Are dug from the mines of canary;
And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip
With hogsheads of claret and sherry.
Beholds thee in all thy perfection;
And to the pale snout of a temperate ass
Entertains the profoundest objection.
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!
Such dullards know nothing about it.
'T is better, with wine, to extinguish the light,
Than live always, in darkness, without it!
"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.
"Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November."
"Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm," rejoined Jackson.
"Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him."
"I should like to hear all particulars of the affair," said Jackson, "if it wouldn't be troubling you too much."
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.
"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!"
"Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes."
"To be sure! Nothing entertains me so much. People always rejoice at the misfortunes of others—never at their own! The droll dogs! how they must have enjoyed it!—ha! ha!"
"I dare say they did. But 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."
"Quite natural! Never forgive an injury!—I never do!—ha! ha!"
"Really, Mr. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. Your laugh reminds me of—of——"
"Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
"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."
"Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson.
"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."
"Well, Sir, his name?"
"Jonathan Wild."
"'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!"
"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!"
"We!" repeated Wood, significantly.
"Every honest man, Sir! He helps us to our own again."
"Humph!" ejaculated the carpenter.
"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."
"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.'"
"No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs.
"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."
"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."
"Never," echoed Smith, emphatically, "upon my honour."
"I'm satisfied with your assurance," replied the carpenter, drily.
"It's more than I am," muttered Thames.
"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.
"I've known him all my life," replied the other.
"The devil you have! Then, perhaps, you can tell me when he intends to put his threat into execution?"
"What threat?" asked Jackson.
"Why, of hanging the fellow who acts as his jackal; one Blake, or Blueskin, I think he's called."
"You've been misinformed, Sir," interposed Smith. "Mr. Wild is incapable of such baseness."
"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!"
"But he may peach," said Smith casting an oblique glance at Jackson.
"It would avail him little if he did," replied Kneebone. "Jonathan does what he pleases in the courts."
"Very true," chuckled Jackson; "very true."
"Blueskin's only chance would be to carry his threat into effect," pursued the woollen-draper.
"Aha!" exclaimed Jackson. "He threatens, does he?"
"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."
"On the contrary," rejoined Smith, looking askance at his companion, "I happen to know you're in the right."
"Well, Sir, I'm obliged to you," said Jackson; "I shall take care to put Mr. Wild on his guard against an assassin."
"And I shall put Blueskin on the alert against the designs of a traitor," rejoined Smith, in a tone that sounded like a menace.
"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!"
"So he would," replied the latter: "so he would."
"With all his cunning, he may meet with his match," continued Kneebone, laughing. "I've set a trap for him."
"Take care you don't fall into it yourself," returned Jackson, with a slight sneer.
"Were I in your place," said Smith, "I should be apprehensive of Wild, because he's a declared enemy."
"And were I in yours," 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!"
"Success to our enterprise!" echoed the others, significantly.
"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.
"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."
"Are you sure of that," inquired Jackson.
"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."
"Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically. "What if he did escape?"
"My utmost efforts should be used to bring him to justice."
"Hum!"
"Have you any reason to suppose he survived the accident?" inquired Thames eagerly.
Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell.
"I merely asked the question," he said, after he had enjoyed the boy's suspense for a moment.
The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished.
"If I thought he lived——" observed Wood.
"If," interrupted Jackson, changing his tone: "he does live. And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned."
"Who is he?" asked Thames impatiently.
"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."
"I'd give half I'm worth to hang the villain, and restore this boy to his rights," said Mr. Wood.
"How do you know he has 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."
"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.
"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."
"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.
"Perhaps you could point out such a party, Mr. Jackson?" said Wood, significantly.
"I could," replied Thames.
"Then you need no further information from me," rejoined Jackson, sternly.
"Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business—if you really are privy to the affair——"
"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."
"As many as you please," replied Wood, walking towards the chimney-piece, and taking down a constable's, staff, which hung upon a nail.
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.
"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."
"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."
Jackson treated this menace with a loud laugh of derision.
"What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandy-bottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. "It is time!"
"For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes.
"For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets.
"Ready!" answered Smith, shaking himself, and producing a similar pair of weapons.
"In Heaven's name! what's all this?" cried Wood.
"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."
"I've no intention of stirring," replied the woollen-draper, who was thus unceremoniously disturbed: "and I beg you'll sit down, Mr. Jackson."
"Come, Sir!" thundered the latter, "no trifling! Perhaps," he added, opening a warrant, "you'll obey this mandate?"
"A warrant!" ejaculated Kneebone, starting to his feet.
"Ay, Sir, from the Secretary of State, for your arrest! You're charged with high-treason."
"By those who've conspired with me?"
"No! by those who've entrapped you! You've long eluded our vigilance; but we've caught you at last!"
"Damnation!" exclaimed the woollen-draper; "that I should be the dupe of such a miserable artifice!"
"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."
"Wretches!" screamed the lady; "don't dare to breathe your vile insinuations against me! Oh! Mr. Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?"
"Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper.
"Bring him along, Joe!" said Jackson, in a whisper to his comrade.
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.
"Begone! or I fire!" he cried.
"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."
"Mr. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me."
"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."
"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."
"My death will lie at your door," remarked Jackson to the carpenter.
"Show me your warrant!" said Wood, almost driven to his wit's-end; "perhaps it isn't regular?"
"Ask him who he is?" suggested Thames.
"A good idea!" exclaimed the carpenter. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name."
"What does it signify?" returned the latter, angrily.
"A great deal!" replied Thames. "If you won't disclose your name, I will for you! You are Jonathan Wild!"
"Further concealment is needless," answered the other, pulling off his wig and black patch, and resuming his natural tone of voice; "I am Jonathan Wild!"
"Say you so!" rejoined Kneebone; "then be this your passport to eternity."
Upon which he drew the trigger of the pistol, which, luckily for the individual against whom it was aimed, flashed in the pan.
"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."
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.
"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!"
"Murder!" shrieked Mrs. Wood, at the top of her voice.
"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?"
"Yes! yes! put it to his ear!" cried Mrs. Wood; "that's the surest way!"
"No! no! give it me!" vociferated Wood, snatching the pistol, and rushing to the door, against which he placed his back.
"I'll soon settle this business. Jonathan Wild!" he added, in a loud voice, "I command you to release your prisoner."
"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."
"You'll take the consequences, then?"
"Willingly."
"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."
"A clever device," replied Jonathan; "but it won't serve your turn. Let us pass, Sir. Strike the gag, Blueskin."
"You shall not stir a footstep. Open the window, Thames, and call for assistance."
"Stop!" cried Jonathan, who did not care to push matters too far, "let me have a word with you, Mr. Wood."
"I'll have no explanations whatever," replied the carpenter, disdainfully, "except before a magistrate."
"At least state your charge. It is a serious accusation."
"It is," 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?"
Wild appeared confounded.
"Release your prisoner," continued Wood, "or the window is opened."
"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 will 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."
"Don't listen to him, father," cried Thames, unconscious of what was passing; "there are plenty of people outside."
"Make your choice," said Jonathan.
"If you don't decide quickly, I'll scream," cried Mrs. Wood, popping her head through the window.
"Set your prisoner free!" returned Wood.
"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."
So saying, he unlocked the door and strode out of the room.
"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.
"'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."
"My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper.
"Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?"
"What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. But men are 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."
"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."
CHAPTER VI.
The first Step towards the Ladder.
If 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!
Such was the fairy creature presented to Thames Darrell, under the following circumstances.
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.
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.
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 'St. George for England' and a loyal ditty, then much in vogue, called 'True Protestant Gratitude, or, Britain's Thanksgiving for the First of August, Being the Day of His Majesty's Happy Accession to the Throne.' 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 'The Thief-Catcher's Prophecy,' and the 'Life and Death of the Darkman's Budge;' while his extraordinary mechanical skill was displayed in what he termed (Jack had a supreme contempt for orthography,) a 'Moddle of his Mas. Jale off Newgate;' 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 'Jack Hall a-hanging.' 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.
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.
"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.
"I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!"
"I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp.
"Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried.
But her request was unheeded. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
"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."
"I feel I have, dear Winny!" replied Thames, abashed at his own rudeness; "my conduct is inexcusable."
"I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel, affectionately extending her hand to him.
"Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?" asked the youth.
"Because it's not like you," was her answer.
"Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you as a memorial——"
"Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner.
"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."
"Have you told him so?" she inquired, reproachfully. "No; but I shall, before he retires to rest."
"Then you will 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!"
"Stop, Winny!" he answered, gravely; "I haven't promised yet."
"But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face.
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."
"So do I!" she cried; "for then you would have been really my brother. No, I don't, either; because——"
"Well, Winny?"
"I don't know what I was going to say," she added, in some confusion; "only I'm sorry you were born a gentleman."
"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."
"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 do go I shall need no memorial of you. I'd a good many things to say to you, besides—but you've put them all out of my head."
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.
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.
"Aha!" exclaimed Jack, with a roguish wink, "I've caught you,—have I?"
Fair, and fickle, and false, was she!
She slighted the journeyman, (meaning me!)
And smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Degree! degree!
She smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Ha! ha! ha!"
"Jack!" exclaimed Thames, angrily.
But Sheppard was not to be silenced. He went on with his song, accompanying it with the most ridiculous grimaces:
Her love for the gentleman, (meaning you!)
'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!"
"What are you doing here!" demanded Thames.
"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."
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.
"'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."
"That's not likely to be the case, if you go on in this way," replied Thames, sharply.
"Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink."
"No more of this," rejoined Thames, "or we shall quarrel."
"Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance.
"Jack," said the other, sternly; "don't provoke me further, or I'll give you a thrashing."
"Two can play at that game, my blood," replied Sheppard, rising, and putting himself into a posture of defence.
"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."
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 nob stretched him at full length on the floor.
"That'll teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head for the future," observed Thames, as he helped Jack to his feet.
"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."
"You want another drubbing, I perceive," said Thames, frowning.
"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 her work?"
"It is," answered Thames. "Do you see any likeness?"
"Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself. "How very like it is!"
"Not so strange, surely," laughed Thames, "that a picture should resemble the person for whom it's intended."
"Ay, but it is strange how much it resembles somebody for whom it's not intended. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket."
"A miniature! Of whom?"
"That I can't say," replied Jack, mysteriously. "But, I half suspect, of your father."
"My father!" exclaimed Thames, in the utmost astonishment; "let me see it!"
"Here it is," returned Jack, producing a small picture in a case set with brilliants.
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.
"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!"
"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."
"Where did you get it?" inquired Thames.
"From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box."
"Surely, you haven't stolen it?"
"Stolen's an awkward word. But, as you perceive, I brought it away with me."
"It must be restored instantly,—be the consequences what they may."
"You're not going to betray me!" cried Jack, in alarm.
"I am not," replied Thames; "but I insist upon your taking it back at once."
"Take it back yourself," retorted Jack, sullenly. "I shall do no such thing."
"Very well," replied Thames, about to depart.
"Stop!" exclaimed Jack, planting himself before the door; "do you want to get me sent across the water?"
"I want to save you from disgrace and ruin," returned Thames.
"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!"
"Hear me," said Thames, calmly; "you well know you're no match for me."
"Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife."
"You daren't use it."
"Try to leave the room, and see whether I daren't," returned Jack, opening the blade.
"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?"
"I won't," answered Jack, obstinately.
Thames said not another word, but marched boldly towards him, and seized him by the collar.
"Leave go!" cried Jack, struggling violently, and raising his hand, "or I'll maul you for life."
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.
"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."
And she flung herself between them.
Jack dropped the knife, and walked sullenly aside.
"What has caused this quarrel, Thames?" asked the little girl, anxiously.
"You," answered Jack, abruptly.
"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."
"Are you sure of that?" returned Winifred, looking uneasily at Jack.
"Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it."
With this assurance, and at the reiterated request of Thames, the little girl reluctantly withdrew.
"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."
"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."
"That, alone, ought to have prevented you from acting as you did, Jack," returned Thames, gravely.
"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."
"Well, think no more about it," returned Thames. "Do better in future."
"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."
"Never fear," replied Thames, taking up his hat. "Come, let's be off."
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.
"Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper.
"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."
"We shall expect you to-morrow," insinuated Mrs. Wood; "and pray, don't bring anybody with you,—especially Jonathan Wild."
"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."
"You hear that," whispered Jack.
"I do," replied Thames, in the same tone; "we haven't a moment to lose."
"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!"
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.
"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."
"Why, my love," rejoined her husband, "appearances, you must allow, were a little against you. But since you assure me you didn't write the letters, and Mr. Kneebone assures me he 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."
"An excellent maxim!" replied his wife, approvingly; "the best I ever heard you utter."
"I must now go and look after Thames," observed the carpenter.
"Oh! never mind him: he'll take no harm! Come with me into the parlour. I can't spare you at present. Heigho!"
"Now for it!" cried Jack, as the couple entered the room: "the coast's clear."
Thames was about to follow, when he felt a gentle grasp upon his arm. He turned, and beheld Winifred.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I shall be back presently," replied Thames, evasively.
"Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. "You're in danger. I overheard what Mr. Kneebone said, just now."
"Death and the devil! what a cursed interruption!" cried Jack, impatiently. "If you loiter in this way, old Wood will catch us."
"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."
"He's coming!" cried Jack, stamping his foot, with vexation. "Another moment, and it'll be too late."
"Winny, I must go!" said Thames, breaking from her.
"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!"
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.
"Where's Thames?" he hastily inquired.
Winifred pointed to the door. She could not speak.
"And Jack?"
"Gone too," sobbed his daughter.
Mr. Wood uttered something like an imprecation.
"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!"
CHAPTER VII.
Brother and Sister.
On 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.
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.
"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. "You depart for Lancashire to-morrow. Have I your final answer?"
"You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. "You shall have the sum you require, but——"
"But what, Madam!"
"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."
Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
"And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. "Do you still refuse to make one!"
"I have made one," replied Lady Trafford.
"How?" cried her brother, starting.
"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."
"In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly.
"In favour of my son."
"You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
"I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still."
"If I thought so—" cried the knight fiercely; "but this is idle," he added, suddenly checking himself. "Aliva, your child perished with its father."
"And by whom were they both destroyed?" demanded his sister, raising herself by a painful effort, and regarding him with a searching glance.
"By the avenger of his family's dishonour—by your brother," he replied, coolly.
"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!"
"A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!"
"It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. "I will swear it upon the cross!"
"His name, then?" demanded the knight. "Tell me that, and I will believe you."
"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."
"Be it so!" rejoined Sir Rowland, with concentrated fury; "but before we do part, I am resolved to know the name of your pretended husband!"
"Torture shall not wrest it from me," answered his sister, firmly.
"What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded.
"A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband."
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.
"What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked.
"I have dreamed that I shall see him before I die," she rejoined.
"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."
"Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!" murmured his sister, crossing her hands and looking upwards; "you have none on me."
"I will have none till I have forced the villain's name from you!" he cried, stamping the floor with rage.
"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone.
"His name, I say!—his name!" thundered the knight.
And he unsheathed his sword.
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.
"To-night, your ladyship?" ventured an elderly domestic.
"Instantly, Hobson," returned Lady Trafford; "as soon as the carriage can be brought round."
"It shall be at the door in ten minutes. Has your ladyship any further commands?"
"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?"
"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."
"Very well. Lose not a moment, Hobson."
The elderly domestic bowed, took up the case, and retired.
"Your ladyship is far too unwell to travel," remarked the female attendant, assisting her to rise; "you'll never be able to reach Manchester."
"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."
"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."
"Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly.
"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."
Lady Trafford sighed deeply.
"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."
"Norris!" gasped Lady Trafford, trembling violently.
"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."
"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."
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.
CHAPTER VIII.
Miching Mallecho.
Sir 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.
"My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared.
The man lingered.
"'Sdeath! why am I not obeyed?" exclaimed the knight, angrily. "I wish to overtake Lady Trafford. Use despatch!"
"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."
"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?"
"No, Sir Rowland."
"From Mr. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday."
"No, Sir Rowland."
"Perhaps he is from Lord Derwentwater, or Mr. Forster? News is expected from Northumberland."
"I can't exactly say, Sir Rowland. The gentleman didn't communicate his business to me. But I'm sure it's important."
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.
"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."
So saying, he threw himself into a chair. And Charcam, fearful of another charge in his master's present uncertain mood, disappeared.
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.
"Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced.
"Your business, Sir?" returned the other, stiffly.
The new-comer looked at Charcam. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew.
"You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat.
The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose.
"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 have met before."
"Indeed!" rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; "perhaps, you will refresh my memory as to the time, and place."
"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."
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."
The stranger smiled incredulously.
"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."
"In what way, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, in astonishment.
"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."
"Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or——"
"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."
"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."
"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."
"So far you are correct," observed Trenchard; "still, this is no secret."
"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."
"Ha!" ejaculated Trenchard.
"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 did 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."
"Proceed, Sir," said Trenchard, breathing hard.
"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."