“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.”
* * *
CHAPTER XIX. GOOD AND EVIL.
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 you
r 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.
EPOCH THE THIRD, THE PRISON-BREAKER, 1724.
CHAPTER I. THE RETURN.
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.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 89
