The heart-piercing scream uttered by Mrs. Sheppard after the commission of the robbery in Willesden church was productive of unfortunate consequences to her son. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. Startled by the cry, as may be supposed, the attention of the whole congregation was drawn towards the quarter whence it proceeded. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation. A boy attempted to follow; but as the suspicions of the lookers-on were roused by the previous circumstances, the younger fugitive was seized and detained. Meanwhile, Mr. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. Turning quickly round, in the hope of discovering the thief, he was no less surprised than distressed—for in spite of his faults, the woollen-draper was a good-natured fellow—to perceive Jack Sheppard in custody. The truth at once flashed across his mind. This, then, was the cause of the widow's wild inexplicable look,—of her sudden shriek! Explaining his suspicious in a whisper to Jack's captor, who proved to be a church-warden and a constable, by name John Dump,—Mr. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard. Dump instantly complied, and as soon as Jack was removed from the sacred edifice, his person was searched from head to foot—but without success. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently protested his innocence. In vain did the woollen-draper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. Nor did he content himself with declaring his guiltlessness of the crime imputed to him, but began in his turn to menace his captor and accuser, loading the latter with the bitterest upbraidings. By this time, the churchyard was crowded with spectators, some of whom dispersed in different directions in quest of the other robber. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. Of this man Kneebone resolved to go in pursuit; and leaving Jack in charge of the constable, he proceeded to the small inn,—which bore then, as it bears now, the name of the Six Bells,—where, summoning the hostler, his steed was instantly brought him, and, springing on its back, he rode away at full speed.
Meanwhile, after a consultation between Mr. Dump and the village authorities, it was agreed to lock up the prisoner in the cage. As he was conveyed thither, an incident occurred that produced a considerable impression on the feelings of the youthful offender. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard—where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. At this gate two paths meet. Down that on the right the young culprit was dragged—along that on the left a fainting woman was borne in the arms of several females. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison.
The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. Over these boards the two arms of a guide-post serve to direct the way-farer—on the right hand to the neighbouring villages of Neasdon and Kingsbury, and on the left to the Edgeware Road and the healthy heights of Hampstead. The cage has a strong door, with an iron grating at the top, and further secured by a stout bolt and padlock. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church.
For some time after he was locked up in this prison Jack continued in a very dejected state. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without effect. Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of conscience. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. When he awoke, it was late in the day; but though he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of a face peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one entered the prison, or held any communication with him. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. He ate of the bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water, poured the rest on the floor. His hunger satisfied, his spirits began to revive, and with this change of mood all his natural audacity returned. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. Here was an instrument which might be of the greatest service to him in accomplishing his design. He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. Time wore on somewhat slowly with the prisoner, who had to control his impatience in the best way he could; but as the shades of evening were darkening, the door was unlocked, and Mr. Dump popped his head into the cage. He brought another small loaf, and a can with which he replenished the pitcher, recommending Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing further till morning. To this Jack replied, that he should be perfectly contented, provided he might have a small allowance of gin. The latter request, though treated with supreme contempt by Mr. Dump, made an impression on some one outside; for not long after the constable departed, Jack heard a tap at the door, and getting up at the summons, he perceived the tube of a pipe inserted between the bars. At once divining the meaning of this ingenious device, he applied his mouth to the tube, and sucked away, while the person outside poured spirit into the bowl. Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was perfectly dark. The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. Availing himself of certain inequalities in the door, he soon managed to climb up to the roof; and securing his feet against a slight projection in the wall, began to use the fork with great effect. Before many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster, which showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. The rest was easy. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. Emerging from this aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the tramp of horses' feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide himself behind one of the largest sign-boards before alluded to when two horsemen rode up. Instead of passing on, as Jack expected, these persons stopped opposite the cage, when one of them, as he judged from the sound, for he did not dare to look out of his hiding place, dismounted. A noise was next heard, as if some instrument were applied to the door with the intent to force it open, and Jack's fears were at once dispelled, At first, he had imagined they were officers of justice, come to convey him to a stronger prison: but the voice of one of the parties, which he recognised, convinced him they were his friends.
“Look quick, Blueskin, and be cursed to you!” was growled in the deep tones of Jonathan Wild. “We shall have the whole village upon us while you're striking the jigger. Use the gilt, man!”
“There's no need of picklock or crow-bar, here, Mr. Wild,” cried Jack, placing his hat on the right arm of the guide-post, and leaning over the board, “I've done the trick myself.”
“Why, what the devil's this?” vociferated Jonathan, looking up. “Have you broken out of the cage, Jack?”
“Something like it,” replied the lad carelessly.
“Bravo!” cried the thief-taker approvingly.
“Well, that beats all I ever heard of!” roared Blueskin.
“But are you really there?”
“No, I'm here,” answered Jack, leaping down. “I tell you what, Mr. Wild,” he added, laughing, “it must be a stronger prison than Willesden cage that can hold me.”
“Ay, ay,” observed Jonathan, “you'll give the keepers of his Majesty's jails some trouble before you're many years older, I'll warrant you. But get up behind, Blueskin. Some one may observe us.”
“Come, jump up,” cried Blueskin, mounting his steed, “and I'll soon wisk you to town. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. I thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was nabbed. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. Mr. Wild has done his business.”
“Ay—ay,” laughed Jonathan. “The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. So get up, and let's be off.”
“Before I leave this place, I must see my mother.”
“Nonsense,” returned Jonathan gruffly. “Would you expose yourself to fresh risk? If it hadn't been for her you wouldn't have been placed in your late jeopardy.”
“I don't care for that,” replied Jack. “See her I will. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day.”
“Nay, if you're bent upon this folly,” observed Wild, who appeared to have his own reasons for humouring the lad, “I shan't hinder you. Blueskin will take care of the horses, and I'll go with you.”
So saying, he dismounted; and flinging his bridle to his companion, and ordering him to ride off to a little distance, he followed Jack, who had quitted the main road, and struck into a narrow path opposite the cage. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile.
“There's the house,” said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Don't hurry yourself,” said Jonathan, “I'll wait for you here.”
As Jack opened the gate, and crossed the little garden, which exhibited in every part the neatness and attention of its owner, he almost trembled at the idea of further disturbing her peace of mind. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness. From this peaceful scene Jack's eye fell upon Jonathan, who, seated upon the stile, under the shade of an elder tree, was evidently watching him. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on.
After knocking for some time at the door without effect, he tried the latch, and to his surprise found it open. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. That was the only sound he heard.
Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out “Mother!”
“Who's there?” asked a faint voice from the bed.
“Your son,” answered the boy.
“Jack,” exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. “Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?”
“You're not dreaming, mother,” he answered. “I'm come to say good bye to you, and to assure you of my safety before I leave this place.”
“Where are you going?” asked his mother.
“I hardly know,” returned Jack; “but it's not safe for me to remain much longer here.”
“True,” replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, “I know it isn't. I won't keep you long. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it.”
Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her.
“Jack,” said Mrs. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, “I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won't tell you what agony you have caused me—I won't reproach you. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. You are in the hands of a wicked, a terrible man, who will not stop till he has completed your destruction. Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die broken-hearted.”
“It is too late,” returned Jack, sullenly; “I can't be honest if I would.”
“Oh! do not say so,” replied his wretched parent. “It is never too late. I know you are in Jonathan Wild's power, for I saw him near you in the church; and if ever the enemy of mankind was permitted to take human form, I beheld him then. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! You know not what villany he is capable of. Be honest, and you will be happy. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence. Return, I implore of you, to your master,—to Mr. Wood. Acknowledge your faults. He is all kindness, and will overlook them for your poor father's sake—for mine. Return to him, I say—”
“I can't,” replied Jack, doggedly.
“Can't!” repeated his mother. “Why not?”
“I'll tell you,” cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. And immediately afterwards the curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed the Satanic countenance of Jonathan Wild, who had crept into the house unperceived, “I'll tell you, why he can't go back to his master,” cried the thief-taker, with a malignant grin. “He has robbed him.”
“Robbed him!” screamed the widow. “Jack!”
Her son averted his gaze.
“Ay, robbed him,” reiterated Jonathan. “The night before last, Mr. Wood's house was broken into and plundered. Your son was seen by the carpenter's wife in company with the robbers. Here,” he added, throwing a handbill on the bed, “are the particulars of the burglary, with the reward for Jack's apprehension.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the widow, hiding her face.
“Come,” said Wild, turning authoritatively to Jack,—“you have overstayed your time.”
“Do not go with him, Jack!” shrieked his mother. “Do not—do not!”
“He must!” thundered Jonathan, “or he goes to jail.”
“If you must go to prison, I will go with you,” cried Mrs. Sheppard: “but avoid that man as you would a serpent.”
“Come along,” thundered Jonathan.
“Hear me, Jack!” shrieked his mother. “You know not what you do. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!—let him deny it if he can.”
“Pshaw!” said Wild. “I could hang him now if I liked. But he may remain with you if he pleases: I sha'n't hinder him.”
“You hear, my son,” said the widow eagerly. “Choose between good and evil;—between him and me. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.”
“It does so,” said Wild. “Choose, Jack.”
The lad made no answer, but left the room.
“He is gone!” cried Mrs. Sheppard despairingly.
“For ever!” said the thief-taker, preparing to follow.
“Devil!” cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, “how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?”
“NINE!” answered Jonathan sternly.
Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in search of some particular habitation. The age of this individual could not be more than twenty-one; his figure was tall, robust, and gracefully proportioned; and his clear gray eye and open countenance bespoke a frank, generous, and resolute nature. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome stranger. Unconscious of the interest he excited, and entirely occupied by his own thoughts—which, if his bosom could have been examined, would have been found composed of mingled hopes and fears—the young man walked on till he came to an old house, with great projecting bay windows on the first floor, and situated as nearly as possible at the back of St. Clement's church. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLEN-DRAPER.
Tears started to the young man's eyes on beholding the change, and it was with difficulty he could command himself sufficiently to make the inquiries he desired to do respecting the former owner of the house. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. Mr. Kneebone was attired in the extremity of the mode. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of “right Mechlin” was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. A stiff, formally-cut coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth, with rows of plate buttons, each of the size of a crown piece, on the sleeves, pockets, and skirts, reached the middle of his legs; and his costume was completed by the silver-hilted sword at his side, and the laced hat under his left arm.
Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business.
“I'm almost afraid to state it,” faltered the other; “but, may I ask whether Mr. Wood, the carpenter, who formerly resided here, is still living?”
“If you feel any anxiety on his account, Sir, I'm happy to be able to relieve it,” answered Kneebone, readily. “My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. And, for a man who'll never see sixty again, he's in excellent preservation, I assure you.”
“You delight me with the intelligence,” said the stranger, entirely recovering his cheerfulness of look.
“I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him.”
“Quite the contrary,” rejoined the woollen-draper, laughing good-humouredly. “Everything has prospered with him in an extraordinary manner. His business has thriven; legacies have unexpectedly dropped into his lap; and, to crown all, he has made a large fortune by a lucky speculation in South-Sea stock,—made it, too, where so many others have lost fortunes, your humble servant amongst the number—ha! ha! In a word, Sir, Mr. Wood is now in very affluent circumstances. He stuck to the shop as long as it was necessary, and longer, in my opinion. When he left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or rather—to deal frankly with you,—he placed me in them rent-free, for, I'm not ashamed to confess it, I've had losses, and heavy ones; and, if it hadn't been for him, I don't know where I should have been. Mr. Wood, Sir,” he added, with much emotion, “is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—” and he hesitated.
“Well, Sir?” cried the other, eagerly.
“His wife is still living,” returned Kneebone, drily.
“I understand,” replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. “But, it strikes me, I've heard that Mrs. Wood was once a favourite of yours.”
“So she was,” replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—“so she was. But those days are over—quite over. Since her husband has laid me under such a weight of obligation, I couldn't, in honour, continue—hem!” and he took another explanatory pinch. “Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!”
“Say no more on the subject, Sir,” observed the stranger, gravely; “but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter.”
“That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess,” returned Kneebone, with a self-sufficient smirk.
The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence.
“Is she married?” he asked, after a brief pause.
“Married!—no—no,” replied the woollen-draper. “Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory.”
“You astonish me,” said the stranger, in a voice full of emotion.
“Why it is astonishing, certainly,” remarked Kneebone, “to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case. She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting. But she was not to be tempted.”
“She is a matchless creature!” exclaimed the young man.
“So I think,” replied Kneebone, again applying to the snuff-box, and by that means escaping the angry glance levelled at him by his companion.
“I have one inquiry more to make of you, Sir,” said the stranger, as soon as he had conquered his displeasure, “and I will then trouble you no further. You spoke just now of a youth whom Mr. Wood brought up. As far as I recollect, there were two. What has become of the other?”
“Why, surely you don't mean Jack Sheppard?” cried the woollen-draper in surprise.
“That was the lad's name,” returned the stranger.
“I guessed from your dress and manner, Sir, that you must have been long absent from your own country,” said Kneebone; “and now I'm convinced of it, or you wouldn't have asked that question. Jack Sheppard is the talk and terror of the whole town. The ladies can't sleep in their beds for him; and as to the men, they daren't go to bed at all. He's the most daring and expert housebreaker that ever used a crow-bar. He laughs at locks and bolts; and the more carefully you guard your premises from him, the more likely are you to insure an attack. His exploits and escapes are in every body's mouth. He has been lodged in every round-house in the metropolis, and has broken out of them all, and boasts that no prison can hold him. We shall see. His skill has not been tried. At present, he is under the protection of Jonathan Wild.”
“Does that villain still maintain his power?” asked the stranger sternly.
“He does,” replied Kneebone, “and, what is more surprising, it seems to increase. Jonathan completely baffles and derides the ends of justice. It is useless to contend with him, even with right on your side. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. I charged the thief-taker, as was the fact, with having robbed me, by means of the lad Sheppard, whom he instigated to deed, of the very pocket-book he produced in evidence against me; but it was of no avail—I couldn't obtain a hearing. Mr. Wood fared still worse. Bribed by a certain Sir Rowland Trenchard, Jonathan kidnapped the carpenter's adopted son, Thames Darrell, and placed him in the hands of a Dutch Skipper, with orders to throw him overboard when he got out to sea; and though this was proved as clear as day, the rascal managed matters so adroitly, and gave such a different complexion to the whole affair, that he came off with flying colours. One reason, perhaps, of his success in this case might be, that having arrested his associate in the dark transaction, Sir Rowland Trenchard, on a charge of high treason, he was favoured by Walpole, who found his account in retaining such an agent. Be this as it may, Jonathan remained the victor; and shortly afterwards,—at the price of a third of his estate, it was whispered,—he procured Trenchard's liberation from confinement.”
At the mention of the latter occurrence, a dark cloud gathered upon the stranger's brow.
“Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?” he asked.
“Nothing more than this,” answered Kneebone,—“that after the failure of his projects, and the downfall of his party, he retired to his seat, Ashton Hall, near Manchester, and has remained there ever since, entirely secluded from the world.”
The stranger was for a moment lost in reflection.
“And now, Sir,” he said, preparing to take his departure, “will you add to the obligation already conferred by informing me where I can meet with Mr. Wood?”
“With pleasure,” replied the woollen-draper. “He lives at Dollis Hill, a beautiful spot near Willesden, about four or five miles from town, where he has taken a farm. If you ride out there, and the place is well worth a visit, for the magnificent view it commands of some of the finest country in the neighbourhood of London,—you are certain to meet with him. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn't stir from home for a week to come. He called here on his way back, after he had been to Bedlam to visit poor Mrs. Sheppard.”
“Jack's mother?” exclaimed the young man. “Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?”
“She is, Sir,” answered the woollen-draper, sadly, “driven there by her son's misconduct. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. But, in the midst of all her affliction, she has found a steady friend in Mr. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan.”
The stranger said nothing, but hastily brushed away a tear. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing.
Before the question could be answered, a side-door was opened, and a very handsome woman of Amazonian proportions presented herself, and marched familiarly up to Mr. Kneebone. She was extremely showily dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her lofty stature. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her.
“Don't you perceive, my dear Mrs. Maggot, that I'm engaged,” said Kneebone, a little disconcerted.
“Who've you got with you?” demanded the Amazon, boldly.
“The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll,” replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. “I don't know his name.” And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it.
“Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events,” observed Mrs. Maggot, eyeing him from head to heel with evident satisfaction;—“a devilish pretty fellow!”
“Upon my word, Poll,” said Kneebone, becoming very red, “you might have a little more delicacy than to tell him so before my face.”
“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Maggot, drawing up her fine figure to its full height; “because I condescend to live with you, am I never to look at another man,—especially at one so much to my taste as this? Don't think it!”
“You had better retire, Madam,” said the woollen-draper, sharply, “if you can't conduct yourself with more propriety.”
“Order those who choose to obey you,” rejoined the lady scornfully. “Though you lorded it over that fond fool, Mrs. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. That for you!” And she snapped her fingers in his face.
“Zounds!” cried Kneebone, furiously. “Go to your own room, woman, directly, or I'll make you!”
“Make me!” echoed Mrs. Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous laugh. “Try!”
Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts to remove her were unavailing. At length, after he had given up the point from sheer exhaustion, the Amazon seized him by the throat, and pushed him backwards with such force that he rolled over the counter.
“There!” she cried, laughing, “that'll teach you to lay hands upon me again. You should remember, before you try your strength against mine, that when I rescued you from the watch, and you induced me to come and live with you, I beat off four men, any of whom was a match for you—ha! ha!”
“My dear Poll!” said Kneebone, picking himself up, “I entreat you to moderate yourself.”
“Entreat a fiddlestick!” retorted Mrs. Maggot: “I'm tired of you, and will go back to my old lover, Jack Sheppard. He's worth a dozen of you. Or, if this good-looking young fellow will only say the word, I'll go with him.”
“You may go, and welcome, Madam!” rejoined Kneebone, spitefully. “But, I should think, after the specimen you've just given of your amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an incumbrance.”
“What say you, Sir?” said the Amazon, with an engaging leer at the stranger. “You will find me tractable enough; and, with me by, your side you need fear neither constable nor watchman. I've delivered Jack Sheppard from many an assault. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. Will you take me?”
However tempting Mrs. Maggot's offer may appear, the young man thought fit to decline it, and, after a few words of well-merited compliment on her extraordinary prowess, and renewed thanks to Mr. Kneebone, he took his departure.
“Good bye!” cried Mrs. Maggot, kissing her hand to him. “I'll find you out. And now,” she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, “I'll go to Jack Sheppard.”
“You shall first go to Bridewell, you jade!” rejoined Kneebone. “Here, Tom,” he added, calling to a shop-boy, “run and fetch a constable.”
“He had better bring half-a-dozen,” said the Amazon, taking up a cloth-yard wand, and quietly seating herself; “one won't do.”
On leaving Mr. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,—as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. This “fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave” was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators. Without the inclosure were reared several lofty gibbets, with their ghastly burthens. Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight. Influenced, probably, by what he had heard from Mr. Kneebone, respecting the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell into a gloomy reverie. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. The other individual, who was a little in advance, was concealed from the stranger's view. Presently, however, a sudden movement occurred, and disclosed his features, which were those of a young man of nearly his own age. The dress of this person was excessively showy, and consisted of a scarlet riding-habit, lined and faced with blue, and bedizened with broad gold lace, a green silk-knit waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and decorated with a deep fringe, together with a hat tricked out in the same gaudy style. His figure was slight, but well-built; and, in stature he did not exceed five feet four. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. A mutual recognition took place at the same instant between the stranger and this individual. Both started. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. Impelled by a feeling, into which we shall not pause to inquire, the stranger started after them; but they were better mounted, and soon distanced him. Remarking that they struck off at a turning on the left, he took the same road, and soon found himself on Paddington-Green. A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. From a man, who was standing beneath the shade of one these noble trees, information was obtained that the horsemen had ridden along the Harrow Road. With a faint view of overtaking them the pursuer urged his steed to a quicker pace. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from Kensall-Green.
By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Before retracing his steps, however, he allowed his gaze to range over the vast and beautiful prospect spread out beneath him, which is now hidden, from the traveller's view by the high walls of the General Cemetery, and can, consequently, only be commanded from the interior of that attractive place of burial,—and which, before it was intersected by canals and railroads, and portioned out into hippodromes, was exquisite indeed. After feasting his eye upon this superb panorama, he was about to return, when he ascertained from a farmer that his nearest road to Willesden would be down a lane a little further on, to the right. Following this direction, he opened a gate, and struck into one of the most beautiful green lanes imaginable; which, after various windings, conducted him into a more frequented road, and eventually brought him to the place he sought. Glancing at the finger-post over the cage, which has been described as situated at the outskirts of the village, and seeing no directions to Dollis Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where it lay, from an elderly man, who was standing with another countryman near the little prison.
“Whose house do you want, master?” said the man, touching his hat.
“Mr. Wood's,” was the reply.
“There is Dollis Hill,” said the man, pointing to a well-wooded eminence about a mile distant, “and there,” he added, indicating the roof of a house just visible above a grove of trees “is Mr. Wood's. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go.”
The young man thanked his informant, and was about to follow his instructions, when the other called after him——
“I say, master, did you ever hear tell of Mr. Wood's famous 'prentice?”
“What apprentice?” asked the stranger, in surprise.
“Why, Jack Sheppard, the notorious house-breaker,—him as has robbed half Lunnun, to be sure. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. The gentleman catched him i' th' fact, and we shut him up for safety i' that pris'n. But,” said the fellow, with a laugh, “he soon contrived to make his way out on it, though. Ever since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd.”
“I tell e'e what, John Dump,” said the other fellow, who had hitherto preserved silence, “I don't know whether you talkin' o' Jack Sheppard has put him into my head or not; but I once had him pointed out to me, and if that were him as I seed then, he's just now ridden past us, and put up at the Six Bells.”
“The deuce he has!” cried Dump. “If you were sure o' that we might seize him, and get the reward for his apprehension.”
“That 'ud be no such easy matter,” replied the countryman. “Jack's a desperate fellow, and is always well armed; besides, he has a comrade with him. But I'll tell e'e what we might do——”
The young man heard no more. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. As he passed the Six Bells, he noticed the steeds of the two horsemen at the door; and glancing into the house, perceived the younger of the two in the passage. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. After debating with himself whether he should further seek an interview, which, though, now in his power, was so sedulously shunned by the other party, he decided in the negative; and contenting himself with writing upon a slip of paper the hasty words,—“You are known by the villagers,—be upon your guard,”—he gave it to the ostler, with instructions to deliver it instantly to the owner of the horse he pointed out, and pursued his course.
Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. Bordered by fine timber, the road occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley, until a wider opening gave a full view of a delightful and varied prospect. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house.
Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. The progress of time was marked in Mr. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,—by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. A world of haystacks, bean-stacks, and straw-ricks flanked the granges adjoining his habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry, pigeons were feeding at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the stall, horses led to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain, and stalking majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of farming-men were passing and repassing about their various occupations. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruit-trees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring.
Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. Wood turned to look at him. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger.
“I need not ask whether this is Mr. Wood's,” said the latter, “since I find him at his own gate.”
“You are right, Sir,” said the worthy carpenter, rising. “I am Owen Wood, at your service.”
“You do not remember me, I dare say,” observed the stranger.
“I can't say I do,” replied Wood. “Your voice seems familiar to me—and—but I'm getting a little deaf—and my eyes don't serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light.”
“Never mind,” returned the stranger, dismounting; “you'll recollect me by and by, I've no doubt. I bring you tidings of an old friend.”
“Then you're heartily welcome, Sir, whoever you are. Pray, walk in. Here, Jem, take the gentleman's horse to the stable—see him dressed and fed directly. Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?”
Mr. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter.
Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle.
“My wife and daughter, Sir,” said the carpenter, introducing them to his guest.
Mrs. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation.
“This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear,” said the carpenter.
“Ay, indeed! And who may that be?” inquired his wife.
“One whom you may perhaps have forgotten,” replied the stranger, “but who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at those of your excellent husband.”
At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand.
“I have a token to deliver to you,” continued the stranger, addressing her.
“To me?” gasped Winifred.
“This locket,” he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—“do you remember it?”
“I do—I do!” cried Winifred.
“What's all this?” exclaimed Wood in amazement.
“Do you not know me, father?” said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand. “Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?”
“God bless me!” ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, “can—can it be?”
“Surely,” screamed Mrs. Wood, joining the group, “it isn't Thames Darrell come to life again?”
“It is—it is!” cried Winifred, rushing towards him, and flinging her arms round his neck,—“it is my dear—dear brother!”
“Well, this is what I never expected to see,” said the carpenter, wiping his eyes; “I hope I'm not dreaming! Thames, my dear boy, as soon as Winny has done with you, let me embrace you.”
“My turn comes before yours, Sir,” interposed his better half. “Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!”
To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full.
Thames sat with Winifred's hand clasped in his own, and commenced a recital of his adventures, which may be briefly told. Carried out to sea by Van Galgebrok, and thrown overboard, while struggling with the waves, he had been picked up by a French fishing-boat, and carried to Ostend. After encountering various hardships and privations for a long time, during which he had no means of communicating with England, he, at length, found his way to Paris, where he was taken notice of by Cardinal Dubois, who employed him as one of his secretaries, and subsequently advanced to the service of Philip of Orleans, from whom he received a commission. On the death of his royal patron, he resolved to return to his own country; and, after various delays, which had postponed it to the present time, he had succeeded in accomplishing his object.
Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested.
The discourse, then, turned to Darrell's old playmate, Jack Sheppard; and Mr. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.
“For my part, it's only what I expected of him,” observed Mrs. Wood, “and I'm sorry and surprised he hasn't swung for his crimes before this. The gallows has groaned for him for years. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. She deserves what has befallen her.”
“Dear mother, don't say so,” returned Winifred. “One of the consequences of criminal conduct, is the shame and disgrace which—worse than any punishment the evil-doer can suffer—is brought by it upon the innocent relatives; and, if Jack had considered this, perhaps he would not have acted as he has done, and have entailed so much misery on his unhappy parent.”
“I always detested Mrs. Sheppard,” cried the carpenter's wife bitterly; “and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her.”
“My dear,” observed Wood, “you should be more charitable—”
“Charitable!” repeated his wife, “that's your constant cry. Marry, come up! I've been a great deal too charitable. Here's Winny always urging you to go and visit Mrs. Sheppard in the asylum, and take her this, and send her that;—and I've never prevented you, though such mistaken liberality's enough to provoke a saint. And, then, forsooth, she must needs prevent your hanging Jack Sheppard after the robbery in Wych Street, when you might have done so. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice. See what a horrible rascal you've let loose upon the world!”
“I'm sure, mother,” rejoined Winifred, “if any one was likely to feel resentment, I was; for no one could be more frightened. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend.”
“Mend!” echoed Mrs. Wood, contemptuously, “he'll never mend till he comes to Tyburn.”
“At least, I will hope so,” returned Winifred. “But, as I was saying, I was most dreadfully frightened on the night of the robbery! Though so young at the time, I remember every circumstance distinctly. I was sitting up, lamenting your departure, dear Thames, when, hearing an odd noise, I went to the landing, and, by the light of a dark lantern, saw Jack Sheppard, stealing up stairs, followed by two men with crape on their faces. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much terrified to scream out—but ran and hid myself.”
“Hold your tongue!” cried Mrs. Wood. “I declare you throw me into an ague. Do you think I forget it? Didn't they help themselves to all the plate and the money—to several of my best dresses, and amongst others, to my favourite kincob gown; and I've never been able to get another like it! Marry, come up! I'd hang 'em all, if I could. Were such a thing to happen again, I'd never let Mr. Wood rest till he brought the villains to justice.”
“I hope such a thing never will happen again, my dear,” observed Wood, mildly, “but, when it does, it will be time to consider what course we ought to pursue.”
“Let them attempt it, if they dare!” cried Mrs. Wood, who had worked herself into a passion; “and, I'll warrant 'em, the boldest robber among 'em shall repent it, if he comes across me.”
“No doubt, my dear,” acquiesced the carpenter, “no doubt.”
Thames, who had been more than once on the point of mentioning his accidental rencounter with Jack Sheppard, not being altogether without apprehension, from the fact of his being in the neighbourhood,—now judged it more prudent to say nothing on the subject, from a fear of increasing Mrs. Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. Mr. Wood could give him no further information respecting Sir Rowland Trenchard than what he had obtained from Kneebone; but begged him to defer the further consideration of the line of conduct he meant to pursue until the morrow, when he hoped to have a plan to lay before him, of which he would approve.
The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. As Mrs. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that she would “defer all she had to propose to him until to-morrow.”
To-morrow! She never beheld it.
After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
When about to retire to rest, the rencounter with Jack Sheppard again recurred to him, and he half blamed himself for not acquainting Mr. Wood with the circumstances, and putting him upon his guard against the possibility of an attack. On weighing the matter over, he grew so uneasy that he resolved to descend, and inform him of his misgivings. But, when he got to the door with this intention, he became ashamed of his fears; and feeling convinced that Jack—bad as he might be—was not capable of such atrocious conduct as to plunder his benefactor twice, he contented himself with looking to the priming of his pistols, and placing them near him, to be ready in case of need, he threw himself on the bed and speedily fell asleep.