distributed; and it is not improbable that, if the
unfortunate prince, in whose behalf these exertions were made, and who was
not deficient in courage, as he proved at the battle of Malplaquet, had
boldly placed himself at the head of his party at an earlier period, he
might have regained the crown of his ancestors. But the indecision, which
had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him. He delayed the blow till the
fortunate conjuncture was past. And when, at length, it <i>was</i> struck,
he wanted energy to pursue his advantages.
</p>
<p>
But we must not anticipate the course of events. At the precise period of
this history, the Jacobite party was full of hope and confidence. Louis
the Fourteenth yet lived, and expectations were, therefore, indulged of
assistance from France. The disgrace of the leaders of the late Tory
administration had strengthened, rather than injured, their cause. Mobs
were gathered together on the slightest possible pretext; and these
tumultuous assemblages, while committing the most outrageous excesses,
loudly proclaimed their hatred to the house of Hanover, and their
determination to cut off the Protestant succession. The proceedings of
this faction were narrowly watched by a vigilant and sagacious
administration. The government was not deceived (indeed, every opportunity
was sought by the Jacobites of parading their numbers,) as to the force of
its enemies; and precautionary measures were taken to defeat their
designs. On the very day of which we write, namely, the 10th of June 1715,
Bolingbroke and Oxford were impeached of high treason. The Committee of
Secrecy—that English Council of Ten—were sitting, with Walpole
at their head; and the most extraordinary discoveries were reported to be
made. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the
birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in
the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the
title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were
rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of
the populace almost universally being, “No King George, but a Stuart!”
</p>
<p>
The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish
in promises to their proselytes. Posts were offered to all who chose to
accept them. Blank commissions, signed by the prince, to be filled up by
the name of the person, who could raise a troop for his service, were
liberally bestowed. Amongst others, Mr. Kneebone, whose interest was not
inconsiderable with the leaders of his faction, obtained an appointment as
captain in a regiment of infantry, on the conditions above specified. With
a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started
for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. He was pretty
successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the
head-quarters of the disaffected. On his return to London, he found that
applications had been made from a somewhat doubtful quarter by two
individuals, for the posts of subordinate officers in his troop. Mr.
Kneebone, or, as he would have preferred being styled, Captain Kneebone,
was not perfectly satisfied with the recommendations forwarded by the
applicants. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly
scrupulous. He resolved to judge for himself. Accordingly, he was
introduced to the two military aspirants at the Cross Shovels in the Mint,
by our old acquaintance, Baptist Kettleby. The Master of the Mint, with
whom the Jacobite captain had often had transactions before, vouched for
their being men of honour and loyalty; and Kneebone was so well satisfied
with his representations, that he at once closed the matter by
administering to the applicants the oath of allegiance and fidelity to
King James the Third, and several other oaths besides, all of which those
gentlemen took with as little hesitation as the sum of money, afterwards
tendered, to make the compact binding. The party, then, sat down to a bowl
of punch; and, at its conclusion, Captain Kneebone regretted that an
engagement to spend the evening with Mrs. Wood, would preclude the
possibility of his remaining with his new friends as long as his
inclinations prompted. At this piece of information, the two subordinate
officers were observed to exchange glances; and, after a little agreeable
raillery on their captain's gallantry, they begged permission to accompany
him in his visit. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration
of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more
frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set
out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IV. MR. KNEEBONE AND HIS FRIENDS.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>rs. Wood was scarcely seated before Mr. Kneebone made his appearance. To
her great surprise and mortification he was not alone; but brought with
him a couple of friends, whom he begged to introduce as Mr. Jeremiah
Jackson, and Mr. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar
parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the
house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. Neither the manners,
the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs. Wood in
their favour. Accordingly, on their presentation, Mr. Jeremiah Jackson and
Mr. Solomon Smith received something very like a rebuff. Luckily, they
were not easily discomposed. Two persons possessing a more comfortable
stock of assurance could not be readily found. Imitating the example of
Mr. Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by
his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair, and made himself at
home in a moment. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much
pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above
their chins. Besides this, each had a large black patch over his right
eye, and a very queer twist at the left side of his mouth, so that if
their object had been disguise, they could not have adopted better
precautions. Mrs. Wood thought them both remarkably plain, but Mr. Smith
decidedly the plainest of the two. His complexion was as blue as a
sailor's jacket, and though Mr. Jackson had one of the ugliest
countenances imaginable, he had a very fine set of teeth. That was
something in his favour. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. They
were both dressed in every respect alike. In fact, Mr. Solomon Smith
seemed to be Mr. Jeremiah Jackson's double. He talked in the same style,
and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and
coughed, or sneezed at the same time. If Mr. Jackson took an accurate
survey of the room with his one eye, Mr. Smith's solitary orb followed in
the same direction. When Jeremiah admired the Compasses in the arms of the
Carpenter's Company over the chimney-piece, or the portraits of the two
eminent masters of the rule and plane, William Portington, and John Scott,
Esquires, on either side of it, Solomon was lost in wonder. When Mr.
Jackson noticed a fine service of old blue china in an open japan closet,
Mr. Smith had never seen anything like it. And finally, when Jeremiah,
having bestowed upon Mrs. Wood a very free-and-easy sort of stare, winked
at Mr. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon. All
three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. Mrs. Wood's
astonishment and displeasure momentarily increased. Such freedoms from
such people were not to be endured. Her patience was waning fast. Still,
in spite of her glances and gestures, Mr. Kneebone made no effort to check
the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to
encourage it. So Mrs. Wood went on fuming, and the trio went on laughing
for some minutes, nobody knew why or wherefore, until the party was
increased by Mr. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle.
Without stopping to inquire into the cause of their mirth, or even to ask
the names of his guests, the worthy carpenter shook hands with the
one-eyed chapmen, slapped Mr. Kneebone cordially on the shoulder, and
began to laugh as heartily as any of them.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Wood could stand it no longer.
</p>
<p>
“I think you're all bewitched,” she cried.
</p>
<p>
“So we are, Ma'am, by your charms,” returned Mr. Jackson, gallantly.
</p>
<p>
“Quite captivated, Ma'am,” added Mr. Smith, placing his hand on his
breast.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Kneebone and Mr. Wood laughed louder than ever.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Wood,” said the lady bridling up, “my request may, perhaps, have some
weight with <i>you</i>. I desire, Sir, you'll recollect yourself. Mr.
Kneebone,” she added, with a glance at that gentleman, which was meant to
speak daggers, “will do as he pleases.”
</p>
<p>
Here the chapmen set up another boisterous peal.
</p>
<p>
“No offence, I hope, my dear Mrs. W,” said Mr. Kneebone in a conciliatory
tone. “My friends, Mr. Jackson and Mr. Smith, may have rather odd ways
with them; but—”
</p>
<p>
“They <i>have</i> very odd ways,” interrupted Mrs. Wood, disdainfully.
</p>
<p>
“Our worthy friend was going to observe, Ma'am, that we never fail in our
devotion to the fair sex,” said Mr. Jackson.
</p>
<p>
“Never, Ma'am!” echoed Mr. Smith, “upon my conscience.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear,” said the hospitable carpenter, “I dare say Mr. Kneebone and his
friends would be glad of a little refreshment.”
</p>
<p>
“They shall have it, then,” replied his better half, rising. “You base
ingrate,” she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. Kneebone on
her way to the door, “how could you bring such creatures with you,
especially on an occasion like this, when we haven't met for a fortnight!”
</p>
<p>
“Couldn't help it, my life,” returned the gentleman addressed, in the same
tone; “but you little know who those individuals are.”
</p>
<p>
“Lord bless us! you alarm me. Who are they?”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Kneebone assumed a mysterious air; and bringing his lips close to Mrs.
Wood's ear, whispered, “secret agents from France—you understand—friends
to the cause—hem!”
</p>
<p>
“I see,—persons of rank!”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Kneebone nodded.
</p>
<p>
“Noblemen.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Kneebone smiled assent.
</p>
<p>
“Mercy on us! Well, I thought their manners quite out o' the common. And
so, the invasion really is to take place after all; and the Chevalier de
Saint George is to land at the Tower with fifty thousand Frenchmen; and
the Hanoverian usurper's to be beheaded; and Doctor Sacheverel's to be
made a bishop, and we're all to be—eh?”
</p>
<p>
“All in good time,” returned Kneebone, putting his finger to his lips;
“don't let your imagination run away with you, my charmer. That boy,” he
added, looking at Thames, “has his eye upon us.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution.
</p>
<p>
“O, lud!” she cried; “French noblemen in disguise! and so rude as I was! I
shall never recover it!”
</p>
<p>
“A good supper will set all to rights,” insinuated Kneebone. “But be
prudent, my angel.”
</p>
<p>
“Never fear,” replied the lady. “I'm prudence personified. You might trust
me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. But why didn't
you let me know they were coming. I'd have got something nice. As it is,
we've only a couple of ducks—and they were intended for you. Winny,
my love, come with me. I shall want you.—Sorry to quit your lord—worships,
I mean,—I don't know what I mean,” she added, a little confused, and
dropping a profound curtsey to the disguised noblemen, each of whom
replied by a bow, worthy, in her opinion, of a prince of the blood at the
least,—“but I've a few necessary orders to give below.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't mind us, Ma'am,” said Mr. Jackson: “ha! ha!”
</p>
<p>
“Not in the least, Ma'am,” echoed Mr. Smith: “ho! ho!”
</p>
<p>
“How condescending!” thought Mrs. Wood. “Not proud in the least, I
declare. Well, I'd no idea,” she continued, pursuing her ruminations as
she left the room, “that people of quality laughed so. But it's French
manners, I suppose.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER V. HAWK AND BUZZARD.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>rs. Wood's anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily displayed
itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. To the duckling,
peas, and other delicacies, intended for Mr. Kneebone's special
consumption, she added a few impromptu dishes, tossed off in her best
style; such as lamb chops, broiled kidneys, fried ham and eggs, and
toasted cheese. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing
accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of
swig, and a toast. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a
cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its
due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a
couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of
vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. While the cloth was laid, the
host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with
a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same
use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern
Midnight Conversation.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Wood now re-appeared with a very red face; and, followed by Winifred,
took her seat at the table. Operations then commenced. Mr. Wood carved the
ducks; Mr. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and
uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. The woollen-draper was no
despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and
fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. Smith. The leg and wing
of a duck were disposed of by this gentleman in a twinkling; a brace of
pigeons and a pound of steak followed with equal celerity; and he had just
begun to make a fierce assault upon the eggs and ham. His appetite was
perfectly Gargantuan. Nor must it be imagined, that while he thus
exercised his teeth, he neglected the flagon. On the contrary, his glass
was never idle, and finding it not filled quite so frequently as he
desired, he applied himself, notwithstanding the expressive looks and
muttered remonstrances of Mr. Jackson, to the swig. The latter gentleman
did full justice to the good things before him; but he drank sparingly,
and was visibly annoyed by his companion's intemperance. As to Mr.
Kneebone, what with flirting with Mrs. Wood, carving for his friends, and
pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. At this juncture, and just
as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the
room, with the packing-case under his arm.
</p>
<p>
“I was in the right, you see, father,” observed Thames, smiling; “Jack <i>has</i>
done his task.”
</p>
<p>
“So I perceive,” replied Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Where am I to take it to?” asked Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“I told you that before,” rejoined Wood, testily. “You must take it to Sir
Rowland Trenchard's in Southampton Fields. And, mind, it's for his sister,
Lady Trafford.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well, Sir,” replied Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“Wet your whistle before you start, Jack,” said Kneebone, pouring out a
glass of ale. “What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?”
</p>
<p>
“Only a box, Sir,” answered Sheppard, emptying the glass.
</p>
<p>
“It's an odd-shaped one,” rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively.
“But I can guess what it's for. Sir Rowland is one of <i>us</i>,” he
added, winking at his companions, “and so was his brother-in-law, Sir
Cecil Trafford. Old Lancashire families both. Strict Catholics, and loyal
to the backbone. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane
though.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah! you're so very particular,” sighed Mrs. Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Not in the least,” returned Kneebone, slyly, “not in the least. Another
glass, Jack.”
</p>
<p>
“Thank'ee, Sir,” grinned Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“Off with it to the health of King James the Third, and confusion to his
enemies!”
</p>
<p>
“Hold!” interposed Wood; “that is treason. I'll have no such toast drunk
at my table!”
</p>
<p>
“It's the king's birthday,” urged the woollen draper.
</p>
<p>
“Not <i>my</i> king's,” returned Wood. “I quarrel with no man's political
opinions, but I will have my own respected!”
</p>
<p>
“Eh day!” exclaimed Mrs. Wood; “here's a pretty to-do about nothing.
Marry, come up! I'll see who's to be obeyed. Drink the toast, Jack.”
</p>
<p>
“At your peril, sirrah!” cried Wood.
</p>
<p>
“He was hanged that left his drink behind, you know, master,” rejoined
Sheppard. “Here's King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!”
</p>
<p>
“Very well,” said the carpenter, sitting down amid the laughter of the
company.
</p>
<p>
“Jack!” cried Thames, in a loud voice, “you deserve to be hanged for a
rebel as you are to your lawful king and your lawful master. But since we
must have toasts,” he added, snatching up a glass, “listen to mine: Here's
King George the First! a long reign to him! and confusion to the Popish
Pretender and his adherents!”
</p>
<p>
“Bravely done!” said Wood, with tears in his eyes.
</p>
<p>
“That's the kinchin as was to try the dub for us, ain't it?” muttered
Smith to his companion as he stole a glance at Jack Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“Silence!” returned Jackson, in a deep whisper; “and don't muddle your
brains with any more of that Pharaoh. You'll need all your strength to
grab him.”
</p>
<p>
“What's the matter?” remarked Kneebone, addressing Sheppard, who, as he
caught the single but piercing eye of Jackson fixed upon him, started and
trembled.
</p>
<p>
“What's the matter?” repeated Mrs. Wood in a sharp tone.
</p>
<p>
“Ay, what's the matter, boy!” reiterated Jackson sternly. “Did you never
see two gentlemen with only a couple of peepers between them before!”
</p>
<p>
“Never, I'll be sworn!” said Smith, taking the opportunity of filling his
glass while his comrade's back was turned; “we're a nat'ral cur'osity.”
</p>
<p>
“Can I have a word with you, master?” said Sheppard, approaching Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Not a syllable!” answered the carpenter, angrily. “Get about your
business!”
</p>
<p>
“Thames!” cried Jack, beckoning to his friend.
</p>
<p>
But Darrell averted his head.
</p>
<p>
“Mistress!” said the apprentice, making a final appeal to Mrs. Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Leave the room instantly, sirrah!” rejoined the lady, bouncing up, and
giving him a slap on the cheek that made his eyes flash fire.
</p>
<p>
“May I be cursed,” muttered Sheppard, as he slunk away with (as the
woollen-draper pleasantly observed) 'a couple of boxes in charge,' “if
ever I try to be honest again!”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0013" id="linkimage-0013"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/238s.jpg" alt="238s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/238.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/238m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
“Take a little toasted cheese with the swig, Mr. Smith,” observed Wood.
“That's an incorrigible rascal,” he added, as Sheppard closed the door;
“it's only to-day that I discovered—”
</p>
<p>
“What?” asked Jackson, pricking up his ears.
</p>
<p>
“Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father,” interposed Thames.
</p>
<p>
“If <i>I</i> were your father, young gentleman,” returned Jackson, enraged
at the interruption, “I'd teach <i>you</i> not to speak till you were
spoken to.”
</p>
<p>
Thames was about to reply, but a glance from Wood checked him.
</p>
<p>
“The rebuke is just,” said the carpenter; “at the same time, I'm not sorry
to find you're a friend to fair play, which, as you seem to know, is a
jewel. Open that bottle with a blue seal, my dear. Gentlemen! a glass of
brandy will be no bad finish to our meal.”
</p>
<p>
This proposal giving general satisfaction, the bottle circulated swiftly;
and Smith found the liquor so much to his taste, that he made it pay
double toll on its passage.
</p>
<p>
“Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. Wood,” observed Jackson, in a
slightly-sarcastic tone.
</p>
<p>
“He's not my son,” rejoined the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“How, Sir?”
</p>
<p>
“Except by adoption. Thames Darrell is—”
</p>
<p>
“My husband nicknames him Thames,” interrupted Mrs. Wood, “because he
found him in the river!—ha! ha!”
</p>
<p>
“Ha! ha!” echoed Smith, taking another bumper of brandy; “he'll set the
Thames on fire one of these days, I'll warrant him!”
</p>
<p>
“That's more than you'll ever do, you drunken fool!” growled Jackson, in
an under tone: “be cautious, or you'll spoil all!”
</p>
<p>
“Suppose we send for a bowl of punch,” said Kneebone.
</p>
<p>
“With all my heart!” replied Wood. And, turning to his daughter, he gave
the necessary directions in a low tone.
</p>
<p>
Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to
the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the
ambrosian fluid. The tables were then cleared. Bottles and glasses usurped
the place of dishes and plates. Pipes were lighted; and Mr. Kneebone began
to dispense the fragrant fluid; begging Mrs. Wood, in a whisper, as he
filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de
Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded
by drinking the toast aloud.
</p>
<p>
“The Chevalier shall hear of this,” whispered the woollen-draper.
</p>
<p>
“You don't say so!” replied Mrs. Wood, delighted at the idea.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Kneebone assured her that he <i>did</i> say so; and, as a further
proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious,
and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
DRINKING SONG.
I. Jolly nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip
Are dug from the mines of canary;
And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip
With hogsheads of claret and sherry.
II. Jolly nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass
Beholds thee in all thy perfection;
And to the pale snout of a temperate ass
Entertains the profoundest objection.
III. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,
And the choicest of wine is my colour;
And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues
The fuller I fill it—the fuller!
IV. Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight;
Such dullards know nothing about it.
'T is better, with wine, to extinguish the light,
Than live always, in darkness, without it!
</pre>
<p>
“How long may it be since that boy was found in the way Mrs. Wood
mentions?” inquired Jackson, as soon as the clatter that succeeded Mr.
Smith's melody had subsided.
</p>
<p>
“Let me see,” replied Wood; “exactly twelve years ago last November.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm,” rejoined Jackson.
</p>
<p>
“Egad!” exclaimed Wood, “you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. It
<i>was</i> on the night of the Great Storm that I found him.”
</p>
<p>
“I should like to hear all particulars of the affair,” said Jackson, “if
it wouldn't be troubling you too much.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood required little pressing. He took a sip of punch and commenced
his relation. Though meant to produce a totally different effect, the
narrative seemed to excite the risible propensities rather than the
commiseration of his auditor; and when Mr. Wood wound it up by a
description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other
could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope
to his merriment.
</p>
<p>
“I beg your pardon,” he cried; “but really—ha! ha!—you must
excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me
hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!”
</p>
<p>
“Upon my word,” rejoined Wood, “you seem vastly entertained by my
misfortunes.”
</p>
<p>
“To be sure! Nothing entertains me so much. People always rejoice at the
misfortunes of others—never at their own! The droll dogs! how <i>they</i>
must have enjoyed it!—ha! ha!”
</p>
<p>
“I dare say they did. But <i>I</i> found it no laughing matter, I can
assure you. And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the
subject as ever.”
</p>
<p>
“Quite natural! Never forgive an injury!—<i>I</i> never do!—ha!
ha!”
</p>
<p>
“Really, Mr. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. Your laugh
reminds me of—of——”
</p>
<p>
“Whose, Sir?” demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
</p>
<p>
“You'll not be offended, I hope,” returned Wood, drily, “if I say that
your voice, your manner, and, above all, your very extraordinary way of
laughing, put me strangely in mind of one of the 'droll dogs,' (as you
term them,) who helped to perpetrate the outrage I've just described.”
</p>
<p>
“Whom do you mean?” demanded Jackson.
</p>
<p>
“I allude to an individual, who has since acquired an infamous notoriety
as a thief-taker; but who, in those days, was himself the associate of
thieves.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Sir, his name?”
</p>
<p>
“Jonathan Wild.”
</p>
<p>
“'Sblood!” cried Jackson, rising, “I can't sit still and hear Mr. Wild,
whom I believe to be as honest a gentleman as any in the kingdom,
calumniated!”
</p>
<p>
“Fire and fury!” exclaimed Smith, getting up with the brandy-bottle in his
grasp; “no man shall abuse Mr. Wild in my presence! He's the right-hand of
the community! We could do nothing without him!”
</p>
<p>
“<i>We!</i>” repeated Wood, significantly.
</p>
<p>
“Every honest man, Sir! He helps us to our own again.”
</p>
<p>
“Humph!” ejaculated the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“Surely,” observed Thames, laughing, “to one who entertains so high an
opinion of Jonathan Wild, as Mr. Jackson appears to do, it can't be very
offensive to be told, that he's like him.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't object to the likeness, if any such exists, young Sir,” returned
Jackson, darting an angry glance at Thames; “indeed I'm rather flattered
by being thought to resemble a gentleman of Mr. Wild's figure. But I can't
submit to hear the well-earned reputation of my friend termed an 'infamous
notoriety.'”
</p>
<p>
“No, we can't stand that,” hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his
legs.
</p>
<p>
“Well, gentlemen,” rejoined Wood, mildly; “since Mr. Wild is a friend of
yours, I'm sorry for what I said. I've no doubt he's as honest as either
of you.”
</p>
<p>
“Enough,” returned Jackson, extending his hand; “and if I've expressed
myself warmly, I'm sorry for it likewise. But you must allow me to
observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my
friend. Mr. Wild never was the associate of thieves.”
</p>
<p>
“Never,” echoed Smith, emphatically, “upon my honour.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm satisfied with your assurance,” replied the carpenter, drily.
</p>
<p>
“It's more than I am,” muttered Thames.
</p>
<p>
“I was not aware that Jonathan Wild was an acquaintance of yours, Mr.
Jackson,” said Kneebone, whose assiduity to Mrs. Wood had prevented him
from paying much attention to the previous scene.
</p>
<p>
“I've known him all my life,” replied the other.
</p>
<p>
“The devil you have! Then, perhaps, you can tell me when he intends to put
his threat into execution?”
</p>
<p>
“What threat?” asked Jackson.
</p>
<p>
“Why, of hanging the fellow who acts as his jackal; one Blake, or
Blueskin, I think he's called.”
</p>
<p>
“You've been misinformed, Sir,” interposed Smith. “Mr. Wild is incapable
of such baseness.”
</p>
<p>
“Bah!” returned the woollen-draper. “I see you don't know him as well as
you pretend. Jonathan is capable of anything. He has hanged twelve of his
associates already. The moment they cease to be serviceable, or become
dangerous he lodges an information, and the matter's settled. He has
always plenty of evidence in reserve. Blueskin is booked. As sure as
you're sitting there, Mr. Smith, he'll swing after next Old Bailey
sessions. I wouldn't be in his skin for a trifle!”
</p>
<p>
“But he may peach,” said Smith casting an oblique glance at Jackson.
</p>
<p>
“It would avail him little if he did,” replied Kneebone. “Jonathan does
what he pleases in the courts.”
</p>
<p>
“Very true,” chuckled Jackson; “very true.”
</p>
<p>
“Blueskin's only chance would be to carry <i>his</i> threat into effect,”
pursued the woollen-draper.
</p>
<p>
“Aha!” exclaimed Jackson. “<i>He</i> threatens, does he?”
</p>
<p>
“More than that,” replied Kneebone; “I understand he drew a knife upon
Jonathan, in a quarrel between them lately. And since then, he has openly
avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest
inkling of treachery. But, perhaps Mr. Smith will tell you I'm
misinformed, also, on that point.”
</p>
<p>
“On the contrary,” rejoined Smith, looking askance at his companion, “I
happen to <i>know</i> you're in the right.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Sir, I'm obliged to you,” said Jackson; “I shall take care to put
Mr. Wild on his guard against an assassin.”
</p>
<p>
“And I shall put Blueskin on the alert against the designs of a traitor,”
rejoined Smith, in a tone that sounded like a menace.
</p>
<p>
“In my opinion,” remarked Kneebone, “it doesn't matter how soon society is
rid of two such scoundrels; and if Blueskin dies by the rope, and Jonathan
by the hand of violence, they'll meet the fate they merit. Wild was
formerly an agent to the Jacobite party, but, on the offer of a bribe from
the opposite faction, he unhesitatingly deserted and betrayed his old
employers. Of late, he has become the instrument of Walpole, and does all
the dirty work for the Secret Committee. Several arrests of importance
have been intrusted to him; but, forewarned, forearmed, we have constantly
baffled his schemes;—ha! ha! Jonathan's a devilish clever fellow.
But he can't have his eyes always about him, or he'd have been with us
this morning at the Mint, eh, Mr. Jackson!”
</p>
<p>
“So he would,” replied the latter: “so he would.”
</p>
<p>
“With all his cunning, he may meet with his match,” continued Kneebone,
laughing. “I've set a trap for him.”
</p>
<p>
“Take care you don't fall into it yourself,” returned Jackson, with a
slight sneer.
</p>
<p>
“Were I in your place,” said Smith, “I should be apprehensive of Wild,
because he's a declared enemy.”
</p>
<p>
“And were I in <i>yours</i>,” rejoined the woollen-draper, “I should be
doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. But we're neglecting
the punch all this time. A bumper round, gentlemen. Success to our
enterprise!”
</p>
<p>
“Success to our enterprise!” echoed the others, significantly.
</p>
<p>
“May I ask whether you made any further inquiries into the mysterious
affair about which we were speaking just now?” observed Jackson, turning
to the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“I can't say I did,” replied Wood, somewhat reluctantly; “what with the
confusion incident to the storm, and the subsequent press of business, I
put it off till it was too late. I've often regretted that I didn't
investigate the matter. However, it doesn't much signify. All concerned in
the dark transaction must have perished.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you sure of that,” inquired Jackson.
</p>
<p>
“As sure as one reasonably can be. I saw their boat swept away, and heard
the roar of the fall beneath the bridge; and no one, who was present,
could doubt the result. If the principal instigator of the crime, whom I
afterwards encountered on the platform, and who was dashed into the raging
flood by the shower of bricks, escaped, his preservation must have been
indeed miraculous.”
</p>
<p>
“Your own was equally so,” said Jackson ironically. “What if he <i>did</i>
escape?”
</p>
<p>
“My utmost efforts should be used to bring him to justice.”
</p>
<p>
“Hum!”
</p>
<p>
“Have you any reason to suppose he survived the accident?” inquired Thames
eagerly.
</p>
<p>
Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to
tell.
</p>
<p>
“I merely asked the question,” he said, after he had enjoyed the boy's
suspense for a moment.
</p>
<p>
The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as
suddenly extinguished.
</p>
<p>
“If I thought he lived——” observed Wood.
</p>
<p>
“<i>If</i>,” interrupted Jackson, changing his tone: “he <i>does</i> live.
And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned.”
</p>
<p>
“Who is he?” asked Thames impatiently.
</p>
<p>
“You're inquisitive, young gentleman,” replied Jackson, coldly. “When
you're older, you'll know that secrets of importance are not disclosed
gratuitously. Your adoptive father understands mankind better.”
</p>
<p>
“I'd give half I'm worth to hang the villain, and restore this boy to his
rights,” said Mr. Wood.
</p>
<p>
“How do you know he <i>has</i> any rights to be restored to?” returned
Jackson, with a grin. “Judging from what you tell me, I've no doubt he's
the illegitimate offspring of some handsome, but lowborn profligate; in
which case, he'll neither have name, nor wealth for his inheritance. The
assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman
of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer.
The less said, therefore, on this point the better; because, as nothing is
to be gained by it, it would only be trouble thrown away. But, if you have
any particular fancy for hanging the gentleman, who chose to take the law
into his own hands—and I think your motive extremely disinterested
and praiseworthy—why, it's just possible, if you make it worth my
while, that your desires may be gratified.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't see how this is to be effected, unless you yourself were present
at the time,” said Wood, glancing suspiciously at the speaker.
</p>
<p>
“I had no hand in the affair,” replied Jackson, bluntly; “but I know those
who had; and could bring forward evidence, if you require it.”
</p>
<p>
“The best evidence would be afforded by an accomplice of the assassin,”
rejoined Thames, who was greatly offended by the insinuation as to his
parentage.
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps you could point out such a party, Mr. Jackson?” said Wood,
significantly.
</p>
<p>
“I could,” replied Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Then you need no further information from me,” rejoined Jackson, sternly.
</p>
<p>
“Stay!” cried Wood, “this is a most perplexing business—if you
really are privy to the affair——”
</p>
<p>
“We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir,” returned Jackson, cutting him short.
“In the mean time, with your permission, I'll just make a few minutes of
our conversation.”
</p>
<p>
“As many as you please,” replied Wood, walking towards the chimney-piece,
and taking down a constable's, staff, which hung upon a nail.
</p>
<p>
Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately
sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. While he
was thus occupied, Thames, prompted by an unaccountable feeling of
curiosity, took up the penknife which the other had just used, and
examined the haft. What he there noticed occasioned a marked change in his
demeanour. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful
gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything
having happened.
</p>
<p>
“There,” cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, “that'll do.
To-morrow at twelve I'll be with you, Mr. Wood. Make up your mind as to
the terms, and I'll engage to find the man.”
</p>
<p>
“Hold!” exclaimed the carpenter, in an authoritative voice: “we can't part
thus. Thames, look the door.” (An order which was promptly obeyed.) “Now,
Sir, I must insist upon a full explanation of your mysterious hints, or,
as I am headborough of the district, I shall at once take you into
custody.”
</p>
<p>
Jackson treated this menace with a loud laugh of derision.
</p>
<p>
“What ho!” he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the
brandy-bottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. “It is time!”
</p>
<p>
“For what?” grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes.
</p>
<p>
“For the caption!” replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from
his pockets.
</p>
<p>
“Ready!” answered Smith, shaking himself, and producing a similar pair of
weapons.
</p>
<p>
“In Heaven's name! what's all this?” cried Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Be still, and you'll receive no injury,” returned Jackson. “We're merely
about to discharge our duty by apprehending a rebel. Captain Kneebone! we
must trouble you to accompany us.”
</p>
<p>
“I've no intention of stirring,” replied the woollen-draper, who was thus
unceremoniously disturbed: “and I beg you'll sit down, Mr. Jackson.”
</p>
<p>
“Come, Sir!” thundered the latter, “no trifling! Perhaps,” he added,
opening a warrant, “you'll obey this mandate?”
</p>
<p>
“A warrant!” ejaculated Kneebone, starting to his feet.
</p>
<p>
“Ay, Sir, from the Secretary of State, for <i>your</i> arrest! You're
charged with high-treason.”
</p>
<p>
“By those who've conspired with me?”
</p>
<p>
“No! by those who've entrapped you! You've long eluded our vigilance; but
we've caught you at last!”
</p>
<p>
“Damnation!” exclaimed the woollen-draper; “that I should be the dupe of
such a miserable artifice!”
</p>
<p>
“It's no use lamenting now, Captain! You ought rather to be obliged to us
for allowing you to pay this visit. We could have secured you when you
left the Mint. But we wished to ascertain whether Mrs. Wood's charms
equalled your description.”
</p>
<p>
“Wretches!” screamed the lady; “don't dare to breathe your vile
insinuations against me! Oh! Mr. Kneebone, are these your French
noblemen?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't upbraid me!” rejoined the woollen-draper.
</p>
<p>
“Bring him along, Joe!” said Jackson, in a whisper to his comrade.
</p>
<p>
Smith obeyed. But he had scarcely advanced a step, when he was felled to
the ground by a blow from the powerful arm of Kneebone, who, instantly
possessing himself of a pistol, levelled it at Jackson's head.
</p>
<p>
“Begone! or I fire!” he cried.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Wood,” returned Jackson, with the utmost composure; “you're a
headborough, and a loyal subject of King George. I call upon you to assist
me in the apprehension of this person. You'll be answerable for his
escape.”
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Wood, I command you not to stir,” vociferated the carpenter's
better-half; “recollect you'll be answerable to me.”
</p>
<p>
“I declare I don't know what to do,” said Wood, burned by conflicting
emotions. “Mr. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering
yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“Never!” replied the woollen-draper; “and if that treacherous rascal, by
your side, doesn't make himself scarce quickly, I'll send a bullet through
his brain.”
</p>
<p>
“My death will lie at your door,” remarked Jackson to the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“Show me your warrant!” said Wood, almost driven to his wit's-end;
“perhaps it isn't regular?”
</p>
<p>
“Ask him who he is?” suggested Thames.
</p>
<p>
“A good idea!” exclaimed the carpenter. “May I beg to know whom I've the
pleasure of addressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name.”
</p>
<p>
“What does it signify?” returned the latter, angrily.
</p>
<p>
“A great deal!” replied Thames. “If you won't disclose your name, I will
for you! You are Jonathan Wild!”
</p>
<p>
“Further concealment is needless,” answered the other, pulling off his wig
and black patch, and resuming his natural tone of voice; “I <i>am</i>
Jonathan Wild!”
</p>
<p>
“Say you so!” rejoined Kneebone; “then be this your passport to eternity.”
</p>
<p>
Upon which he drew the trigger of the pistol, which, luckily for the
individual against whom it was aimed, flashed in the pan.
</p>
<p>
“I might now send you on a similar journey!” replied Jonathan, with a
bitter smile, and preserving the unmoved demeanour he had maintained
throughout; “but I prefer conveying you, in the first instance, to
Newgate. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow.”
</p>
<p>
So saying, he sprang, with a bound like that of a tiger-cat, against the
throat of the woollen-draper. And so sudden and well-directed was the
assault, that he completely overthrew his gigantic antagonist.
</p>
<p>
“Lend a hand with the ruffles, Blueskin!” he shouted, as that personage,
who had just recovered from the stunning effects of the blow, contrived to
pick himself up. “Look quick, d—n you, or we shall never master
him!”
</p>
<p>
“Murder!” shrieked Mrs. Wood, at the top of her voice.
</p>
<p>
“Here's a pistol!” cried Thames, darting towards the undischarged weapon
dropped by Blueskin in the scuffle, and pointing it at Jonathan. “Shall I
shoot him?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes! yes! put it to his ear!” cried Mrs. Wood; “that's the surest way!”
</p>
<p>
“No! no! give it me!” vociferated Wood, snatching the pistol, and rushing
to the door, against which he placed his back.
</p>
<p>
“I'll soon settle this business. Jonathan Wild!” he added, in a loud
voice, “I command you to release your prisoner.”
</p>
<p>
“So I will,” replied Jonathan, who, with Blueskin's aid, had succeeded in
slipping a pair of handcuffs over the woollen-draper's wrists, “when I've
Mr. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before.”
</p>
<p>
“You'll take the consequences, then?”
</p>
<p>
“Willingly.”
</p>
<p>
“In that case I arrest you, and your confederate, Joseph Blake, alias
Blueskin, on a charge of felony,” returned Wood, brandishing his staff;
“resist my authority, if you dare.”
</p>
<p>
“A clever device,” replied Jonathan; “but it won't serve your turn. Let us
pass, Sir. Strike the gag, Blueskin.”
</p>
<p>
“You shall not stir a footstep. Open the window, Thames, and call for
assistance.”
</p>
<p>
“Stop!” cried Jonathan, who did not care to push matters too far, “let me
have a word with you, Mr. Wood.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll have no explanations whatever,” replied the carpenter, disdainfully,
“except before a magistrate.”
</p>
<p>
“At least state your charge. It is a serious accusation.”
</p>
<p>
“It <i>is</i>,” answered Wood. “Do you recollect this key? Do you
recollect to whom you gave it, and for what purpose? or shall I refresh
your memory?”
</p>
<p>
Wild appeared confounded.
</p>
<p>
“Release your prisoner,” continued Wood, “or the window is opened.”
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Wood,” said Jonathan, advancing towards him, and speaking in a low
tone, “the secret of your adopted son's birth is known to me. The name of
his father's murderer is also known to me. I can help you to both,—nay,
I <i>will</i> help you to both, if you do not interfere with my plans. The
arrest of this person is of consequence to me. Do not oppose it, and I
will serve you. Thwart me, and I become your mortal enemy. I have but to
give a hint of that boy's existence in the proper quarter, and his life
will not be worth a day's purchase.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't listen to him, father,” cried Thames, unconscious of what was
passing; “there are plenty of people outside.”
</p>
<p>
“Make your choice,” said Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“If you don't decide quickly, I'll scream,” cried Mrs. Wood, popping her
head through the window.
</p>
<p>
“Set your prisoner free!” returned Wood.
</p>
<p>
“Take off the ruffles, Blueskin,” rejoined Wild. “You know my fixed
determination,” he added in a low tone, as he passed the carpenter.
“Before to-morrow night that boy shall join his father.”
</p>
<p>
So saying, he unlocked the door and strode out of the room.
</p>
<p>
“Here are some letters, which will let you see what a snake you've
cherished in your bosom, you uxorious old dotard,” said Blueskin, tossing
a packet of papers to Wood, as he followed his leader.
</p>
<p>
“'Odd's-my-life! what's this?” exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the
superscription of one of them. “Why, this is your writing Dolly, and
addressed to Mr. Kneebone.”
</p>
<p>
“My writing! no such thing!” ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm
at the woollen-draper.
</p>
<p>
“Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters,”
whispered Kneebone, “What's to be done?”
</p>
<p>
“What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn
them. But men <i>are</i> so careless, there's no trusting anything to
them! However, I must try to brazen it out.—Give me the letters, my
love,” she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; “they're some
wicked forgeries.”
</p>
<p>
“Excuse me, Madam,” replied the carpenter, turning his back upon her, and
sinking into a chair: “Thames, my love, bring me my spectacles. My heart
misgives me. Fool that I was to marry for beauty! I ought to have
remembered that a fair woman and a slashed gown always find some nail in
the way.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST STEP TOWARDS THE LADDER.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f there is one thing on earth, more lovely than another, it is a fair
girl of the tender age of Winifred Wood! Her beauty awakens no feeling
beyond that of admiration. The charm of innocence breathes around her, as
fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her lightest thought and
action, and shielding her, like a spell, from the approach of evil.
Beautiful is the girl of twelve,—who is neither child nor woman, but
something between both, something more exquisite than either!
</p>
<p>
Such was the fairy creature presented to Thames Darrell, under the
following circumstances.
</p>
<p>
Glad to escape from the scene of recrimination that ensued between his
adopted parents, Thames seized the earliest opportunity of retiring, and
took his way to a small chamber in the upper part of the house, where he
and Jack were accustomed to spend most of their leisure in the amusements,
or pursuits, proper to their years. He found the door ajar, and, to his
surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in
tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. She did not hear his approach,
but continued her occupation without raising her head.
</p>
<p>
It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she
pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most
favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike
figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her
countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling
upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the
youth inexpressibly beautiful. Winifred's features would have been pretty,
for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly
marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than
it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the
smoothest complexion. We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not
exchange for dimples and a satin skin. Winifred's face had a thoroughly
amiable look. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white
teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable,
playing constantly about them. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by
dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. Her hair was of the darkest
brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. She
was dressed in a little white frock, with a very long body, and very short
sleeves, which looked (from a certain fullness about the hips,) as if it
was intended to be worn with a hoop. Her slender throat was encircled by a
black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her
head rested a diminutive lace cap.
</p>
<p>
The room in which she sat was a portion of the garret, assigned, as we
have just stated, by Mr. Wood as a play-room to the two boys; and, like
most boy's playrooms, it exhibited a total absence of order, or neatness.
Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as
the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the
marks of many a conflict. The characters of the youthful occupants of the
room might be detected in every article it contained. Darell's peculiar
bent of mind was exemplified in a rusty broadsword, a tall grenadier's
cap, a musket without lock or ramrod, a belt and cartouch-box, with other
matters evincing a decided military taste. Among his books, Plutarch's
Lives, and the Histories of Great Commanders, appeared to have been
frequently consulted; but the dust had gathered thickly upon the
Carpenter's Manual, and a Treatise on Trigonometry and Geometry. Beneath
the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of '<i>St.
George for England</i>' and a loyal ditty, then much in vogue, called '<i>True
Protestant Gratitude, or, Britain's Thanksgiving for the First of August,
Being the Day of His Majesty's Happy Accession to the Throne</i>.' Jack
Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes
abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those
Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime—the Ordinaries of Newgate. His
vocal collection comprised a couple of flash songs pasted against the
wall, entitled '<i>The Thief-Catcher's Prophecy</i>,' and the '<i>Life and
Death of the Darkman's Budge</i>;' while his extraordinary mechanical
skill was displayed in what he termed (Jack had a supreme contempt for
</p>
<h3>
====
</h3>
<p>
orthography,) a '<i>Moddle of his Ma^{s}. Jale off Newgate</i>;' another
model of the pillory at Fleet Bridge; and a third of the permanent gibbet
at Tyburn. The latter specimen, of his workmanship was adorned with a
little scarecrow figure, intended to represent a housebreaking
chimney-sweeper of the time, described in Sheppard's own hand-writing, as
'<i>Jack Hall a-hanging</i>.' We must not omit to mention that a family
group from the pencil of little Winifred, representing Mr. and Mrs. Wood
in very characteristic attitudes, occupied a prominent place on the walls.
</p>
<p>
For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened
door in silence. On a sudden, a change came over her countenance, which,
up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied expression. Throwing
down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,—“It
isn't at all like him! it isn't half handsome enough!” was about to efface
the sketch, when Thames darted into the room.
</p>
<p>
“Who isn't it like?” he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the
drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her
fingers.
</p>
<p>
“I can't tell you!” she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little
hand as tightly as possible; “it's a secret!”
</p>
<p>
“I'll soon find it out, then,” he returned, playfully forcing the paper
from her grasp.
</p>
<p>
“Don't look at it, I entreat,” she cried.
</p>
<p>
But her request was unheeded. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out
its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
</p>
<p>
“I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!” cried Winifred, with
difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; “you've acted unfairly.”
</p>
<p>
“I feel I have, dear Winny!” replied Thames, abashed at his own rudeness;
“my conduct is inexcusable.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll excuse it nevertheless,” returned the little damsel, affectionately
extending her hand to him.
</p>
<p>
“Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?” asked the youth.
</p>
<p>
“Because it's not like you,” was her answer.
</p>
<p>
“Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you
as a memorial——”
</p>
<p>
“Of what?” she interrupted, startled by his change of manner.
</p>
<p>
“Of yourself,” he replied, in a mournful tone. “I shall value it highly,
and will promise never to part with it. Winny, this is the last night I
shall pass beneath your father's roof.”
</p>
<p>
“Have you told him so?” she inquired, reproachfully. “No; but I shall,
before he retires to rest.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you <i>will</i> stay!” she cried, clapping her hands joyfully, “for
I'm sure he won't part with you. Oh! thank you—thank you! I'm so
happy!”
</p>
<p>
“Stop, Winny!” he answered, gravely; “I haven't promised yet.”
</p>
<p>
“But you will,—won't you?” she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in
the face.
</p>
<p>
Unable to withstand this appeal, Thames gave the required promise, adding,—“Oh!
Winny, I wish Mr. Wood had been my father, as well as yours.”
</p>
<p>
“So do I!” she cried; “for then you would have been <i>really</i> my
brother. No, I don't, either; because——”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Winny?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't know what I was going to say,” she added, in some confusion;
“only I'm sorry you were born a gentleman.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps, I wasn't,” returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of
Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. “But never mind who, or what
I am. Give me this picture. I'll keep it for your sake.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll give you something better worth keeping,” she answered, detaching
the ornament from her neck, and presenting it to him; “this contains a
lock of my hair, and may remind you sometimes of your little sister. As to
the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you <i>do</i> go I shall need
no memorial of <i>you</i>. I'd a good many things to say to you, besides—but
you've put them all out of my head.”
</p>
<p>
With this, she burst into tears, and sank with her face upon his shoulder.
Thames did not try to cheer her. His own heart was too full of melancholy
foreboding. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for
ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had
always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of
how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him,
that he could not help joining in her grief.
</p>
<p>
From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle,
followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the impudent
countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him.
</p>
<p>
“Aha!” exclaimed Jack, with a roguish wink, “I've caught you,—have
I?”
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
The carpenter's daughter was fair and free—
Fair, and fickle, and false, was she!
She slighted the journeyman, (meaning <i>me!</i>)
And smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Degree! degree!
She smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Ha! ha! ha!”
</pre>
<p>
“Jack!” exclaimed Thames, angrily.
</p>
<p>
But Sheppard was not to be silenced. He went on with his song,
accompanying it with the most ridiculous grimaces:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
“When years were gone by, she began to rue
Her love for the gentleman, (meaning <i>you!</i>)
'I slighted the journeyman fond,' quoth she,
'But where is my gallant of high degree?
Where! where!
Oh! where is my gallant of high degree?'
Ho! ho! ho!”
</pre>
<p>
“What are you doing here!” demanded Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! nothing at all,” answered Jack, sneeringly, “though this room's as
much mine as yours, for that matter. 'But I don't desire to spoil sport,—not
I. And, if you'll give me such a smack of your sweet lips, Miss, as you've
just given Thames, I'll take myself off in less than no time.”
</p>
<p>
The answer to this request was a “smack” of a very different description,
bestowed upon Sheppard's outstretched face by the little damsel, as she
ran out of the room.
</p>
<p>
“'Odd's! bodikins!” cried Jack, rubbing his cheek, “I'm in luck to-day.
However, I'd rather have a blow from the daughter than the mother. I know
who hits hardest. I tell you what, Thames,” he added, flinging himself
carelessly into a chair, “I'd give my right hand,—and that's no
light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were
half as fond of me as she is of you.”
</p>
<p>
“That's not likely to be the case, if you go on in this way,” replied
Thames, sharply.
</p>
<p>
“Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce,
eh? You should have tipped me the wink.”
</p>
<p>
“No more of this,” rejoined Thames, “or we shall quarrel.”
</p>
<p>
“Who cares if we do?” retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance.
</p>
<p>
“Jack,” said the other, sternly; “don't provoke me further, or I'll give
you a thrashing.”
</p>
<p>
“Two can play at that game, my blood,” replied Sheppard, rising, and
putting himself into a posture of defence.
</p>
<p>
“Take care of yourself, then,” rejoined Thames, doubling his fists, and
advancing towards him: “though my right arm's stiff, I can use it, as
you'll find.”
</p>
<p>
Sheppard was no match for his opponent, for, though he possessed more
science, he was deficient in weight and strength; and, after a short
round, in which he had decidedly the worst of it, a well-directed hit on
the <i>nob</i> stretched him at full length on the floor.
</p>
<p>
“That'll teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head for the future,”
observed Thames, as he helped Jack to his feet.
</p>
<p>
“I didn't mean to give offence,” replied Sheppard, sulkily. “But, let me
tell you, it's not a pleasant sight to see the girl one likes in the arms
of another.”
</p>
<p>
“You want another drubbing, I perceive,” said Thames, frowning.
</p>
<p>
“No, I don't. Enough's as good as a feast of the dainties you provide.
I'll think no more about her. Save us!” he cried, as his glance
accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her
agitation. “Is this <i>her</i> work?”
</p>
<p>
“It is,” answered Thames. “Do you see any likeness?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't I,” returned Jack, bitterly. “Strange!” he continued, as if talking
to himself. “How very like it is!”
</p>
<p>
“Not so strange, surely,” laughed Thames, “that a picture should resemble
the person for whom it's intended.”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, but it <i>is</i> strange how much it resembles somebody for whom it's
<i>not</i> intended. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket.”
</p>
<p>
“A miniature! Of whom?”
</p>
<p>
“That I can't say,” replied Jack, mysteriously. “But, I half suspect, of
your father.”
</p>
<p>
“My father!” exclaimed Thames, in the utmost astonishment; “let me see
it!”
</p>
<p>
“Here it is,” returned Jack, producing a small picture in a case set with
brilliants.
</p>
<p>
Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging
from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features
certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own.
</p>
<p>
“You're right Jack,” he said, after a pause, during which he contemplated
the picture with the most fixed attention: “this must have been my
father!”
</p>
<p>
“No doubt of it,” answered Sheppard; “only compare it with Winny's
drawing, and you'll find they're as like as two peas in a pod.”
</p>
<p>
“Where did you get it?” inquired Thames.
</p>
<p>
“From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box.”
</p>
<p>
“Surely, you haven't stolen it?”
</p>
<p>
“Stolen's an awkward word. But, as you perceive, I brought it away with
me.”
</p>
<p>
“It must be restored instantly,—be the consequences what they may.”
</p>
<p>
“You're not going to betray me!” cried Jack, in alarm.
</p>
<p>
“I am not,” replied Thames; “but I insist upon your taking it back at
once.”
</p>
<p>
“Take it back yourself,” retorted Jack, sullenly. “I shall do no such
thing.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well,” replied Thames, about to depart.
</p>
<p>
“Stop!” exclaimed Jack, planting himself before the door; “do you want to
get me sent across the water?”
</p>
<p>
“I want to save you from disgrace and ruin,” returned Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Bah!” cried Jack, contemptuously; “nobody's disgraced and ruined unless
he's found out. I'm safe enough if you hold your tongue. Give me that
picture, or I'll make you!”
</p>
<p>
“Hear me,” said Thames, calmly; “you well know you're no match for me.”
</p>
<p>
“Not at fisticuffs, perhaps,” interrupted Jack, fiercely; “but I've my
knife.”
</p>
<p>
“You daren't use it.”
</p>
<p>
“Try to leave the room, and see whether I daren't,” returned Jack, opening
the blade.
</p>
<p>
“I didn't expect this from you,” rejoined Thames, resolutely. “But your
threats won't prevent my leaving the room when I please, and as I please.
Now, will you stand aside?”
</p>
<p>
“I won't,” answered Jack, obstinately.
</p>
<p>
Thames said not another word, but marched boldly towards him, and seized
him by the collar.
</p>
<p>
“Leave go!” cried Jack, struggling violently, and raising his hand, “or
I'll maul you for life.”
</p>
<p>
But Thames was not to be deterred from his purpose; and the strife might
have terminated seriously, if a peace-maker had not appeared in the shape
of little Winifred, who, alarmed by the noise, rushed suddenly into the
room.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0014" id="linkimage-0014"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/282s.jpg" alt="282s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/282.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/282m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
“Ah!” she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand, “don't
hurt Thames—don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill me,
not him.”
</p>
<p>
And she flung herself between them.
</p>
<p>
Jack dropped the knife, and walked sullenly aside.
</p>
<p>
“What has caused this quarrel, Thames?” asked the little girl, anxiously.
</p>
<p>
“You,” answered Jack, abruptly.
</p>
<p>
“No such thing,” rejoined Thames. “I'll tell you all about it presently.
But you must leave us now, dear Winny, Jack and I have something to settle
between ourselves. Don't be afraid. Our quarrel's quite over.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you sure of that?” returned Winifred, looking uneasily at Jack.
</p>
<p>
“Ay, ay,” rejoined Sheppard; “he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if
he thinks proper,—if <i>you</i> wish it.”
</p>
<p>
With this assurance, and at the reiterated request of Thames, the little
girl reluctantly withdrew.
</p>
<p>
“Come, come, Jack,” said Thames, walking up to Sheppard, and taking his
hand, “have done with this. I tell you once more, I'll say and do nothing
to get you into trouble. Best assured of that. But I'm resolved to see
Lady Trafford. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is.”
</p>
<p>
“So she may,” returned Jack, brightening up; “it's a good idea. I'll go
with you. But you must see her alone; and that'll be no easy matter to
manage, for she's a great invalid, and has generally somebody with her.
Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. He's as savage and suspicious
as the devil himself. I should never have noticed the miniature at all, if
it hadn't been for him. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who
can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels
in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from
him. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the
box. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to
convey it into my own pocket. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for,
I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she
reminded me of my mother.”
</p>
<p>
“That, alone, ought to have prevented you from acting as you did, Jack,”
returned Thames, gravely.
</p>
<p>
“I should never have acted as I did,” rejoined Sheppard, bitterly; “if
Mrs. Wood hadn't struck me. That blow made me a thief. And, if ever I'm
brought to the gallows, I shall lay my death at her door.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, think no more about it,” returned Thames. “Do better in future.”
</p>
<p>
“I will, when I've had my revenge,” muttered Jack. “But, take my advice,
and keep out of Sir Rowland's way, or you'll get the poor lady into
trouble as well as me.”
</p>
<p>
“Never fear,” replied Thames, taking up his hat. “Come, let's be off.”
</p>
<p>
The two boys, then, emerged upon the landing, and were about to descend
the stairs, when the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Wood resounded from below. The
storm appeared to have blown over, for they were conversing in a very
amicable manner with Mr. Kneebone, who was on the point of departing.
</p>
<p>
“Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding
between us,” observed the woollen-draper.
</p>
<p>
“Don't mention it,” returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who
admits he has been in the wrong; “your explanation is perfectly
satisfactory.”
</p>
<p>
“We shall expect you to-morrow,” insinuated Mrs. Wood; “and pray, don't
bring anybody with you,—especially Jonathan Wild.”
</p>
<p>
“No fear of that,” laughed Kneebone.—“Oh! about that boy, Thames
Darrell. His safety must be looked to. Jonathan's threats are not to be
sneezed at. The rascal will be at work before the morning. Keep your eye
upon the lad. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence
whatever, till I call.”
</p>
<p>
“You hear that,” whispered Jack.
</p>
<p>
“I do,” replied Thames, in the same tone; “we haven't a moment to lose.”
</p>
<p>
“Take care of yourself,” said Mr. Wood, “and I'll take care of Thames.
It's never a bad day that has a good ending. Good night! God bless you!”
</p>
<p>
Upon this, there was a great shaking of hands, with renewed apologies and
protestations of friendship on both sides; after which Mr. Kneebone took
his leave.
</p>
<p>
“And so, you really suspected me?” murmured Mrs. Wood, reproachfully, as
they returned to the parlour. “Oh! you men! you men! Once get a thing into
your head, and nothing will beat it out.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, my love,” rejoined her husband, “appearances, you must allow, were a
little against you. But since you assure me <i>you</i> didn't write the
letters, and Mr. Kneebone assures me <i>he</i> didn't receive them, I
can't do otherwise than believe you. And I've made up my mind that a
husband ought to believe only half that he hears, and nothing that he
sees.”
</p>
<p>
“An excellent maxim!” replied his wife, approvingly; “the best I ever
heard you utter.”
</p>
<p>
“I must now go and look after Thames,” observed the carpenter.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! never mind him: he'll take no harm! Come with me into the parlour. I
can't spare you at present. Heigho!”
</p>
<p>
“Now for it!” cried Jack, as the couple entered the room: “the coast's
clear.”
</p>
<p>
Thames was about to follow, when he felt a gentle grasp upon his arm. He
turned, and beheld Winifred.
</p>
<p>
“Where are you going?” she asked.
</p>
<p>
“I shall be back presently,” replied Thames, evasively.
</p>
<p>
“Don't go, I beg of you!” she implored. “You're in danger. I overheard
what Mr. Kneebone said, just now.”
</p>
<p>
“Death and the devil! what a cursed interruption!” cried Jack,
impatiently. “If you loiter in this way, old Wood will catch us.”
</p>
<p>
“If you stir, I'll call him!” rejoined Winifred. “It's you, Jack, who are
persuading my brother to do wrong. Thames,” she urged, “the errand, on
which you're going, can't be for any good, or you wouldn't be afraid of
mentioning it to my father.”
</p>
<p>
“He's coming!” cried Jack, stamping his foot, with vexation. “Another
moment, and it'll be too late.”
</p>
<p>
“Winny, I <i>must</i> go!” said Thames, breaking from her.
</p>
<p>
“Stay, dear Thames!—stay!” cried the little girl. “He hears me not!
he's gone!” she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence;
“something tells me I shall never see him again!”
</p>
<p>
When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to ascertain
the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in an agony of
grief.
</p>
<p>
“Where's Thames?” he hastily inquired.
</p>
<p>
Winifred pointed to the door. She could not speak.
</p>
<p>
“And Jack?”
</p>
<p>
“Gone too,” sobbed his daughter.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wood uttered something like an imprecation.
</p>
<p>
“God forgive me for using such a word!” he cried, in a troubled tone; “if
I hadn't yielded to my wife's silly request, this wouldn't have happened!”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VII. BROTHER AND SISTER.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n the same evening, in a stately chamber of a noble old mansion of
Elizabeth's time, situated in Southampton Fields, two persons were seated.
One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep
mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels,
with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet
footstool. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the
state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. It was no easy matter
to determine her age, for, though she still retained a certain
youthfulness of appearance, she had many marks in her countenance, usually
indicating the decline of life, but which in her case were, no doubt, the
result of constant and severe indisposition. Her complexion was wan and
faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the
want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and
lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly
scattered with gray. When younger, and in better health, she must have
been eminently lovely; and there were still the remains of great beauty
about her. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a
beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy.
</p>
<p>
Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. Indeed it was
apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related.
He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same
sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the
same proud cast of features. But here the resemblance stopped. The
expression was wholly different. He looked melancholy enough, it is true.
But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. No
sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of
an inquisitor. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Lady Trafford,” he said, fixing a severe look upon her. “You depart
for Lancashire to-morrow. Have I your final answer?”
</p>
<p>
“You have, Sir Rowland,” she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. “You
shall have the sum you require, but——”
</p>
<p>
“But what, Madam!”
</p>
<p>
“Do not misunderstand me,” she proceeded. “I give it to King James—not
so you: for the furtherance of a great and holy cause, not for the
prosecution of wild and unprofitable schemes.”
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
</p>
<p>
“And the will?” he said, with forced calmness. “Do you still refuse to
make one!”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>have</i> made one,” replied Lady Trafford.
</p>
<p>
“How?” cried her brother, starting.
</p>
<p>
“Rowland,” she rejoined, “you strive in vain to terrify me into compliance
with your wishes. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates
of my conscience. My will is executed, and placed in safe custody.”
</p>
<p>
“In whose favour is it made?” he inquired, sternly.
</p>
<p>
“In favour of my son.”
</p>
<p>
“You have no son,” rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
</p>
<p>
“I <i>had</i> one,” answered his sister, in a mournful voice; “and,
perhaps, I have one still.”
</p>
<p>
“If I thought so—” cried the knight fiercely; “but this is idle,” he
added, suddenly checking himself. “Aliva, your child perished with its
father.”
</p>
<p>
“And by whom were they both destroyed?” demanded his sister, raising
herself by a painful effort, and regarding him with a searching glance.
</p>
<p>
“By the avenger of his family's dishonour—by your brother,” he
replied, coolly.
</p>
<p>
“Brother,” cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and
her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: “Brother,” she cried, lifting her
thin fingers towards Heaven, “as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that
murdered man!”
</p>
<p>
“A lie!” ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; “a black, and damning lie!”
</p>
<p>
“It is the truth,” replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch.
“I will swear it upon the cross!”
</p>
<p>
“His name, then?” demanded the knight. “Tell me that, and I will believe
you.”
</p>
<p>
“Not now—not now!” she returned, with a shudder. “When I am dead you
will learn it. Do not disquiet yourself. You will not have to wait long
for the information. Rowland,” she added, in an altered tone, “I am
certain I shall not live many days. And if you treat me in this way, you
will have my death to answer for, as well as the deaths of my husband and
child. Let us part in peace. We shall take an eternal farewell of each
other.”
</p>
<p>
“Be it so!” rejoined Sir Rowland, with concentrated fury; “but before we
<i>do</i> part, I am resolved to know the name of your pretended husband!”
</p>
<p>
“Torture shall not wrest it from me,” answered his sister, firmly.
</p>
<p>
“What motive have you for concealment?” he demanded.
</p>
<p>
“A vow,” she answered,—“a vow to my dead husband.”
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible
reply. He then arose, and, taking a few turns in the chamber, stopped
suddenly before her.
</p>
<p>
“What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“I have dreamed that I shall see him before I die,” she rejoined.
</p>
<p>
“Dreamed!” echoed the knight, with a ghastly smile. “Is that all? Then
learn from me that your hopes are visionary as their foundation. Unless he
can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father
lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world.”
</p>
<p>
“Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!” murmured his sister, crossing
her hands and looking upwards; “you have none on me.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>will</i> have none till I have forced the villain's name from you!”
he cried, stamping the floor with rage.
</p>
<p>
“Rowland, your violence is killing me,” she returned, in a plaintive tone.
</p>
<p>
“His name, I say!—his name!” thundered the knight.
</p>
<p>
And he unsheathed his sword.
</p>
<p>
Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. When she came to
herself, she found that her brother had quitted the room, leaving her to
the care of a female attendant. Her first orders were to summon the rest
of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for
Lancashire.
</p>
<p>
“To-night, your ladyship?” ventured an elderly domestic.
</p>
<p>
“Instantly, Hobson,” returned Lady Trafford; “as soon as the carriage can
be brought round.”
</p>
<p>
“It shall be at the door in ten minutes. Has your ladyship any further
commands?”
</p>
<p>
“None whatever. Yet, stay! There is one thing I wish you to do. Take that
box, and put it into the carriage yourself. Where is Sir Rowland?”
</p>
<p>
“In the library, your ladyship. He has given orders that no one is to
disturb him. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting
to see him, who won't be sent away.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well. Lose not a moment, Hobson.”
</p>
<p>
The elderly domestic bowed, took up the case, and retired.
</p>
<p>
“Your ladyship is far too unwell to travel,” remarked the female
attendant, assisting her to rise; “you'll never be able to reach
Manchester.”
</p>
<p>
“It matters not, Norris,” replied Lady Trafford: “I would rather die on
the road, than be exposed to another such scene as I have just
encountered.”
</p>
<p>
“Dear me!” sympathised Mrs. Norris. “I was afraid from the scream I heard,
that something dreadful had happened, Sir Rowland has a terrible temper
indeed—a shocking temper! I declare he frightens me out of my
senses.”
</p>
<p>
“Sir Rowland is my brother,” resumed Lady Trafford coldly.
</p>
<p>
“Well that's no reason why he should treat your ladyship so shamefully,
I'm sure. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in
order.”
</p>
<p>
Lady Trafford sighed deeply.
</p>
<p>
“Your ladyship has never been well since you married Sir Cecil,” rejoined
Mrs. Norris. “For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the
accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm.”
</p>
<p>
“Norris!” gasped Lady Trafford, trembling violently.
</p>
<p>
“Mercy on us! what have I said!” cried the attendant, greatly alarmed by
the agitation of her mistress; “do sit down, your ladyship, while I run
for the ratifia and rosa solis.”
</p>
<p>
“It is past,” rejoined Lady Trafford, recovering herself by a powerful
effort; “but never allude to the circumstance again. Go and prepare for
our departure.”
</p>
<p>
In less time than Hobson had mentioned, the carriage was announced. And
Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the
postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VIII. MICHING MALLECHO.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ir Rowland, meantime, paced his chamber with a quick and agitated step.
He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude
even to himself. Not conceiving that his sister—feeble as she was,
and yielding as she had ever shown herself to his wishes, whether
expressed or implied—would depart without consulting him, he was
equally surprised and enraged to hear the servants busied in transporting
her to the carriage. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere
with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge
that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though
he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by
night. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt
that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the
bell violently.
</p>
<p>
“My horses, Charcam,” he said, as a servant appeared.
</p>
<p>
The man lingered.
</p>
<p>
“'Sdeath! why am I not obeyed?” exclaimed the knight, angrily. “I wish to
overtake Lady Trafford. Use despatch!”
</p>
<p>
“Her ladyship will not travel beyond Saint Alban's to-night, Sir Rowland,
so Mrs. Norris informed me,” returned Charcam, respectfully; “and there's
a person without, anxious for an audience, whom, with submission, I think
your honour would desire to see.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a
confidant in his Jacobite schemes; “is it the messenger from
Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?”
</p>
<p>
“No, Sir Rowland.”
</p>
<p>
“From Mr. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here
yesterday.”
</p>
<p>
“No, Sir Rowland.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps he is from Lord Derwentwater, or Mr. Forster? News <i>is</i>
expected from Northumberland.”
</p>
<p>
“I can't exactly say, Sir Rowland. The gentleman didn't communicate his
business to me. But I'm sure it's important.”
</p>
<p>
Charcam said this, not because he knew anything about the matter; but,
having received a couple of guineas to deliver the message, he, naturally
enough, estimated its importance by the amount of the gratuity.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I will see him,” replied the knight, after a moment's pause; “he
may be from the Earl of Mar. But let the horses be in readiness. I shall
ride to St. Alban's to-night.”
</p>
<p>
So saying, he threw himself into a chair. And Charcam, fearful of another
charge in his master's present uncertain mood, disappeared.
</p>
<p>
The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the
imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber
darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of
rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. He was plainly
attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by
his side.
</p>
<p>
“Your servant, Sir Rowland,” said the stranger, ducking his head, as he
advanced.
</p>
<p>
“Your business, Sir?” returned the other, stiffly.
</p>
<p>
The new-comer looked at Charcam. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the
attendant withdrew.
</p>
<p>
“You don't recollect me, I presume?” premised the stranger, taking a seat.
</p>
<p>
The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose.
</p>
<p>
“Don't disturb yourself,” continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the
rebuke. “I never stand upon ceremony where I know I shall be welcome. We
<i>have</i> met before.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed!” rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; “perhaps, you will refresh my
memory as to the time, and place.”
</p>
<p>
“Let me see. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint
in Southwark. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland.”
</p>
<p>
The knight staggered as if struck by a mortal wound. Speedily recovering
himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, “You are mistaken,
Sir. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention.”
</p>
<p>
The stranger smiled incredulously.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Sir Rowland,” he said, after a brief pause, during which the knight
regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to recall his
features, “I will not gainsay your words. You are in the right to be
cautious, till you know with whom you have to deal; and, even then, you
can't be too wary. 'Avow nothing, believe nothing, give nothing for
nothing,' is my own motto. And it's a maxim of universal application: or,
at least, of universal practice. I am not come here to play the part of
your father-confessor. I am come to serve you.”
</p>
<p>
“In what way, Sir?” demanded Trenchard, in astonishment.
</p>
<p>
“You will learn anon. You refuse me your confidence. I applaud your
prudence: it is, however, needless. Your history, your actions, nay, your
very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser.”
</p>
<p>
“Make good your assertions,” cried Trenchard, furiously, “or——”
</p>
<p>
“To the proof,” interrupted the stranger, calmly. “You are the son of Sir
Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Sir Montacute had
three children—two daughters and yourself. The eldest, Constance,
was lost, by the carelessness of a servant, during her infancy, and has
never since been heard of: the youngest, Aliva, is the present Lady
Trafford. I merely mention these circumstances to show the accuracy of my
information.”
</p>
<p>
“If this is the extent of it, Sir,” returned the knight, ironically, “you
may spare yourself further trouble. These particulars are familiar to all,
who have any title to the knowledge.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps so,” rejoined the stranger; “but I have others in reserve, not so
generally known. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. Where I
am in error, you can set me right.—Your father, Sir Montacute
Trenchard, who had been a loyal subject of King James the Second, and
borne arms in his service, on the abdication of that monarch, turned his
back upon the Stuarts, and would never afterwards recognise their claims
to the crown. It was said, that he received an affront from James, in the
shape of a public reprimand, which his pride could not forgive. Be this as
it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession.”
</p>
<p>
“So far you are correct,” observed Trenchard; “still, this is no secret.”
</p>
<p>
“Suffer me to proceed,” replied the stranger. “The opinions, entertained
by the old knight, naturally induced him to view with displeasure the
conduct of his son, who warmly espoused the cause he had deserted. Finding
remonstrances of no avail, he had recourse to threats; and when threats
failed, he adopted more decided measures.”
</p>
<p>
“Ha!” ejaculated Trenchard.
</p>
<p>
“As yet,” pursued the stranger, “Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his
son's expenditure. He did not quarrel with Rowland's profusion, for his
own revenues were ample; but he <i>did</i> object to the large sums
lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to
support. Accordingly, the old knight reduced his son's allowance to a
third of its previous amount; and, upon further provocation, he even went
so far as to alter his will in favour of his daughter, Aliva, who was then
betrothed to her cousin, Sir Cecil Trafford.”
</p>
<p>
“Proceed, Sir,” said Trenchard, breathing hard.
</p>
<p>
“Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible person
would do. Aware of his father's inflexibility of purpose, he set his wits
to work to defeat the design. He contrived to break off his sister's
match; and this he accomplished so cleverly, that he maintained the
strictest friendship with Sir Cecil. For two years he thought himself
secure; and, secretly engaged in the Jacobite schemes of the time, in
which, also, Sir Cecil was deeply involved, he began to relax in his
watchfulness over Aliva. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703—while
young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit,
he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies,
which, at once, destroyed his hopes. He learnt that his sister was
privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be
ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the
Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Rowland's plans were quickly
formed, and as quickly executed. Accompanied by Sir Cecil, who still
continued passionately enamoured of his sister, and to whom he represented
that she had fallen a victim to the arts of a seducer, he set off, at
fiery speed, for the metropolis. Arrived there, their first object was to
seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a
lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in
Southwark. Refused admittance, they broke open the door. Aliva's husband,
who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them sword in hand. For a
few minutes he kept them at bay. But, urged by his wife's cries, who was
more anxious for the preservation of her child's life than her own, he
snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the back of the premises.
Rowland and his companions instantly started in pursuit, leaving the lady
to recover as she might. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like
hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. Meantime, the
lady had overtaken them; but, terrified by the menaces of her vindictive
kinsmen, she did not dare to reveal herself to her husband, of whose
concealment on the roof of the very house the party were searching she was
aware. Aided by an individual, who was acquainted with a secret outlet
from the tenement, Darrell escaped. Before his departure, he gave his
assistant a glove. That glove is still preserved. In her endeavour to
follow him, Aliva met with a severe fall, and was conveyed away, in a
state of insensibility, by Sir Cecil. She was supposed to be lifeless; but
she survived the accident, though she never regained her strength.
Directed by the same individual, who had helped Darrell to steal a march
upon him, Rowland, with Davies, and another attendant, continued the
pursuit. Both the fugitive and his chasers embarked on the Thames. The
elements were wrathful as their passions. The storm burst upon them in its
fury. Unmindful of the terrors of the night, unscared by the danger that
threatened him, Rowland consigned his sister's husband and his sister's
child to the waves.”
</p>
<p>
“Bring your story to an end, Sir,” said Trenchard who had listened to the
recital with mingled emotions of rage and fear.
</p>
<p>
“I have nearly done,” replied the stranger.—“As Rowland's whole crew
perished in the tempest, and he only escaped by miracle, he fancied
himself free from detection. And for twelve years he has been so; until
his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has
bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. During this period Sir
Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. His title has descended to
Rowland: his estates to Aliva. The latter has, since, been induced to
unite herself to Sir Cecil, on terms originating with her brother, and
which, however strange and unprecedented, were acquiesced in by the
suitor.”
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland looked bewildered with surprise.
</p>
<p>
“The marriage was never consummated,” continued the imperturbable
stranger. “Sir Cecil is no more. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless,
broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely
to make another marriage. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir
Rowland.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you man, or fiend?” exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as
he concluded his narration.
</p>
<p>
“You are complimentary, Sir Rowland,” returned the other, with a grim
smile.
</p>
<p>
“If you <i>are</i> human,” rejoined Trenchard, with stern emphasis, “I
insist upon knowing whence you derived your information?”
</p>
<p>
“I might refuse to answer the question, Sir Rowland. But I am not
indisposed to gratify you. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other
sources.”
</p>
<p>
“My confessor!” ejaculated the knight, in the extremity of surprise; “has
<i>he</i> betrayed his sacred trust?”
</p>
<p>
“He has,” replied the other, grinning; “and this will be a caution to you
in future, how you confide a secret of consequence to a priest. I should
as soon think of trusting a woman. Tickle the ears of their reverences
with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have
repeated. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from
experience.”
</p>
<p>
“Who are you?” ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses.
</p>
<p>
“I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. It
would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. My name is
Wild—Jonathan Wild.”
</p>
<p>
And the great thief-taker indulged himself in a chuckle at the effect
produced by this announcement. He was accustomed to such surprises, and
enjoyed them.
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword.
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Wild,” he said, in a sarcastic tone, but with great firmness; “a
person of your well-known sagacity must be aware that some secrets are
dangerous to the possessor.”
</p>
<p>
“I am fully aware of it, Sir Rowland,” replied Jonathan, coolly; “but I
have nothing to fear; because, in the first place, it will be to your
advantage not to molest me; and, in the second, I am provided against all
contingencies. I never hunt the human tiger without being armed. My
janizaries are without. One of them is furnished with a packet containing
the heads of the statement I have just related, which, if I don't return
at a certain time, will be laid before the proper authorities. I have
calculated my chances, you perceive.”
</p>
<p>
“You have forgotten that you are in my power,” returned the knight,
sternly; “and that all your allies cannot save you from my resentment.”
</p>
<p>
“I can at least, protect myself,” replied Wild, with, provoking calmness.
“I am accounted a fair shot, as well as a tolerable swordsman, and I will
give proof of my skill in both lines, should occasion require it. I have
had a good many desperate engagements in my time, and have generally come
off victorious. I bear the marks of some of them about me still,” he
continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with
cicatrices and plates of silver. “This gash,” he added, pointing to one of
the larger scars, “was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I
apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Knap. This wedge of silver,” pointing
to another, “which would mend a coffee-pot, serves to stop up a breach
made by Will Colthurst, who robbed Mr. Hearl on Hounslow-Heath. I secured
the dog after he had wounded me. This fracture was the handiwork of Jack
Parrot (otherwise called Jack the Grinder), who broke into the palace of
the Bishop of Norwich. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too
free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite
housekeeper. The Bishop, however, to show him the danger of meddling with
the church, gave him a dance at Tyburn for his pains. Not a scar but has
its history. The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an
incapacity to drink. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many
sounder heads than mine. The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally
Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. She attacked me with a
carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of
fingers from my left hand. Thus, you see, I've never hesitated and never
<i>shall</i> hesitate to expose my life where anything is to be gained. My
profession has hardened me.”
</p>
<p>
And, with this, he coolly re-adjusted his peruke.
</p>
<p>
“What do you expect to gain from this interview, Mr. Wild!” demanded
Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution.
</p>
<p>
“Ah! now we come to business,” returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands,
gleefully. “These are my terms, Sir Rowland,” he added, taking a sheet of
paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight.
</p>
<p>
Trenchard glanced at the document.
</p>
<p>
“A thousand pounds,” he observed, gloomily, “is a heavy price to pay for
doubtful secrecy, when <i>certain silence</i> might be so cheaply
procured.”
</p>
<p>
“You would purchase it at the price of your head,” replied Jonathan,
knitting his brows. “Sir Rowland,” he added, savagely, and with somewhat
of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, “if it were my
pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. You are wholly in my
power. Your name, with the fatal epithet of 'dangerous' attached to it,
stands foremost on the list of Disaffected now before the Secret
Committee. I hold a warrant from Mr. Walpole for your apprehension.”
</p>
<p>
“Arrested!” exclaimed Trenchard, drawing his sword.
</p>
<p>
“Put up your blade, Sir Rowland,” rejoined Jonathan, resuming his former
calm demeanour, “King James the Third will need it. I have no intention of
arresting you. I have a different game to play; and it'll be your own
fault, if you don't come off the winner. I offer you my assistance on
certain terms. The proposal is so far from being exorbitant, that it
should be trebled if I had not a fellow-feeling in the cause. To be frank
with you, I have an affront to requite, which can be settled at the same
time, and in the same way with your affair. That's worth something to me;
for I don't mind paying for revenge. After all a thousand pounds is a
trifle to rid you of an upstart, who may chance to deprive you of tens of
thousands.”
</p>
<p>
“Did I hear you aright?” asked Trenchard, with startling eagerness.
</p>
<p>
“Certainly,” replied Jonathan, with the most perfect <i>sangfroid</i>,
“I'll undertake to free you from the boy. That's part of the bargain.”
</p>
<p>
“Is he alive!” vociferated Trenchard.
</p>
<p>
“To be sure,” returned Wild; “he's not only alive, but likely for life, if
we don't clip the thread.”
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his
brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly.
</p>
<p>
“The intelligence seems new to you. I thought I'd been sufficiently
explicit,” continued Jonathan. “Most persons would have guessed my
meaning.”
</p>
<p>
“Then it was <i>not</i> a dream!” ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow
voice, and as if speaking to himself. “I <i>did</i> see them on the
platform of the bridge—the child and his preserver! They were <i>not</i>
struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,—or, if
they <i>were</i>, they escaped as I escaped. God! I have cheated myself
into a belief that the boy perished! And now my worst fears are realized—he
lives!”
</p>
<p>
“As yet,” returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis.
</p>
<p>
“I cannot—dare not injure him,” rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard
look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair.
</p>
<p>
Jonathan laughed scornfully.
</p>
<p>
“Leave him to me,” he said. “He shan't trouble you further.”
</p>
<p>
“No,” replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. “I will
struggle no longer with destiny. Too much blood has been shed already.”
</p>
<p>
“This comes of fine feelings!” muttered Jonathan, contemptuously. “Give me
your thorough-paced villain. But I shan't let him off thus. I'll try a
strong dose.—Am I to understand that you intend to plead guilty, Sir
Rowland?” he added. “If so, I may as well execute my warrant.”
</p>
<p>
“Stand off, Sir!” exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards.
</p>
<p>
“I knew that would bring him to,” thought Wild.
</p>
<p>
“Where is the boy?” demanded Sir Rowland.
</p>
<p>
“At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a
carpenter, by whom he was brought up.”
</p>
<p>
“Wood!” exclaimed Trenchard,—“of Wych Street?”
</p>
<p>
“The same.”
</p>
<p>
“A boy from his shop was here a short time ago. Could it be him you mean?”
</p>
<p>
“No. That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. I've just
left your nephew.”
</p>
<p>
At this moment Charcam entered the room.
</p>
<p>
“Beg pardon, Sir Rowland,” said the attendant, “but there's a boy from Mr.
Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford.”
</p>
<p>
“From whom?” vociferated Trenchard.
</p>
<p>
“From Mr. Wood the carpenter.”
</p>
<p>
“The same who was here just now?”
</p>
<p>
“No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy.”
</p>
<p>
“'Tis he, by Heaven!” cried Jonathan; “this is lucky. Sir Rowland,” he
added, in a deep whisper, “do you agree to my terms?”
</p>
<p>
“I do,” answered Trenchard, in the same tone.
</p>
<p>
“Enough!” rejoined Wild; “he shall not return.”
</p>
<p>
“Have you acquainted him with Lady Trafford's departure?” said the knight,
addressing Charcam, with as much composure as he could assume.
</p>
<p>
“No, Sir Rowland,” replied the attendant, “as you proposed to ride to
Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself.
Besides, there's something odd about the boy; for, though I questioned him
pretty closely concerning his business, he declined answering my
questions, and said he could only deliver his message to her ladyship. I
thought it better not to send him away till I'd mentioned the circumstance
to you.”
</p>
<p>
“You did right,” returned Trenchard.
</p>
<p>
“Where is he?” asked Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“In the hall,” replied Charcam.
</p>
<p>
“Alone?”
</p>
<p>
“Not exactly, Sir. There's another lad at the gate waiting for him—the
same who was here just now, that Sir Rowland was speaking of, who fastened
up the jewel-case for her ladyship.”
</p>
<p>
“A jewel-case!” exclaimed Jonathan. “Ah, I see it all!” he cried, with a
quick glance. “Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. Was anything missed
after the lad's departure, Sir Rowland?”
</p>
<p>
“Not that I'm aware of,” said the knight.—“Stay! something occurs to
me.” And he conferred apart with Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“That's it!” cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. “This young fool is come
to restore the article—whatever it may be—which Lady Trafford
was anxious to conceal, and which his companion purloined. It's precisely
what such a simpleton would do. We have him as safe as a linnet in a cage;
and could wring his neck round as easily. Oblige me by acting under my
guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. I'm an old hand at such things.
Harkee,” he added, “Mr. What's-your-name!”
</p>
<p>
“Charcam,” replied the attendant, bowing.
</p>
<p>
“Very well, Mr. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. But not a word to him
of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. A robbery has been committed,
and your master suspects this lad as an accessory to the offence. He,
therefore, desires to interrogate him. It will be necessary to secure his
companion; and as you say he is not in the house, some caution must be
used in approaching him, or he may chance to take to his heels, for he's a
slippery little rascal. When you've seized him, cough thrice thus,—and
two rough-looking gentlemen will make their appearance. Don't be alarmed
by their manners, Mr. Charcoal. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but
it soon wears off. The gentleman with the red beard will relieve you of
your prisoner. The other must call a coach as quickly as he can.”
</p>
<p>
“For whom, Sir?” inquired Charcam. “For me—his master, Mr. Jonathan
Wild.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you Mr. Jonathan Wild?” asked the attendant, in great trepidation.
</p>
<p>
“I <i>am</i>, Charcoal. But don't let my name frighten you. Though,” said
the thief-taker, with a complacent smile, “all the world seems to tremble
at it. Obey my orders, and you've nothing to fear. About them quickly.
Lead the lad to suppose that he'll be introduced to Lady Trafford. You
understand me, Charcoal.”
</p>
<p>
The attendant did <i>not</i> understand him. He was confounded by the
presence in which he found himself. But, not daring to confess his want of
comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IX. CONSEQUENCES OF THE THEFT.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ow do you mean to act, Sir?” inquired Trenchard, as soon as they were
left alone.
</p>
<p>
“As circumstances shall dictate, Sir Rowland,” returned Jonathan.
“Something is sure to arise in the course of the investigation, of which I
can take advantage. If not, I'll convey him to St. Giles's round-house on
my own responsibility.”
</p>
<p>
“Is this your notable scheme!” asked the knight, scornfully.
</p>
<p>
“Once there,” proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, “he's as
good as in his grave. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. I can remove
the prisoner at any hour of the night I think fit: and I <i>will</i>
remove him. You must, know, Sir Rowland—for I've no secrets from you—that,
in the course of my business I've found it convenient to become the owner
of a small Dutch sloop; by means of which I can transmit any light ware,—such
as gold watches, rings, and plate, as well as occasionally a bank or
goldsmith's note, which has been <i>spoken with</i> by way of the mail,—you
understand me?—to Holland or Flanders, and obtain a secure and ready
market for them. This vessel is now in the river, off Wapping. Her cargo
is nearly shipped. She will sail, at early dawn to-morrow, for Rotterdam.
Her commander, Rykhart Van Galgebrok, is devoted to my interests. As soon
as he gets into blue water, he'll think no more of pitching the boy
overboard than of lighting his pipe. This will be safer than cutting his
throat on shore. I've tried the plan, and found it answer. The Northern
Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland. Before midnight,
your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang.”
</p>
<p>
“Poor child!” muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; “the whole scene upon the
river is passing before me. I hear the splash in the water—I see the
white object floating like a sea-bird on the tide—it will not sink!”
</p>
<p>
“'Sblood!” exclaimed Jonathan, in a tone of ill-disguised contempt; “it
won't do to indulge those fancies now. Be seated, and calm yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“I have often conjured up some frightful vision of the dead,” murmured the
knight, “but I never dreamed of an interview with the living.”
</p>
<p>
“It'll be over in a few minutes,” rejoined Jonathan, impatiently; “in
fact, it'll be over too soon for me. I like such interviews. But we waste
time. Have the goodness to affix your name to that memorandum, Sir
Rowland. I require nothing, you see, till my share of the contract is
fulfilled.”
</p>
<p>
Trenchard took up a pen.
</p>
<p>
“It's the boy's death-warrant,” observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile.
</p>
<p>
“I cannot sign it,” returned Trenchard.
</p>
<p>
“Damnation!” exclaimed Wild with a snarl, that displayed his glistening
fangs to the farthest extremity of his mouth, “I'm not to be trifled with
thus. That paper <i>must</i> be signed, or I take my departure.”
</p>
<p>
“Go, Sir,” rejoined the knight, haughtily.
</p>
<p>
“Ay, ay, I'll go, fast enough!” returned Jonathan, putting his hands into
his pockets, “but not alone, Sir Rowland.”
</p>
<p>
At this juncture, the door was flung open, and Charcam entered, dragging
in Thames, whom he held by the collar, and who struggled in vain to free
himself from the grasp imposed upon him.
</p>
<p>
“Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!” cried the attendant. “I was only
just in time. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants
that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off
when I got down stairs. Come along, my Newgate bird!” he continued,
shaking him with great violence.
</p>
<p>
Jonathan gave utterance to a low whistle.
</p>
<p>
“If things had gone smoothly,” he thought, “I should have cursed the
fellow's stupidity. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder.”
</p>
<p>
Trenchard, meanwhile, whose gaze was fixed upon the boy, became livid as
death, but he moved not a muscle.
</p>
<p>
“'T is he!” he mentally ejaculated.
</p>
<p>
“What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?” whispered Jonathan, who
sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from
the youth's view. “It would be a thousand pities, wouldn't it, to put so
promising a lad out of the way?”
</p>
<p>
“Devil!” exclaimed the knight fiercely, “Give me the paper.”
</p>
<p>
Jonathan hastily picked up the pen, and presented it to Trenchard, who
attached his signature to the document.
</p>
<p>
“If I <i>am</i> the devil,” observed Wild, “as some folks assert, and I
myself am not unwilling to believe, you'll find that I differ from the
generally-received notions of the arch-fiend, and faithfully execute the
commands of those who confide their souls to my custody.”
</p>
<p>
“Take hence this boy, then,” rejoined Trenchard; “his looks unman me.”
</p>
<p>
“Of what am I accused?” asked Thames, who though a good deal alarmed at
first, had now regained his courage.
</p>
<p>
“Of robbery!” replied Jonathan in a thundering voice, and suddenly
confronting him. “You've charged with assisting your comrade, Jack
Sheppard, to purloin certain articles of value from a jewel-case belonging
to Lady Trafford. Aha!” he continued, producing a short silver staff,
which he carried constantly about with him, and uttering a terrible
imprecation, “I see you're confounded. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah!
Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows.”
</p>
<p>
“I've nothing to confess,” replied Thames, boldly; “I've done no wrong.
Are <i>you</i> my accuser?”
</p>
<p>
“I am,” replied Wild; “have you anything to allege to the contrary?”
</p>
<p>
“Only this,” returned Thames: “that the charge is false, and malicious,
and that <i>you</i> know it to be so.”
</p>
<p>
“Is that all!” retorted Jonathan. “Come, I must search you my youngster!”
</p>
<p>
“You shan't touch me,” rejoined Thames; and, suddenly bursting from
Charcam, he threw himself at the feet of Trenchard. “Hear me, Sir
Rowland!” he cried. “I am innocent, f have stolen nothing. This person—this
Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in
Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. He has sworn that
he'll take away my life!”
</p>
<p>
“Bah!” interrupted Jonathan. “You won't listen to this nonsense, Sir
Rowland!”
</p>
<p>
“If you <i>are</i> innocent, boy,” said the knight, controlling his
emotion; “you have nothing to apprehend. But, what brought you here?”
</p>
<p>
“Excuse me, Sir Rowland. I cannot answer that question. My business is
with Lady Trafford.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you aware that I am her ladyship's brother?” returned the knight.
“She has no secrets from me.”
</p>
<p>
“Possibly not,” replied Thames, in some confusion; “but I am not at
liberty to speak.”
</p>
<p>
“Your hesitation is not in your favour,” observed Trenchard, sternly.
</p>
<p>
“Will he consent, to be searched?” inquired Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“No,” rejoined Thames, “I won't be treated like a common felon, if I can
help it.”
</p>
<p>
“You shall be treated according to your deserts, then,” said Jonathan,
maliciously. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands
into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature.
</p>
<p>
“Where did you get this from?” asked Wild, greatly surprised at the result
of his investigation.
</p>
<p>
Thames returned no answer.
</p>
<p>
“I thought as much,” continued Jonathan. “But we'll find a way to make you
open your lips presently. Bring in his comrade,” he added, in a whisper to
Charcam; “I'll take care of him. And don't neglect my instructions this
time.” Upon which, with an assurance that he would not do so, the
attendant departed.
</p>
<p>
“You can, of course, identify this picture as Lady Trafford's property?”
pursued Jonathan, with a meaning glance, as he handed it to the knight.
</p>
<p>
“I can,” replied Trenchard. “Ha!” he exclaimed, with a sudden start, as
his glance fell upon the portrait; “how came this into your possession,
boy?”
</p>
<p>
“Why don't you answer, sirrah?” cried Wild, in a savage tone, and striking
him with the silver staff. “Can't you speak?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't choose,” replied Thames, sturdily; “and your brutality shan't
make me.”
</p>
<p>
“We'll see that,” replied Jonathan, dealing him another and more violent
blow.
</p>
<p>
“Let him alone,” said Trenchard authoritatively, “I have another question
to propose. Do you know whoso portrait this is?”
</p>
<p>
“I do not,” replied Thames, repressing his tears, “but I believe it to be
the portrait of my father.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed!” exclaimed the knight, in astonishment. “Is your father alive?”
</p>
<p>
“No,” returned Thames; “he was assassinated while I was an infant.”
</p>
<p>
“Who told you this is his portrait?” demanded Trenchard.
</p>
<p>
“My heart,” rejoined Thames, firmly; “which now tells me I am in the
presence of his murderer.”
</p>
<p>
“That's me,” interposed Jonathan; “a thief-taker is always a murderer in
the eyes of a thief. I'm almost sorry your suspicions are unfounded, if
your father in any way resembled you, my youngster. But I can tell you
who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a person
not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment—ha! ha!”
</p>
<p>
As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied by
a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse Jewish
features, and a long red beard. Between the Jew and the attendant came
Jack Sheppard; while a crowd of servants, attracted by the news, that the
investigation of a robbery was going forward, lingered at the doorway in
hopes of catching something of the proceedings.
</p>
<p>
When Jack was brought in, he cast a rapid glance around him, and
perceiving Thames in the custody of Jonathan, instantly divined how
matters stood. As he looked in this direction, Wild gave him a significant
wink, the meaning of which he was not slow to comprehend.
</p>
<p>
“Get it over quickly,” said Trenchard, in a whisper to the thief-taker.
</p>
<p>
Jonathan nodded assent.
</p>
<p>
“What's your name?” he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking
about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on.
</p>
<p>
“Jack Sheppard,” returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of the
Earl of Mar. “Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?”
</p>
<p>
“Attend to me, sirrah,” rejoined Wild, sternly. “Do you know this
picture?” he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the
miniature.
</p>
<p>
“I do,” replied Jack, carelessly.
</p>
<p>
“That's well. Can you inform us whence it came?”
</p>
<p>
“I should think so.”
</p>
<p>
“State the facts, then.”
</p>
<p>
“It came from Lady Trafford's jewel-box.”
</p>
<p>
Here a murmur of amazement arose from the assemblage outside.
</p>
<p>
“Close the door!” commanded Trenchard, impatiently.
</p>
<p>
“In my opinion, Sir Rowland,” suggested Jonathan; “you'd better allow the
court to remain open.”
</p>
<p>
“Be it so,” replied the knight, who saw the force of this reasoning.
“Continue the proceedings.”
</p>
<p>
“You say that the miniature was abstracted from Lady Trafford's
jewel-box,” said Jonathan, in a loud voice. “Who took it thence?”
</p>
<p>
“Thames Darrell; the boy at your side.”
</p>
<p>
“Jack!” cried Thames, in indignant surprise.
</p>
<p>
But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0015" id="linkimage-0015"> </a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:35%;">
<img src="images/337s.jpg" alt="337s " width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<h4>
<a href="images/337.jpg"><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
href="images/337m.jpg"><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
</h4>
<p>
A loud buzz of curiosity circulated among the domestics; some of whom—especially
the females—leaned forward to obtain a peep at the culprit.
</p>
<p>
“Si-lence!” vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last
syllable.
</p>
<p>
“Were you present at the time of the robbery?” pursued Jonathan.
</p>
<p>
“I was,” answered Sheppard.
</p>
<p>
“And will swear to it?”
</p>
<p>
“I will.”
</p>
<p>
“Liar!” ejaculated Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Enough!” exclaimed Wild, triumphantly.
</p>
<p>
“Close the court, Mr. Charcoal. They've heard quite enough for my
purpose,” he muttered, as his orders were obeyed, and the domestics
excluded. “It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir
Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in
Saint Giles's round-house. You, Jack Sheppard, have nothing to fear, as
you've become evidence against your accomplice. To-morrow, I shall carry
you before Justice Walters, who'll take your information; and I've no
doubt but Thames Darrell will be fully committed. Now, for the cage, my
pretty canary-bird. Before we start, I'll accommodate you with a pair of
ruffles.” And he proceeded to handcuff his captive.
</p>
<p>
“Hear me!” cried Thames, bursting into tears. “I am innocent. I could not
have committed this robbery. I have only just left Wych Street. Send for
Mr. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth.”
</p>
<p>
“You'd better hold your peace, my lad,” observed Jonathan, in a menacing
tone.
</p>
<p>
“Lady Trafford would not have thus condemned me!” cried Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Away with him!” exclaimed Sir Rowland, impatiently.
</p>
<p>
“Take the prisoners below, Nab,” said Jonathan, addressing the dwarfish
Jew; “I'll join you in an instant.”
</p>
<p>
The bearded miscreant seized Jack by the waist, and Thames by the nape of
the neck, and marched off, like the ogre in the fairy tale, with a boy
under each arm, while Charcam brought upt the rear.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER X. MOTHER AND SON.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hey had scarcely been gone a moment, when a confused noise was heard
without, and Charcam re-entered the room, with a countenance of the utmost
bewilderment and alarm.
</p>
<p>
“What's the matter with the man?” demanded Wild.
</p>
<p>
“Her ladyship—” faltered the attendant.
</p>
<p>
“What of her?” cried the knight. “Is she returned!”
</p>
<p>
“Y—e—s, Sir Rowland,” stammered Charcam.
</p>
<p>
“The devil!” ejaculated Jonathan. “Here's a cross-bite.”
</p>
<p>
“But that's not all, your honour,” continued Charcam; “Mrs. Norris says
she's dying.”
</p>
<p>
“Dying!” echoed the knight.
</p>
<p>
“Dying, Sir Rowland. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms
and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. And
Mrs. Norris was so frightened that she ordered the postboys to drive back
as fast as they could. She never expected to get her ladyship home alive.”
</p>
<p>
“My God!” cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, “I have killed
her.”
</p>
<p>
“No doubt,” rejoined Wild, with a sneer; “but don't let all the world know
it.”
</p>
<p>
“They're lifting her out of the carriage,” interposed Charcam; “will it
please your honour to send for some advice and the chaplain?”
</p>
<p>
“Fly for both,” returned Sir Rowland, in a tone of bitter anguish.
</p>
<p>
“Stay!” interposed Jonathan. “Where are the boys?”
</p>
<p>
“In the hall.”
</p>
<p>
“Her ladyship will pass through it?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course; there's no other way.”
</p>
<p>
“Then, bring them into this room, the first thing—quick! They must
not meet, Sir Rowland,” he added, as Charcam hastened to obey his
instructions.
</p>
<p>
“Heaven has decreed it otherwise,” replied the knight, dejectedly. “I
yield to fate.”
</p>
<p>
“Yield to nothing,” returned Wild, trying to re-assure him; “above all,
when your designs prosper. Man's fate is in his own hands. You are your
nephew's executioner, or he is yours. Cast off this weakness. The next
hour makes, or mars you for ever. Go to your sister, and do not quit her
till all is over. Leave the rest to me.”
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad
spectacle. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. Borne in
the arms of a couple of assistants, and preceded by Mrs. Norris, wringing
her hands and wepping, the unfortunate lady was placed upon a couch. At
the same time, Charcam, who seemed perfectly distracted by the recent
occurrences, dragged in Thames, leaving Jack Sheppard outside in the
custody of the dwarfish Jew.
</p>
<p>
“Hell's curses!” muttered Jonathan between his teeth; “that fool will ruin
all. Take him away,” he added, striding up to Charcam.
</p>
<p>
“Let him remain,” interposed Trenchard.
</p>
<p>
“As you please, Sir Rowland,” returned Jonathan, with affected
indifference; “but I'm not going to hunt the deer for another to eat the
ven'son, depend on 't.”
</p>
<p>
But seeing that no notice was taken of the retort, he drew a little aside,
and folded his arms, muttering, “This whim will soon be over. She can't
last long. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I
please.”
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland, meantime, throw himself on his knees beside his sister, and,
clasping her chilly fingers within his own, besought her forgiveness in
the most passionate terms. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely
sensible of his presence. But, after some restoratives had been
administered by Mrs. Norris, she revived a little.
</p>
<p>
“Rowland,” she said, in a faint voice, “I have not many minutes to live.
Where is Father Spencer? I must have absolution. I have something that
weighs heavily upon my mind.”
</p>
<p>
Sir Rowland's brow darkened.
</p>
<p>
“I have sent for him,” Aliva, he answered; “he will be here directly, with
your medical advisers.”
</p>
<p>
“They are useless,” she returned. “Medicine cannot save mo now.”
</p>
<p>
“Dear sister——”
</p>
<p>
“I should die happy, if I could behold my child.”
</p>
<p>
“Comfort yourself, then, Aliva. You <i>shall</i> behold him.”
</p>
<p>
“You are mocking me, Rowland. Jests are not for seasons like this.”
</p>
<p>
“I am not, by Heaven,” returned the knight, solemnly. “Leave us, Mrs.
Norris, and do not return till Father Spencer arrives.”
</p>
<p>
“Your ladyship——” hesitated Norris.
</p>
<p>
“Go!” said Lady Trafford; “it is my last request.”
</p>
<p>
And her faithful attendant, drowned in tears, withdrew, followed by the
two assistants.
</p>
<p>
Jonathan stepped behind a curtain.
</p>
<p>
“Rowland,” said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable
anxiety, “you have assured me that I shall behold my son. Where is he?”
</p>
<p>
“Within this room,” replied the knight.
</p>
<p>
“Here!” shrieked Lady Trafford.
</p>
<p>
“Here,” repeated her brother. “But calm yourself, dear sister, or the
interview will be too much for you.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>am</i> calm—quite calm, Rowland,” she answered, with lips
whose agitation belied her words. “Then, the story of his death was false.
I knew it. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an
innocent child. God forgive you!”
</p>
<p>
“May He, indeed, forgive me!” returned Trenchard, crossing himself
devoutly; “but my guilt is not the less heavy, because your child escaped.
This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to
save him. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest
mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son.”
</p>
<p>
“Blessings upon him!” cried Lady Trafford, fervently. “But trifle with mo
no longer. Moments are ages now. Let me see my child, if he is really
here?”
</p>
<p>
“Behold him!” returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but
deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him
towards her.
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength. “My sight is
failing me. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. Yes!” she
screamed, “these are his father's features! It is—it is my son!”
</p>
<p>
“Mother!” cried Thames; “are you, indeed, my mother?”
</p>
<p>
“I am, indeed—my own sweet boy!” she sobbed, pressing him tenderly
to her breast.
</p>
<p>
“Oh!—to see you thus!” cried Thames, in an agony of affliction.
</p>
<p>
“Don't weep, my love,” replied the lady, straining him still more closely
to her. “I am happy—quite happy now.”
</p>
<p>
During this touching interview, a change had come over Sir Rowland, and he
half repented of what he had done.
</p>
<p>
“You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father,
Aliva,” he said.
</p>
<p>
“I dare not, Rowland,” she answered. “I cannot break my vow. I will
confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no
more. Undraw the curtain, love,” she added to Thames, “that I may look at
you.”
</p>
<p>
“Ha!” exclaimed her son, starting back, as he obeyed her, and disclosed
Jonathan Wild.
</p>
<p>
“Be silent,” said Jonathan, in a menacing whisper.
</p>
<p>
“What have you seen?” inquired Lady Trafford.
</p>
<p>
“My enemy,” replied her son.
</p>
<p>
“Your enemy!” she returned imperfectly comprehending him. “Sir Rowland is
your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. Will
you not, brother?”
</p>
<p>
“Promise,” said a deep voice in Trenchard's ear.
</p>
<p>
“He will kill me,” cried Thames. “There is a man in this room who seeks my
life.”
</p>
<p>
“Impossible!” rejoined his mother.
</p>
<p>
“Look at these fetters,” returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists;
“they were put on by my uncle's command.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” shrieked Lady Trafford.
</p>
<p>
“Not a moment is to be lost,” whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. “His life—or
yours?”
</p>
<p>
“No one shall harm you more, my dear,” cried Lady Trafford. “Your uncle <i>must</i>
protect you. It will be his interest to do so. He will be dependent on
you.”
</p>
<p>
“Do what you please with him,” muttered Trenchard to Wild.
</p>
<p>
“Take off these chains, Rowland,” said Lady Trafford, “instantly, I
command you.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>I</i> will,” replied Jonathan, advancing, and rudely seizing Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Mother!” cried the son, “help!”
</p>
<p>
“What is this?” shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and
extending her hands towards him. “Oh, God! would you take him from me?—would
you murder him?”
</p>
<p>
“His father's name?—and he is free,” rejoined Rowland, holding her
arms.
</p>
<p>
“Release him first—and I will disclose it!” cried Lady Trafford; “on
my soul, I will!”
</p>
<p>
“Speak then!” returned Rowland.
</p>
<p>
“Too late!” shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—“too late!—oh!”
</p>
<p>
Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her
son's mouth, and forced him out of the room.
</p>
<p>
When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing
by the lifeless body of his sister. His countenance was almost as white
and rigid as that of the corpse by his side.
</p>
<p>
“This is your work,” said the knight, sternly.
</p>
<p>
“Not entirely,” replied Jonathan, calmly; “though I shouldn't be ashamed
of it if it were. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from her,
Sir Rowland. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to
themselves.”
</p>
<p>
“Peace!” cried the knight, fiercely.
</p>
<p>
“No offence,” returned Jonathan. “I was merely about to observe that <i>I</i>
am in possession of her secret.”
</p>
<p>
“You!”
</p>
<p>
“Didn't I tell you that the fugitive Darrell gave me a glove! But we'll
speak of this hereafter. You can <i>purchase</i> the information from me
whenever you're so disposed. I shan't drive a hard bargain. To the point
however. I came back to say, that I've placed your nephew in a coach; and,
if you'll be at my lock in the Old Bailey an hour after midnight, you
shall hear the last tidings of him.”
</p>
<p>
“I will be there,” answered Trenchard, gloomily.
</p>
<p>
“You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you
know.”
</p>
<p>
“Fear nothing. You shall have your reward.”
</p>
<p>
“Thank'ee,—thank'ee. My house is the next door to the Cooper's Arms,
in the Old Bailey, opposite Newgate. You'll find me at supper.”
</p>
<p>
So saying, he bowed and departed.
</p>
<p>
“That man should have been an Italian bravo,” murmured the knight, sinking
into a chair: “he has neither fear nor compunction. Would I could purchase
his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance.”
</p>
<p>
Soon after this Mrs. Norris entered the room, followed by Father Spencer.
On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and extended
over the dead body of his unfortunate sister.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XI. THE MOHOCKS.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>onathan Wild, meanwhile, had quitted the house. He found a coach at the
door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall,
ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the
bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe
inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. As soon as he
had delivered his instructions to Quilt, who, with Abraham, constituted
his body-guard, or janizaries, as he termed them, Jonathan mounted his
steed, and rode off at a gallop. Quilt was not long in following his
example. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of
his way to Saint Giles's. Stimulated by the promise of something handsome
to drink, the man acquitted himself to admiration in the management of his
lazy cattle. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle
through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was
little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Skirting the
noble gardens of Montague House, (now, we need scarcely say, the British
Museum,) the party speedily reached Great Russell Street,—a quarter
described by Strype, in his edition of old Stow's famous <i>Survey</i>,
“as being graced with the best buildings in all Bloomsbury, and the best
inhabited by the nobility and gentry, especially the north side, as having
gardens behind the houses, and the prospect of the pleasant fields up to
Hampstead and Highgate; insomuch that this place, by physicians, is
esteemed the most healthful of any in London.” Neither of the parties
outside bestowed much attention upon these stately and
salubriously-situated mansions; indeed, as it was now not far from ten
o'clock, and quite dark, they could scarcely discern them. But, in spite
of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help
commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds
past which they were driving. The coachman answered by a surly grunt, and,
plying his whip with redoubled zeal, shaped his course down Dyot Street;
traversed that part of Holborn, which is now called Broad Street, and
where two ancient alms-houses were, then, standing in the middle of that
great thoroughfare, exactly opposite the opening of Compston Street; and,
diving under a wide gateway on the left, soon reached a more open space,
surrounded by mean habitations, coach-houses and stables, called Kendrick
Yard, at the further end of which Saint Giles's round-house was situated.
</p>
<p>
No sooner did the vehicle turn the corner of this yard, than Quilt became
aware, from the tumultuous sounds that reached his ears, as well as from
the flashing of various lanterns at the door of the round-house, that some
disturbance was going on; and, apprehensive of a rescue, if he drew up in
the midst of the mob, he thought it prudent to come to a halt.
Accordingly, he stopped the coach, dismounted, and hastened towards the
assemblage, which, he was glad to find, consisted chiefly of a posse of
watchmen and other guardians of the night. Quilt, who was an ardent lover
of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful
appearance of these personages. Not one of them but bore the marks of
having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. Quarter-staves,
bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered;
and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must
have been tapped pretty freely. Never was heard such a bawling as these
unfortunate wights kept up. Oaths exploded like shells from a battery in
full fire, accompanied by threats of direst vengeance against the
individuals who had maltreated them. Here, might be seen a poor fellow
whose teeth were knocked down his throat, spluttering out the most
tremendous menaces, and gesticulating like a madman: there, another, whose
nose was partially slit, vented imprecations and lamentations in the same
breath. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging
out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered
countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were
darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his
shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm.
</p>
<p>
“So, the Mohocks have been at work, I perceive,” remarked Quilt, as he
drew near the group.
</p>
<p>
“'Faith, an' you may say that,” returned a watchman, who was wiping a
ruddy stream from his brow; “they've broken the paice, and our pates into
the bargain. But shurely I'd know that vice,” he added, turning his
lantern towards the janizary. “Ah! Quilt Arnold, my man, is it you? By the
powers! I'm glad to see you. The sight o' your 'andsome phiz allys does me
good.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish I could return the compliment, Terry. But your cracked skull is by
no means a pleasing spectacle. How came you by the hurt, eh?”
</p>
<p>
“How did I come by it?—that's a nate question. Why, honestly enouch.
It was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own
coin—ha! ha!”
</p>
<p>
“A countryman of yours, Terry?”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—more's the pity! You've heard of
the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of
the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and
glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!”
</p>
<p>
“That's him to a hair?” cried Terence, rapturously. “Och! he's a broth of
a boy!”
</p>
<p>
“Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?”
</p>
<p>
“Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry
O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Besides,
didn't I tell you that I giv' him as good as he brought—and better!
I jist touched him with my 'Evenin' Star,' as I call this shillelah,” said
the watchman, flourishing an immense bludgeon, the knob of which appeared
to be loaded with lead, “and, by Saint Patrick! down he cum'd like a
bullock.”
</p>
<p>
“Zounds!” exclaimed Quilt, “did you kill him?”
</p>
<p>
“Not quite,” replied Terence, laughing; “but I brought him to his senses.”
</p>
<p>
“By depriving him of 'em, eh! But I'm sorry you hurt his lordship, Terry.
Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. If they <i>do</i>,
now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or
huff a magistrate, they <i>pay</i> for their pastime, and that's
sufficient. What more could any reasonable man—especially a watchman—desire?
Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend
of mine. There's not his peer among the peerage.”
</p>
<p>
“Och! if he's a friend o' yours, my dear joy, there's no more to be said;
and right sorry am I, I struck him. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if ould Nick
himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him another.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, well—wait awhile,” returned Quilt; “his lordship won't forget
you. He's as generous as he's frolicsome.”
</p>
<p>
As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with
a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold.
</p>
<p>
“There's Sharples,” cried Quilt.
</p>
<p>
“Whist!” exclaimed Terence; “he elevates his glim. By Jasus! he's about to
spake to us.”
</p>
<p>
“Gem'men o' the votch!” cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would
permit him, “my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o'
Slaughterford——”
</p>
<p>
Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry
guardians of the night.
</p>
<p>
“No Mohocks! No Scourers!” cried the mob.
</p>
<p>
“Hear! hear!” vociferated Quilt.
</p>
<p>
“His lordship desires me to say—ough! ough!”
</p>
<p>
Fresh groans and hisses.
</p>
<p>
“Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!” demanded Sharples, after a pause.
</p>
<p>
“By all means,” rejoined Quilt.
</p>
<p>
“Raise your vice, and lave off coughin',” added Terence.
</p>
<p>
“The long and the short o' the matter's this then,” returned Sharples with
dignity, “the Markis begs your acceptance o' ten guineas to drink his
health.”
</p>
<p>
The hooting was instantaneously changed to cheers.
</p>
<p>
“And his lordship, furthermore, requests me to state,” proceeded Sharples,
in a hoarse tone, “that he'll be responsible for the doctors' bill of all
such gem'men as have received broken pates, or been <i>otherwise</i>
damaged in the fray—ough! ough!”
</p>
<p>
“Hurrah!” shouted the mob.
</p>
<p>
“We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates,” cried a dozen
voices.
</p>
<p>
“Ay, good luck to him! so we have,” rejoined Terence; “but we've no
objection to take out the dochter's bill in drink.”
</p>
<p>
“None whatever,” replied the mob.
</p>
<p>
“Your answer, gem'men?” demanded Sharples.
</p>
<p>
“Long life to the Markis, and we accept his honourable proposal,”
responded the mob.
</p>
<p>
“Long life to the Marquis!” reiterated Terence; “he's an honour to ould
Ireland!”
</p>
<p>
“Didn't I tell you how it would be?” remarked Quilt.
</p>
<p>
“Troth, and so did you,” returned the watchman; “but I couldn't belave it.
In futur', I'll keep the 'Evenin' Star' for his lordship's enemies.”
</p>
<p>
“You'd better,” replied Quilt. “But bring your glim this way. I've a
couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old
Sharples's care.”
</p>
<p>
“Be handy, then,” rejoined Terence, “or, I'll lose my share of the smart
money.”
</p>
<p>
With the assistance of Terence, and a linkboy who volunteered his
services, Quilt soon removed the prisoners from the coach, and leaving
Sheppard to the custody of Abraham, proceeded to drag Thames towards the
round-house. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the
road. Whenever Jack attempted to speak, he was checked by an angry growl
from Abraham; and Thames, though his heart was full almost to bursting,
felt no inclination to break the silence. His thoughts, indeed, were too
painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some
time, they quite overcame him. But his grief was of short duration. The
elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach
stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared
utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the
whole way.
</p>
<p>
While he was dragged along in the manner just described, Thames looked
around to ascertain, if possible, where he was; for he did not put entire
faith in Jonathan's threat of sending him to the round-house, and
apprehensive of something even worse than imprisonment. The aspect of the
place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him;
but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding
habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple
of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was
not erected till some fifteen years later. He recognised this object at
once. Jonathan had not deceived him.
</p>
<p>
“What's this here kinchen <i>in</i> for?” asked Terence, as he and Quilt
strode along, with Thames between them.
</p>
<p>
“What for?” rejoined Quilt, evasively.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity,” replied Terence. “By the
powers!” he added, turning his lantern full upon the face of the captive,
“he's a nice genn-teel-lookin' kiddy, I must say. Pity he's ta'en to bad
ways so airly.”
</p>
<p>
“You may spare me your compassion, friend,” observed Thames; “I am falsely
detained.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course,” rejoined Quilt, maliciously; “every thief is so. If we were
to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday.
We never supposed you helped yourself to a picture set with diamonds—not
we!”
</p>
<p>
“Is the guv'ner consarned in this job?” asked Terence, in a whisper.
</p>
<p>
“He is,” returned Quilt, significantly. “Zounds! what's that!” he cried,
as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. “The other kid's given my
partner the slip. Here, take this youngster, Terry; my legs are lighter
than old Nab's.” And, committing Thames to the care of the watchman, he
darted after the fugitive.
</p>
<p>
“Do you wish to earn a rich reward, my good friend?” said Thames to the
watchman, as soon as they were left alone.
</p>
<p>
“Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?” inquired
Terence. “If so, it won't pay. You're Mister Wild's pris'ner, and worse
luck to it!”
</p>
<p>
“I don't ask you to liberate me,” urged Thames; “but will you convey a
message for me?”
</p>
<p>
“Where to, honey?”
</p>
<p>
“To Mr. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. He lives near the Black
Lion.”
</p>
<p>
“The Black Lion!” echoed Terence. “I know the house well; by the same
token that it's a flash crib. Och! many a mug o' bubb have I drained wi'
the landlord, Joe Hind. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion,
eh?”
</p>
<p>
“He does,” replied Thames. “Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames
Darrell—am detained here by Jonathan Wild.”
</p>
<p>
“Thames Ditton—is that your name?”
</p>
<p>
“No,” replied the boy, impatiently; “Darrell—Thames Darrell.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll not forget it. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. I never yet heard of
a Christians as was named after the Shannon or the Liffy; and the Thames
is no better than a dhurty puddle, compared wi' them two noble strames.
But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. People
do call their unlawful children strange names. Are you quite shure you
haven't another alyas, Masther Thames Ditton?”
</p>
<p>
“Darrell, I tell you. Will you go? You'll be paid handsomely for your
trouble.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't mind the throuble,” hesitated Terence, who was really a
good-hearted fellow at the bottom; “and I'd like to sarve you if I could,
for you look like a gentleman's son, and that goes a great way wi' me. But
if Misther Wild were to find out that I thwarted his schames——”
</p>
<p>
“I'd not be in your skin for a trifle,” interrupted Quilt, who having
secured Sheppard, and delivered him to Abraham, now approached them
unawares; “and it shan't be my fault if he don't hear of it.”
</p>
<p>
“'Ouns!” ejaculated Terence, in alarm, “would you turn snitch on your old
pal, Quilt?”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, if he plays a-cross,” returned Quilt. “Come along, my sly shaver.
With all your cunning, we're more than a match for you.”
</p>
<p>
“But not for me,” growled Terence, in an under tone.
</p>
<p>
“Remember!” cried Quilt, as he forced the captive along.
</p>
<p>
“Remember the devil!” retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural
audacity. “Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his
myrmidons? Not I. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you,
Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you.”
</p>
<p>
“Dog!” exclaimed Quilt, turning fiercely upon him, “do you threaten?”
</p>
<p>
But the watchman eluded his grasp, and, mingling with the crowd,
disappeared.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XII. SAINT GILES'S ROUND-HOUSE.
</h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>aint Giles's Round-house was an old detached fabric, standing in an angle
of Kendrick Yard. Originally built, as its name imports, in a cylindrical
form, like a modern Martello tower, it had undergone, from time to time,
so many alterations, that its symmetry was, in a great measure, destroyed.
Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled
an enormous cask set on its end,—a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large
scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular
aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like
the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some
distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. The
prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane
fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation,
it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. The
windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick
Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's
Church. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to
the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within.
</p>
<p>
Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour,
Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected
to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality,
he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and
running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door. He was followed, more
leisurely, by the prisoners; and, during their ascent, Jack Sheppard made
a second attempt to escape by ducking suddenly down, and endeavouring to
pass under his conductor's legs. The dress of the dwarfish Jew was not,
however, favourable to this expedient. Jack was caught, as in a trap, by
the pendant tails of Abraham's long frock; and, instead of obtaining his
release by his ingenuity, he only got a sound thrashing.
</p>
<p>
Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards
the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt,
between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and
then closed and barred the door.
</p>
<p>
“Vell,” he growled, addressing Quilt, “you know who's here, I suppose?”
</p>
<p>
“To be sure I do,” replied Quilt; “my noble friend, the Marquis of
Slaughterford. What of that?”
</p>
<p>
“Vot 'o that!” echoed Sharples, peevishly: “Everythin'. Vot am I to do
vith these young imps, eh?”
</p>
<p>
“What you generally do with your prisoners, Mr. Sharples,” replied Quilt;
“lock 'em up.”
</p>
<p>
“That's easily said. But, suppose I've no place to lock 'em up in, how
then?”
</p>
<p>
Quilt looked a little perplexed. He passed his arm under that of the
constable, and drew him aside.
</p>
<p>
“Vell, vell,” growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's
remonstrances, “it shall be done. But it's confounded inconvenient. One
don't often get sich a vindfal as the Markis——”
</p>
<p>
“Or such a customer as Mr. Wild,” edged in Quilt.
</p>
<p>
“Now, then, Saint Giles!” interposed Sheppard, “are we to be kept here all
night?”
</p>
<p>
“Eh day!” exclaimed Sharples: “wot new-fledged bantam's this?”
</p>
<p>
“One that wants to go to roost,” replied Sheppard. “So, stir your stumps,
Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch.”
</p>
<p>
“Comin'! comin'!” returned the constable, shuffling towards him.
</p>
<p>
“Coming!—so is midnight—so is Jonathan Wild,” retorted Jack,
with a significant look at Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Have you never an out-o-the-vay corner, into vich you could shtow these
troublesome warmint?” observed Abraham. “The guv'ner'll be here afore
midnight.”
</p>
<p>
Darrell's attention was drawn to the latter part of this speech by a
slight pressure on his foot. And, turning at the touch, he perceived
Sheppard's glance fixed meaningly upon him.
</p>
<p>
“Stow it, Nab!” exclaimed Quilt, angrily; “the kinchen's awake.”
</p>
<p>
“Awake!—to be sure I am, my flash cove,” replied Sheppard; “I'm down
as a hammer.”
</p>
<p>
“I've just bethought me of a crib as'll serve their turn,” interposed
Sharples, “at any rate, they'll be out o' the vay, and as safe as two
chicks in a coop.”
</p>
<p>
“Lead the way to it then, Saint Giles,” said Jack, in a tone of mock
authority.
</p>
<p>
The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off,
like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is
needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden
partition. A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the peals
of merriment, and other noises, that, ever and anon, resounded from
within, that this chamber was occupied by the Marquis and his friends.
Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then
borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns. In one
angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and
broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived
between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a
cupboard. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a
hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not
as clean, as a dog-kennel.
</p>
<p>
“Vill this do?” demanded the constable, taking the candle from the
lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. “I call this
ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall.
I <i>have</i> squeezed three kids into it afore now. To be sure,” he
added, lowering his tone, “they wos little 'uns, and one on 'em was
smothered—ough! ough!—how this cough chokes me!”
</p>
<p>
Sheppard, meanwhile, whose hands were at liberty, managed to possess
himself, unperceived, of the spike of a halbert, which was lying, apart
from the pole, upon a bench near him. Having secured this implement, he
burst from his conductor, and, leaping into the hatch, as clowns generally
spring into the clock-faces, when in pursuit of harlequin in the
pantomime,—that is, back foremost,—broke into a fit of loud
and derisive laughter, kicking his heels merrily all the time against the
boards. His mirth, however, received an unpleasant check; for Abraham,
greatly incensed by his previous conduct, caught him by the legs, and
pushed him with such violence into the hole that the point of the spike,
which he had placed in his pocket, found its way through his clothes to
the flesh, inflicting a slight, but painful wound. Jack, who had something
of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without
flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a
mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust
Thames into the recess beside him.
</p>
<p>
“How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?” asked Sharples, in a jeering
tone.
</p>
<p>
“Better than your company, Saint Giles,” replied Sheppard; “so, shut the
door, and make yourself scarce.”
</p>
<p>
“That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell,” observed
Sharples.
</p>
<p>
“Or the street,” returned Jack: “mind my words, the prison's not built
that can keep me.”
</p>
<p>
“We'll see that, young hempseed,” replied Sharples, shutting the hatch
furiously in his face, and locking it. “If you get out o' that cage, I'll
forgive you. Now, come along, gem'men, and I'll show you some precious
sport.”
</p>
<p>
The two janizaries followed him as far as the entrance to the inner room,
when Abraham, raising his finger to his lips, and glancing significantly
in the direction of the boys, to explain his intention to his companions,
closed the door after them, and stole softly back again, planting himself
near the recess.
</p>
<p>
For a few minutes all was silent. At length Jack Sheppard observed:—“The
coast's clear. They're gone into the next room.”
</p>
<p>
Darrell returned no answer.
</p>
<p>
“Don't be angry with me, Thames,” continued Sheppard, in a tone
calculated, as he thought, to appease his companion's indignation. “I did
all for the best, as I'll explain.”
</p>
<p>
“I won't reproach you, Jack,” said the other, sternly. “I've done with
you.”
</p>
<p>
“Not quite, I hope,” rejoined Sheppard. “At all events, I've not done with
you. If you owe your confinement to me, you shall owe your liberation to
me, also.”
</p>
<p>
“I'd rather lie here for ever, than be indebted to <i>you</i> for my
freedom,” returned Thames.
</p>
<p>
“I've done nothing to offend you,” persisted Jack. “Nothing!” echoed the
other, scornfully. “You've perjured yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“That's my own concern,” rejoined Sheppard. “An oath weighs little with
me, compared with your safety.”
</p>
<p>
“No more of this,” interrupted Thames, “you make the matter worse by these
excuses.”
</p>
<p>
“Quarrel with me as much as you please, Thames, but hear me,” returned
Sheppard. “I took the course I pursued to serve you.”
</p>
<p>
“Tush!” cried Thames; “you accused me to skreen yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“On my soul, Thames, you wrong me!” replied Jack, passionately. “I'd lay
down my life for yours.”
</p>
<p>
“And you expect me to believe you after what has passed?”
</p>
<p>
“I do; and, more than that, I expect you to thank me.”
</p>
<p>
“For procuring my imprisonment?”
</p>
<p>
“For saving your life.”
</p>
<p>
“How?”
</p>
<p>
“Listen to me, Thames. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine. I
overheard Jonathan Wild's instructions to Quilt Arnold, and though he
spoke in slang, and in an under tone, my quick ears, and acquaintance with
the thieves' lingo, enabled me to make out every word he uttered. Jonathan
is in league with Sir Rowland to make away with you. You are brought here
that their designs may be carried into effect with greater security.
Before morning, unless, we can effect an escape, you'll be kidnapped, or
murdered, and your disappearance attributed to the negligence of the
constable.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you sure of this?” asked Thames, who, though as brave a lad as need
be, could not repress a shudder at the intelligence.
</p>
<p>
“Certain. The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the
hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted
accordingly. Things haven't gone quite as smoothly as I anticipated; but
they might have been worse. I <i>can</i> save you, and <i>will</i>. But,
say we're friends.”
</p>
<p>
“You're not deceiving me!” said Thames, doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
“I am not, by Heaven!” replied Sheppard, firmly.
</p>
<p>
“Don't swear, Jack, or I shall distrust you. I can't give you my hand; but
you may take it.”
</p>
<p>
“Thank you! thank you!” faltered Jack, in a voice full of emotion. “I'll
soon free you from these bracelets.”
</p>
<p>
“You needn't trouble yourself,” replied Thames. “Mr. Wood will be here
presently.”
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Wood!” exclaimed Jack, in surprise. “How have you managed to
communicate with him?”
</p>
<p>
Abraham, who had listened attentively to the foregoing conversation,—not
a word of which escaped him,—now drew in his breath, and brought his
ear closer to the boards.
</p>
<p>
“By means of the watchman who had the charge of me,” replied Thames.
</p>
<p>
“Curse him!” muttered Abraham.
</p>
<p>
“Hist!” exclaimed Jack. “I thought I heard a noise. Speak lower. Somebody
may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't care if he is,” rejoined Thames, boldly. “He'll learn that his
plans will be defeated.”
</p>
<p>
“He may learn how to defeat yours,” replied Jack.
</p>
<p>
“So he may,” rejoined Abraham, aloud, “so he may.”
</p>
<p>
“Death and fiends!” exclaimed Jack; “the old thief <i>is</i> there. I knew
it. You've betrayed yourself, Thames.”
</p>
<p>
“Vot o' that?” chuckled Abraham. “<i>You</i> can shave him, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>can</i>,” rejoined Jack; “and you, too, old Aaron, if I'd a razor.”
</p>
<p>
“How soon do you expect Mishter Vudd?” inquired the janizary, tauntingly.
</p>
<p>
“What's that to you?” retorted Jack, surlily.
</p>
<p>
“Because I shouldn't like to be out o' the vay ven he arrives,” returned
Abraham, in a jeering tone; “it vouldn't be vell bred.”
</p>
<p>
“Vouldn't it!” replied Jack, mimicking his snuffling voice; “then shtay
vere you are, and be cursed to you.”
</p>
<p>
“It's all up,” muttered Thames. “Mr. Wood will be intercepted. I've
destroyed my only chance.”
</p>
<p>
“Not your <i>only</i> chance, Thames,” returned Jack, in the same
undertone; “but your best. Never mind. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet.
Do you think we could manage that old clothesman between us, if we got out
of this box?”
</p>
<p>
“I'd manage him myself, if my arms were free,” replied Thames, boldly.
</p>
<p>
“Shpeak up, vill you?” cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the
hatch. “I likes to hear vot you says. You <i>can</i> have no shecrets from
me.”
</p>
<p>
“Vy don't you talk to your partner, or Saint Giles, if you vant
conversation, Aaron?” asked Jack, slyly.
</p>
<p>
“Because they're in the next room, and the door's shut; that's vy, my
jack-a-dandy!” replied Abraham, unsuspiciously.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! they are—are they?” muttered Jack, triumphantly; “that'll do.
Now for it, Thames! Make as great a row as you can to divert his
attention.”
</p>
<p>
With this, he drew the spike from his pocket; and, drowning the sound of
the operation by whistling, singing, shuffling, and other noises,
contrived, in a few minutes, to liberate his companion from the handcuffs.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Jack,” cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, “you are my
friend again. I freely forgive you.”
</p>
<p>
Sheppard cordially returned the pressure; and, cautioning Thames, “not to
let the ruffles drop, or they might tell a tale,” began to warble the
following fragment of a robber melody:—
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
“Oh! give me a chisel, a knife, or a file,
And the dubsmen shall find that I'll do it in style!
<i>Tol-de-rol!</i>”
</pre>
<p>
“Vot the devil are you about, noisy?” inquired Abraham.
</p>
<p>
“Practising singing, Aaron,” replied Jack. “Vot are you?”
</p>
<p>
“Practising patience,” growled Abraham.
</p>
<p>
“Not before it's needed,” returned Jack, aloud; adding in a whisper, “get
upon my shoulders, Thames. Now you're up, take this spike. Feel for the
lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told <i>how</i>. When
it's done, I'll push you through. Take care of the old clothesman, and
leave the rest to me.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room,
The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb;
The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground,
But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found.
<i>Tol-de-rol!</i>”
</pre>
<p>
As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames
sprang through the aperture.
</p>
<p>
This manoeuvre was so suddenly executed that it took Abraham completely by
surprise. He was standing at the moment close to the hatch, with his ear
at the keyhole, and received a severe blow in the face. He staggered back
a few paces; and, before he could recover himself, Thames tripped up his
heels, and, placing the point of the spike at his throat, threatened to
stab him if he attempted to stir, or cry out. Nor had Jack been idle all
this time. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to
the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. The policy
of this step was immediately apparent. Alarmed by the noise of the
scuffle, Quilt and Sharples rushed to the assistance of their comrade. But
they were too late. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the
additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their
discomfiture.
</p>
<p>
“I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me,” cried Jack.
</p>
<p>
“You're not out yet, you young hound,” rejoined Quilt, striving
ineffectually to burst open the door.
</p>
<p>
“But I soon shall be,” returned Jack; “take these,” he added, flinging the
handcuffs against the wooden partition, “and wear 'em yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“Halloo, Nab!” vociferated Quilt. “What the devil are you about! Will you
allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?”
</p>
<p>
“Not if I can help it,” returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to
regain his feet. “By my shalvation, boy,” he added, fiercely, “if you
don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you.”
</p>
<p>
“Help me, Jack!” shouted Thames, “or I shan't be able to keep the villain
down.”
</p>
<p>
“Stick the spike into him, then,” returned Sheppard, coolly, “while I
unbar the outlet.”
</p>
<p>
But Thames had no intention of following his friend's advice. Contenting
himself with brandishing the weapon in the Jew's eyes, he exerted all his
force to prevent him from rising.
</p>
<p>
While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack
drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as
if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:—
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
With pipe and punch upon the board,
And smiling nymphs around us;
No tavern could more mirth afford
Than old Saint Giles's round-house!
<i>The round-house! the round-house!
The jolly—jolly round-house!</i>
</pre>
<p>
“The jolly, jolly round-house!” chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar
yielded to his efforts. “Hurrah! come along, Thames; we're free.”
</p>
<p>
“Not sho fasht—not sho fasht!” cried Abraham, struggling with
Thames, and detaining him; “if you go, you musht take me along vid you.”
</p>
<p>
“Save yourself, Jack!” shouted Thames, sinking beneath the superior weight
and strength of his opponent; “leave me to my fate!”
</p>
<p>
“Never,” replied Jack, hurrying towards him. And, snatching the spike from
Thames, he struck the janizary a severe blow on the head. “I'll make sure
work this time,” he added, about to repeat the blow.
</p>
<p>
“Hold!” interposed Thames, “he can do no more mischief. Let us be gone.”
</p>
<p>
“As you please,” returned Jack, leaping up; “but I feel devilishly
inclined to finish him. However, it would only be robbing the hangman of
his dues.”
</p>
<p>
With this, he was preparing to follow his friend, when their egress was
prevented by the sudden appearance of Jonathan Wild and Blueskin.
</p>
<h3>
END VOLUME I.
</h3>
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<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44521 ***</div>
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