CHAPTER I. THE RETURN.

JACK SHEPPARD

Volume II. (of III.)

A Romance

By W. Harrison Ainsworth

1839

_“Upon my word, friend,” said I, “you have almost made me

long to try what a robber I should make.” “There is a great

art in it, if you did,” quoth he. “Ah! but,” said I,

“there's a great deal in being hanged.”_

_Life and Actions of Guzman d'Alfarache._

[Illustration: 007]

[Illustration: titlepage]

ILLUSTRATIONS:

Jack Shepard committing the Robbery in Willesden Church

Jack Sheppard gets drunk, and orders his Mother off

Jack Sheppard's escape from Willesden Cage

Mrs. Sheppard expostulating with her Son

Jack Sheppard and Blueskin in Mr.Wood's Bedroom

Jack Sheppard and Edgeworth Bess escaping from Clerkenwell Prison

Audacity of Jack Sheppard

Jack Sheppard visits his Mother in Bedlam

Jack Sheppard escaping from the Condemned Hold in Newgate

CHAPTER XIII. THE MAGDALENE.

The household of the worthy carpenter, it may be conceived, was

thrown into the utmost confusion and distress by the unaccountable

disappearance of the two boys. As time wore on, and they did not

return, Mr. Wood's anxiety grew so insupportable, that he seized his

hat with the intention of sallying forth in search of them, though

he did not know whither to bend his steps, when his departure was

arrested by a gentle knock at the door.

“There he is!” cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving

by the exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject

only. “There he is!”

“I fear not,” said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head.

“Thames would let himself in; and Jack generally finds an entrance

through the backdoor or the shop-window, when he has been out at

untimely hours. But, go and see who it is, love. Stay! I'll go

myself.”

His daughter, however, anticipated him. She flew to the door, but

returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing

the intelligence that it was “only Mrs. Sheppard.”

“Who?” almost screamed Mrs. Wood.

“Jack Sheppard's mother,” answered the little girl, dejectedly; “she

has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for

you.”

“For me!” vociferated Mrs. Wood, in indignant surprise. “Eggs for me!

You mistake, child. They must be for your father.”

“No; I'm quite sure she said they're for you,” replied Winifred; “but

she _does_ want to see father.”

“I thought as much,” sneered Mrs. Wood.

“I'll go to her directly,” said Wood, bustling towards the door. “I

dare say she has called to inquire about Jack.”

“I dare say no such thing,” interposed his better half,

authoritatively; “remain where you are, Sir.”

“At all events, let me send her away, my dear,” supplicated the

carpenter, anxious to avert the impending storm.

“Do you hear me?” cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. “Stir a

foot, at your peril.”

“But, my love,” still remonstrated Wood, “you know I'm going to look

after the boys----”

“After Mrs. Sheppard, you mean, Sir,” interrupted his wife,

ironically. “Don't think to deceive me by your false pretences.

Marry, come up! I'm not so easily deluded. Sit down, I command you.

Winny, show the person into this room. I'll see her myself; and

that's more than she bargained for, I'll be sworn.”

Finding it useless to struggle further, Mr. Wood sank, submissively,

into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary

parent's commission.

“At length, I have my wish,” continued Mrs. Wood, regarding her

husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. “I shall behold the

shameless hussy, face to face; and, if I find her as good-looking

as she's represented, I don't know what I'll do in the end; but I'll

begin by scratching her eyes out.”

In this temper, it will naturally be imagined, that Mrs. Wood's

reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the

room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. As she

approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the

hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with.

But she was disappointed. Mrs. Sheppard's dress--extremely neat

and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most

unpretending material,--offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour

was so humble, and her looks so modest, that--if she had been

ill-looking--she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of

malice preparing to be levelled against her. But, alas! she was

beautiful--and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous

woman.

As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a

remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may

not be improper to notice it here. When first brought under

consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in

attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Now, she was the

very reverse of all this. Her dress, it has just been said, was

neatness and simplicity itself. Her figure, though slight, had all

the fulness of health; and her complexion--still pale, but without

its former sickly cast,--contrasted agreeably, by its extreme

fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes

which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained

infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it.

One marked difference between the poor outcast, who, oppressed by

poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in the

stupifying draught,--that worst “medicine of a mind diseased,”--and

those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to

comfort and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous

course of events, was exhibited in the mouth. For the fresh and

feverish hue of lip which years ago characterised this feature, was

now substituted a pure and wholesome bloom, evincing a total change

of habits; and, though the coarse character of the mouth remained,

in some degree, unaltered, it was so modified in expression, that it

could no longer be accounted a blemish. In fact, the whole face had

undergone a transformation. All its better points were improved,

while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were

subdued, or removed. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the

widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it

was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her

true position in society was far above that wherein accident had

placed her.

“Well, Mrs. Sheppard,” said the carpenter, advancing to meet her, and

trying to look as cheerful and composed as he could; “what brings you

to town, eh?--Nothing amiss, I trust?”

“Nothing whatever, Sir,” answered the widow. “A neighbour offered

me a drive to Paddington; and, as I haven't heard of my son for some

time, I couldn't resist the temptation of stepping on to inquire

after him, and to thank you for your great goodness to us both,

I've brought a little garden-stuff and a few new-laid eggs for you,

Ma'am,” she added turning to Mrs. Wood, who appeared to be collecting

her energies for a terrible explosion, “in the hope that they may

prove acceptable. Here's a nosegay for you, my love,” she continued,

opening her basket, and presenting a fragrant bunch of flowers to

Winifred, “if your mother will allow me to give it you.”

“Don't touch it, Winny!” screamed Mrs. Wood, “it may be poisoned.”

“I'm not afraid, mother,” said the little girl, smelling at the

bouquet. “How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?”

“Put them where they came from,” replied Mrs. Wood, severely, “and go

to bed.”

“But, mother, mayn't I sit up to see whether Thames returns?”

implored Winifred.

“What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child,”

rejoined Mrs. Wood, sharply. “I've spoken. And my word's law--with

_you_, at least,” she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her

husband.

The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers

in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew.

Mrs. Sheppard, who witnessed this occurrence with dismay, looked

timorously at Wood, in expectation of some hint being given as to the

course she had better pursue; but, receiving none, for the carpenter

was too much agitated to attend to her, she ventured to express a

fear that she was intruding.

“Intruding!” echoed Mrs. Wood; “to be sure you are! I wonder how you

dare show your face in this house, hussy!”

“I thought you sent for me, Ma'am,” replied the widow, humbly.

“So I did,” retorted Mrs. Wood; “and I did so to see how far your

effrontery would carry you.”

“I'm sure I'm very sorry. I hope I haven't given any unintentional

offence?” said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood.

“Don't exchange glances with him under my very nose, woman!” shrieked

Mrs. Wood; “I'll not bear it. Look at me, and answer me one question.

And, mind! no prevaricating--nothing but the truth will satisfy me.”

Mrs. Sheppard raised her eyes, and fixed them upon her interrogator.

“Are you not that man's mistress?” demanded Mrs. Wood, with a look

meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust.

“I am no man's mistress,” answered the widow, crimsoning to her

temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.

“That's false!” cried Mrs. Wood. “I'm too well acquainted with your

proceedings, Madam, to believe that. Profligate women are never

reclaimed. _He_ has told me sufficient of you--”

“My dear,” interposed Wood, “for goodness' sake--”

“I _will_ speak,” screamed his wife, totally disregarding the

interruption; “I _will_ tell this worthless creature what I know

about her,--and what I think of her.”

“Not now, my love--not now,” entreated Wood.

“Yes, _now_,” rejoined the infuriated dame; “perhaps, I may never

have another opportunity. She has contrived to keep out of my sight

up to this time, and I've no doubt she'll keep out of it altogether

for the future.”

“That was my doing, dearest,” urged the carpenter; “I was afraid if

you saw her that some such scene as this might occur.”

“Hear me, Madam, I beseech you,” interposed Mrs. Sheppard, “and, if

it please you to visit your indignation on any one let it be upon

me, and not on your excellent husband, whose only fault is in having

bestowed his charity upon so unworthy an object as myself.”

“Unworthy, indeed!” sneered Mrs. Wood.

“To him I owe everything,” continued the widow, “life itself--nay,

more than life,--for without his assistance I should have perished,

body and soul. He has been a father to me and my child.”

“I never doubted the latter point, I assure you, Madam,” observed

Mrs. Wood.

“You have said,” pursued the widow, “that she, who has once erred,

is irreclaimable. Do not believe it, Madam. It is not so. The poor

wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her

soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is

without the pale of mercy. I have suffered--I have sinned--I have

repented. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to

my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown

my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair

that my transgressions may be forgiven.”

“Mighty fine!” ejaculated Mrs. Wood, contemptuously.

“You cannot understand me, Madam; and it is well you cannot. Blest

with a fond husband, surrounded by every comfort, _you_ have never

been assailed by the horrible temptations to which misery has exposed

_me_. You have never known what it is to want food, raiment, shelter.

You have never seen the child within your arms perishing from hunger,

and no relief to be obtained. You have never felt the hearts of all

hardened against you; have never heard the jeer or curse from every

lip; nor endured the insult and the blow from every hand. I _have_

suffered all this. I could resist the tempter _now_, I am strong in

health,--in mind. But _then_--Oh! Madam, there are moments--moments

of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence--in the lives of

the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason

is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can,

alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of

virtue. Pardon what I have said, Madam. I do not desire to extenuate

my guilt--far less to defend it; but I would show you, and such

as you--who, happily, are exempted from trials like mine--how

much misery has to do with crime. And I affirm to you, on my own

conviction, that she who falls, because she has not strength granted

her to struggle with affliction, _may_ be reclaimed,--may repent, and

be forgiven,--even as she, whose sins, 'though many, were forgiven

her'.

“It gladdens me to hear you talk thus, Joan,” said Wood, in a voice

of much emotion, while his eyes filled with tears, “and more than

repays me for all I have done for you.”

“If professions of repentance constitute a Magdalene, Mrs. Sheppard

is one, no doubt,” observed Mrs. Wood, ironically; “but I used to

think it required something more than _mere words_ to prove that a

person's character was abused.”

“Very right, my love,” said Wood, “very sensibly remarked. So it

does. Bu I can speak to that point. Mrs. Sheppard's conduct, from my

own personal knowledge, has been unexceptionable for the last twelve

years. During that period she has been a model of propriety.”

“Oh! of course,” rejoined Mrs. Wood; “I can't for an instant question

such distinterested testimony. Mrs. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as

much for you. He's a model of conjugal attachment and fidelity, a

pattern to his family, and an example to his neighbours. Ain't he,

Madam?'”

“He is, indeed,” replied the widow, fervently; “more--much more than

that.”

“He's no such thing!” cried Mrs. Wood, furiously. “He's a base,

deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine--that's what he is.

But, I'll expose him. I'll proclaim his misdoings to the world; and,

then, we shall see where he'll stand. Marry, come up! I'll show him

what an injured wife can do. If all wives were of my mind and my

spirit, husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance. But a

time _will_ come (and that before long,) when our sex will assert

its superiority; and, when we have got the upper hand, let 'em try to

subdue us if they can. But don't suppose, Madam, that anything I

say has reference to you. I'm speaking of virtuous women--of WIVES,

Madam. Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration.”

“I expect no commiseration,” returned Mrs. Sheppard, gently, “nor

do I need any. But, rather than be the cause of any further

misunderstanding between you and my benefactor, I will leave London

and its neighbourhood for ever.”

“Pray do so, Madam,” retorted Mrs. Wood, “and take your son with

you.”

“My son!” echoed the widow, trembling.

“Yes, your son, Madam. If you can do any good with him, it's more

than we can. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle,

good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold.”

“Is this true, Sir?” cried Mrs. Sheppard, with an agonized look

at Wood. “I know you'll not deceive me. Is Jack what Mrs. Wood

represents him?”

“He's not exactly what I could desire him to be, Joan,” replied the

carpenter, reluctantly, “But a ragged colt sometimes makes the best

horse. He'll mend, I hope.”

“Never,” said Mrs. Wood,--“he'll never mend. He has taken more than

one step towards the gallows already. Thieves and pickpockets are his

constant companions.”

“Thieves!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, horror-stricken.

“Jonathan Wild and Blueskin have got him into their hands,” continued

Mrs. Wood.

“Impossible!” exclaimed the widow, wildly.

“If you doubt my word, woman,” replied the carpenter's wife, coldly,

“ask Mr. Wood.”

“I know you'll contradict it, Sir,” said the widow, looking at Wood

as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,--“I know you will.”

“I wish I could, Joan,” returned the carpenter, sadly.

Mrs. Sheppard let fall her basket.

“My son,” she murmured, wringing her hands piteously--, “my son the

companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be.”

“Why not?” rejoined Mrs. Wood, in a taunting tone. “Your son's father

was a thief; and Jonathan Wild (unless I'm misinformed,) was his

friend,--so it's not unnatural he should show some partiality towards

Jack.”

“Jonathan Wild was my husband's bitterest enemy,” said Mrs. Sheppard.

“He first seduced him from the paths of honesty, and then betrayed

him to a shameful death, and he has sworn to do the same thing by

my son. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of

happiness while that terrible man lives!”

“Compose yourself, Joan,” said Wood; “all will yet be well.”

“Oh, no,--no,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, distractedly. “All cannot

be well, if this is true. Tell me, Sir,” she added, with forced

calmness, and grasping Wood's arm; “what has Jack done? Tell me in a

word, that I may know the worst. I can bear anything but suspense.”

“You're agitating yourself unnecessarily, Joan,” returned Wood, in a

soothing voice. “Jack has been keeping bad company. That's the only

fault I know of.”

“Thank God for that!” ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, fervently. “Then it

is not too late to save him. Where is he, Sir? Can I see him?”

“No, that you can't,” answered Mrs. Wood; “he has gone out without

leave, and has taken Thames Darrell with him. If I were Mr. Wood,

when he does return, I'd send him about his business. I wouldn't keep

an apprentice to set my authority at defiance.”

Mr. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud

knocking at the door.

“'Odd's-my-life!--what's that?” he cried, greatly alarmed.

“It's Jonathan Wild come back with a troop of constables at

his heels, to search the house,” rejoined Mrs. Wood, in equal

trepidation. “We shall all be murdered. Oh! that Mr. Kneebone were

here to protect me!”

“If it _is_ Jonathan,” rejoined Wood, “it is very well for Mr.

Kneebone he's not here. He'd have enough to do to protect himself,

without attending to you. I declare I'm almost afraid to go to the

door. Something, I'm convinced, has happened to the boys.”

“Has Jonathan Wild been here to-day?” asked Mrs. Sheppard, anxiously.

“To be sure he has!” returned Mrs. Wood; “and Blueskin, too. They're

only just gone, mercy on us! what a clatter,” she added, as the

knocking was repeated more violently than before.

While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong

presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard

descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a

man was admitted into the passage.

“Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?” demanded the rough voice of

the Irish watchman.

“It is”, seplied Winifred; “have you brought any tidings of Thames

Darrell!”

“Troth have I!” replied Terence: “but, bless your angilic face, how

did you contrive to guess that?”

“Is he well?--is he safe?--is he coming back,” cried the little girl,

disregarding the question.

“He's in St. Giles's round-house,” answered Terence; “but tell Mr.

Wudd I'm here, and have brought him a message from his unlawful son,

and don't be detainin' me, my darlin', for there's not a minute to

lose if the poor lad's to be recused from the clutches of that thief

and thief-taker o' the wurld, Jonathan Wild.”

The carpenter, upon whom no part of this hurried dialogue had been

lost, now made his appearance, and having obtained from Terence all

the information which that personage could impart respecting the

perilous situation of Thames, he declared himself ready to start

to Saint Giles's at once, and ran back to the room for his hat

and stick; expressing his firm determination, as he pocketed his

constable's staff with which he thought it expedient to arm himself,

of being direfully revenged upon the thief-taker: a determination in

which he was strongly encouraged by his wife. Terence, meanwhile, who

had followed him, did not remain silent, but recapitulated his story,

for the benefit of Mrs. Sheppard. The poor widow was thrown into an

agony of distress on learning that a robbery had been committed,

in which her son (for she could not doubt that Jack was one of the

boys,) was implicated; nor was her anxiety alleviated by Mrs. Wood,

who maintained stoutly, that if Thames had been led to do wrong, it

must be through the instrumentality of his worthless companion.

“And there you're right, you may dipind, marm,” observed Terence.

“Master Thames Ditt--what's his blessed name?--has honesty written

in his handsome phiz; but as to his companion, Jack Sheppard, I think

you call him, he's a born and bred thief. Lord bless you marm! we

sees plenty on 'em in our purfession. Them young prigs is all alike.

I seed he was one,--and a sharp un, too,--at a glance.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the widow, covering her face with her hands.

“Take a drop of brandy before we start, watchman,” said Wood, pouring

out a glass of spirit, and presenting it to Terence, who smacked his

lips as he disposed of it. “Won't you be persuaded, Joan?” he

added, making a similar offer to Mrs. Sheppard, which she gratefully

declined. “If you mean to accompany us, you may need it.”

“You are very kind, Sir,” returned the widow, “but I require no

support. Nothing stronger than water has passed my lips for years.”

“We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose,” observed

the carpenter's wife, with a sneer. “Mr. Wood,” she continued, in

an authoritative tone, seeing her husband ready to depart, “one word

before you set out. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this

house again, I leave it--that's all. Now, do what you please. You

know _my_ fixed determination.”

Mr. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter,

and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. He was followed with

equal celerity by Terence and the widow. Traversing what remained of

Wych Street at a rapid pace, and speeding along Drury Lane, the

trio soon found themselves in Kendrick Yard. When they came to the

round-house, Terry's courage failed him. Such was the terror inspired

by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had

given him cause for displeasure. Aware that he should incur the

thief-taker's bitterest animosity by what he had done, the watchman,

whose wrath against Quilt Arnold had evaporated during the walk,

thought it more prudent not to hazard a meeting with his master, till

the storm had, in some measure, blown over. Accordingly, having given

Wood such directions as he thought necessary for his guidance, and

received a handsome gratuity in return for his services, he departed.

It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of

Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance

to the round-house. Reconnoitring them through a small grated

loophole, he refused to open the door till they had explained their

business. This, Wood, acting upon Terry's caution, was most unwilling

to do; but, finding he had no alternative, he reluctantly made known

his errand and the bolts were undrawn. Once in, the constable's

manner appeared totally changed. He was now as civil as he had just

been insolent. Apologizing for their detention, he answered the

questions put to him respecting the boys, by positively denying that

any such prisoners had been entrusted to his charge, but offered to

conduct him to every cell in the building to prove the truth of his

assertion. He then barred and double-locked the door, took out the

key, (a precautionary measure which, with a grim smile, he said he

never omitted,) thrust it into his vest, and motioning the couple to

follow him, led the way to the inner room. As Wood obeyed, his

foot slipped; and, casting his eyes upon the floor, he perceived

it splashed in several places with blood. From the freshness of the

stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining

chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated,

and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought,

with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many

minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly

butchered. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at

Mrs. Sheppard, and saw from her terrified look that she had made the

same alarming discovery as himself. But it was now too late to turn

back, and, nerving himself for the shock he expected to encounter,

he ventured after his conductor. No sooner had they entered the room

than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed

the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his

stratagem. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus

entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. When he could find

words, he tried by the most urgent solicitations to prevail upon the

constable to let him out. But threats and entreaties--even promises

were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his

powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point.

The room in which he was detained--that lately occupied by the

Mohocks, who, it appeared, had been allowed to depart,--was

calculated to inspire additional apprehension and disgust. Strongly

impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and

other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. The benches

running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps,

had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly

secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents--bottles, jugs,

glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions.

Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent

occupants of the chamber.

Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head

to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with

the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. On this side

stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had

been effected,--namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on

that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced

hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern,

a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles,

some half-dozen staves, and a broken sword.

As the carpenter's gaze wandered over this scene of devastation, his

attention was drawn by Mrs. Sheppard towards an appalling object

in one corner. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and

stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth,

through which the blood had oosed. Near the body, which, it will be

surmised, was that of Abraham Mendez, two ruffianly personages were

seated, quietly smoking, and bestowing no sort of attention upon the

new-comers. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language,

and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by

this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had

received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed

the present subject of their discourse. From other obscure hints

dropped by the speakers, Mrs. Sheppard ascertained that Thames

Darrell had been carried off--where she could not make out--by

Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold; and that Jack had been induced

to accompany Blueskin to the Mint. This intelligence, which she

instantly communicated to the carpenter, drove him almost frantic.

He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success

than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him

and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in

the most miserable state imaginable.

At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became

visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the

rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one

was admitted. Whoever this might be, the visit seemed to have some

reference to the carpenter, for, shortly afterwards, Sharples made

his appearance, and informed the captives they were free. Without

waiting to have the information repeated, Wood rushed forth,

determined as soon as he could procure assistance, to proceed to

Jonathan Wild's house in the Old Bailey; while Mrs. Sheppard, whose

maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the

Mint.

CHAPTER XIV. THE FLASH KEN.

In an incredibly short space of time,--for her anxiety lent wings to

her feet,--Mrs. Sheppard reached the debtor's garrison. From a scout

stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the

jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her

familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom

she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about

three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. This was

enough for the poor widow. She felt she was now near her boy,

and, nothing doubting her ability to rescue him from his perilous

situation, she breathed a fervent prayer for his deliverance; and

bending her steps towards the tavern in question, revolved within her

mind as she walked along the best means of accomplishing her purpose.

Aware of the cunning and desperate characters of the persons with

whom she would have to deal,--aware, also, that she was in a quarter

where no laws could be appealed to, nor assistance obtained, she felt

the absolute necessity of caution. Accordingly, when she arrived

at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days

of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the

principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with

company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of

the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to

drink. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and

she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the

assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked

the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape

of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.

The Master of the Mint, in the exercise of his two-fold office of

governor and publican, was mounted upon a chair, and holding forth

to his guests in a speech, to which Mrs. Sheppard was unwillingly

compelled to listen.

“Gentlemen of the Mint,” said the orator, “when I was first called,

some fifty years ago, to the important office I hold, there existed

across the water three places of refuge for the oppressed and

persecuted debtor.”

“We know it,” cried several voices.

“It happened, gentlemen,” pursued the Master, “on a particular

occasion, about the time I've mentioned, that the Archduke of

Alsatia, the Sovereign of the Savoy, and the Satrap of Salisbury

Court, met by accident at the Cross Shovels. A jolly night we made

of it, as you may suppose; for four such monarchs don't often come

together. Well, while we were smoking our pipes, and quaffing our

punch, Alsatia turns to me and says, 'Mint,' says he, 'you're well

off here.'--'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the

Friars, for that matter.'--'Oh! yes we are,' says he.--'How so?'

says I.--'It's all up with us,' says he; 'they've taken away our

charter.'--'They can't,' says I.--'They have,' says he.--'They

can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's

unconstitutional.'--'Unconstitutional or not,' says Salisbury Court

and Savoy, speaking together, 'it's true. We shall become a prey to

the Philistines, and must turn honest in self-defence.'--'No fear

o' that,' thought I.--'I see how it'll be,' observed Alsatia,

'everybody'll pay his debts, and only think of such a state of things

as that.'--'It's _not_ to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table

till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent

it.'--'What is it, Mint?' asked all three.--'Why, hang every

bailiff that sets a foot in your territories, and you're safe,' says

I.--'We'll do it,' said they, filling their glasses, and looking as

fierce as King George's grenadier guards; 'here's your health,

Mint.' But, gentlemen, though they talked so largely, and looked so

fiercely, they did _not_ do it; they did _not_ hang the bailiffs; and

where are they?”

“Ay, where are they?” echoed the company with indignant derision.

“Gentlemen,” returned the Master, solemnly, “it is a question

easily answered--they are NOWHERE! Had they hanged the bailiffs, the

bailiffs would not have hanged them. We ourselves have been similarly

circumstanced. Attacked by an infamous and unconstitutional statute,

passed in the reign of the late usurper, William of Orange, (for I

may remark that, if the right king had been upon the throne, that

illegal enactment would never have received the royal assent--the

Stuarts--Heaven preserve 'em!--always siding with the debtors);

attacked in this outrageous manner, I repeat, it has been all but

'_up_' with US! But the vigorous resistance offered on that memorable

occasion by the patriotic inhabitants of Bermuda to the aggressions

of arbitrary power, secured and established their privileges on a

firmer basis than heretofore; and, while their pusillanimous allies

were crushed and annihilated, they became more prosperous than ever.

Gentlemen, I am proud to say that _I_ originated--that _I_ directed

those measures. I hope to see the day, when not Southwark alone, but

London itself shall become one Mint,--when all men shall be debtors,

and none creditors,--when imprisonment for debt shall be utterly

abolished,--when highway-robbery shall be accounted a pleasant

pastime, and forgery an accomplishment,--when Tyburn and its gibbets

shall be overthrown,--capital punishments discontinued,--Newgate,

Ludgate, the Gatehouse, and the Compters razed to the

ground,--Bridewell and Clerkenwell destroyed,--the Fleet, the King's

Bench, and the Marshalsea remembered only by name! But, in the mean

time, as that day may possibly be farther off than I anticipate, we

are bound to make the most of the present. Take care of yourselves,

gentlemen, and your governor will take care of you. Before I sit

down, I have a toast to propose, which I am sure will be received,

as it deserves to be, with enthusiasm. It is the health of a

stranger,--of Mr. John Sheppard. His father was one of my old

customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps.

He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed

himself. Gentlemen,--Mr. Sheppard's good health, and success to him!”

Baptist's toast was received with loud applause, and, as he sat down

amid the cheers of the company, and a universal clatter of mugs and

glasses, the widow's view was no longer obstructed. Her eye wandered

quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled

upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which

her son formed the principal figure. The agonized mother could

scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. There

sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his

collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of

punch and a half-emptied rummer before him,--there he sat, receiving

and returning, or rather attempting to return,--for he was almost

past consciousness,--the blandishments of a couple of females, one of

whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over

the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering

soft nonsense into his ear.

Both these ladies possessed considerable personal attractions.

The younger of the two, who was seated next to Jack, and seemed to

monopolize his attention, could not be more than seventeen, though

her person had all the maturity of twenty. She had delicate oval

features, light, laughing blue eyes, a pretty _nez retroussé_,

(why have we not the term, since we have the best specimens of the

feature?) teeth of pearly whiteness, and a brilliant complexion,

set off by rich auburn hair, a very white neck and shoulders,--the

latter, perhaps, a trifle too much exposed. The name of this damsel

was Edgeworth Bess; and, as her fascinations will not, perhaps, be

found to be without some influence upon the future fortunes of her

boyish admirer, we have thought it worth while to be thus particular

in describing them. The other _bona roba_, known amongst her

companions as Mistress Poll Maggot, was a beauty on a much larger

scale,--in fact, a perfect Amazon. Nevertheless though nearly six

feet high, and correspondingly proportioned, she was a model of

symmetry, and boasted, with the frame of a Thalestris or a Trulla,

the regular lineaments of the Medicean Venus. A man's laced

hat,--whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually

worn, we are unable to state,--cocked knowingly on her head,

harmonized with her masculine appearance. Mrs. Maggot, as well as her

companion Edgeworth Bess, was showily dressed; nor did either of them

disdain the aid supposed to be lent to a fair skin by the contents

of the patchbox. On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and

opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded

him the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women

in their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often

as he deemed it expedient to do so. By this time, he had apparently

accomplished all he desired; for moving the bottle out of Jack's

reach, he appropriated it entirely to his own use, leaving the

devoted lad to the care of the females. Some few of the individuals

seated at the other tables seemed to take an interest in the

proceedings of Blueskin and his party, just as a bystander watches

any other game; but, generally speaking, the company were too much

occupied with their own concerns to pay attention to anything else.

The assemblage was for the most part, if not altogether, composed of

persons to whom vice in all its aspects was too familiar to present

much of novelty, in whatever form it was exhibited. Nor was Jack by

any means the only stripling in the room. Not far from him was a knot

of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as

skilfully as any of the older hands. Near to these hopeful youths sat

a fence, or receiver, bargaining with a clouter, or pickpocket, for

a _suit_,--or, to speak in more intelligible language, a watch and

seals, two _cloaks_, commonly called watch-cases, and a _wedge-lobb,_

otherwise known as a silver snuff-box. Next to the receiver was a

gang of housebreakers, laughing over their exploits, and planning

fresh depredations; and next to the housebreakers came two

gallant-looking gentlemen in long periwigs and riding-dresses, and

equipped in all other respects for the road, with a roast fowl and

a bottle of wine before them. Amid this varied throng,--varied in

appearance, but alike in character,--one object alone, we have said,

rivetted Mrs. Sheppard's attention; and no sooner did she in some

degree recover from the shock occasioned by the sight of her son's

debased condition, than, regardless of any other consideration except

his instant removal from the contaminating society by which he was

surrounded, and utterly forgetting the more cautious plan she meant

to have adopted, she rushed into the room, and summoned him to follow

her.

“Halloa!” cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate

gaze upon the speaker,--“who's that?”

“Your mother,” replied Mrs. Sheppard. “Come home directly, Sir.”

“Mother be----!” returned Jack. “Who is it, Bess?”

“How should I know?” replied Edgeworth Bess. “But if it _is_ your

mother, send her about her business.”

“That I will,” replied Jack, “in the twinkling of a bedpost.”

“Glad to see you once more in the Mint, Mrs. Sheppard,” roared

Blueskin, who anticipated some fun. “Come and sit down by me.”

“Take a glass of gin, Ma'am,” cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle

of spirit; “it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard.”

“Jack, my love,” cried Mrs. Sheppard, disregarding the taunt, “come

away.”

“Not I,” replied Jack; “I'm too comfortable where I am. Be off!”

“Jack!” exclaimed his unhappy parent.

“Mr. Sheppard, if you please, Ma'am,” interrupted the lad; “I allow

nobody to call me Jack. Do I, Bess, eh?”

“Nobody whatever, love,” replied Edgeworth Bess; “nobody but me,

dear.”

“And me,” insinuated Mrs. Maggot. “My little fancy man's quite as

fond of me as of you, Bess. Ain't you, Jacky darling?”

“Not quite, Poll,” returned Mr. Sheppard; “but I love you next to

her, and both of you better than _Her_,” pointing with the pipe to

his mother.

“Oh, Heavens!” cried Mrs. Sheppard.

“Bravo!” shouted Blueskin. “Tom Sheppard never said a better thing

than that--ho! ho!”

[Illustration: 054]

“Jack,” cried his mother, wringing her hands in distraction, “you'll

break my heart!”

“Poh! poh!” returned her son; “women don't so easily break their

hearts. Do they, Bess?”

“Certainly not,” replied the young lady appealed to, “especially

about their sons.”

“Wretch!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, bitterly.

“I say,” retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation,

“I shan't stand any more of that nonsense. What do you mean by

calling me wretch, Madam!” she added marching up to Mrs. Sheppard,

and regarding her with an insolent and threatening glance.

“Yes--what do you mean, Ma'am?” added Jack, staggering after her.

“Come with me, my love, come--come,” cried his mother, seizing his

hand, and endeavouring to force him away.

“He shan't go,” cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand.

“Here, Poll, help me!”

Thus exhorted, Mrs. Maggot lent her powerful aid, and, between the

two, Jack was speedily relieved from all fears of being carried off

against his will. Not content with this exhibition of her prowess,

the Amazon lifted him up as easily as if he had been an infant,

and placed him upon her shoulders, to the infinite delight of the

company, and the increased distress of his mother.

“Now, let's see who'll dare to take him down,” she cried.

“Nobody shall,” cried Mr. Sheppard from his elevated position. “I'm

my own master now, and I'll do as I please. I'll turn cracksman,

like my father--rob old Wood--he has chests full of money, and I

know where they're kept--I'll rob him, and give the swag to you,

Poll--I'll--”

Jack would have said more; but, losing his balance, he fell to the

ground, and, when taken up, he was perfectly insensible. In this

state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while

his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and

resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the

house, and driven out of the Mint.

CHAPTER XV. THE ROBBERY IN WILLESDEN CHURCH.

During the whole of the next day and night, the poor widow hovered

like a ghost about the precincts of the debtors' garrison,--for

admission (by the Master's express orders,) was denied her. She could

learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece

of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her

misery,--namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the

Cross Shovels. At one time, she determined to go to Wych Street,

and ask Mr. Wood's advice and assistance, but the thought of the

reception she was likely to meet with from his wife deterred her from

executing this resolution. Many other expedients occurred to her;

but after making several ineffectual attempts to get into the Mint

unobserved, they were all abandoned.

At length, about an hour before dawn on the second

day--Sunday--having spent the early part of the night in watching at

the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from

want of rest, she set out homewards. It was a long walk she had to

undertake, even if she had endured no previous fatigue, but feeble as

she was, it was almost more than she could accomplish. Daybreak found

her winding her painful way along the Harrow Road; and, in order to

shorten the distance as much as possible, she took the nearest cut,

and struck into the meadows on the right. Crossing several fields,

newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not

without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. Here her strength

completely failed her, and she was compelled to seek some repose.

Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and

refreshing slumber.

When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. It was a bright and

beautiful day: _so_ bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was

cheered by it. The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the

new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick

foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature

seemed happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath

stillness reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit.

What a contrast did the lovely scene she now gazed upon present to

the squalid neighbourhood she had recently quitted! On all sides,

expanded prospects of country the most exquisite and most varied.

Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,--the most charming and

secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis--with

its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey

church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees.

Towards this spot Mrs. Sheppard now directed her steps. She speedily

reached her own abode,--a little cottage, standing in the outskirts

of the village. The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival

seemed ominous. Her clock had stopped--stopped at the very hour on

which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up

again.

After partaking of some little refreshment, and changing her attire,

Mrs. Sheppard prepared for church. By this time, she had so far

succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the

neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice--if

sorrowfully, still composedly.

Every old country church is beautiful, but Willesden is the most

beautiful country church we know; and in Mrs. Sheppard's time it was

even more beautiful than at present, when the hand of improvement has

proceeded a little too rashly with alterations and repairs. With one

or two exceptions, there were no pews; and, as the intercourse

with London was then but slight, the seats were occupied almost

exclusively by the villagers. In one of these seats, at the end

of the aisle farthest removed from the chancel, the widow took her

place, and addressed herself fervently to her devotions.

The service had not proceeded far, when she was greatly disturbed by

the entrance of a person who placed himself opposite her, and sought

to attract her attention by a number of little arts, surveying her,

as he did so, with a very impudent and offensive stare. With

this person--who was no other than Mr. Kneebone--she was too well

acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his

advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her

little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her

distraction. But a far greater affliction was in store for her.

Just as the clergyman approached the altar, she perceived a boy

steal quickly into the church, and ensconce himself behind the

woollen-draper, who, in order to carry on his amatory pursuits with

greater convenience, and at the same time display his figure (of

which he was not a little vain) to the utmost advantage, preferred

a standing to a sitting posture. Of this boy she had only caught a

glimpse;--but that glimpse was sufficient to satisfy her it was her

son,--and, if she could have questioned her own instinctive love, she

could not question her antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed

by a pillar immediately in the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark

figure and truculent features of Jonathan Wild. As she looked in this

direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes--those gray, blood-thirsty

eyes!--their glare froze the life-blood in her veins.

As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. Why was he

there? why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could

not answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed

through her mind. Meanwhile, the service proceeded; and the awful

command, “_Thou shalt not steal_!” was solemnly uttered by the

preacher, when Mrs. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her

son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollen-draper.

She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw

Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,--“Your son has

committed a robbery--here--in these holy walls--he is mine--mine for

ever!”

She uttered a loud scream, and fainted.

[Illustration: 007]

CHAPTER XVI. JONATHAN WILD'S HOUSE IN THE OLD BAILEY.

Just as St. Sepulchre's church struck one, on the eventful night of

the 10th of June, (to which it will not be necessary to recur,) a

horseman, mounted on a powerful charger, and followed at a respectful

distance by an attendant, galloped into the open space fronting

Newgate, and directed his course towards a house in the Old Bailey.

Before he could draw in the rein, his steed--startled apparently

by some object undistinguishable by the rider,--swerved with such

suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. The

next moment, however, he was picked up, and set upon his feet by a

person who, having witnessed the accident, flew across the road to

his assistance.

“You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?” inquired this individual.

“Not materially, Mr. Wild,” replied the other, “a little shaken,

that's all. Curses light on the horse!” he added, seizing the bridle

of his steed, who continued snorting and shivering, as if still under

the influence of some unaccountable alarm; “what can ail him?”

“_I_ know what ails him, your honour,” rejoined the groom, riding up

as he spoke; “he's seen somethin' not o' this world.”

“Most likely,” observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; “the ghost of

some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt.”

“May be,” returned the man gravely.

“Take him home, Saunders,” said Sir Rowland, resigning his faulty

steed to the attendant's care, “I shall not require you further.

Strange!” he added, as the groom departed; “Bay Stuart has carried me

through a hundred dangers, but never played me such a trick before.”

“And never should again, were he mine,” rejoined Jonathan. “If the

best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow

his brains out.”

“What do you mean, Sir?” asked Trenchard.

“A fall against Newgate is accounted a sign of death by the halter,”

replied Wild, with ill-disguised malignity.

“Tush!” exclaimed Sir Rowland, angrily.

“From that door,” continued the thief-taker, pointing to the

gloomy portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, “the

condemned are taken to Tyburn. It's a bad omen to be thrown near that

door.”

“I didn't suspect you of so much superstition, Mr. Wild,” observed

the knight, contemptuously.

“Facts convince the most incredulous,” answered Jonathan, drily.

“I've known several cases where the ignominious doom I've mentioned

has been foretold by such an accident as has just befallen you. There

was Major Price--you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,--he stumbled

as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. Well, _he_ was

executed for murder. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman,

who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his

leg. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within

the year. Another instance was that of Toby Tanner--”

“No more of this,” interrupted Trenchard; “where is the boy?”

“Not far hence,” replied Wild. “After all our pains we were near

losing him, Sir Rowland.”

“How so?” asked the other, distrustfully.

“You shall hear,” returned Jonathan. “With the help of his comrade,

Jack Sheppard, the young rascal made a bold push to get out of the

round-house, where my janizaries had lodged him, and would have

succeeded too, if, by good luck,--for the devil never deserts so

useful an agent as I am, Sir Rowland,--I hadn't arrived in time

to prevent him. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham

Mendez, received a blow on the head from one of the lads that will

deprive me of his services for a week to come,--if, indeed it does

not disable him altogether. However, if I've lost one servant, I've

gained another, that's one comfort. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my

hands.”

“What is this to me, Sir?” said Trenchard, cutting him short.

“Nothing whatever,” rejoined the thief-taker, coldly. “But it is

much to me. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you--an

object of hatred. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long

ago. I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to

her son. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make

away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,--but that wouldn't serve my turn.

To be complete, my vengeance must be tardy. Certain of my prey, I can

afford to wait for it. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I

indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest. I've

watched this lad--this Sheppard--from infancy; and, though I have

apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost

sight of my purpose. I have suffered him to be brought up

decently--honestly; because I would make his fall the greater, and

deepen the wound I meant to inflict upon his mother. From this night

I shall pursue a different course; from this night his ruin may

be dated. He is in the care of those who will not leave the

task assigned to them--the utter perversion of his

principles--half-finished. And when I have steeped him to the lips

in vice and depravity; when I have led him to the commission of every

crime; when there is neither retreat nor advance for him; when he

has plundered his benefactor, and broken the heart of his

mother--then--but not till then, I will consign him to the fate to

which I consigned his father. This I have sworn to do--this I will

do.”

“Not unless your skull's bullet-proof,” cried a voice at his elbow;

and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head,

which,--fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,--only

burnt the priming. The blaze, however, was sufficient to reveal to

the thief-taker the features of his intended assassin. They were

those of the Irish watchman.

“Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!” vociferated Jonathan, in a tone that betrayed

hot the slightest discomposure. “Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!” he cried,

shouting after the Irishman, who took to his heels as soon as he

found his murderous attempt unsuccessful; “you may run, but you'll

not get out of my reach. I'll put a brace of dogs on your track,

who'll soon hunt you down. You shall swing for this after next

sessions, or my name's not Jonathan Wild. I told you, Sir Rowland,”

he added, turning to the knight, and chuckling, “the devil never

deserts me.”

“Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay,” said

Trenchard, sternly,--“to the boy.”

“The boy's not at my house,” replied Wild.

“Where is he, then?” demanded the other, hastily.

“At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe,” answered Jonathan,

“a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the

river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose

care he's to be committed. You need have no apprehensions about him,

Sir Rowland. He's safe enough now. I left him in charge of Quilt

Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok--the skipper I spoke of--with strict

orders to shoot him if he made any further attempt at escape; and

they're not lads--the latter especially--to be trifled with. I deemed

it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here,

in case of any search after him by his adoptive father--the carpenter

Wood. If you choose, you can see him put on board the Zeeslang

yourself, Sir Rowland. But, perhaps, you'll first accompany me to

my dwelling for a moment, that we may arrange our accounts before we

start. I've a few necessary directions to leave with my people, to

put 'em on their guard against the chance of a surprise. Suffer me to

precede you. This way, Sir Rowland.”

The thief-taker's residence was a large dismal-looking, habitation,

separated from the street by a flagged court-yard, and defended from

general approach by an iron railing. Even in the daylight, it had

a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the

adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. In the obscurity in

which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was

Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. The

windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well

as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the

gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his

girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be

borrowed from Newgate. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks,

and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so

much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. The scanty

furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect.

The walls were bare, and painted in stone-colour; the floors, devoid

of carpet; the beds, of hangings; the windows, of blinds; and,

excepting in the thief-taker's own audience-chamber, there was not a

chair or a table about the premises; the place of these conveniences

being elsewhere supplied by benches, and deal-boards laid across

joint-stools. Great stone staircases leading no one knew whither, and

long gloomy passages, impressed the occasional visitor with the idea

that he was traversing a building of vast extent; and, though this

was not the case in reality, the deception was so cleverly contrived

that it seldom failed of producing the intended effect. Scarcely any

one entered Mr. Wild's dwelling without apprehension, or quitted it

without satisfaction. More strange stories were told of it than of

any other house in London. The garrets were said to be tenanted by

coiners, and artists employed in altering watches and jewelry; the

cellars to be used as a magazine for stolen goods. By some it was

affirmed that a subterranean communication existed between the

thief-taker's abode and Newgate, by means of which he was enabled

to maintain a secret correspondence with the imprisoned felons: by

others, that an under-ground passage led to extensive vaults,

where such malefactors as he chose to screen from justice might lie

concealed till the danger was blown over. Nothing, in short, was

too extravagant to be related of it; and Jonathan, who delighted in

investing himself and his residence with mystery, encouraged, and

perhaps originated, these marvellous tales. However this may be, such

was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey

without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls,

and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still,

of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal

trepidation, the formidable name--inscribed in large letters on its

bright brass-plate--of JONATHAN WILD.

Arrived at his habitation, Jonathan knocked in a peculiar manner at

the door, which was instantly opened by the grim-visaged porter just

alluded to. No sooner had Trenchard crossed the threshold than a

fierce barking was heard at the farther extremity of the passage,

and, the next moment, a couple of mastiffs of the largest size rushed

furiously towards him. The knight stood upon his defence; but he

would unquestionably have been torn in pieces by the savage hounds,

if a shower of oaths, seconded by a vigorous application of kicks

and blows from their master, had not driven them growling off.

Apologizing to Sir Rowland for this unpleasant reception, and

swearing lustily at his servant for occasioning it by leaving the

dogs at liberty, Jonathan ordered the man to light them to the

audience-room. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did

not appear to relish the rating. Ascending the stairs, and conducting

them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every

door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a

chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked

it. Following his guide, Sir Rowland found himself in a large and

lofty apartment, the extent of which he could not entirely discern

until lights were set upon the table. He then looked around him

with some curiosity; and, as the thief-taker was occupied in giving

directions to his attendant in an undertone, ample leisure was

allowed him for investigation. At the first glance, he imagined he

must have stumbled upon a museum of rarities, there were so many

glass-cases, so many open cabinets, ranged against the walls; but the

next convinced him that if Jonathan was a virtuoso, his tastes did

not run in the ordinary channels. Trenchard was tempted to examine

the contents of some of these cases, but a closer inspection made him

recoil from them in disgust. In the one he approached was gathered

together a vast assortment of weapons, each of which, as appeared

from the ticket attached to it, had been used as an instrument of

destruction. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered

his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that,

a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had

beaten out his wife's brains. As it is not, however, our intention

to furnish a complete catalogue of these curiosities, we shall merely

mention that in front of them lay a large and sharp knife, once the

property of the public executioner, and used by him to dissever the

limbs of those condemned to death for high-treason; together with

an immense two-pronged flesh-fork, likewise employed by the same

terrible functionary to plunge the quarters of his victims in the

caldrons of boiling tar and oil. Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow

appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the

adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones,

all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their

day. Halters, each of which had fulfilled its destiny, formed the

attraction of the next compartment; while a fourth was occupied by an

array of implements of housebreaking almost innumerable, and utterly

indescribable. All these interesting objects were carefully arranged,

classed, and, as we have said, labelled by the thief-taker. From this

singular collection Trenchard turned to regard its possessor, who

was standing at a little distance from him, still engaged in earnest

discourse with his attendant, and, as he contemplated his ruthless

countenance, on which duplicity and malignity had set their strongest

seals, he could not help calling to mind all he had heard of

Jonathan's perfidiousness to his employers, and deeply regretting

that he had placed himself in the power of so unscrupulous a

miscreant.

Jonathan Wild, at this time, was on the high-road to the greatness

which he subsequently, and not long afterwards, obtained. He was fast

rising to an eminence that no one of his nefarious profession ever

reached before him, nor, it is to be hoped, will ever reach again. He

was the Napoleon of knavery, and established an uncontrolled empire

over all the practitioners of crime. This was no light conquest;

nor was it a government easily maintained. Resolution, severity,

subtlety, were required for it; and these were qualities which

Jonathan possessed in an extraordinary degree. The danger or

difficulty of an exploit never appalled him. What his head conceived

his hand executed. Professing to stand between the robber and the

robbed, he himself plundered both. He it was who formed the grand

design of a robber corporation, of which he should be the sole head

and director, with the right of delivering those who concealed their

booty, or refused to share it with him, to the gallows. He divided

London into districts; appointed a gang to each district; and a

leader to each gang, whom he held responsible to himself. The country

was partitioned in a similar manner. Those whom he retained about

his person, or placed in offices of trust, were for the most part

convicted felons, who, having returned from transportation before

their term had expired, constituted, in his opinion, the safest

agents, inasmuch as they could neither be legal evidences against

him, nor withhold any portion of the spoil of which he chose to

deprive them. But the crowning glory of Jonathan, that which raised

him above all his predecessors in iniquity, and clothed this name

with undying notoriety--was to come. When in the plenitude of his

power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown--namely, a

traffic in human blood. This he carried on by procuring witnesses

to swear away the lives of those persons who had incurred his

displeasure, or whom it might be necessary to remove.

No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should

have some misgivings cross him.

Apparently, Jonathan perceived he was an object of scrutiny; for,

hastily dismissing his attendant, he walked towards the knight.

“So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland,” he remarked, with a

sinister smile; “it _is_ generally admired; and, sometimes by parties

who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,--ha! ha! This

skull,” he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case

beside them, “once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad

I spoke of just now. In the next box hangs the rope by which he

suffered. When I've placed another skull and another halter beside

them, I shall be contented.”

“To business, Sir!” said the knight, with a look of abhorrence.

“Ay, to business,” returned Jonathan, grinning, “the sooner the

better.”

“Here is the sum you bargained for,” rejoined Trenchard, flinging a

pocket-book on the table; “count it.”

Jonathan's eyes glistened as he told over the notes.

“You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland,” he said, after

he had twice counted them, “or I've missed my reckoning. There's a

hundred pounds too much.”

“Keep it,” said Trenchard, haughtily.

“I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland,” answered the

thief-taker, smiling significantly. “And now, shall we proceed to

Queenhithe?”

“Stay!” cried the other, taking a chair, “a word with you, Mr. Wild.”

“As many as you please, Sir Rowland,” replied Jonathan, resuming his

seat. “I'm quite at your disposal.”

“I have a question to propose to you,” said Trenchard, “relating

to--” and he hesitated.

“Relating to the father of the boy--Thames Darrell,” supplied

Jonathan. “I guessed what was coming. You desire to know who he was,

Sir Rowland. Well, you _shall_ know.”

“Without further fee?” inquired the knight.

“Not exactly,” answered Jonathan, drily. “A secret is too valuable

a commodity to be thrown away. But I said I wouldn't drive a hard

bargain with you, and I won't. We are alone, Sir Rowland,” he added,

snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his

tone, “and what you confide to me shall never transpire,--at least to

your disadvantage.”

“I am at a loss to understand you Sir,”, said Trenchard.

“I'll make myself intelligible before I've done,” rejoined Wild.

“I need not remind you, Sir Rowland, that I am aware you are deeply

implicated in the Jacobite plot which is now known to be hatching.”

“Ha!” ejaculated the other.

“Of course, therefore,” pursued Jonathan, “you are acquainted with

all the leaders of the proposed insurrection,--nay, must be in

correspondence with them.”

“What right have you to suppose this, Sir?” demanded Trenchard,

sternly.

“Have a moment's patience, Sir Rowland,” returned Wild; “and you

shall hear. If you will furnish me with a list of these rebels, and

with proofs of their treason, I will not only insure your safety, but

will acquaint you with the real name and rank of your sister Aliva's

husband, as well as with some particulars which will never otherwise

reach your ears, concerning your lost sister, Constance.”

“My sister Constance!” echoed the knight; “what of her?”

“You agree to my proposal, then?” said Jonathan.

“Do you take me for as great a villain as yourself, Sir?” said the

knight, rising.

“I took you for one who wouldn't hesitate to avail himself of any

advantage chance might throw in his way,” returned the thief-taker,

coldly. “I find I was in error. No matter. A time _may_ come,--and

that ere long,--when you will be glad to purchase my secrets,

and your own safety, at a dearer price than the heads of your

companions.”

“Are you ready?” said Trenchard, striding towards the door.

“I am,” replied Jonathan, following him, “and so,” he added in an

undertone, “are your captors.”

A moment afterwards, they quitted the house.

CHAPTER XVII. THE NIGHT-CELLAR.

After a few minutes' rapid walking, during which neither party

uttered a word, Jonathan Wild and his companion had passed Saint

Paul's, dived down a thoroughfare on the right, and reached Thames

Street.

At the period of this history, the main streets of the metropolis

were but imperfectly lighted, while the less-frequented avenues were

left in total obscurity; but, even at the present time, the maze of

courts and alleys into which Wild now plunged, would have perplexed

any one, not familiar with their intricacies, to thread them on a

dark night. Jonathan, however, was well acquainted with the road.

Indeed, it was his boast that he could find his way through any part

of London blindfolded; and by this time, it would seem, he had nearly

arrived at his destination; for, grasping his companion's arm, he led

him along a narrow entry which did not appear to have an outlet,

and came to a halt. Cautioning the knight, if he valued his neck,

to tread carefully, Jonathan then descended a steep flight of steps;

and, having reached the bottom in safety, he pushed open a door,

that swung back on its hinges as soon as it had admitted him; and,

followed by Trenchard, entered the night-cellar.

The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some

measure the cabin of a ship. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling

supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow

a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. Notwithstanding

the heat of the season,--which was not, however, found particularly

inconvenient in this subterranean region,--a large heaped-up fire

blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous

countenances as ever flame shone upon.

The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little

better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations

almost exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of

the river. They had as many designations as grades. There were game

watermen and game lightermen, heavy horsemen and light horsemen,

scuffle-hunters, and long-apron men, lumpers, journeymen coopers,

mud-larks, badgers, and ratcatchers--a race of dangerous vermin

recently, in a great measure, extirpated by the vigilance of the

Thames Police, but at this period flourishing in vast numbers.

Besides these plunderers, there were others with whom the disposal of

their pillage necessarily brought them into contact, and who

seldom failed to attend them during their hours of relaxation and

festivity;--to wit, dealers in junk, old rags, and marine stores,

purchasers of prize-money, crimps, and Jew receivers. The latter

formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of

the assemblage. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups

of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and

baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single

moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other,

would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate.

The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame,

almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate

fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Spurling, for so was she named,

had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a

moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the

oldest dragoon in the King's service. This lady was singularly lucky

in her matrimonial connections. She had been married four times:

three of her husbands died of hempen fevers; and the fourth, having

been twice condemned, was saved from the noose by Jonathan Wild,

who not only managed to bring him off, but to obtain for him the

situation of under-turnkey in Newgate.

On the appearance of the thief-taker, Mrs. Spurling was standing near

the fire superintending some culinary preparation; but she no sooner

perceived him, than hastily quitting her occupation, she elbowed a

way for him and the knight through the crowd, and ushered them, with

much ceremony, into an inner room, where they found the objects of

their search, Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok, seated at a

small table, quietly smoking. This service rendered, without waiting

for any farther order, she withdrew.

Both the janizary and the skipper arose as the others entered the

room.

“This is the gentleman,” observed Jonathan, introducing Trenchard to

the Hollander, “who is about to intrust his young relation to your

care.”

“De gentleman may rely on my showing his relation all de attention

in my power,” replied Van Galgebrok, bowing profoundly to the knight;

“but if any unforseen accident--such as a slip overboard--should

befal de jonker on de voyage, he mushn't lay de fault entirely on my

shoulders--haw! haw!”

“Where is he?” asked Sir Rowland, glancing uneasily around. “I do not

see him.”

“De jonker. He's here,” returned the skipper, pointing significantly

downwards. “Bring him out, Quilt.”

So saying, he pushed aside the table, and the janizary stooping down,

undrew a bolt and opened a trap-door.

“Come out!” roared Quilt, looking into the aperture. “You're wanted.”

But as no answer was returned, he trust his arm up to the shoulder

into the hole, and with some little difficulty and exertion of

strength, drew forth Thames Darrell.

The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale,

but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm.

“Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?” cried

Quilt in a savage tone.

“Because I knew what you wanted me for!” answered Thames firmly.

“Oh! you did, did you?” said the janizary. “And what do you suppose

we mean to do with you, eh?”

“You mean to kill me,” replied Thames, “by my cruel uncle's command.

Ah! there he stands!” he exclaimed as his eye fell for the first

time upon Sir Rowland. “Where is my mother?” he added, regarding the

knight with a searching glance.

“Your mother is dead,” interposed Wild, scowling.

“Dead!” echoed the boy. “Oh no--no! You say this to terrify me--to

try me. But I will not believe you. Inhuman as he is, he would not

kill her. Tell me, Sir,” he added, advancing towards the knight,

“tell me has this man spoken falsely?--Tell me my mother is alive,

and do what you please with me.”

“Tell him so, and have done with him, Sir Rowland,” observed Jonathan

coldly.

“Tell me the truth, I implore you,” cried Thames. “Is she alive?”

“She is not,” replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions,

and unable to endure the boy's agonized look.

“Are you answered?” said Jonathan, with a grin worthy of a demon.

“My mother!--my poor mother!” ejaculated Thames, falling on his

knees, and bursting into tears. “Shall I never see that sweet face

again,--never feel the pressure of those kind hands more--nor listen

to that gentle voice! Ah! yes, we shall meet again in Heaven, where I

shall speedily join you. Now then,” he added more calmly, “I am ready

to die. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me.”

“Then we won't even show you that mercy,” retorted the thief-taker

brutally. “So get up, and leave off whimpering. Your time isn't come

yet.”

“Mr. Wild,” said Trenchard, “I shall proceed no further in this

business. Set the boy free.”

“If I disobey you, Sir Rowland,” replied the thief-taker, “you'll

thank me for it hereafter. Gag him,” he added, pushing Thames rudely

toward Quilt Arnold, “and convey him to the boat.”

“A word,” cried the boy, as the janizary was preparing to obey his

master's orders. “What has become of Jack Sheppard?”

“Devil knows!” answered Quilt; “but I believe he's in the hands

of Blueskin, so there's no doubt he'll soon be on the high-road to

Tyburn.”

“Poor Jack!” sighed Thames. “You needn't gag me,” he added, “I'll not

cry out.”

“We won't trust you, my youngster,” answered the janizary. And,

thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the

room.

Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. He

neither attempted to prevent his nephew's departure, nor to follow

him.

Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself

for a moment to the Hollander.

“Is the case of watches on board?” he asked in an under tone.

“Ja,” replied the skipper.

“And the rings?”

“Ja.”

“That's well. You must dispose of the goldsmith's note I gave you

yesterday, as soon as you arrive at Rotterdam. It'll be advertised

to-morrow.”

“De duivel!” exclaimed Van Galgebrok, “Very well. It shall be done as

you direct. But about dat jonker,” he continued, lowering his voice;

“have you anything to add consarnin' him? It's almosht a pity to put

him onder de water.”

“Is the sloop ready to sail?” asked Wild, without noticing the

skipper's remark.

“Ja,” answered Van; “at a minut's nodish.”

“Here are your despatches,” said Jonathan with a significant look,

and giving him a sealed packet. “Open them when you get on board--not

before, and act as they direct you.”

“I ondershtand,” replied the skipper, putting his finger to his nose;

“it shall be done.”

“Sir Rowland,” said Jonathan, turning to the knight, “will it please

you to remain here till I return, or will you accompany us?”

“I will go with you,” answered Trenchard, who, by this time, had

regained his composure, and with it all his relentlessness of

purpose.

“Come, then,” said Wild, marching towards the door, “we've no time to

lose.”

Quitting the night-cellar, the trio soon arrived at the riverside.

Quilt Arnold was stationed at the stair-head, near which the boat

containing the captive boy was moored. A few words passed between

him and the thief-taker as the latter came up; after which, all the

party--with the exception of Quilt, who was left on shore--embarked

within the wherry, which was pushed from the strand and rowed swiftly

along the stream--for the tide was in its favour--by a couple of

watermen. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly

light. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly

distinguished as during the day. A thin mist lay on the river, giving

the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. As they approached

London Bridge, the thief-taker whispered Van Galgebrok, who acted as

steersman, to make for a particular arch--near the Surrey shore. The

skipper obeyed, and in another moment, they swept through the narrow

lock. While the watermen were contending with the eddies occasioned

by the fall below the bridge, Jonathan observed a perceptible shudder

run through Trenchard's frame.

“You remember that starling, Sir Rowland,” he said maliciously, “and

what occurred on it, twelve years ago?”

“Too well,” answered the knight, frowning. “Ah! what is that?” he

cried, pointing to a dark object floating near them amid the boiling

waves, and which presented a frightful resemblance to a human face.

“We'll see,” returned the thief-taker. And, stretching out his hand,

he lifted the dark object from the flood.

It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the

features remaining. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the

bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been

the face, gave it a ghastly appearance.

“It's the skull of a _rebel_,” said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on

the word, “blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us.

I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my

collection.” And he tossed it carelessly into the bottom of the boat.

After this occurence, not a word was exchanged between them until

they came in sight of the sloop, which was lying at anchor off

Wapping. Arrived at her side, it was soon evident, from the throng of

seamen in Dutch dresses that displayed themselves, that her crew were

on the alert, and a rope having been thrown down to the skipper, he

speedily hoisted himself on deck. Preparations were next made for

taking Thames on board. Raising him in his arms, Jonathan passed

the rope round his body, and in this way the poor boy was drawn up

without difficulty.

While he was swinging in mid air, Thames regarded his uncle with a

stern look, and cried in a menacing voice, “We shall meet again.”

“Not in this world,” returned Jonathan. “Weigh anchor, Van!” he

shouted to the skipper, “and consult your despatches.”

“Ja--ja,” returned the Hollander. And catching hold of Thames, he

quitted the deck.

Shortly afterwards, he re-appeared with the information that the

captive was safe below; and giving the necessary directions to

his crew, before many minutes had elapsed, the Zeeslang spread her

canvass to the first breeze of morning.

By the thief-taker's command, the boat was then rowed toward a muddy

inlet, which has received in more recent times the name of Execution

Dock. As soon as she reached this spot, Wild sprang ashore, and was

joined by several persons,--among whom was Quilt Arnold, leading

a horse by the bridle,--he hastened down the stairs to meet him. A

coach was also in attendance, at a little distance.

Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes

fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river,

disembarked more leisurely.

“At length I am my own master,” murmured the knight, as his foot

touched the strand.

“Not so, Sir Rowland,” returned Jonathan; “you are my prisoner.”

“How!” ejaculated Trenchard, starting back and drawing his sword.

“You are arrested for high treason,” rejoined Wild, presenting a

pistol at his head, while he drew forth a parchment,--“here is my

warrant.”

“Traitor!” cried Sir Rowland--“damned--double-dyed traitor!”

“Away with him,” vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having

surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could

utter another word,--“first to Mr. Walpole, and then to Newgate. And

now, Quilt,” he continued, addressing the janizary, who approached

him with the horse, “fly to St. Giles's round-house, and if, through

the agency of that treacherous scoundrel, Terry O'Flaherty, whom I've

put in my Black List, old Wood should have found his way there, and

have been detained by Sharpies as I directed, you may release him. I

don't care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. When

I've escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the

Mint and look after Jack Sheppard.”

With this, he mounted his steed and rode off.

CHAPTER XVIII. HOW JACK SHEPPARD BROKE OUT OF THE CAGE AT WILLESDEN.

The heart-piercing scream uttered by Mrs. Sheppard after the

commission of the robbery in Willesden church was productive of

unfortunate consequences to her son. Luckily, she was bereft

of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of

witnessing what afterwards befell him. Startled by the cry, as may be

supposed, the attention of the whole congregation was drawn towards

the quarter whence it proceeded. Amongst others, a person near the

door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with

the utmost precipitation. A boy attempted to follow; but as

the suspicions of the lookers-on were roused by the previous

circumstances, the younger fugitive was seized and detained.

Meanwhile, Mr. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the

widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above

described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search

of his pocket-book,--about the security of which, as it contained

several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the

Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,--and finding it

gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. Turning quickly round,

in the hope of discovering the thief, he was no less surprised than

distressed--for in spite of his faults, the woollen-draper was a

good-natured fellow--to perceive Jack Sheppard in custody. The truth

at once flashed across his mind. This, then, was the cause of the

widow's wild inexplicable look,--of her sudden shriek! Explaining

his suspicious in a whisper to Jack's captor, who proved to be a

church-warden and a constable, by name John Dump,--Mr. Kneebone

begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard. Dump instantly

complied, and as soon as Jack was removed from the sacred edifice,

his person was searched from head to foot--but without success. Jack

submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently

protested his innocence. In vain did the woollen-draper offer to

set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up

his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. He

answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever

of the matter--had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up.

Nor did he content himself with declaring his guiltlessness of the

crime imputed to him, but began in his turn to menace his captor and

accuser, loading the latter with the bitterest upbraidings. By

this time, the churchyard was crowded with spectators, some of whom

dispersed in different directions in quest of the other robber. But

all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had

ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. Of this

man Kneebone resolved to go in pursuit; and leaving Jack in charge of

the constable, he proceeded to the small inn,--which bore then, as it

bears now, the name of the Six Bells,--where, summoning the hostler,

his steed was instantly brought him, and, springing on its back, he

rode away at full speed.

Meanwhile, after a consultation between Mr. Dump and the village

authorities, it was agreed to lock up the prisoner in the cage. As

he was conveyed thither, an incident occurred that produced a

considerable impression on the feelings of the youthful offender.

Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard--where the

tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves--a momentary

stoppage took place. At this gate two paths meet. Down that on

the right the young culprit was dragged--along that on the left a

fainting woman was borne in the arms of several females. It was his

mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame,

Jack's heart severely smote him. He urged his conductors to a quicker

pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt

relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob

by the walls of the little prison.

The cage at Willesden was, and is--for it is still standing--a small

round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof,

to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish

officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to

vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. Over these

boards the two arms of a guide-post serve to direct the way-farer--on

the right hand to the neighbouring villages of Neasdon and Kingsbury,

and on the left to the Edgeware Road and the healthy heights of

Hampstead. The cage has a strong door, with an iron grating at

the top, and further secured by a stout bolt and padlock. It is

picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from

the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the

church.

For some time after he was locked up in this prison Jack continued in

a very dejected state. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity,

and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of

him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just

witnessed, without effect. Though within the last two days he had

committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any

with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was

not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of

conscience. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and

terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the

straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose

himself to slumber. When he awoke, it was late in the day; but though

he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of a face

peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one entered

the prison, or held any communication with him. Feeling rather

exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might

have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a

pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. He ate of the

bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of

the water, poured the rest on the floor. His hunger satisfied, his

spirits began to revive, and with this change of mood all his natural

audacity returned. And here he was first visited by that genius

which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and

successful attempts. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it

possible he might effect an escape from it. The door was too strong,

and too well secured, to break open,--the walls too thick: but the

ceiling,--if he could reach it--there, he doubted not, he could make

an outlet. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing

about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork.

Here was an instrument which might be of the greatest service to him

in accomplishing his design. He put it carefully aside, resolved to

defer the attempt till night. Time wore on somewhat slowly with the

prisoner, who had to control his impatience in the best way he could;

but as the shades of evening were darkening, the door was unlocked,

and Mr. Dump popped his head into the cage. He brought another small

loaf, and a can with which he replenished the pitcher, recommending

Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing further till morning. To

this Jack replied, that he should be perfectly contented, provided

he might have a small allowance of gin. The latter request, though

treated with supreme contempt by Mr. Dump, made an impression on some

one outside; for not long after the constable departed, Jack heard a

tap at the door, and getting up at the summons, he perceived the tube

of a pipe inserted between the bars. At once divining the meaning of

this ingenious device, he applied his mouth to the tube, and sucked

away, while the person outside poured spirit into the bowl. Having

drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend

for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged

himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was

perfectly dark. The strong potation he had taken, combined with

fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep

himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light.

Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this

drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. Availing himself of certain

inequalities in the door, he soon managed to climb up to the roof;

and securing his feet against a slight projection in the wall, began

to use the fork with great effect. Before many minutes elapsed, he

had picked a large hole in the plaster, which showered down in a

cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught hold of a beam,

by which he held with one hand, until with the other he succeeded,

not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. The

rest was easy. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the

roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. Emerging from this

aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the

tramp of horses' feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide

himself behind one of the largest sign-boards before alluded to when

two horsemen rode up. Instead of passing on, as Jack expected, these

persons stopped opposite the cage, when one of them, as he judged

from the sound, for he did not dare to look out of his hiding place,

dismounted. A noise was next heard, as if some instrument were

applied to the door with the intent to force it open, and Jack's

fears were at once dispelled, At first, he had imagined they were

officers of justice, come to convey him to a stronger prison: but the

voice of one of the parties, which he recognised, convinced him they

were his friends.

“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!”

[Illustration: 108]

“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.”

[Illustration: 117]

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 your 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.

END THE SECOND EPOCH.

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.”

“You astonish me,” said the stranger, in a voice full of emotion.

“Why it _is_ astonishing, certainly,” remarked Kneebone, “to find any

woman constant--especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the

case. She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are

combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting. But she was

not to be tempted.”

“She is a matchless creature!” exclaimed the young man.

“So I think,” replied Kneebone, again applying to the snuff-box,

and by that means escaping the angry glance levelled at him by his

companion.

“I have one inquiry more to make of you, Sir,” said the stranger, as

soon as he had conquered his displeasure, “and I will then trouble

you no further. You spoke just now of a youth whom Mr. Wood brought

up. As far as I recollect, there were two. What has become of the

other?”

“Why, surely you don't mean Jack Sheppard?” cried the woollen-draper

in surprise.

“That was the lad's name,” returned the stranger.

“I guessed from your dress and manner, Sir, that you must have been

long absent from your own country,” said Kneebone; “and now I'm

convinced of it, or you wouldn't have asked that question. Jack

Sheppard is the talk and terror of the whole town. The ladies can't

sleep in their beds for him; and as to the men, they daren't go to

bed at all. He's the most daring and expert housebreaker that ever

used a crow-bar. He laughs at locks and bolts; and the more carefully

you guard your premises from him, the more likely are you to insure

an attack. His exploits and escapes are in every body's mouth. He has

been lodged in every round-house in the metropolis, and has broken

out of them all, and boasts that no prison can hold him. We shall

see. His skill has not been tried. At present, he is under the

protection of Jonathan Wild.”

“Does that villain still maintain his power?” asked the stranger

sternly.

“He does,” replied Kneebone, “and, what is more surprising, it seems

to increase. Jonathan completely baffles and derides the ends of

justice. It is useless to contend with him, even with right on your

side. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was

rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's

machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape

with my head upon my shoulders. I charged the thief-taker, as was the

fact, with having robbed me, by means of the lad Sheppard, whom he

instigated to deed, of the very pocket-book he produced in evidence

against me; but it was of no avail--I couldn't obtain a hearing. Mr.

Wood fared still worse. Bribed by a certain Sir Rowland Trenchard,

Jonathan kidnapped the carpenter's adopted son, Thames Darrell, and

placed him in the hands of a Dutch Skipper, with orders to throw him

overboard when he got out to sea; and though this was proved as

clear as day, the rascal managed matters so adroitly, and gave such

a different complexion to the whole affair, that he came off with

flying colours. One reason, perhaps, of his success in this case

might be, that having arrested his associate in the dark transaction,

Sir Rowland Trenchard, on a charge of high treason, he was favoured

by Walpole, who found his account in retaining such an agent. Be this

as it may, Jonathan remained the victor; and shortly afterwards,--at

the price of a third of his estate, it was whispered,--he procured

Trenchard's liberation from confinement.”

At the mention of the latter occurrence, a dark cloud gathered upon

the stranger's brow.

“Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?” he asked.

“Nothing more than this,” answered Kneebone,--“that after the failure

of his projects, and the downfall of his party, he retired to his

seat, Ashton Hall, near Manchester, and has remained there ever

since, entirely secluded from the world.”

The stranger was for a moment lost in reflection.

“And now, Sir,” he said, preparing to take his departure, “will you

add to the obligation already conferred by informing me where I can

meet with Mr. Wood?”

“With pleasure,” replied the woollen-draper. “He lives at Dollis

Hill, a beautiful spot near Willesden, about four or five miles from

town, where he has taken a farm. If you ride out there, and the place

is well worth a visit, for the magnificent view it commands of

some of the finest country in the neighbourhood of London,--you are

certain to meet with him. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he

shouldn't stir from home for a week to come. He called here on his

way back, after he had been to Bedlam to visit poor Mrs. Sheppard.”

“Jack's mother?” exclaimed the young man. “Gracious Heaven!--is she

the inmate of a mad-house?”

“She is, Sir,” answered the woollen-draper, sadly, “driven there

by her son's misconduct. Alas! that the punishment of his offences

should fall on her head. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard

he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had

done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. She rambles

continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to

whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes

all her misery. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. But, in the

midst of all her affliction, she has found a steady friend in Mr.

Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly.

Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter

her under his own roof. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good

Samaritan.”

The stranger said nothing, but hastily brushed away a tear.

Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom

he had had the honour of addressing.

Before the question could be answered, a side-door was opened, and a

very handsome woman of Amazonian proportions presented herself, and

marched familiarly up to Mr. Kneebone. She was extremely showily

dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her

lofty stature. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured

him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to

disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her.

“Don't you perceive, my dear Mrs. Maggot, that I'm engaged,” said

Kneebone, a little disconcerted.

“Who've you got with you?” demanded the Amazon, boldly.

“The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll,” replied the

woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. “I don't know his

name.” And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to

know it.

“Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events,” observed Mrs. Maggot,

eyeing him from head to heel with evident satisfaction;--“a devilish

pretty fellow!”

“Upon my word, Poll,” said Kneebone, becoming very red, “you might

have a little more delicacy than to tell him so before my face.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Maggot, drawing up her fine figure to its full

height; “because I condescend to live with you, am I never to look

at another man,--especially at one so much to my taste as this? Don't

think it!”

“You had better retire, Madam,” said the woollen-draper, sharply, “if

you can't conduct yourself with more propriety.”

“Order those who choose to obey you,” rejoined the lady scornfully.

“Though you lorded it over that fond fool, Mrs. Wood, you shan't lord

it over me, I can promise you. That for you!” And she snapped her

fingers in his face.

“Zounds!” cried Kneebone, furiously. “Go to your own room, woman,

directly, or I'll make you!”

“Make me!” echoed Mrs. Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous

laugh. “Try!”

Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper

endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts

to remove her were unavailing. At length, after he had given up the

point from sheer exhaustion, the Amazon seized him by the throat, and

pushed him backwards with such force that he rolled over the counter.

“There!” she cried, laughing, “that'll teach you to lay hands upon

me again. You should remember, before you try your strength against

mine, that when I rescued you from the watch, and you induced me to

come and live with you, I beat off four men, any of whom was a match

for you--ha! ha!”

“My dear Poll!” said Kneebone, picking himself up, “I entreat you to

moderate yourself.”

“Entreat a fiddlestick!” retorted Mrs. Maggot: “I'm tired of you, and

will go back to my old lover, Jack Sheppard. He's worth a dozen of

you. Or, if this good-looking young fellow will only say the word,

I'll go with him.”

“You may go, and welcome, Madam!” rejoined Kneebone, spitefully.

“But, I should think, after the specimen you've just given of your

amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with

such an incumbrance.”

“What say you, Sir?” said the Amazon, with an engaging leer at the

stranger. “_You_ will find me tractable enough; and, with _me_

by, your side you need fear neither constable nor watchman.

I've delivered Jack Sheppard from many an assault. I can wield a

quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself

at the broadsword. Will you take me?”

However tempting Mrs. Maggot's offer may appear, the young man

thought fit to decline it, and, after a few words of well-merited

compliment on her extraordinary prowess, and renewed thanks to Mr.

Kneebone, he took his departure.

“Good bye!” cried Mrs. Maggot, kissing her hand to him. “I'll

find you out. And now,” she added, glancing contemptuously at the

woollen-draper, “I'll go to Jack Sheppard.”

“You shall first go to Bridewell, you jade!” rejoined Kneebone.

“Here, Tom,” he added, calling to a shop-boy, “run and fetch a

constable.”

“He had better bring half-a-dozen,” said the Amazon, taking up a

cloth-yard wand, and quietly seating herself; “one won't do.”

On leaving Mr. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in

the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse,

he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. Urging his

steed along Oxford Road,--as that great approach to the metropolis

was then termed,--he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with

the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely

open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens;

nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where,

before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment,

to glance at the place of execution. This “fatal retreat for the

unfortunate brave” was marked by a low wooden railing, within which

stood the triple tree. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery,

or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state

occasions, was crowded with spectators. Without the inclosure

were reared several lofty gibbets, with their ghastly burthens.

Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight. Influenced,

probably, by what he had heard from Mr. Kneebone, respecting the

lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate

that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell

into a gloomy reverie. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode

past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise.

One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy

complexion, and harsh forbidding features. He was well mounted, as

was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at

his girdle. The other individual, who was a little in advance, was

concealed from the stranger's view. Presently, however, a sudden

movement occurred, and disclosed his features, which were those of

a young man of nearly his own age. The dress of this person was

excessively showy, and consisted of a scarlet riding-habit, lined

and faced with blue, and bedizened with broad gold lace, a green

silk-knit waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and decorated with a

deep fringe, together with a hat tricked out in the same gaudy style.

His figure was slight, but well-built; and, in stature he did

not exceed five feet four. His complexion was pale; and there was

something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. His

head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but

had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. A mutual

recognition took place at the same instant between the stranger and

this individual. Both started. The latter seemed inclined to advance

and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to

his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking

spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware

Road. Impelled by a feeling, into which we shall not pause to

inquire, the stranger started after them; but they were better

mounted, and soon distanced him. Remarking that they struck off at a

turning on the left, he took the same road, and soon found himself on

Paddington-Green. A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms

threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. From a man, who was

standing beneath the shade of one these noble trees, information was

obtained that the horsemen had ridden along the Harrow Road. With

a faint view of overtaking them the pursuer urged his steed to a

quicker pace. Arrived at Westbourne-Green--then nothing more than a

common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple

of cottages and an alehouse--he perceived through the hedges the

objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises

from Kensall-Green.

By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all

trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure

subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having

wandered--as he conceived--so far out of his course. Before retracing

his steps, however, he allowed his gaze to range over the vast and

beautiful prospect spread out beneath him, which is now hidden, from

the traveller's view by the high walls of the General Cemetery,

and can, consequently, only be commanded from the interior of that

attractive place of burial,--and which, before it was intersected

by canals and railroads, and portioned out into hippodromes, was

exquisite indeed. After feasting his eye upon this superb panorama,

he was about to return, when he ascertained from a farmer that his

nearest road to Willesden would be down a lane a little further on,

to the right. Following this direction, he opened a gate, and struck

into one of the most beautiful green lanes imaginable; which, after

various windings, conducted him into a more frequented road, and

eventually brought him to the place he sought. Glancing at the

finger-post over the cage, which has been described as situated at

the outskirts of the village, and seeing no directions to Dollis

Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where it lay, from an elderly

man, who was standing with another countryman near the little prison.

“Whose house do you want, master?” said the man, touching his hat.

“Mr. Wood's,” was the reply.

“There is Dollis Hill,” said the man, pointing to a well-wooded

eminence about a mile distant, “and there,” he added, indicating the

roof of a house just visible above a grove of trees “is Mr. Wood's.

If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to

Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go.”

The young man thanked his informant, and was about to follow his

instructions, when the other called after him----

“I say, master, did you ever hear tell of Mr. Wood's famous

'prentice?”

“What apprentice?” asked the stranger, in surprise.

“Why, Jack Sheppard, the notorious house-breaker,--him as has robbed

half Lunnun, to be sure. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the

day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked

a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,--that he

did, the heathen. The gentleman catched him i' th' fact, and we

shut him up for safety i' that pris'n. But,” said the fellow, with

a laugh, “he soon contrived to make his way out on it, though. Ever

since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it

Jack Sheppard's cage. His mother used to live i' this village,

just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went

distracted,--and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd.”

“I tell e'e what, John Dump,” said the other fellow, who had hitherto

preserved silence, “I don't know whether you talkin' o' Jack Sheppard

has put him into my head or not; but I once had him pointed out to

me, and if that _were_ him as I seed then, he's just now ridden past

us, and put up at the Six Bells.”

“The deuce he has!” cried Dump. “If you were sure o' that we might

seize him, and get the reward for his apprehension.”

“That 'ud be no such easy matter,” replied the countryman. “Jack's a

desperate fellow, and is always well armed; besides, he has a comrade

with him. But I'll tell e'e what we _might_ do----”

The young man heard no more. Taking the direction pointed out, he

rode off. As he passed the Six Bells, he noticed the steeds of the

two horsemen at the door; and glancing into the house, perceived the

younger of the two in the passage. The latter no sooner beheld him

than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. After debating with

himself whether he should further seek an interview, which, though,

now in his power, was so sedulously shunned by the other party, he

decided in the negative; and contenting himself with writing upon a

slip of paper the hasty words,--“You are known by the villagers,--be

upon your guard,”--he gave it to the ostler, with instructions to

deliver it instantly to the owner of the horse he pointed out, and

pursued his course.

Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend

screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he

obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he

reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village

of Neasdon. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through

a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of

Dollis Hill. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight

was gently stealing over the face of the country. Bordered by fine

timber, the road occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley,

until a wider opening gave a full view of a delightful and varied

prospect. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with

villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the

metropolis. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his

destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house.

Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the

roof, stood Mr. Wood's dwelling,--a plain, substantial, commodious

farm-house. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his

mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking

the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. The progress of time

was marked in Mr. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers

of vision,--by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier

breath and a fuller habit. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the

country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek.

Around him were all the evidences of plenty. A world of haystacks,

bean-stacks, and straw-ricks flanked the granges adjoining his

habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry, pigeons were feeding

at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the stall, horses led

to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain, and stalking

majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of farming-men

were passing and repassing about their various occupations. At the

back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden,

full of apple-trees and other fruit-trees in blossom, and lively with

the delicious verdure of early spring.

Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. Wood turned to look at him. It

was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the

features and figure of the stranger.

“I need not ask whether this is Mr. Wood's,” said the latter, “since

I find him at his own gate.”

“You are right, Sir,” said the worthy carpenter, rising. “I am Owen

Wood, at your service.”

“You do not remember me, I dare say,” observed the stranger.

“I can't say I do,” replied Wood. “Your voice seems familiar to

me--and--but I'm getting a little deaf--and my eyes don't serve me

quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light.”

“Never mind,” returned the stranger, dismounting; “you'll recollect

me by and by, I've no doubt. I bring you tidings of an old friend.”

“Then you're heartily welcome, Sir, whoever you are. Pray, walk in.

Here, Jem, take the gentleman's horse to the stable--see him dressed

and fed directly. Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?”

Mr. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern

notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a

neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers

and creepers. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding

this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs.

Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,--as

well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to

recognise the carpenter's daughter.

Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Her features were still

slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of

her as a child,--but that was the only drawback to her beauty. Their

expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance

a thousand times plainer than hers. Her figure was perfect,--tall,

graceful, rounded,--and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that

rivalled the stars in lustre. On the stranger's appearance, she was

seated near the window busily occupied with her needle.

“My wife and daughter, Sir,” said the carpenter, introducing them to

his guest.

Mrs. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means

abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and

made him a very civil salutation. Winifred's reception was kind,

but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her

occupation.

“This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear,” said

the carpenter.

“Ay, indeed! And who may that be?” inquired his wife.

“One whom you may perhaps have forgotten,” replied the stranger, “but

who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at

those of your excellent husband.”

At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from

Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from

her hand.

“I have a token to deliver to you,” continued the stranger,

addressing her.

“To me?” gasped Winifred.

“This locket,” he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black

ribband from his breast, and giving it her,--“do you remember it?”

“I do--I do!” cried Winifred.

“What's all this?” exclaimed Wood in amazement.

“Do you not know me, father?” said the young man, advancing towards

him, and warmly grasping his hand. “Have nine years so changed me,

that there is no trace left of your adopted son?”

“God bless me!” ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, “can--can

it be?”

“Surely,” screamed Mrs. Wood, joining the group, “it isn't Thames

Darrell come to life again?”

“It is--it is!” cried Winifred, rushing towards him, and flinging her

arms round his neck,--“it is my dear--dear brother!”

“Well, this is what I never expected to see,” said the carpenter,

wiping his eyes; “I hope I'm not dreaming! Thames, my dear boy, as

soon as Winny has done with you, let me embrace you.”

“My turn comes before yours, Sir,” interposed his better half. “Come

to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!”

To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or

describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had

hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to

squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his

wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic

actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction--to

describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the

more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be

a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. Supper

was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the

cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the

party could eat or drink--their hearts were too full.

Thames sat with Winifred's hand clasped in his own, and commenced a

recital of his adventures, which may be briefly told. Carried out to

sea by Van Galgebrok, and thrown overboard, while struggling with the

waves, he had been picked up by a French fishing-boat, and carried

to Ostend. After encountering various hardships and privations for

a long time, during which he had no means of communicating with

England, he, at length, found his way to Paris, where he was

taken notice of by Cardinal Dubois, who employed him as one of his

secretaries, and subsequently advanced to the service of Philip of

Orleans, from whom he received a commission. On the death of his

royal patron, he resolved to return to his own country; and, after

various delays, which had postponed it to the present time, he had

succeeded in accomplishing his object.

Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention;

and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how

deeply her feelings had been interested.

The discourse, then, turned to Darrell's old playmate, Jack

Sheppard; and Mr. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the

melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.

“For my part, it's only what I expected of him,” observed Mrs. Wood,

“and I'm sorry and surprised he hasn't swung for his crimes before

this. The gallows has groaned for him for years. As to his mother,

I've no pity for her. She deserves what has befallen her.”

“Dear mother, don't say so,” returned Winifred. “One of the

consequences of criminal conduct, is the shame and disgrace

which--worse than any punishment the evil-doer can suffer--is brought

by it upon the innocent relatives; and, if Jack had considered this,

perhaps he would not have acted as he has done, and have entailed so

much misery on his unhappy parent.”

“I always detested Mrs. Sheppard,” cried the carpenter's wife

bitterly; “and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her.”

“My dear,” observed Wood, “you should be more charitable--”

“Charitable!” repeated his wife, “that's your constant cry. Marry,

come up! I've been a great deal too charitable. Here's Winny always

urging you to go and visit Mrs. Sheppard in the asylum, and take her

this, and send her that;--and I've never prevented you, though such

mistaken liberality's enough to provoke a saint. And, then, forsooth,

she must needs prevent your hanging Jack Sheppard after the robbery

in Wych Street, when you might have done so. Perhaps you'll call

that charity: _I_ call it defeating the ends of justice. See what a

horrible rascal you've let loose upon the world!”

“I'm sure, mother,” rejoined Winifred, “if any one was likely to feel

resentment, I was; for no one could be more frightened. But I was

sorry for poor Jack--as I am still, and hoped he would mend.”

“Mend!” echoed Mrs. Wood, contemptuously, “he'll never mend till he

comes to Tyburn.”

“At least, I will hope so,” returned Winifred. “But, as I was saying,

I was most dreadfully frightened on the night of the robbery! Though

so young at the time, I remember every circumstance distinctly. I was

sitting up, lamenting your departure, dear Thames, when, hearing

an odd noise, I went to the landing, and, by the light of a dark

lantern, saw Jack Sheppard, stealing up stairs, followed by two men

with crape on their faces. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much

terrified to scream out--but ran and hid myself.”

“Hold your tongue!” cried Mrs. Wood. “I declare you throw me into an

ague. Do you think _I_ forget it? Didn't they help themselves to all

the plate and the money--to several of my best dresses, and amongst

others, to my favourite kincob gown; and I've never been able to get

another like it! Marry, come up! I'd hang 'em all, if I could. Were

such a thing to happen again, I'd never let Mr. Wood rest till he

brought the villains to justice.”

“I hope such a thing never _will_ happen again, my dear,” observed

Wood, mildly, “but, when it does, it will be time to consider what

course we ought to pursue.”

“Let them attempt it, if they dare!” cried Mrs. Wood, who had worked

herself into a passion; “and, I'll warrant 'em, the boldest robber

among 'em shall repent it, if he comes across me.”

“No doubt, my dear,” acquiesced the carpenter, “no doubt.”

Thames, who had been more than once on the point of mentioning

his accidental rencounter with Jack Sheppard, not being

altogether without apprehension, from the fact of his being in the

neighbourhood,--now judged it more prudent to say nothing on the

subject, from a fear of increasing Mrs. Wood's displeasure; and he

was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began

to turn upon his own affairs. Mr. Wood could give him no further

information respecting Sir Rowland Trenchard than what he had

obtained from Kneebone; but begged him to defer the further

consideration of the line of conduct he meant to pursue until the

morrow, when he hoped to have a plan to lay before him, of which he

would approve.

The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of

separating. As Mrs. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted

the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him

laughingly, that she would “defer all _she_ had to propose to him

until to-morrow.”

To-morrow! She never beheld it.

After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by

the carpenter to his sleeping apartment--a comfortable cosy chamber;

such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with

its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean

white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. Left to

himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he

beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. It was a copy

of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and

awakened a thousand tender recollections.

When about to retire to rest, the rencounter with Jack Sheppard again

recurred to him, and he half blamed himself for not acquainting Mr.

Wood with the circumstances, and putting him upon his guard against

the possibility of an attack. On weighing the matter over, he grew so

uneasy that he resolved to descend, and inform him of his misgivings.

But, when he got to the door with this intention, he became ashamed

of his fears; and feeling convinced that Jack--bad as he might

be--was not capable of such atrocious conduct as to plunder his

benefactor twice, he contented himself with looking to the priming of

his pistols, and placing them near him, to be ready in case of need,

he threw himself on the bed and speedily fell asleep.