If there is one thing on earth, more lovely than another, it is a
fair girl of the tender age of Winifred Wood! Her beauty awakens no
feeling beyond that of admiration. The charm of innocence breathes
around her, as fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her
lightest thought and action, and shielding her, like a spell, from
the approach of evil. Beautiful is the girl of twelve,--who is
neither child nor woman, but something between both, something more
exquisite than either!
Such was the fairy creature presented to Thames Darrell, under the
following circumstances.
Glad to escape from the scene of recrimination that ensued between
his adopted parents, Thames seized the earliest opportunity of
retiring, and took his way to a small chamber in the upper part of
the house, where he and Jack were accustomed to spend most of their
leisure in the amusements, or pursuits, proper to their years. He
found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred
seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet
of paper. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation
without raising her head.
It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as
she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the
most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her
sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow
of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting
sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window,
that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. Winifred's features
would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed,
if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;--a disorder,
that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an
expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. We
have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples
and a satin skin. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. Her
mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips
glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing
constantly about them. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by
dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. Her hair was of the
darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to
her heels. She was dressed in a little white frock, with a very long
body, and very short sleeves, which looked (from a certain fullness
about the hips,) as if it was intended to be worn with a hoop. Her
slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket
attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace
cap.
The room in which she sat was a portion of the garret, assigned, as
we have just stated, by Mr. Wood as a play-room to the two boys; and,
like most boy's playrooms, it exhibited a total absence of order, or
neatness. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again
cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and
crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. The characters of the
youthful occupants of the room might be detected in every article it
contained. Darell's peculiar bent of mind was exemplified in a rusty
broadsword, a tall grenadier's cap, a musket without lock or ramrod,
a belt and cartouch-box, with other matters evincing a decided
military taste. Among his books, Plutarch's Lives, and the Histories
of Great Commanders, appeared to have been frequently consulted;
but the dust had gathered thickly upon the Carpenter's Manual, and a
Treatise on Trigonometry and Geometry. Beneath the shelf, containing
these books, hung the fine old ballad of '_St. George for England_'
and a loyal ditty, then much in vogue, called '_True Protestant
Gratitude, or, Britain's Thanksgiving for the First of August,
Being the Day of His Majesty's Happy Accession to the Throne_.' Jack
Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes
abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by
those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime--the Ordinaries of Newgate.
His vocal collection comprised a couple of flash songs pasted against
the wall, entitled '_The Thief-Catcher's Prophecy_,' and the
'_Life and Death of the Darkman's Budge_;' while his extraordinary
mechanical skill was displayed in what he termed (Jack had a supreme
contempt for
====
orthography,) a '_Moddle of his Ma^{s}. Jale off Newgate_;' another
model of the pillory at Fleet Bridge; and a third of the permanent
gibbet at Tyburn. The latter specimen, of his workmanship was adorned
with a little scarecrow figure, intended to represent a housebreaking
chimney-sweeper of the time, described in Sheppard's own
hand-writing, as '_Jack Hall a-hanging_.' We must not omit to mention
that a family group from the pencil of little Winifred, representing
Mr. and Mrs. Wood in very characteristic attitudes, occupied a
prominent place on the walls.
For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the
half-opened door in silence. On a sudden, a change came over her
countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and
satisfied expression. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a
piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,--“It isn't at all like him!
it isn't half handsome enough!” was about to efface the sketch, when
Thames darted into the room.
“Who isn't it like?” he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the
drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her
fingers.
“I can't tell you!” she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her
little hand as tightly as possible; “it's a secret!”
“I'll soon find it out, then,” he returned, playfully forcing the
paper from her grasp.
“Don't look at it, I entreat,” she cried.
But her request was unheeded. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed
out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
“I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!” cried Winifred,
with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; “you've acted
unfairly.”
“I feel I have, dear Winny!” replied Thames, abashed at his own
rudeness; “my conduct is inexcusable.”
“I'll excuse it nevertheless,” returned the little damsel,
affectionately extending her hand to him.
“Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?” asked the
youth.
“Because it's not like you,” was her answer.
“Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from
you as a memorial----”
“Of what?” she interrupted, startled by his change of manner.
“Of yourself,” he replied, in a mournful tone. “I shall value it
highly, and will promise never to part with it. Winny, this is the
last night I shall pass beneath your father's roof.”
“Have you told him so?” she inquired, reproachfully. “No; but I
shall, before he retires to rest.”
“Then you _will_ stay!” she cried, clapping her hands joyfully, “for
I'm sure he won't part with you. Oh! thank you--thank you! I'm so
happy!”
“Stop, Winny!” he answered, gravely; “I haven't promised yet.”
“But you will,--won't you?” she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in
the face.
Unable to withstand this appeal, Thames gave the required promise,
adding,--“Oh! Winny, I wish Mr. Wood had been my father, as well as
yours.”
“So do I!” she cried; “for then you would have been _really_ my
brother. No, I don't, either; because----”
“Well, Winny?”
“I don't know what I was going to say,” she added, in some confusion;
“only I'm sorry you were born a gentleman.”
“Perhaps, I wasn't,” returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of
Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. “But never mind who, or
what I am. Give me this picture. I'll keep it for your sake.”
“I'll give you something better worth keeping,” she answered,
detaching the ornament from her neck, and presenting it to him; “this
contains a lock of my hair, and may remind you sometimes of your
little sister. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you
_do_ go I shall need no memorial of _you_. I'd a good many things to
say to you, besides--but you've put them all out of my head.”
With this, she burst into tears, and sank with her face upon his
shoulder. Thames did not try to cheer her. His own heart was too
full of melancholy foreboding. He felt that he might soon be
separated--perhaps, for ever--from the fond little creature he held
in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal
affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the
separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining
in her grief.
From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle,
followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the
impudent countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him.
“Aha!” exclaimed Jack, with a roguish wink, “I've caught you,--have
I?”
The carpenter's daughter was fair and free--
Fair, and fickle, and false, was she!
She slighted the journeyman, (meaning _me!_)
And smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Degree! degree!
She smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Ha! ha! ha!”
“Jack!” exclaimed Thames, angrily.
But Sheppard was not to be silenced. He went on with his song,
accompanying it with the most ridiculous grimaces:
“When years were gone by, she began to rue
Her love for the gentleman, (meaning _you!_)
'I slighted the journeyman fond,' quoth she,
'But where is my gallant of high degree?
Where! where!
Oh! where is my gallant of high degree?'
Ho! ho! ho!”
“What are you doing here!” demanded Thames.
“Oh! nothing at all,” answered Jack, sneeringly, “though this room's
as much mine as yours, for that matter. 'But I don't desire to spoil
sport,--not I. And, if you'll give me such a smack of your sweet
lips, Miss, as you've just given Thames, I'll take myself off in less
than no time.”
The answer to this request was a “smack” of a very different
description, bestowed upon Sheppard's outstretched face by the little
damsel, as she ran out of the room.
“'Odd's! bodikins!” cried Jack, rubbing his cheek, “I'm in luck
to-day. However, I'd rather have a blow from the daughter than the
mother. I know who hits hardest. I tell you what, Thames,” he
added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, “I'd give my right
hand,--and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,--if
that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you.”
“That's not likely to be the case, if you go on in this way,” replied
Thames, sharply.
“Why, what the devil would you have had me do!--make myself scarce,
eh? You should have tipped me the wink.”
“No more of this,” rejoined Thames, “or we shall quarrel.”
“Who cares if we do?” retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance.
“Jack,” said the other, sternly; “don't provoke me further, or I'll
give you a thrashing.”
“Two can play at that game, my blood,” replied Sheppard, rising, and
putting himself into a posture of defence.
“Take care of yourself, then,” rejoined Thames, doubling his fists,
and advancing towards him: “though my right arm's stiff, I can use
it, as you'll find.”
Sheppard was no match for his opponent, for, though he possessed more
science, he was deficient in weight and strength; and, after a short
round, in which he had decidedly the worst of it, a well-directed hit
on the _nob_ stretched him at full length on the floor.
“That'll teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head for the
future,” observed Thames, as he helped Jack to his feet.
“I didn't mean to give offence,” replied Sheppard, sulkily. “But, let
me tell you, it's not a pleasant sight to see the girl one likes in
the arms of another.”
“You want another drubbing, I perceive,” said Thames, frowning.
“No, I don't. Enough's as good as a feast of the dainties you
provide. I'll think no more about her. Save us!” he cried, as his
glance accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had
dropped in her agitation. “Is this _her_ work?”
“It is,” answered Thames. “Do you see any likeness?”
“Don't I,” returned Jack, bitterly. “Strange!” he continued, as if
talking to himself. “How very like it is!”
“Not so strange, surely,” laughed Thames, “that a picture should
resemble the person for whom it's intended.”
“Ay, but it _is_ strange how much it resembles somebody for whom it's
_not_ intended. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket.”
“A miniature! Of whom?”
“That I can't say,” replied Jack, mysteriously. “But, I half suspect,
of your father.”
“My father!” exclaimed Thames, in the utmost astonishment; “let me
see it!”
“Here it is,” returned Jack, producing a small picture in a case set
with brilliants.
Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man,
apparently--judging from his attire--of high rank, whose proud and
patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to
his own.
“You're right Jack,” he said, after a pause, during which he
contemplated the picture with the most fixed attention: “this must
have been my father!”
“No doubt of it,” answered Sheppard; “only compare it with Winny's
drawing, and you'll find they're as like as two peas in a pod.”
“Where did you get it?” inquired Thames.
“From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box.”
“Surely, you haven't stolen it?”
“Stolen's an awkward word. But, as you perceive, I brought it away
with me.”
“It must be restored instantly,--be the consequences what they may.”
“You're not going to betray me!” cried Jack, in alarm.
“I am not,” replied Thames; “but I insist upon your taking it back at
once.”
“Take it back yourself,” retorted Jack, sullenly. “I shall do no such
thing.”
“Very well,” replied Thames, about to depart.
“Stop!” exclaimed Jack, planting himself before the door; “do you
want to get me sent across the water?”
“I want to save you from disgrace and ruin,” returned Thames.
“Bah!” cried Jack, contemptuously; “nobody's disgraced and ruined
unless he's found out. I'm safe enough if you hold your tongue. Give
me that picture, or I'll make you!”
“Hear me,” said Thames, calmly; “you well know you're no match for
me.”
“Not at fisticuffs, perhaps,” interrupted Jack, fiercely; “but I've
my knife.”
“You daren't use it.”
“Try to leave the room, and see whether I daren't,” returned Jack,
opening the blade.
“I didn't expect this from you,” rejoined Thames, resolutely. “But
your threats won't prevent my leaving the room when I please, and as
I please. Now, will you stand aside?”
“I won't,” answered Jack, obstinately.
Thames said not another word, but marched boldly towards him, and
seized him by the collar.
“Leave go!” cried Jack, struggling violently, and raising his hand,
“or I'll maul you for life.”
But Thames was not to be deterred from his purpose; and the strife
might have terminated seriously, if a peace-maker had not appeared
in the shape of little Winifred, who, alarmed by the noise, rushed
suddenly into the room.
[Illustration: 282]
“Ah!” she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand,
“don't hurt Thames--don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody,
kill me, not him.”
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!”