The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  But seeing that no notice was taken of the retort, he drew a little aside, and folded his arms, muttering, “This whim will soon be over. She can’t last long. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please.”

  Sir Rowland, meantime, throw himself on his knees beside his sister, and, clasping her chilly fingers within his own, besought her forgiveness in the most passionate terms. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. But, after some restoratives had been administered by Mrs. Norris, she revived a little.

  “Rowland,” she said, in a faint voice, “I have not many minutes to live. Where is Father Spencer? I must have absolution. I have something that weighs heavily upon my mind.”

  Sir Rowland’s brow darkened.

  “I have sent for him,” Aliva, he answered; “he will be here directly, with your medical advisers.”

  “They are useless,” she returned. “Medicine cannot save mo now.”

  “Dear sister — —”

  “I should die happy, if I could behold my child.”

  “Comfort yourself, then, Aliva. You shall behold him.”

  “You are mocking me, Rowland. Jests are not for seasons like this.”

  “I am not, by Heaven,” returned the knight, solemnly. “Leave us, Mrs. Norris, and do not return till Father Spencer arrives.”

  “Your ladyship — —” hesitated Norris.

  “Go!” said Lady Trafford; “it is my last request.”

  And her faithful attendant, drowned in tears, withdrew, followed by the two assistants.

  Jonathan stepped behind a curtain.

  “Rowland,” said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, “you have assured me that I shall behold my son. Where is he?”

  “Within this room,” replied the knight.

  “Here!” shrieked Lady Trafford.

  “Here,” repeated her brother. “But calm yourself, dear sister, or the interview will be too much for you.”

  “I am calm — quite calm, Rowland,” she answered, with lips whose agitation belied her words. “Then, the story of his death was false. I knew it. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child — an innocent child. God forgive you!”

  “May He, indeed, forgive me!” returned Trenchard, crossing himself devoutly; “but my guilt is not the less heavy, because your child escaped. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son.”

  “Blessings upon him!” cried Lady Trafford, fervently. “But trifle with mo no longer. Moments are ages now. Let me see my child, if he is really here?”

  “Behold him!” returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him towards her.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength. “My sight is failing me. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. Yes!” she screamed, “these are his father’s features! It is — it is my son!”

  “Mother!” cried Thames; “are you, indeed, my mother?”

  “I am, indeed — my own sweet boy!” she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to her breast.

  “Oh! — to see you thus!” cried Thames, in an agony of affliction.

  “Don’t weep, my love,” replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. “I am happy — quite happy now.”

  During this touching interview, a change had come over Sir Rowland, and he half repented of what he had done.

  “You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth’s father, Aliva,” he said.

  “I dare not, Rowland,” she answered. “I cannot break my vow. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more. Undraw the curtain, love,” she added to Thames, “that I may look at you.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed her son, starting back, as he obeyed her, and disclosed Jonathan Wild.

  “Be silent,” said Jonathan, in a menacing whisper.

  “What have you seen?” inquired Lady Trafford.

  “My enemy,” replied her son.

  “Your enemy!” she returned imperfectly comprehending him. “Sir Rowland is your uncle — he will be your guardian — he will protect you. Will you not, brother?”

  “Promise,” said a deep voice in Trenchard’s ear.

  “He will kill me,” cried Thames. “There is a man in this room who seeks my life.”

  “Impossible!” rejoined his mother.

  “Look at these fetters,” returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; “they were put on by my uncle’s command.”

  “Ah!” shrieked Lady Trafford.

  “Not a moment is to be lost,” whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. “His life — or yours?”

  “No one shall harm you more, my dear,” cried Lady Trafford. “Your uncle must protect you. It will be his interest to do so. He will be dependent on you.”

  “Do what you please with him,” muttered Trenchard to Wild.

  “Take off these chains, Rowland,” said Lady Trafford, “instantly, I command you.”

  “I will,” replied Jonathan, advancing, and rudely seizing Thames.

  “Mother!” cried the son, “help!”

  “What is this?” shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. “Oh, God! would you take him from me? — would you murder him?”

  “His father’s name? — and he is free,” rejoined Rowland, holding her arms.

  “Release him first — and I will disclose it!” cried Lady Trafford; “on my soul, I will!”

  “Speak then!” returned Rowland.

  “Too late!” shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,— “too late! — oh!”

  Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son’s mouth, and forced him out of the room.

  When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side.

  “This is your work,” said the knight, sternly.

  “Not entirely,” replied Jonathan, calmly; “though I shouldn’t be ashamed of it if it were. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from her, Sir Rowland. Women are hypocrites to the last — true only to themselves.”

  “Peace!” cried the knight, fiercely.

  “No offence,” returned Jonathan. “I was merely about to observe that I am in possession of her secret.”

  “You!”

  “Didn’t I tell you that the fugitive Darrell gave me a glove! But we’ll speak of this hereafter. You can purchase the information from me whenever you’re so disposed. I shan’t drive a hard bargain. To the point however. I came back to say, that I’ve placed your nephew in a coach; and, if you’ll be at my lock in the Old Bailey an hour after midnight, you shall hear the last tidings of him.”

  “I will be there,” answered Trenchard, gloomily.

  “You’ll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland — short accounts, you know.”

  “Fear nothing. You shall have your reward.”

  “Thank’ee, — thank’ee. My house is the next door to the Cooper’s Arms, in the Old Bailey, opposite Newgate. You’ll find me at supper.”

  So saying, he bowed and departed.

  “That man should have been an Italian bravo,” murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: “he has neither fear nor compunction. Would I could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance.”

  Soon after this Mrs. Norris entered the room, followed by Father Spencer. On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and extended over the dead body of his unfortunate sister.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI. THE MOHOCKS.

  Jonathan Wild, meanwhile, had quitted the house. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, i
ll-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. As soon as he had delivered his instructions to Quilt, who, with Abraham, constituted his body-guard, or janizaries, as he termed them, Jonathan mounted his steed, and rode off at a gallop. Quilt was not long in following his example. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles’s. Stimulated by the promise of something handsome to drink, the man acquitted himself to admiration in the management of his lazy cattle. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Skirting the noble gardens of Montague House, (now, we need scarcely say, the British Museum,) the party speedily reached Great Russell Street, — a quarter described by Strype, in his edition of old Stow’s famous Survey, “as being graced with the best buildings in all Bloomsbury, and the best inhabited by the nobility and gentry, especially the north side, as having gardens behind the houses, and the prospect of the pleasant fields up to Hampstead and Highgate; insomuch that this place, by physicians, is esteemed the most healthful of any in London.” Neither of the parties outside bestowed much attention upon these stately and salubriously-situated mansions; indeed, as it was now not far from ten o’clock, and quite dark, they could scarcely discern them. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. The coachman answered by a surly grunt, and, plying his whip with redoubled zeal, shaped his course down Dyot Street; traversed that part of Holborn, which is now called Broad Street, and where two ancient alms-houses were, then, standing in the middle of that great thoroughfare, exactly opposite the opening of Compston Street; and, diving under a wide gateway on the left, soon reached a more open space, surrounded by mean habitations, coach-houses and stables, called Kendrick Yard, at the further end of which Saint Giles’s round-house was situated.

  No sooner did the vehicle turn the corner of this yard, than Quilt became aware, from the tumultuous sounds that reached his ears, as well as from the flashing of various lanterns at the door of the round-house, that some disturbance was going on; and, apprehensive of a rescue, if he drew up in the midst of the mob, he thought it prudent to come to a halt. Accordingly, he stopped the coach, dismounted, and hastened towards the assemblage, which, he was glad to find, consisted chiefly of a posse of watchmen and other guardians of the night. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely. Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. Oaths exploded like shells from a battery in full fire, accompanied by threats of direst vengeance against the individuals who had maltreated them. Here, might be seen a poor fellow whose teeth were knocked down his throat, spluttering out the most tremendous menaces, and gesticulating like a madman: there, another, whose nose was partially slit, vented imprecations and lamentations in the same breath. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm.

  “So, the Mohocks have been at work, I perceive,” remarked Quilt, as he drew near the group.

  “‘Faith, an’ you may say that,” returned a watchman, who was wiping a ruddy stream from his brow; “they’ve broken the paice, and our pates into the bargain. But shurely I’d know that vice,” he added, turning his lantern towards the janizary. “Ah! Quilt Arnold, my man, is it you? By the powers! I’m glad to see you. The sight o’ your ‘andsome phiz allys does me good.”

  “I wish I could return the compliment, Terry. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle. How came you by the hurt, eh?”

  “How did I come by it? — that’s a nate question. Why, honestly enouch. It was lent me by a countryman o’ mine; but I paid him back in his own coin — ha! ha!”

  “A countryman of yours, Terry?”

  “Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt — more’s the pity! You’ve heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?”

  “Of course; who has not? He’s the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!”

  “That’s him to a hair?” cried Terence, rapturously. “Och! he’s a broth of a boy!”

  “Why, I thought he’d broken your head, Terry?”

  “Phooh! that’s nothing? A piece o’ plaster’ll set all to rights; and Terry O’Flaherty’s not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Besides, didn’t I tell you that I giv’ him as good as he brought — and better! I jist touched him with my ‘Evenin’ Star,’ as I call this shillelah,” said the watchman, flourishing an immense bludgeon, the knob of which appeared to be loaded with lead, “and, by Saint Patrick! down he cum’d like a bullock.”

  “Zounds!” exclaimed Quilt, “did you kill him?”

  “Not quite,” replied Terence, laughing; “but I brought him to his senses.”

  “By depriving him of ‘em, eh! But I’m sorry you hurt his lordship, Terry. Young noblemen ought to be indulged in their frolics. If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that’s sufficient. What more could any reasonable man — especially a watchman — desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. There’s not his peer among the peerage.”

  “Och! if he’s a friend o’ yours, my dear joy, there’s no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him. But, bloodan’-’ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I’d be afther givin’ him another.”

  “Well, well — wait awhile,” returned Quilt; “his lordship won’t forget you. He’s as generous as he’s frolicsome.”

  As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold.

  “There’s Sharples,” cried Quilt.

  “Whist!” exclaimed Terence; “he elevates his glim. By Jasus! he’s about to spake to us.”

  “Gem’men o’ the votch!” cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, “my noble pris’ner — ough! ough; — the Markis o’ Slaughterford — —”

  Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night.

  “No Mohocks! No Scourers!” cried the mob.

  “Hear! hear!” vociferated Quilt.

  “His lordship desires me to say — ough! ough!”

  Fresh groans and hisses.

  “Von’t you hear me? — ough! ough!” demanded Sharples, after a pause.

  “By all means,” rejoined Quilt.

  “Raise your vice, and lave off coughin’,” added Terence.

  “The long and the short o’ the matter’s this then,” returned Sharples with dignity, “the Markis begs your acceptance o’ ten guineas to drink his health.”

  The hooting was instantaneously changed to cheers.

  “And his lordship, furthermore, requests me to state,” proceeded Sharples, in a hoarse tone, “that he’ll be responsible for the doctors’ bill of all such gem’men as have received broken pates, or been otherwise damaged in the fray — ough! ough!”

  “Hurrah!” shouted the mob.

  “We’re all damaged — we’ve all
got broken pates,” cried a dozen voices.

  “Ay, good luck to him! so we have,” rejoined Terence; “but we’ve no objection to take out the dochter’s bill in drink.”

  “None whatever,” replied the mob.

  “Your answer, gem’men?” demanded Sharples.

  “Long life to the Markis, and we accept his honourable proposal,” responded the mob.

  “Long life to the Marquis!” reiterated Terence; “he’s an honour to ould Ireland!”

  “Didn’t I tell you how it would be?” remarked Quilt.

  “Troth, and so did you,” returned the watchman; “but I couldn’t belave it. In futur’, I’ll keep the ‘Evenin’ Star’ for his lordship’s enemies.”

  “You’d better,” replied Quilt. “But bring your glim this way. I’ve a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples’s care.”

  “Be handy, then,” rejoined Terence, “or, I’ll lose my share of the smart money.”

  With the assistance of Terence, and a linkboy who volunteered his services, Quilt soon removed the prisoners from the coach, and leaving Sheppard to the custody of Abraham, proceeded to drag Thames towards the round-house. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road. Whenever Jack attempted to speak, he was checked by an angry growl from Abraham; and Thames, though his heart was full almost to bursting, felt no inclination to break the silence. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. But his grief was of short duration. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way.

  While he was dragged along in the manner just described, Thames looked around to ascertain, if possible, where he was; for he did not put entire faith in Jonathan’s threat of sending him to the round-house, and apprehensive of something even worse than imprisonment. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles’s church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. He recognised this object at once. Jonathan had not deceived him.