The Collected Novels. William Harrison Ainsworth

      Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocket-book filled with notes.

      “You have behaved like a man of honour, Sir Rowland,” said Wild, after he had twice told over the money. “Right to a farthing.”

      “Give me an acquittance,” said Trenchard.

      “It’s scarcely necessary,” replied Wild; “however, if you require it, certainly. There it is. ‘Received from Sir Rowland Trenchard, 15,000 £. — Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724.’ Will that do?”

      “It will,” replied Trenchard. “This is our last transaction together.”

      “I hope not,” replied Wild.

      “It is the last,” continued the knight, sternly; “and I trust we may never meet again, I have paid you this large sum — not because you are entitled to it, for you have failed in what you undertook to do, but because I desire to be troubled with you no further. I have now settled my affairs, and made every preparation for my departure to France, where I shall spend the remainder of my days. And I have made such arrangements that at my decease tardy justice will be done my injured nephew.”

      “You have made no such arrangements as will compromise me, I hope, Sir Rowland?” said Wild, hastily.

      “While I live you are safe,” rejoined Trenchard; “after my death I can answer for nothing.”

      “‘Sblood!” exclaimed Wild, uneasily. “This alters the case materially. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?” he added abruptly.

      “Why do you ask?” rejoined the other haughtily.

      “Because — because I’m always distrustful of a priest,” rejoined Jonathan.

      “I have just parted from one,” said Trenchard.

      “So much the worse,” replied Jonathan, rising and taking a turn, as if uncertain what to do.

      “So much the better,” rejoined Sir Rowland. “He who stands on the verge of the grave, as I do, should never be unprepared.”

      “You’re strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland,” said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him.

      “If I were so, I should not be here,” returned Trenchard.

      “How so?” asked Wild, curiously.

      “I had a terrible dream last night. I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me.”

      “A terrible dream, indeed,” said Jonathan thoughtfully. “But you mustn’t indulge these gloomy thoughts. Let me recommend a glass of wine.”

      “My penance forbids it,” said Trenchard, waving his hand. “I cannot remain here long.”

      “You will remain longer than you anticipate,” muttered Wild.

      “Before I go,” continued Sir Rowland, “I must beg of you to disclose to me all you know relative to the parentage of Thames Darrell.”

      “Willingly,” replied Wild. “Thinking it likely you might desire to have this information, I prepared accordingly. First, look at this glove. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. You will observe that a coronet is embroidered on it.”

      “Ha!” exclaimed Trenchard, starting, “is he so highly born?”

      “This letter will inform you,” replied Wild, placing a document in his hand.

      “What is this!” cried Sir Rowland. “I know the hand — ha! my friend! and I have murdered him! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded. O God! O God!”

      And he appeared convulsed with agony.

      “Oh! if I had known this,” he exclaimed, “what guilt, what remorse might have been spared me!”

      “Repentance comes too late when the deed’s done,” returned Wild, bitterly.

      “It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew,” cried Trenchard. “I will set about it instantly. He shall have the estates. I will return to Manchester at once.”

      “You had better take some refreshment before you start,” rejoined Wild. “’You’ve a long journey before you.‘”

      As the signal was given, the Jew, who had been some time in expectation of it, darted swiftly and silently behind Sir Rowland, and flung a cloth over his head, while Jonathan, rushing upon him in front, struck him several quick and violent blows in the face with the bludgeon. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate — so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers — familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter — looked aghast at it.

      During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing.

      “Despatch him!” roared Jonathan.

      Having no means of defence, Sir Rowland cleared the blood from his vision; and, turning to see whether there was any means of escape, he descried the open door behind him leading to the Well Hole, and instantly darted through it.

      “As I could wish!” cried Jonathan. “Bring the light, Nab.”

      The Jew snatched up the link, and followed him.

      A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. Jonathan aimed a blow at him, which, if it had taken place, must have instantly terminated the strife; but, avoiding this, he sprang at the thief-taker, and grappled with him. Firmly built, as it was, the bridge creaked in such a manner with their contending efforts, that Abraham durst not venture beyond the door, where he stood, holding the light, a horrified spectator of the scene. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. Disengaging his right arm, Jonathan struck his victim a tremendous blow on the head with the bludgeon, that fractured his skull; and, exerting all his strength, threw him over the rails, to which he clung with the tenacity of despair.

      “Spare me!” he groaned, looking upwards. “Spare me!”

      Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe.

      Sir Rowland then fell.

      Jonathan Wild throwing Sir Rowland Trenchard down the well hole

      A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water.

      “Give me the link,” cried Jonathan.

      Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well.

      “Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery,” cried the Jew.

      “What’s the use of wasting a shot?” rejoined Jonathan, savagely. “He can’t get out.”

      After making several ineffectual attempts to keep himself above water, Sir Rowland sunk, and his groans, which had become gradually fainter and fainter, were