Jack Sheppard. Vol. 3

CHAPTER XI. DOLLIS HILL REVISITED

About an hour after the occurrences at Newgate, the door of the small back-parlour already described at Dollis Hill was opened by Winifred, who, gliding noiselessly across the room, approached a couch, on which was extended a sleeping female, and, gazing anxiously at her pale careworn countenance, murmured,—“Heaven be praised! she still slumbers—slumbers peacefully. The opiate has done its duty. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!”

Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Its very calmness was frightful. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. Her attenuated arms were crossed upon her breast; and her black brows and eyelashes contrasted fearfully with the livid whiteness of her skin. A few short, dark locks, escaping from beneath her head-dress, showed that her hair had been removed, and had only been recently allowed to grow again.

“Poor Mrs. Sheppard!” sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,—“Poor Mrs. Sheppard! when I see her thus, and think of all she has endured, of all she may yet have to endure, I could almost pray for her release from trouble. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son’s fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs.”

As she said this, she drew a little aside, while Mrs. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever.

“Where am I?” she cried, passing her hand across her brow.

“With your friends, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” replied Winifred, advancing.

“Ah! you are there, my dear young lady,” said the widow, smiling faintly; “when I first waken, I’m always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum.”

“You need never be afraid of that,” returned Winifred, affectionately; “my father will take care you never leave him more.”

“Oh! how much I owe him!” said the widow, with fervour, “for bringing me here, and removing me from those dreadful sights and sounds, that would have driven me distracted, even if I had been in my right mind. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention. Without you I should never have recovered either health or reason. I can never be grateful enough. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will.”

“Don’t say anything about it, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” rejoined Winifred, controlling her emotion, and speaking as cheerfully as she could; “I would do anything in the world for you, and so would my father, and so would Thames; but he ought, for he’s your nephew, you know. We all love you dearly.”

“Bless you! bless you!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears.

“I mustn’t tell you what Thames means to do for you if ever he gains his rights,” continued Winifred; “but I may tell you what my father means to do.”

“He has done too much already,” answered the widow. “I shall need little more.”

“But, do hear what it is,” rejoined Winifred; “you know I’m shortly to be united to your nephew,—that is,” she added, blushing, “when he can be married by his right name, for my father won’t consent to it before.”

“Your father will never oppose your happiness, my dear, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Sheppard; “but, what has this to do with me?”

“You shall hear,” replied Winifred; “when this marriage takes place, you and I shall be closely allied, but my father wishes for a still closer alliance.”

“I don’t understand you,” returned Mrs. Sheppard.

“To be plain, then,” said Winifred, “he has asked me whether I have any objection to you as a mother.”

“And what—what was your answer?” demanded the widow, eagerly.

“Can’t you guess?” returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. “That he couldn’t choose any one so agreeable to me.”

“Winifred,” said Mrs. Sheppard, after a brief pause, during which she appeared overcome by her feelings,—she said, gently disengaging herself from the young girl’s embrace, and speaking in a firm voice, “you must dissuade your father from this step.”

“How?” exclaimed the other. “Can you not love him?”

“Love him!” echoed the widow. “The feeling is dead within my breast. My only love is for my poor lost son. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.”

“Your esteem is all he will require,” urged Winifred.

“He has it, and will ever have it,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, passionately,—“he has my boundless gratitude, and devotion. But I am not worthy to be any man’s wife—far less his wife. Winifred, you are deceived in me. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. No—no, it must never be.”

“You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” rejoined Winifred kindly. “Your faults were the faults of circumstances.”

“Palliate them as you may,” replied the widow, gravely, “they were faults; and as such, cannot be repaired by a greater wrong. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again.”

“I’m sorry I mentioned it at all, since it distresses you,” returned Winifred; “but, as I knew my father intended to propose to you, if poor Jack should be respited—”

“If he should be respited?” repeated Mrs. Sheppard, with startling eagerness. “Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!”

Winifred made no answer.

“Your hesitation convinces me he does,” replied the widow. “Is Thames returned from London?”

“Not yet,” replied the other; “but I expect him every minute. My father’s chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild.”

“That fiend is ever in my path,” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, with a look, the wildness of which greatly alarmed her companion. “I cannot scare him thence.”

“Hark!” cried Winifred, “Thames is arrived. I hear the sound of his horse’s feet in the yard. Now you will learn the result.”

“Heaven support me!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, faintly.

“Breathe at this phial,” said Winifred.

Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling.

“Well!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. “He is respited?”

“Alas! no,” replied Thames, sadly. “The warrant for his execution is arrived. There is no further hope.”

“My poor son!” groaned the widow, sinking backwards.

“Heaven have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Wood.

“Poor Jack!” cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover’s bosom.

Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.

At length, she suddenly started to her feet; and before Winifred could prevent her, staggered up to Thames.

“When is he to suffer?” she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him.

“On Friday,” he replied.

“Friday!” echoed Mrs. Sheppard; “and to-day is Monday. He has three days to live. Only three days. Three short days. Horrible!”

“Poor soul! her senses are going again,” said Mr. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks. “I was afraid it would be so.”

“Only three days,” reiterated the widow, “three short short days,—and then all is over. Jonathan’s wicked threat is fulfilled at last. The gallows is in view—I see it with all its hideous apparatus!—ough!” and shuddering violently, she placed her hands before her, as if to exclude some frightful vision from her sight.

“Do not despair, my sweet soul,” said Wood, in a soothing tone.

“Do not despair!” echoed Mrs. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—“Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. Ha! ha! What have I left but despair and madness? Promise me one thing, Mr. Wood,” she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter’s arm, “promise it me.”

“Anything, my dear,” replied Wood, “What is it?”

“Bury us together in one grave in Willesden churchyard. There is a small yew-tree west of the church. Beneath that tree let us lie. In one grave, mind. Do you promise to do this?”

“Solemnly,” rejoined the carpenter.

“Enough,” said the widow, gratefully. “I must see him to-night.”

“Impossible, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” said Thames. “To-morrow I will take you to him.”

“To-morrow will be too late,” replied the widow, in a hollow voice, “I feel it will. I must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again. I must bless him before I die. I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return.”

“Be pacified, sweet soul,” said Wood, looking meaningly at Thames; “you shall go, and I will accompany you.”

“A mother’s blessing on you,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, fervently. “And now,” she added, with somewhat more composure, “leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.”

“Shall we do so?” whispered Winifred to her father.

“By all means,” returned Wood; “don’t delay an instant.” And, followed by the young couple, who gazed wistfully at the poor sufferer, he hastily quitted the room, and locked the door after him.

Mrs. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—“Mother!”

She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son’s outstretched arms. “Mother! dear mother!” cried Jack, folding her to his breast.

“My son! my dear, dear son!” returned Mrs. Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent’s tenderness.

Jack was completely overcome. His chest heaved violently, and big tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks.

“I don’t deserve it,” he said, at length; “but I would have risked a thousand deaths to enjoy this moment’s happiness.”

“And you must have risked much to obtain it, my love. I have scarcely recovered from the shock of hearing of your condemnation, when I behold you free!”

“Not two hours since,” rejoined Jack, “I was chained down in the Condemned Hold in Newgate. With a small saw, conveyed to me a few days since by Thames Darrell, which I contrived to conceal upon my person, I removed a spike in the hatch, and, with the aid of some other friends, worked my way out. Having heard from Thames that you were better, and that your sole anxiety was about me, I came to give you the first intelligence of my escape.”

“Bless you for it. But you will stay here?”

“I dare not. I must provide for my safety.”

“Mr. Wood will protect you,” urged Mrs. Sheppard.

“He has not the power—perhaps not the will to do so. And if he would, I would not subject him to the annoyance. The moment my escape is known, a large reward will be placed on my head. My dress, my person will be minutely described. Jonathan Wild and his bloodhounds, with a hundred others, incited by the reward, will be upon my track. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me.”

“You terrify me,” cried Mrs. Sheppard. “Oh! if this is the case, do not stay an instant. Fly! fly!”

“As soon as I can do so with safety, I will return, or send to you,” said Jack.

“Do not endanger yourself on my account,” rejoined his mother. “I am quite easy now; receive my blessing, my dear son; and if we never meet again, rest assured my last prayer shall be for you.”

“Do not talk thus, dear mother,” returned Jack, gazing anxiously at her pale countenance, “or I shall not be able to quit you. You must live for me.”

“I will try to do so,” replied the widow, forcing a smile. “One last embrace. I need not counsel you to avoid those fatal courses which have placed you in such fearful jeopardy.”

“You need not,” replied Jack, in a tone of the deepest compunction. “And, oh! forgive me, though I can never forgive myself, for the misery I have caused you.”

“Forgive you!” echoed his mother, with a look radiant with delight. “I have nothing to forgive. Ah!” she screamed, with a sudden change of manner; and pointing to the window, which Jack had left open, and at which a dark figure was standing, “there is Jonathan Wild!”

“Betrayed!” exclaimed Jack, glancing in the same direction. “The door!—the door!—death!” he added, as he tried the handle, “it is locked—and I am unarmed. Madman that I am to be so!”

“Help!” shrieked Mrs. Sheppard.

“Be silent,” said Jonathan, striding deliberately into the room; “these cries will avail you nothing. Whoever answers them must assist me to capture your son. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety.”

Awed by Jonathan’s manner, Mrs. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window. In addition to his customary arms, Jonathan carried a bludgeon with a large heavy knob, suspended from his wrist by a loop; a favourite weapon, which he always took with him on dangerous expeditions, and which, if any information had been requisite, would have told Sheppard that the present was one of them.

“Well, Jack,” he said, after a pause, “are you disposed to go back quietly with me?”

“You’ll ascertain that when you attempt to touch me,” rejoined Sheppard, resolutely.

“My janizaries are within call,” returned Wild. “I’m armed; you are not.”

“It matters not. You shall not take me alive.”

“Spare him! spare him!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, falling on her knees.

“Get up, mother,” cried Jack; “do not kneel to him. I wouldn’t accept my life from him. I’ve foiled him hitherto, and will foil him yet. And, come what will, I’ll balk him of the satisfaction of hanging me.”

Jonathan raised his bludgeon, but controlled himself by a powerful effort.

“Fool!” he cried, “do you think I wouldn’t have secured you before this if I hadn’t some motive for my forbearance?”

“And that motive is fear,” replied Jack contemptuously.

“Fear!” echoed Wild, in a terrible tone,—“fear! Repeat that word again, and nothing shall save you.”

“Don’t anger him, my dear son,” implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack. “Perhaps he means well.”

“Mad as you are, you’re the more sensible of the two, I must say,” rejoined Jonathan.

“Spare him!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, who fancied she had made some impression on the obdurate breast of the thief-taker,—“spare him! and I will forgive you, will thank you, bless you. Spare him! spare him!”

“On one condition I will spare him,” returned Wild; “on one condition only.”

“What is it?” asked the poor woman.

“Either he or you must return with me,” answered Jonathan.

“Take me, then,” replied the widow. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son.

“Do not go near him, mother,” cried Jack; “do not believe him. There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words.”

“I will go,” said Mrs. Sheppard, struggling to get free.

“Attend to me, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Jonathan, looking calmly on at this distressing scene, “Attend to me, and do not heed him. I swear to you, solemnly swear to you, I will save your son’s life, nay more, will befriend him, will place him out of the reach of his enemies, if you consent to become my wife.”

“Execrable villain!” exclaimed Jack.

“You hear that,” cried Mrs. Sheppard; “he swears to save you.”

“Well,” replied her son; “and you spurn the proposal.”

“No; she accepts it,” rejoined Jonathan, triumphantly. “Come along, Mrs. Sheppard. I’ve a carriage within call shall convey you swiftly to town. Come! come!”

“Hear me, mother,” cried Jack, “and I will explain to you why the villain makes this strange and revolting proposal. He well knows that but two lives—those of Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland Trenchard,—stand between you and the vast possessions of the family. Those lives removed,—and Sir Rowland is completely in his power, the estates would be yours—HIS! if he were your husband. Now do you see his motive?”

“I see nothing but your danger,” replied his mother, tenderly.

“Granted it were as you say, Jack,” said Wild;—“and I sha’n’t take the trouble to contradict you—the estates would be yours hereafter.”

“Liar!” cried Jack. “Do you affect ignorance that I am a condemned felon, and can inherit nothing? But do not imagine that under any circumstances I would accept your terms. My mother shall never degrade herself by a connection with you.”

“Degrade herself,” rejoined Jonathan, brutally. “Do you think I would take a harlot to my bed, if it didn’t suit my purposes to do so?”

“He says right,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, distractedly. “I am only fit for such as him. Take me! take me!”

“Before an hour you shall be mine,” said Jonathan advancing towards her.

“Back!” cried Jack fiercely: “lay a finger on her, and I will fell you to the ground. Mother! do you know what you do? Would you sell yourself to this fiend?”

“I would sell myself, body and soul, to save you,” rejoined his mother, bursting from his grasp.

Jonathan caught her in his arms.

“Come away!” he cried, with the roar of a demon.

This laugh and his looks alarmed her.

“It is the fiend!” she exclaimed, recoiling. “Save me!—save me!”

“Damnation!” vociferated Jonathan, savagely. “We’ve no time for any Bedlam scenes now. Come along, you mad jade. I’ll teach you submission in time.”

With this, he endeavoured to force her off; but, before he could accomplish his purpose, he was arrested, and his throat seized by Jack. In the struggle, Mrs. Sheppard broke from him, and filled the room with her shrieks.

“I’ll now pay the debt I owe you,” cried Jack, tightening his grip till the thief-taker blackened in the face.

“Dog!” cried Wild, freeing himself by a powerful effort, and dealing Jack a violent blow with the heavy bludgeon, which knocked him backwards, “you are not yet a match for Jonathan Wild. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me. But I must summon my janizaries.” So saying, he raised a whistle to his lips, and blew a loud call; and, as this was unanswered, another still louder. “Confusion!” he cried; “something has happened. But I won’t be cheated of my prize.”

“Help! help!” shrieked Mrs. Sheppard, fleeing from him to the farthest corner of the room.

But it was of no avail. Jonathan again seized her, when the door was thrown open, and Thames Darrell, followed by Mr. Wood and several serving-men, all well armed, rushed into the room. A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. He flew to the window, and would have passed his sword through the thief-taker’s body, if the latter had not quickly interposed the person of Mrs. Sheppard, so that if the blow had been stricken she must have received it.

“Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?” vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time.

“You call in vain,” rejoined Thames. “Your assistants are in my power. Yield, villain!”

“Never!” replied Jonathan.

“Put down your burthen, monster!” shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him.

“Take her,” cried Jonathan; and, flinging the now inanimate body of the poor widow, who had fainted in the struggle, into the arms of Thames, he leapt through the window, and by the time the latter could consign her to Wood, and dart after him, he had disappeared.

“Pursue him,” cried Thames to the attendants, “and see that he does not escape.”

The order was promptly obeyed.

“Jack,” continued Thames, addressing Sheppard, who had only just recovered from the blow, and regained his feet, “I don’t ask how you came here, nor do I blame your rashness in doing so. Fortunately, ever since Wild’s late murderous attack, the household has all been well armed. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. On searching the grounds, we found two suspicious-looking fellows in the garden, and had scarcely secured them, when your mother’s cries summoned us hither, just in time to preserve her.”

“Your arrival was most providential,” said Jack.

“You must not remain here another instant,” replied Thames. “My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly.”

“Thames, I have much to say,” said Jack, “much that concerns your safety.”

“Not now,” returned Thames, impatiently. “I cannot—will not suffer you to remain here.”

“I will go, if you will consent to meet me at midnight near the old house in Wych Street,” replied Jack. “By that time, I shall have fully considered a plan which occurs to me for defeating the schemes of your enemies.”

“Before that time you will be captured, if you expose yourself thus,” rejoined Thames. “However, I will be there. Farewell.”

“Till midnight,” replied Jack.

And imprinting a kiss upon his mother’s cold lips, he left the room. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town.

CHAPTER XII. THE WELL HOLE

Jonathan Wild’s first object, as soon as he had made good his retreat, was to ascertain what had become of his janizaries, and, if possible, to release them. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. Advancing towards them, sword in hand, Jonathan so terrified the hinds by his fierce looks and determined manner, that, after a slight show of resistance, they took to their heels, leaving him master of the field. He then threw open the door of the vehicle, in which he found his janizaries with their arms pinioned, and, leaping into it, ordered the man to drive off. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. Arrived at the latter place, Jonathan, who, meanwhile, had contrived to liberate his attendants from their bonds, drew up at the Six Bells, and hiring a couple of horses, despatched his attendants in search of Jack Sheppard, while he proceeded to town. Dismissing the post-chaise at the Old Bailey, he walked to Newgate to ascertain what had occurred since the escape. It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. Austin was dismissing a host of inquirers who had been attracted thither by the news,—for it had already been extensively noised abroad. Some of these persons were examining the spot where the spike had been cut off; others the spike itself, now considered a remarkable object; and all were marvelling how Jack could have possibly squeezed himself through such a narrow aperture, until it was explained to them by Mr. Austin that the renowned housebreaker was of slender bodily conformation, and therefore able to achieve a feat, which he, Mr. Austin, or any man of similar dimensions, would have found wholly impossible. Affixed to the wall, in a conspicuous situation, was a large placard, which, after minutely describing Sheppard’s appearance and attire, concluded thus:—“Whoever will discover or apprehend the above JOHN SHEPPARD, so that he be brought to justice, shall receive ONE HUNDRED GUINEAS REWARD, to be paid by MR. PITT, the keeper of Newgate.”