Jack Sheppard. Vol. 2

“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.