“None whatever,” rejoined Wild. “Is it a bargain?”
“Take half of my estate — take all — my life, if you will — I am weary of it!” cried Trenchard passionately.
“No,” replied Jonathan, “I’ll not take you at your word, as regards the latter proposition. We shall both, I hope, live to enjoy our shares — long after Thames Darrell is forgotten — ha! ha! A third of your estate I accept. And as these things should always be treated as matters of business, I’ll just draw up a memorandum of our arrangement.”
And, as he spoke, he took up a sheet of paper, and hastily traced a few lines upon it.
“Sign this,” he said, pushing the document towards Sir Rowland.
The knight mechanically complied with his request.
“Enough!” cried Jonathan, eagerly pocketing the memorandum. “And now, in return for your liberality, I’ll inform you of a secret with which it is important you should be acquainted.”
“A secret!” exclaimed Trenchard. “Concerning whom?”
“Mrs. Sheppard,” replied Jonathan, mysteriously.
“Mrs. Sheppard!” echoed Jack, surprised out of his caution.
“Ah!” exclaimed Wild, looking angrily towards his supposed attendant.
“I beg pardon, Sir,” replied Jack, with the accent and manner of the janizary; “I was betrayed into the exclamation by my surprise that anything in which Sir Rowland Trenchard was interested could have reference to so humble a person as Mrs. Sheppard.”
“Be pleased, then, in future not to let your surprise find vent in words,” rejoined Jonathan, sternly. “My servants, like Eastern mutes, must have eyes, and ears, — and hands, if need be, — but no tongues. You understand me, sirrah?”
“Perfectly,” replied Jack. “I’m dumb.”
“Your secret?” demanded Trenchard, impatiently.
“I need not remind you, Sir Rowland,” replied Wild, “that you had two sisters — Aliva and Constance.”
“Both are dead,” observed the knight, gloomily.
“Not so;” answered Wild. “Constance is yet living.”
“Constance alive? Impossible!” ejaculated Trenchard.
“I’ve proofs to the contrary,” replied Jonathan.
“If this is the case, where is she?”
“In Bedlam,” replied the thief-taker, with a Satanic grin.
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the knight, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break. “You mentioned Mrs. Sheppard. What has she to with Constance Trenchard?”
“Mrs. Sheppard is Constance Trenchard,” replied Jonathan, maliciously.
Here Jack Sheppard was unable to repress an exclamation of astonishment.
“Again,” cried Jonathan, sternly: “beware!”
“What!” vociferated Trenchard. “My sister the wife of one condemned felon! the parent of another! It cannot be.”
“It is so, nevertheless,” replied Wild. “Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. It is useless to trace out her miserable career; though I can easily do so if you require it. To preserve herself, however, from destitution, or what she considered worse, she wedded a journeyman carpenter, named Sheppard.”
“Alas! that one so highly born should submit to such a degradation?” groaned the knight.
“I see nothing surprising in it,” rejoined Jonathan. “In the first place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false pride to get rid of. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. With the same inducements we should all do the same thing. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her.”
Jack Sheppard again sought his pistol, and was only withheld from levelling it at the thief-taker’s head, by the hope that he might gather some further information respecting his mother. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance.
“What proof have you of the truth of this story?” inquired Trenchard.
“This,” replied Jonathan, taking a paper from a portfolio, and handing it to the knight, “this written evidence, signed by Martha Cooper, the gipsy, by whom the girl was stolen, and who was afterwards executed for a similar crime. It is attested, you will observe, by the Reverend Mr. Purney, the present ordinary of Newgate.”
“I am acquainted with Mr. Purney’s hand-writing,” said Jack, advancing, “and can at once decide whether this is a forgery or not.”
“Look at it, then,” said Wild, giving him the portfolio.
“It’s the ordinary’s signature, undoubtedly,” replied Jack.
And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket.
“And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?” cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. “I’ll not believe it.”
“Others may, if you won’t,” muttered Jack, retiring. “Thank Heaven! I’m not basely born.”
“Now, mark me,” said Jonathan, “and you’ll find I don’t do things by halves. By your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard’s will, you are aware, — and, therefore, I need not repeat it, except for the special purpose I have in view, — you are aware, I say, that, by this will, in case your sister Aliva, died without issue, or, on the death of such issue, the property reverts to Constance and her issue.”
“I hear,” said Sir Rowland, moodily.
“And I,” muttered Jack.
“Thames Darrell once destroyed,” pursued Jonathan. “Constance — or, rather, Mrs. Sheppard — becomes entitled to the estates; which eventually — provided he escaped the gallows — would descend to her son.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Jack, drawing in his breath, and leaning forward with intense curiosity.
“Well, Sir?” gasped Sir Rowland.
“But this need give you no uneasiness,” pursued Jonathan; “Mrs. Sheppard, as I told you, is in Bedlam, an incurable maniac; while her son is in the New Prison, whence he will only be removed to Newgate and Tyburn.”
“So you think,” muttered Jack, between his ground teeth.
“To make your mind perfectly easy on the score of Mrs. Sheppard,” continued Jonathan; “after we’ve disposed of Thames Darrell, I’ll visit her in Bedlam; and, as I understand I form one of her chief terrors, I’ll give her such a fright that I’ll engage she shan’t long survive it.”
“Devil!” muttered Jack, again grasping his pistol. But, feeling secure of vengeance, he determined to abide his time.
“And now, having got rid of the minor obstacles,” said Jonathan, “I’ll submit a plan for the removal of the main difficulty. Thames Darrell, I’ve said, is at Mr. Wood’s at Dollis Hill, wholly unsuspicious of any designs against him, and, in fact, entirely ignorant of your being acquainted with his return, or even of his existence. In this state, it will be easy to draw him into a snare. To-morrow night — or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day — I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. To make sure work of it, I’ll superintend the job myself. Before midnight, I’ll answer for it, it shall be done. My janizaries shall go with me. You hear what I say, Quilt?” he added, looking at Jack.
“I do,” replied Sheppard.
“Abraham Mendez will like the task, — for he has entertained a hatred to the memory of Thames Darrell ever since he received the wound in the head, when the two lads attempted to break out of St. Giles’s round-house. I’ve despatched him to the New Prison. But I expect him back every minute.”
“The New Prison!” exclaimed Sheppard. “What is he gone there for?”
�
�With a message to the turnkey to look after his prisoner,” replied Wild, with a cunning smile. “Jack Sheppard had a visitor, I understand, yesterday, and may make an attempt to escape. It’s as well to be on the safe side.”
“It is,” replied Jack.
At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He drew both his pistols, and prepared for a desperate encounter.
“There is another mystery I would have solved,” said Trenchard, addressing Wild; “you have told me much, but not enough.”
“What do you require further?” asked Jonathan.
“The name and rank of Thames Darrell’s father,” said the knight.
“Another time,” replied the thief-taker, evasively.
“I will have it now,” rejoined Trenchard, “or our agreement is void.”
“You cannot help yourself, Sir Rowland,” replied Jonathan, contemptuously.
“Indeed!” replied the knight, drawing his sword, “the secret, villain, or I will force it from you.”
Before Wild could make any reply, the door was thrown violently open, and Abraham Mendez rushed into the room, with a face of the utmost consternation.
“He hash eshcaped!” cried the Jew.
“Who? Jack!” exclaimed Jonathan.
“Yesh,” replied Abraham. “I vent to de New Prish’n, and on wishitin’ his shel vid de turnkey, vot should ve find but de shains on de ground, de vinder broken, and Jack and Agevorth Besh gone.”
“Damnation!” cried Jonathan, stamping his foot with uncontrollable rage. “I’d rather have given a thousand pounds than this had happened. But he might have broken out of prison, and yet not got over the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell. Did you search the yard, fool?”
“Ve did,” replied Abraham; “and found his fine goat and ruffles torn to shtrips on de shpikes near de creat cate. It vosh plain he vent dat vay.”
Jonathan gave utterance to a torrent of imprecations.
While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed.
“‘Sblood! what’s this!” cried Jonathan, in the utmost surprise. “Quilt Arnold, is that you?”
“It is, Sir,” sputtered the janizary. “I’ve been robbed, maltreated, and nearly murdered by Jack Sheppard.”
“By Jack Sheppard!” exclaimed the thief-taker.
“Yes; and I hope you’ll take ample vengeance upon him,” said Quilt.
“I will, when I catch him, rely on it,” rejoined Wild.
“You needn’t go far to do that,” returned Quilt; “there he stands.”
“Ay, here I am,” said Jack, throwing off his hat and wig, and marching towards the group, amongst whom there was a general movement of surprise at his audacity. “Sir Rowland, I salute you as your nephew.”
“Back, villain!” said the knight, haughtily. “I disown you. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication.”
“Time will show,” replied Jack with equal haughtiness. “But, however, it may turn out, I disown you.”
“Well, Jack,” said Jonathan, who had looked at him with surprise not unmixed with admiration, “you are a bold and clever fellow, I must allow. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I’d be Jack Sheppard. I’m almost sorry I’ve sworn to hang you. But, it can’t be helped. I’m a slave to my word. Were I to let you go, you’d say I feared you. Besides, you’ve secrets which must not be disclosed. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner.”
“And you flatter yourself you can detain me?” laughed Jack.
“At least I’ll try,” replied Jonathan, sarcastically. “You must be a cleverer lad than even I take you for, if you get out of this place.”
“What ho! Blueskin!” shouted Jack.
“Here I am, Captain,” cried a voice from without. And the door was suddenly thrown open, and the two janizaries felled to the ground by the strong arm of the stalwart robber.
“Your boast, you see, was a little premature, Mr. Wild,” said Sheppard. “Adieu, my worthy uncle. Fortunately, I’ve secured the proof of my birth.”
“Confusion!” thundered Wild. “Close the doors below! Loose the dogs! Curses! they don’t hear me! I’ll ring the alarm-bell.” And he raised his arm with the intention of executing his purpose, when a ball from Jack’s pistol passed through the back of his hand, shattering the limb. “Aha! my lad!” he cried without appearing to regard the pain of the wound; “now I’ll show you no quarter.” And, with the uninjured hand he drew a pistol, which he fired, but without effect, at Jack.
“Fly, Captain, fly!” vociferated Blueskin; “I shan’t be able to keep these devils down. Fly! they shall knock me on the head — curse ‘em! — before they shall touch you.”
“Come along!” cried Jack, darting through the door. “The key’s on the outside — quick! quick!”
Instantly alive to this chance, Blueskin broke away. Two shots were fired at him by Jonathan; one of which passed through his hat, and the other through the fleshy part of his arm; but he made good his retreat. The door was closed — locked, — and the pair were heard descending the stairs.
“Hell’s curses!” roared Jonathan. “They’ll escape. Not a moment is to be lost.”
So saying, he took hold of a ring in the floor, and disclosed a flight of steps, down which he hurried, followed by the janizaries. This means of communication instantly brought them to the lobby. But Jack and his companion were already gone.
Jonathan threw open the street-door. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. Jonathan looked in that direction, and beheld the fugitives riding off in triumph.
“To-night it is their turn,” said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. “To-morrow it will be mine.”
* * *
CHAPTER VI. WINIFRED RECEIVES TWO PROPOSALS.
The tragical affair at Dollis Hill, it need scarcely be said, was a dreadful blow to the family. Mr. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following — Sunday. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received, — her personal attentions.
The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed, — the presence of the mangled corpse, — the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required, — all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl’s imagination. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. As to Thames, though deeply and painfully affected by the horrible occurrence that had marked his return to his old friends, he was yet able to control his feelings, and devote himself to the alleviation of the distress of the more immediate sufferers by the calamity.
It was Sunday evening — a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees, — the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard, — a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window, — at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. All these things spoke of peace; — but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mou
rning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. These persons were Mr. Kneebone and Winifred.
The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. Amongst others who attended the sad ceremony was Mr. Kneebone. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. Overcome by his affliction, Mr. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. Much to her annoyance, therefore, Winifred was left alone with the woollen-draper, who following up a maxim of his own, “that nothing was gained by too much bashfulness,” determined to profit by the opportunity. He had only been prevented, indeed, by a fear of Mrs. Wood from pressing his suit long ago. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position.
“We have had a sad loss, my dear Winifred,” he began,— “for I must use the privilege of an old friend, and address you by that familiar name, — we have had a sad loss in the death of your lamented parent, whose memory I shall for ever revere.”
Winifred’s eyes filled with tears. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. So he resolved to try another tack.
“What a very remarkable thing it is,” he observed, applying to his snuff-box, “that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,” — Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,— “should turn out to be alive after all. Strange, I shouldn’t know him when he called on me.”
“It is strange,” replied Winifred, artlessly. “I knew him at once.”
“Of course,” rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, “but that’s easily accounted for. May I be permitted, as a very old and very dear friend of your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore, to ask you one question?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Winifred.
“And you will answer it frankly?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 94
