The Collected Novels. William Harrison Ainsworth

soul! — poor soul!” groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. “Well, I’m glad she’s spared this. Oh! Jack, Jack, you’ve much to answer for!”

      “I have, indeed,” replied Sheppard, in a tone of contrition.

      “If this document is correct,” continued Wood, “and I am persuaded it is so — you are as unfortunate as wicked. See what your misconduct has deprived you of — see what you might have been. This is retribution.”

      “I feel it,” replied Jack, in a tone of agony, “and I feel it more on my poor mother’s account than my own.”

      “She has suffered enough for you,” said Wood.

      “She has, she has,” said Jack, in a broken voice.

      “Weep on, reprobate,” cried the carpenter, a little softened. “Those tears will do you good.”

      “Do not distress him, dear father,” said Winifred; “he suffers deeply. Oh, Jack! repent, while it is yet time, of your evil conduct. I will pray for you.”

      “I cannot repent — I cannot pray,” replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. “I should never have been what I am, but for you.”

      “How so?” inquired Winifred.

      “I loved you,” replied Jack — “don’t start — it is over now — I loved you, I say, as a boy. hopelessly, and it made me desperate. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you — that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. But I mustn’t think of these things, or I shall grow mad. I have said your life is in danger, Thames. Do not slight my warning. Sir Rowland Trenchard is aware of your return to England. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild’s, after my escape from the New Prison. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. I overheard them planning your assassination. It is to take place to-night.”

      “O Heavens!” screamed Winifred, while her father lifted up his hands in silent horror.

      “And when I further tell you,” continued Jack, “that, after yourself and my mother, I am the next heir to the estates of my grandfather, Sir Montacute Trenchard, you will perhaps own that my caution is sufficiently disinterested.”

      “Could I credit your wild story, I might do so,” returned Thames, with a look of perplexity.

      “Here are Jonathan Wild’s written instructions to Quilt Arnold,” rejoined Sheppard, producing the pocket-book he had found in the janizary’s clothes. “This letter will vouch for me that a communication has taken place between your enemies.”

      Thames glanced at the despatch, and, after a moment’s reflection, inquired, “In what way is the attempt upon my life to be made?”

      “That I couldn’t ascertain,” replied Jack; “but I advise you to be upon your guard. For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment.”

      “Here!” ejaculated Wood, with a look of alarm. “Oh lord! I hope not.”

      “This I do know,” continued Jack — “Jonathan Wild superintends the attack.”

      “Jonathan Wild!” repeated the carpenter, trembling. “Then it’s all over with us. Oh dear! — how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. We may be all murdered in this unprotected place, and nobody be the wiser.”

      “There’s some one in the garden at this moment,” cried Jack; “I saw a face at the window.”

      “Where — where?” cried Thames.

      “Don’t stir,” replied Jack. “I will at once convince you of the truth of my assertions, and ascertain whether the enemy really is at hand.”

      So saying, he advanced towards the window, threw open the sash, and called out in the voice of Thames Darrell, “Who’s there?”

      He was answered by a shot from a pistol. The ball passed over his head, and lodged in the ceiling.

      “I was right,” replied Jack, returning as coolly as if nothing had happened. “It is Jonathan. Your uncle —our uncle is with him. I saw them both.”

      “May I trust you?” cried Thames, eagerly.

      “You may,” replied Jack: “I’ll fight for you to the last gasp.”

      “Follow me, then,” cried Thames, drawing his sword, and springing through the window.

      “To the world’s end,” answered Jack, darting after him.

      “Thames! — Thames!” cried Winifred, rushing to the window. “He will be murdered! — Help!”

      “My child! — my love!” cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back.

      Two shots were fired, and presently the clashing of swords was heard below.

      After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard.

      Wood, meanwhile, had summoned his men-servants, and having armed them with such weapons as could be found, they proceeded to the garden, where the first object they encountered was Thames Darrell, extended on the ground, and weltering in his blood. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace.

      As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild.

      CHAPTER 8.

       OLD BEDLAM.

       Table of Contents

      When Thames Darrell and Jack Sheppard sprang through the window, they were instantly assailed by Wild, Trenchard, and their attendants. Jack attacked Jonathan with such fury, that he drove him into a shrubbery, and might perhaps have come off the victor, if his foot had not slipped as he made a desperate lunge. In this state it would have been all over with him, as, being stunned by the fall, it was some moments before he could recover himself, if another party had not unexpectedly come to his rescue. This was Blueskin, who burst through the trees, and sword in hand assaulted the thief-taker. As soon as Jack gained his legs, he perceived Blueskin lying, as he thought, dead in the plantation, with a severe cut across his temples, and while he was stooping to assist him, he heard groans at a little distance. Hastening in the direction of the sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground.

      “Are you hurt, Thames?” asked Jack, anxiously.

      “Not dangerously, I hope,” returned Thames; “but fly — save yourself.”

      “Where are the assassins?” cried Sheppard.

      “Gone,” replied the wounded man. “They imagine their work is done. But I may yet live to thwart them.”

      “I will carry you to the house, or fetch Mr. Wood,” urged Jack.

      “No, no,” rejoined Thames; “fly — or I will not answer for your safety. If you desire to please me, you will go.”

      “And leave you thus?” rejoined Jack. “I cannot do it.”

      “Go, I insist,” cried Thames, “or take the consequences upon yourself. I cannot protect you.”

      Thus urged, Jack reluctantly departed. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields — for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party — till he reached the Edgeware Road. Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields — for as yet the New Road was undreamed of — and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. His destination was the New Mint. At this place of refuge, situated in the heart of Wapping, near the river-side, he arrived in less than an hour, in a complete state of exhaustion.

      In