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 rang 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.
“Your business, Sir?” returned the other, stiffly.
The new-comer looked at Charcam. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the
attendant withdrew.
“You don't recollect me, I presume?” premised the stranger, taking a
seat.
The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose.
“Don't disturb yourself,” continued the other, nowise disconcerted
by the rebuke. “I never stand upon ceremony where I know I shall be
welcome. We _have_ met before.”
“Indeed!” rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; “perhaps, you will refresh
my memory as to the time, and place.”
“Let me see. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the
Mint in Southwark. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland.”
The knight staggered as if struck by a mortal wound. Speedily
recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, “You
are mistaken, Sir. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the
time you mention.”
The stranger smiled incredulously.
“Well, Sir Rowland,” he said, after a brief pause, during which the
knight regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to
recall his features, “I will not gainsay your words. You are in the
right to be cautious, till you know with whom you have to deal; and,
even then, you can't be too wary. 'Avow nothing, believe nothing,
give nothing for nothing,' is my own motto. And it's a maxim of
universal application: or, at least, of universal practice. I am not
come here to play the part of your father-confessor. I am come to
serve you.”
“In what way, Sir?” demanded Trenchard, in astonishment.
“You will learn anon. You refuse me your confidence. I applaud your
prudence: it is, however, needless. Your history, your actions, nay,
your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual
adviser.”
“Make good your assertions,” cried Trenchard, furiously, “or----”
“To the proof,” interrupted the stranger, calmly. “You are the son
of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Sir
Montacute had three children--two daughters and yourself. The eldest,
Constance, was lost, by the carelessness of a servant, during her
infancy, and has never since been heard of: the youngest, Aliva, is
the present Lady Trafford. I merely mention these circumstances to
show the accuracy of my information.”
“If this is the extent of it, Sir,” returned the knight, ironically,
“you may spare yourself further trouble. These particulars are
familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge.”
“Perhaps so,” rejoined the stranger; “but I have others in reserve,
not so generally known. With your permission, I will go on in my own
way. Where I am in error, you can set me right.--Your father, Sir
Montacute Trenchard, who had been a loyal subject of King James the
Second, and borne arms in his service, on the abdication of that
monarch, turned his back upon the Stuarts, and would never afterwards
recognise their claims to the crown. It was said, that he received
an affront from James, in the shape of a public reprimand, which his
pride could not forgive. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he
died a friend to the Protestant succession.”
“So far you are correct,” observed Trenchard; “still, this is no
secret.”
“Suffer me to proceed,” replied the stranger. “The opinions,
entertained by the old knight, naturally induced him to view with
displeasure the conduct of his son, who warmly espoused the cause he
had deserted. Finding remonstrances of no avail, he had recourse to
threats; and when threats failed, he adopted more decided measures.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Trenchard.
“As yet,” pursued the stranger, “Sir Montacute had placed no limit to
his son's expenditure. He did not quarrel with Rowland's profusion,
for his own revenues were ample; but he _did_ object to the large
sums lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not
to support. Accordingly, the old knight reduced his son's allowance
to a third of its previous amount; and, upon further provocation,
he even went so far as to alter his will in favour of his daughter,
Aliva, who was then betrothed to her cousin, Sir Cecil Trafford.”
“Proceed, Sir,” said Trenchard, breathing hard.
“Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible
person would do. Aware of his father's inflexibility of purpose, he
set his wits to work to defeat the design. He contrived to break off
his sister's match; and this he accomplished so cleverly, that he
maintained the strictest friendship with Sir Cecil. For two years he
thought himself secure; and, secretly engaged in the Jacobite schemes
of the time, in which, also, Sir Cecil was deeply involved, he began
to relax in his watchfulness over Aliva. About this time,--namely,
in November, 1703--while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his
sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication
from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his
hopes. He learnt that his sister was privately married--the name
or rank of her husband could not be ascertained--and living in
retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given
birth to a son. Rowland's plans were quickly formed, and as quickly
executed. Accompanied by Sir Cecil, who still continued passionately
enamoured of his sister, and to whom he represented that she had
fallen a victim to the arts of a seducer, he set off, at fiery speed,
for the metropolis. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out
Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,--a lone
habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in
Southwark. Refused admittance, they broke open the door. Aliva's
husband, who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them sword in
hand. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. But, urged by his wife's
cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child's life
than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the
back of the premises. Rowland and his companions instantly started in
pursuit, leaving the lady to recover as she might. They tracked the
fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all
scent of their prey. Meantime, the lady had overtaken them; but,
terrified by the menaces of her vindictive kinsmen, she did not dare
to reveal herself to her husband, of whose concealment on the roof
of the very house the party were searching she was aware. Aided by
an individual, who was acquainted with a secret outlet from the
tenement, Darrell escaped. Before his departure, he gave his
assistant a glove. That glove is still preserved. In her endeavour to
follow him, Aliva met with a severe fall, and was conveyed away, in
a state of insensibility, by Sir Cecil. She was supposed to be
lifeless; but she survived the accident, though she never regained
her strength. Directed by the same individual, who had helped
Darrell to steal a march upon him, Rowland, with Davies, and another
attendant, continued the pursuit. Both the fugitive and his chasers
embarked on the Thames. The elements were wrathful as their passions.
The storm burst upon them in its fury. Unmindful of the terrors
of the night, unscared by the danger that threatened him, Rowland
consigned his sister's husband and his sister's child to the waves.”
“Bring your story to an end, Sir,” said Trenchard who had listened to
the recital with mingled emotions of rage and fear.
“I have nearly done,” replied the stranger.--“As Rowland's whole crew
perished in the tempest, and he only escaped by miracle, he fancied
himself free from detection. And for twelve years he has been so;
until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the
deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. During
this period Sir Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. His
title has descended to Rowland: his estates to Aliva. The latter
has, since, been induced to unite herself to Sir Cecil, on terms
originating with her brother, and which, however strange and
unprecedented, were acquiesced in by the suitor.”
Sir Rowland looked bewildered with surprise.
“The marriage was never consummated,” continued the imperturbable
stranger. “Sir Cecil is no more. Lady Trafford, supposed to be
childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body,
is not likely to make another marriage. The estates must, ere long,
revert to Sir Rowland.”
“Are you man, or fiend?” exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the
stranger, as he concluded his narration.
“You are complimentary, Sir Rowland,” returned the other, with a grim
smile.
“If you _are_ human,” rejoined Trenchard, with stern emphasis, “I
insist upon knowing whence you derived your information?”
“I might refuse to answer the question, Sir Rowland. But I am not
indisposed to gratify you. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from
other sources.”
“My confessor!” ejaculated the knight, in the extremity of surprise;
“has _he_ betrayed his sacred trust?”
“He has,” replied the other, grinning; “and this will be a caution to
you in future, how you confide a secret of consequence to a priest.
I should as soon think of trusting a woman. Tickle the ears of their
reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing
you care to have repeated. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter
myself, and speak from experience.”
“Who are you?” ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his
senses.
“I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland.
It would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. My
name is Wild--Jonathan Wild.”
And the great thief-taker indulged himself in a chuckle at the effect
produced by this announcement. He was accustomed to such surprises,
and enjoyed them.
Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword.
“Mr. Wild,” he said, in a sarcastic tone, but with great firmness;
“a person of your well-known sagacity must be aware that some secrets
are dangerous to the possessor.”
“I am fully aware of it, Sir Rowland,” replied Jonathan, coolly; “but
I have nothing to fear; because, in the first place, it will be to
your advantage not to molest me; and, in the second, I am provided
against all contingencies. I never hunt the human tiger without being
armed. My janizaries are without. One of them is furnished with a
packet containing the heads of the statement I have just related,
which, if I don't return at a certain time, will be laid before the
proper authorities. I have calculated my chances, you perceive.”
“You have forgotten that you are in my power,” returned the
knight, sternly; “and that all your allies cannot save you from my
resentment.”
“I can at least, protect myself,” replied Wild, with, provoking
calmness. “I am accounted a fair shot, as well as a tolerable
swordsman, and I will give proof of my skill in both lines, should
occasion require it. I have had a good many desperate engagements in
my time, and have generally come off victorious. I bear the marks of
some of them about me still,” he continued, taking off his wig,
and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of
silver. “This gash,” he added, pointing to one of the larger scars,
“was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for
the murder of Mrs. Knap. This wedge of silver,” pointing to another,
“which would mend a coffee-pot, serves to stop up a breach made by
Will Colthurst, who robbed Mr. Hearl on Hounslow-Heath. I secured the
dog after he had wounded me. This fracture was the handiwork of Jack
Parrot (otherwise called Jack the Grinder), who broke into the palace
of the Bishop of Norwich. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made
a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his
grace's favourite housekeeper. The Bishop, however, to show him the
danger of meddling with the church, gave him a dance at Tyburn for
his pains. Not a scar but has its history. The only inconvenience I
feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. But that's
an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. The
hardest bout I ever had was with a woman--Sally Wells, who
was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. She attacked me with a
carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a
couple of fingers from my left hand. Thus, you see, I've never
hesitated and never _shall_ hesitate to expose my life where anything
is to be gained. My profession has hardened me.”
And, with this, he coolly re-adjusted his peruke.
“What do you expect to gain from this interview, Mr. Wild!” demanded
Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution.
“Ah! now we come to business,” returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands,
gleefully. “These are my terms, Sir Rowland,” he added, taking a
sheet of paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight.
Trenchard glanced at the document.
“A thousand pounds,” he observed, gloomily, “is a heavy price to
pay for doubtful secrecy, when _certain silence_ might be so cheaply
procured.”
“You would purchase it at the price of your head,” replied Jonathan,
knitting his brows. “Sir Rowland,” he added, savagely, and with
somewhat of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, “if it
were my pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. You are
wholly in my power. Your name, with the fatal epithet of 'dangerous'
attached to it, stands foremost on the list of Disaffected now before
the Secret Committee. I hold a warrant from Mr. Walpole for your
apprehension.”
“Arrested!” exclaimed Trenchard, drawing his sword.
“Put up your blade, Sir Rowland,” rejoined Jonathan, resuming his
former calm demeanour, “King James the Third will need it. I have
no intention of arresting you. I have a different game to play; and
it'll be your own fault, if you don't come off the winner. I offer
you my assistance on certain terms. The proposal is so far from being
exorbitant, that it should be trebled if I had not a fellow-feeling
in the cause. To be frank with you, I have an affront to requite,
which can be settled at the same time, and in the same way with your
affair. That's worth something to me; for I don't mind paying for
revenge. After all a thousand pounds is a trifle to rid you of an
upstart, who may chance to deprive you of tens of thousands.”
“Did I hear you aright?” asked Trenchard, with startling eagerness.
“Certainly,” replied Jonathan, with the most perfect _sangfroid_,
“I'll undertake to free you from the boy. That's part of the
bargain.”
“Is he alive!” vociferated Trenchard.
“To be sure,” returned Wild; “he's not only alive, but likely for
life, if we don't clip the thread.”
Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across
his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly.
“The intelligence seems new to you. I thought I'd been sufficiently
explicit,” continued Jonathan. “Most persons would have guessed my
meaning.”
“Then it was _not_ a dream!” ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow
voice, and as if speaking to himself. “I _did_ see them on the
platform of the bridge--the child and his preserver! They were _not_
struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,--or, if
they _were_, they escaped as I escaped. God! I have cheated myself
into a belief that the boy perished! And now my worst fears are
realized--he lives!”
“As yet,” returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis.
“I cannot--dare not injure him,” rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard
look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair.
Jonathan laughed scornfully.
“Leave him to me,” he said. “He shan't trouble you further.”
“No,” replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. “I
will struggle no longer with destiny. Too much blood has been shed
already.”
“This comes of fine feelings!” muttered Jonathan, contemptuously.
“Give me your thorough-paced villain. But I shan't let him off thus.
I'll try a strong dose.--Am I to understand that you intend to plead
guilty, Sir Rowland?” he added. “If so, I may as well execute my
warrant.”
“Stand off, Sir!” exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards.
“I knew that would bring him to,” thought Wild.
“Where is the boy?” demanded Sir Rowland.
“At present under the care of his preserver--one Owen Wood, a
carpenter, by whom he was brought up.”
“Wood!” exclaimed Trenchard,--“of Wych Street?”
“The same.”
“A boy from his shop was here a short time ago. Could it be him you
mean?”
“No. That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. I've
just left your nephew.”
At this moment Charcam entered the room.
“Beg pardon, Sir Rowland,” said the attendant, “but there's a boy
from Mr. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford.”
“From whom?” vociferated Trenchard.
“From Mr. Wood the carpenter.”
“The same who was here just now?”
“No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy.”
“'Tis he, by Heaven!” cried Jonathan; “this is lucky. Sir Rowland,”
he added, in a deep whisper, “do you agree to my terms?”
“I do,” answered Trenchard, in the same tone.
“Enough!” rejoined Wild; “he shall not return.”
“Have you acquainted him with Lady Trafford's departure?” said
the knight, addressing Charcam, with as much composure as he could
assume.
“No, Sir Rowland,” replied the attendant, “as you proposed to ride
to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him
yourself. Besides, there's something odd about the boy; for, though
I questioned him pretty closely concerning his business, he declined
answering my questions, and said he could only deliver his message
to her ladyship. I thought it better not to send him away till I'd
mentioned the circumstance to you.”
“You did right,” returned Trenchard.
“Where is he?” asked Jonathan.
“In the hall,” replied Charcam.
“Alone?”
“Not exactly, Sir. There's another lad at the gate waiting for
him--the same who was here just now, that Sir Rowland was speaking
of, who fastened up the jewel-case for her ladyship.”
“A jewel-case!” exclaimed Jonathan. “Ah, I see it all!” he cried,
with a quick glance. “Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. Was
anything missed after the lad's departure, Sir Rowland?”
“Not that I'm aware of,” said the knight.--“Stay! something occurs to
me.” And he conferred apart with Jonathan.
“That's it!” cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. “This young fool is
come to restore the article--whatever it may be--which Lady Trafford
was anxious to conceal, and which his companion purloined. It's
precisely what such a simpleton would do. We have him as safe as a
linnet in a cage; and could wring his neck round as easily. Oblige
me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. I'm an old
hand at such things. Harkee,” he added, “Mr. What's-your-name!”
“Charcam,” replied the attendant, bowing.
“Very well, Mr. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. But not a word
to him of Lady Trafford's absence--mind that. A robbery has been
committed, and your master suspects this lad as an accessory to
the offence. He, therefore, desires to interrogate him. It will be
necessary to secure his companion; and as you say he is not in the
house, some caution must be used in approaching him, or he may chance
to take to his heels, for he's a slippery little rascal. When you've
seized him, cough thrice thus,--and two rough-looking gentlemen
will make their appearance. Don't be alarmed by their manners, Mr.
Charcoal. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears
off. The gentleman with the red beard will relieve you of your
prisoner. The other must call a coach as quickly as he can.”
“For whom, Sir?” inquired Charcam. “For me--his master, Mr. Jonathan
Wild.”
“Are you Mr. Jonathan Wild?” asked the attendant, in great
trepidation.
“I _am_, Charcoal. But don't let my name frighten you. Though,” said
the thief-taker, with a complacent smile, “all the world seems to
tremble at it. Obey my orders, and you've nothing to fear. About them
quickly. Lead the lad to suppose that he'll be introduced to Lady
Trafford. You understand me, Charcoal.”
The attendant did _not_ understand him. He was confounded by the
presence in which he found himself. But, not daring to confess his
want of comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired.