The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had previously been with Mrs. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could command his feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention of her distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty execration upon his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither separate her from her child, nor suffer any one else to separate them.
“Plague on’t!” added he: “I never meant to take your babby from you. But I’d a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. However, confession of a fault makes half amends for it. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood.”
As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused him from his slumbers. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection.
“I don’t think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,” observed Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.
“I don’t think he would,” acquiesced the carpenter. “No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other.”
“And that’s true,” rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; “for if I had not been a mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a widow.”
“You mustn’t think of that, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood in a soothing tone.
“I can’t help thinking of it, Sir,” answered the widow. “I can never get poor Tom’s last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. The dismal tolling of St. Sepulchre’s bell is for ever ringing in my ears — oh!”
“If that’s the case,” observed Wood, “I’m surprised you should like to have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the chimney-piece.”
“I’d good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don’t question me about them now, or you’ll drive me mad,” returned Mrs. Sheppard wildly.
“Well, well, we’ll say no more about it,” replied Wood; “and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. One nail drives out another, it’s true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin Lane’s the nearest road to the churchyard.”
“It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not,” retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. “To those who, like me, have never been able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit I drink may be poison, — it may kill me, — perhaps it is killing me: — but so would hunger, cold, misery, — so would my own thoughts. I should have gone mad without it. Gin is the poor man’s friend, — his sole set-off against the rich man’s luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter, — when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose, — or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one, — when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy, — as happy as I am now.” And she burst into a wild hysterical laugh.
“Poor creature!” ejaculated Wood. “Do you call this frantic glee happiness?”
“It’s all the happiness I have known for years,” returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, “and it’s short-lived enough, as you perceive. I tell you what, Mr. Wood,” added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, “gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Wood, fervently; and, as if afraid of prolonging the interview, he added, with some precipitation, “But I must be going: I’ve stayed here too long already. You shall hear from me to-morrow.”
“Stay!” said Mrs. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. “I’ve just recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to give you when I could find an opportunity.”
“A key!” exclaimed Wood eagerly. “I lost a very valuable one some time ago. What’s it like, Joan?”
“It’s a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards.”
“It’s mine, I’ll be sworn,” rejoined Wood. “Well, who’d have thought of finding it in this unexpected way!”
“Don’t be too sure till you see it,” said the widow. “Shall I fetch it for you, Sir?”
“By all means.”
“I must trouble you to hold the child, then, for a minute, while I run up to the garret, where I’ve hidden it for safety,” said Mrs. Sheppard. “I think I may trust him with you, Sir,” added she, taking up the candle.
“Don’t leave him, if you’re at all fearful, my dear,” replied Wood, receiving the little burthen with a laugh. “Poor thing!” muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, “she’s seen better days and better circumstances than she’ll ever see again, I’m sure. Strange, I could never learn her history. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. Of this I’m certain, however, she was much too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter’s wife, still less what is she now. Her heart’s in the right place, at all events; and, since that’s the case, the rest may perhaps come round, — that is, if she gets through her present illness. A dry cough’s the trumpeter of death. If that’s true, she’s not long for this world. As to this little fellow, in spite of the Dutchman, who, in my opinion, is more of a Jacobite than a conjurer, and more of a knave than either, he shall never mount a horse foaled by an acorn, if I can help it.”
The course of the carpenter’s meditations was here interrupted by a loud note of lamentation from the child, who, disturbed by the transfer, and not receiving the gentle solace to which he was ordinarily accustomed, raised his voice to the utmost, and exerted his feeble strength to escape. For a few moments Mr. Wood dandled his little charge to and fro, after the most approved nursery fashion, essaying at the same time the soothing influence of an infantine melody proper to the occasion; but, failing in his design, he soon lost all patience, and being, as we have before hinted, rather irritable, though extremely well-meaning, he lifted the unhappy bantling in the air, and shook him with so much good will, that he had well-nigh silenced him most effectually. A brief calm succeeded. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out.
* * *
CHAPTER II. THE OLD MINT.
Mrs. Sheppard’s habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler’s Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George’s Fields. The neighbouring houses were tenanted by the lowest order of insolvent traders, thieves, mendicants, and other worthless and nefarious characters, who fled thither to escape from their creditors, or to avoid the punishment due to their different offenses; for we may observe that the Old Mint, although it had been divested of some of its privileges as a sanctuary by a recent statute passed in the reign of William t
he Third, still presented a safe asylum to the debtor, and even continued to do so until the middle of the reign of George the First, when the crying nature of the evil called loudly for a remedy, and another and more sweeping enactment entirely took away its immunities. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles’s and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn — on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. Suffolk House, as Brandon’s palace was denominated, was subsequently converted into a mint by his royal brother-in-law, Henry the Eighth; and, after its demolition, and the removal of the place of coinage to the Tower, the name was still continued to the district in which it had been situated.
Old and dilapidated, the widow’s domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. The roof was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the side-walls bulged, and were supported by a piece of timber propped against the opposite house; the glass in most of the windows was broken, and its place supplied with paper; while, in some cases, the very frames of the windows had been destroyed, and the apertures were left free to the airs of heaven. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded.
It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Sheppard was enabled to take possession of the premises. In a fit of despondency, superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself; and when the body was discovered, after a lapse of some months, such was the impression produced by the spectacle — such the alarm occasioned by the crazy state of the building, and, above all, by the terror inspired by strange and unearthly noises heard during the night, which were, of course, attributed to the spirit of the suicide, that the place speedily enjoyed the reputation of being haunted, and was, consequently, entirely abandoned. In this state Mrs. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in discovering that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols of a legion of rats.
A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.
As Mrs. Sheppard did not make her appearance quite so soon as he expected, the carpenter became a little fidgetty, and, having succeeded in tranquillizing the child, he thought proper to walk so far down the entry as would enable him to reconnoitre the upper windows of the house. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.
Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. This individual apparently met with some impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood stood.
Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations, — for he was completely out of breath, — the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to divest himself of a heavy horseman’s cloak, which he threw over Wood’s shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the approach of his pursuers.
The appearance of the new-comer was extremely prepossessing; and, after his trepidation had a little subsided, Wood began to regard him with some degree of interest. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern.
At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood altered the position of the bundle. The stranger turned his head at the sound.
“By Heaven!” cried he in a tone of surprise, “you have an infant there?”
“To be sure I have,” replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit. “It’s very well you haven’t crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes’-bag. But some people have no consideration.”
“That child may be the means of saving me,” muttered the stranger, as if struck by a new idea: “I shall gain time by the expedient. Do you live here?”
“Not exactly,” answered the carpenter.
“No matter. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter. Ha!” exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, “not a moment is to be lost. Give me that precious charge,” he added, snatching the bundle from Wood. “If I escape, I will reward you. Your name?”
“Owen Wood,” replied the carpenter; “I’ve no reason to be ashamed of it. And now, a fair exchange, Sir. Yours?”
The stranger hesitated. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses.
“My name is Darrell,” said the fugitive hastily. “But, if you are discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. Remember! not a word!”
So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood’s shoulders, dashed the lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. A moment afterwards, the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone.
“Mercy on us!” cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. “The Dutchman was right, after all.”
This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.
“I have him!” cried a voice in triumph.
A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux.
“Mur — der!” roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled.
“Damnation!” exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full upon the face of the carpenter; “this is not the villain, Sir Cecil.”
“So I find, Rowland,” replied the other, in accents of deep disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. “I could have sworn I saw him enter this passage. And how comes his cloak on this kna
ve’s shoulders?”
“It is his cloak, of a surety,” returned Rowland “Harkye, sirrah,” continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; “where is the person from whom you received this mantle?”
“Throttling a man isn’t the way to make him answer questions,” replied the carpenter, doggedly. “You’ll get nothing out of me, I can promise you, unless you show a little more civility.”
“We waste time with this fellow,” interposed Sir Cecil, “and may lose the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this building. Let us search it.”
Just then, the infant began to sob piteously.
“Hist!” cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. “Do you hear that! We are not wholly at fault. The dog-fox cannot be far off, since the cub is found.”
With these words, he tore the mantle from Wood’s back, and, perceiving the child, endeavoured to seize it. In this attempt he was, however, foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the door, against which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously with his heel.
“Joan! Joan!” vociferated he, “open the door, for God’s sake, or I shall be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I say.”
“Knock him on the head,” thundered Sir Cecil, “or we shall have the watch upon us.”
“No fear of that,” rejoined Rowland: “such vermin never dare to show themselves in this privileged district. All we have to apprehend is a rescue.”
The hint was not lost upon Wood. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland.
“Another such attempt,” said the latter, “and you are a dead man. Yield up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 67
