The Collected Novels. William Harrison Ainsworth

replied Jonathan, sarcastically. “You must be a cleverer lad than even I take you for, if you get out of this place.”

      “What ho! Blueskin!” shouted Jack.

      “Here I am, Captain,” cried a voice from without. And the door was suddenly thrown open, and the two janizaries felled to the ground by the strong arm of the stalwart robber.

      “Your boast, you see, was a little premature, Mr. Wild,” said Sheppard. “Adieu, my worthy uncle. Fortunately, I’ve secured the proof of my birth.”

      “Confusion!” thundered Wild. “Close the doors below! Loose the dogs! Curses! they don’t hear me! I’ll ring the alarm-bell.” And he raised his arm with the intention of executing his purpose, when a ball from Jack’s pistol passed through the back of his hand, shattering the limb. “Aha! my lad!” he cried without appearing to regard the pain of the wound; “now I’ll show you no quarter.” And, with the uninjured hand he drew a pistol, which he fired, but without effect, at Jack.

      “Fly, Captain, fly!” vociferated Blueskin; “I shan’t be able to keep these devils down. Fly! they shall knock me on the head — curse ’em! — before they shall touch you.”

      “Come along!” cried Jack, darting through the door. “The key’s on the outside — quick! quick!”

      Instantly alive to this chance, Blueskin broke away. Two shots were fired at him by Jonathan; one of which passed through his hat, and the other through the fleshy part of his arm; but he made good his retreat. The door was closed — locked — and the pair were heard descending the stairs.

      “Hell’s curses!” roared Jonathan. “They’ll escape. Not a moment is to be lost.”

      So saying, he took hold of a ring in the floor, and disclosed a flight of steps, down which he hurried, followed by the janizaries. This means of communication instantly brought them to the lobby. But Jack and his companion were already gone.

      Jonathan threw open the street-door. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. Jonathan looked in that direction, and beheld the fugitives riding off in triumph.

      “To-night it is their turn,” said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. “To-morrow it will be mine.”

      CHAPTER 6.

       WINIFRED RECEIVES TWO PROPOSALS.

       Table of Contents

      The tragical affair at Dollis Hill, it need scarcely be said, was a dreadful blow to the family. Mr. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following — Sunday. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received — her personal attentions.

      The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed — the presence of the mangled corpse — the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required — all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl’s imagination. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. As to Thames, though deeply and painfully affected by the horrible occurrence that had marked his return to his old friends, he was yet able to control his feelings, and devote himself to the alleviation of the distress of the more immediate sufferers by the calamity.

      It was Sunday evening — a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees — the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard — a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window — at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. All these things spoke of peace; — but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. These persons were Mr. Kneebone and Winifred.

      The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. Amongst others who attended the sad ceremony was Mr. Kneebone. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. Overcome by his affliction, Mr. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. Much to her annoyance, therefore, Winifred was left alone with the woollen-draper, who following up a maxim of his own, “that nothing was gained by too much bashfulness,” determined to profit by the opportunity. He had only been prevented, indeed, by a fear of Mrs. Wood from pressing his suit long ago. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position.

      “We have had a sad loss, my dear Winifred,” he began — “for I must use the privilege of an old friend, and address you by that familiar name — we have had a sad loss in the death of your lamented parent, whose memory I shall for ever revere.”

      Winifred’s eyes filled with tears. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. So he resolved to try another tack.

      “What a very remarkable thing it is,” he observed, applying to his snuff-box, “that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,”— Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so — “should turn out to be alive after all. Strange, I shouldn’t know him when he called on me.”

      “It is strange,” replied Winifred, artlessly. “I knew him at once.”

      “Of course,” rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, “but that’s easily accounted for. May I be permitted, as a very old and very dear friend of your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore, to ask you one question?”

      “Undoubtedly,” replied Winifred.

      “And you will answer it frankly?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Now for it,” thought the woollen-draper, “I shall, at least, ascertain how the land lies. — Well, then, my dear,” he added aloud, “do you still entertain the strong attachment you did to Captain Darrell?”

      Winifred’s cheeks glowed with blushes, and fixing her eyes, which flashed with resentment, upon the questioner, she said:

      “I have promised to answer your question, and I will do so. I love him as a brother.”

      “Only as a brother?” persisted Kneebone.

      If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper.

      “If you knew how much importance I attach to your answer,” he continued passionately, “you would not refuse me one. Were Captain Darrell to offer you his hand, would you accept it?”

      “Your impertinence deserves very different treatment, Sir,” said Winifred; “but, to put an end to this annoyance, I will tell you — I would not.”

      “And why not?” asked Kneebone, eagerly.

      “I will not submit