“You are free,” said he, “that grating forms a ladder, by which you may descend in safety. I learned the trick of the place from one Paul Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. He used to call it his fire-escape — ha! ha! I’ve often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. And now, Sir, have I kept faith with you?”
“You have,” replied Darrell. “Here is my purse; and I trust you will let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service.”
“It matters not who I am,” replied Jonathan, taking the money. “As I said before, I have little reliance upon professions of gratitude.”
“I know not how it is,” sighed Darrell, “but I feel an unaccountable misgiving at quitting this place. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger.”
“You know best,” replied Jonathan, sneeringly; “but if I were in your place I would take the chance of a future and uncertain risk to avoid a present and certain peril.”
“You are right,” replied Darrell; “the weakness is past. Which is the nearest way to the river?”
“Why, it’s an awkward road to direct you,” returned Jonathan. “But if you turn to the right when you reach the ground, and keep close to the Mint wall, you’ll speedily arrive at White Cross Street; White Cross Street, if you turn again to the right, will bring you into Queen Street; Queen Street, bearing to the left, will conduct you to Deadman’s Place; and Deadman’s Place to the water-side, not fifty yards from Saint Saviour’s stairs, where you’re sure to get a boat.”
“The very point I aim at,” said Darrell as he passed through the outlet.
“Stay!” said Jonathan, aiding his descent; “you had better take my lantern. It may be useful to you. Perhaps you’ll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again. Your glove will suffice.”
“There it is;” replied the other, tossing him the glove. “Are you sure these bars touch the ground?”
“They come within a yard of it,” answered Jonathan.
“Safe!” shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. “Good night!”
“So,” muttered Jonathan, “having started the hare, I’ll now unleash the hounds.”
With this praiseworthy determination, he was hastening down stairs, with the utmost rapidity, when he encountered a female, whom he took, in the darkness, to be Mrs. Sheppard. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him.
“Where is he?” asked she, in an agitated whisper. “I heard his voice; but I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of giving the alarm.”
“If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back window,” replied Jonathan.
“Thank Heaven!” she gasped.
“Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say,” observed Jonathan, sarcastically. “You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child’s neck twisted.”
“What do you mean?” asked the female, in astonishment.
“I mean what I say,” replied Jonathan. “Perhaps you don’t know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got off with his own brat.”
“Then this is not my child?” exclaimed she, with increased astonishment.
“If you have a child there, it certainly is not,” answered Jonathan, a little surprised; “for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin, who is still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not unlikely, he’s gone to see your other friend disciplined at the pump.”
“Merciful providence!” exclaimed the female. “Whose child can this be?”
“How the devil should I know!” replied Jonathan gruffly. “I suppose it didn’t drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it’s flesh and blood?” asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain.
“My child! my child!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, rushing from the adjoining room. “Where is it?”
“Are you the mother of this child?” inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. Sheppard.
“I am — I am!” cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to her breast with rapturous delight “God be thanked, I have found it!”
“We have both good reason to be grateful,” added the lady, with great emotion.
“‘Sblood!” cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing conversation with angry wonder, “I’ve been nicely done here. Fool that I was to part with my lantern! But I’ll soon set myself straight. What ho! lights! lights!”
And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.
“Where shall I fly?” exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. “They will kill me, if they find me, as they would have killed my husband and child. Oh God! my limbs fail me.”
“Make an effort, Madam,” cried Mrs. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; “they are coming! — they are coming! — fly! — to the roof! to the roof.”
“No,” cried the lady, “this room — I recollect — it has a back window.”
“It is shut,” said Mrs. Sheppard.
“It is open,” replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing through the outlet.
“Where is she?” thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs. Sheppard.
“She has flown up stairs,” replied the widow.
“You lie, hussy!” replied Jonathan, rudely pushing her aside, as she vainly endeavoured to oppose his entrance into the room; “she is here. Hist!” cried he, as a scream was heard from without. “By G — ! she has missed her footing.”
There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble groans.
Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch.
He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland.
“Your sister is dead,” said he, in a deep whisper.
“Her blood be upon her own head, then,” replied Rowland, sternly. “Why came she here?”
“She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither,” replied Sir Cecil, mournfully.
“Descend and take charge of the body,” said Rowland, conquering his emotion by a great effort, “I will join you in a moment. This accident rather confirms than checks my purpose. The stain upon our family is only half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain and his bastard, and I will keep my oath. Now, Sir,” he added, turning to Jonathan, as Sir Cecil and his followers obeyed his injunctions, “you say you know the road which the person whom we seek has taken?”
“I do,” replied Jonathan. “But I give no information gratis!”
“Speak, then,” said Rowland, placing money in his hand.
“You’ll find him at St. Saviours’s stairs,” answered Jonathan. “He’s about to cross the river. You’d better lose no time. He has got five minutes’ start of you. But I sent him the longest way about.”
The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared.
“And now to see the end of it,” said Jonathan, shortly afterwards passing through the window. “Good night, Master.”
Three persons only were left in the room. These were the Master of the Mint, Van Galgebrok, and Mrs. Sheppard.
“A bad business this, Van,” observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of the head.
“Ja, ja, Muntmeester,” said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply;— “very bad — very.”
“But then they’re staunch supporters of our friend over the water,” continued Baptist, winking significantly; “so we must e’en hush it up in the best way we can.”
“Ja,” answered Van Galgebrok. “But — sapperment! — I wish they hadn’t br
oken my pipe.”
“JONATHAN WILD promises well,” observed the Master, after a pause: “he’ll become a great man. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so.”
“He’ll be hanged nevertheless,” replied the Hollander, giving his collar an ugly jerk. “Mind, I, Rykhart Van Galgebrok predict it. And now let’s go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester.”
“Alas!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving way to a passionate flood of tears; “were it not for my child, I should wish to be in the place of that unfortunate lady.”
* * *
CHAPTER V. THE DENUNCIATION.
For a short space, Mrs. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. “Open my heart, Father of Mercy!” she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, “and make me sensible of the error of my ways. I have sinned deeply; but I have been sorely tried. Spare me yet a little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor babe.” Her utterance was here choked by sobs. “But if it is thy will to take me from him,” she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,— “if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother’s feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment. Spare him! — pity me!”
With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house.
“Halloa, widow!” shouted a rough voice from below, “where the devil are you?”
Mrs. Sheppard returned no answer.
“I’ve got something to say to you,” continued the speaker, rather less harshly; “something to your advantage; so come out o’ your hiding-place, and let’s have some supper, for I’m infernally hungry. — D’ye hear?”
Still the widow remained silent.
“Well, if you won’t come, I shall help myself, and that’s unsociable,” pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the action to the word. “Devilish nice ham you’ve got here! — capital pie! — and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. You’re in luck to-night, widow. Here’s your health in a bumper, and wishing you a better husband than your first. It’ll be your own fault if you don’t soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. Here’s his health likewise. What! mum still. You’re the first widow I ever heard of who could withstand that lure. I’ll try the effect of a jolly stave.” And he struck up the following ballad: —
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
SAINT GILES’S BOWL.*
* At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners
conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be
executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were
presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their
last refreshing in this life. — Strype’s Stow. Book. IX.
ch. III.
I. Where Saint-Giles’ church stands, once a la-zar-house
stood; And, chain’d to its gates, was a ves-sel of wood; A
broad-bottom’d bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who
pass’d by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might
tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown, in a
sea of good li-quor, all fear! For nothing the
tran-sit to Ty-burn beguiles, So well as a
draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
II. By many a highwayman many a draught
Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles’s was quaft,
Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
And the broad-bottom’d bowl was removed to the Crown.
Where the robber may cheer
His spirit with beer,
And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
III. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth,
OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth:
There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up,
And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup!
For a can of ale calms,
A highwayman’s qualms,
And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms
And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
“Singing’s dry work,” observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. “And now, widow,” he continued, “attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o’ yours.”
IV. When gallant TOM SHEPPARD to Tyburn was led, —
“Stop the cart at the Crown — stop a moment,” he said.
He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
Crying, “Keep it till call’d for by JONATHAN WILD!
“The rascal one day,
“Will pass by this way,
“And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!
“And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled
“Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as JONATHAN WILD!”
V. Should it e’er be my lot to ride backwards that way,
At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;
I’ll summon the landlord — I’ll call for the Bowl,
And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul!
Whatever may hap,
I’ll taste of the tap,
To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles
So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles!
“Devil seize the woman!” growled the singer, as he brought his ditty to a close; “will nothing tempt her out? Widow Sheppard, I say,” he added, rising, “don’t be afraid. It’s only a gentleman come to offer you his hand. ‘He that woos a maid’, — fol-de-rol — (hiccupping). — I’ll soon find you out.”
Mrs. Sheppard, whose distress at the consumption of the provisions had been somewhat allayed by the anticipation of the intruder’s departure after he had satisfied his appetite, was now terrified in the extreme by seeing a light approach, and hearing footsteps on the stairs. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other.
“Oh, you’re here, are you?” said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh: “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Let me go,” implored Mrs. Sheppard,— “pray let me go. You hurt the child. Don’t you hear how you’ve made it cry?”
“Throttle the kid!” rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. “If you don’t stop its squalling, I will. I hate children. And, if I’d my own way, I’d drown ’em all like a litter o’ puppies.”
Well knowing the savage temper of the person she had to deal with, and how likely he was to put his threat into execution, Mrs. Sheppard did not dare to return any answer; but, disengaging herself from his embrace, endeavoured meekly to comply with his request.
“And now, widow,” continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a bench, “I’ve a piece o’ good news for you.”
“Good news will be news to me. What is it?”
“Guess,” rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression into his forbidding countenance.
Mrs. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning too well, s
he answered,— “I can’t guess.”
“Well, then,” returned the ruffian, “to put you out o’ suspense, as the topsman remarked to poor Tom Sheppard, afore he turned him off, I’m come to make you an honourable proposal o’ marriage. You won’t refuse me, I’m sure; so no more need be said about the matter. To-morrow, we’ll go to the Fleet and get spliced. Don’t shake so. What I said about your brat was all stuff. I didn’t mean it. It’s my way when I’m ruffled. I shall take to him as nat’ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. — I’ll give him the edication of a prig, — teach him the use of his forks betimes, — and make him, in the end, as clever a cracksman as his father.”
“Never!” shrieked Mrs. Sheppard; “never! never!”
“Halloa! what’s this?” demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. “Do you mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan’t bring him up how I please — eh?”
“Don’t question me, but leave me,” replied the widow wildly; “you had better.”
“Leave you!” echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; “ — not just yet.”
“I am not unprotected,” rejoined the poor woman; “there’s some one at the window. Help! help!”
But her cries were unheeded. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
“It won’t do, widow,” said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, “so you may spare your breath. Come, come, be reasonable, and listen to me. Your kid has already brought me good luck, and may bring me still more if his edication’s attended to. This purse,” he added, chinking it in the air, “and this ring, were given me for him just now by the lady, who made a false step on leaving your house. If I’d been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn’t have happened.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 70