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 t
hey 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 r
ang 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.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 79
