Kitabı oku: «Jack Sheppard. Vol. 2», sayfa 5
CHAPTER XIX. GOOD AND EVIL
As Jack opened the gate, and crossed the little garden, which exhibited in every part the neatness and attention of its owner, he almost trembled at the idea of further disturbing her peace of mind. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness. From this peaceful scene Jack’s eye fell upon Jonathan, who, seated upon the stile, under the shade of an elder tree, was evidently watching him. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker’s lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on.
After knocking for some time at the door without effect, he tried the latch, and to his surprise found it open. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. That was the only sound he heard.
Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out “Mother!”
“Who’s there?” asked a faint voice from the bed.
“Your son,” answered the boy.
“Jack,” exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. “Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?”
“You’re not dreaming, mother,” he answered. “I’m come to say good bye to you, and to assure you of my safety before I leave this place.”
“Where are you going?” asked his mother.
“I hardly know,” returned Jack; “but it’s not safe for me to remain much longer here.”
“True,” replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, “I know it isn’t. I won’t keep you long. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it.”
Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her.
“Jack,” said Mrs. Sheppard, clasping him with a hand that burnt with fever, “I have been ill—dreadfully ill—I believe delirious—I thought I should have died last night—I won’t tell you what agony you have caused me—I won’t reproach you. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. You are in the hands of a wicked, a terrible man, who will not stop till he has completed your destruction. Listen to your mother’s prayers, and do not let her die broken-hearted.”
“It is too late,” returned Jack, sullenly; “I can’t be honest if I would.”
“Oh! do not say so,” replied his wretched parent. “It is never too late. I know you are in Jonathan Wild’s power, for I saw him near you in the church; and if ever the enemy of mankind was permitted to take human form, I beheld him then. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! You know not what villany he is capable of. Be honest, and you will be happy. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence. Return, I implore of you, to your master,—to Mr. Wood. Acknowledge your faults. He is all kindness, and will overlook them for your poor father’s sake—for mine. Return to him, I say—”
“I can’t,” replied Jack, doggedly.
“Can’t!” repeated his mother. “Why not?”
“I’ll tell you,” cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. And immediately afterwards the curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed the Satanic countenance of Jonathan Wild, who had crept into the house unperceived, “I’ll tell you, why he can’t go back to his master,” cried the thief-taker, with a malignant grin. “He has robbed him.”
“Robbed him!” screamed the widow. “Jack!”
Her son averted his gaze.
“Ay, robbed him,” reiterated Jonathan. “The night before last, Mr. Wood’s house was broken into and plundered. Your son was seen by the carpenter’s wife in company with the robbers. Here,” he added, throwing a handbill on the bed, “are the particulars of the burglary, with the reward for Jack’s apprehension.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the widow, hiding her face.
“Come,” said Wild, turning authoritatively to Jack,—“you have overstayed your time.”
“Do not go with him, Jack!” shrieked his mother. “Do not—do not!”
“He must!” thundered Jonathan, “or he goes to jail.”
“If you must go to prison, I will go with you,” cried Mrs. Sheppard: “but avoid that man as you would a serpent.”
“Come along,” thundered Jonathan.
“Hear me, Jack!” shrieked his mother. “You know not what you do. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!—let him deny it if he can.”
“Pshaw!” said Wild. “I could hang him now if I liked. But he may remain with you if he pleases: I sha’n’t hinder him.”
“You hear, my son,” said the widow eagerly. “Choose between good and evil;—between him and me. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.”
“It does so,” said Wild. “Choose, Jack.”
The lad made no answer, but left the room.
“He is gone!” cried Mrs. Sheppard despairingly.
“For ever!” said the thief-taker, preparing to follow.
“Devil!” cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, “how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?”
“NINE!” answered Jonathan sternly.
END THE SECOND EPOCH
EPOCH THE THIRD, THE PRISON-BREAKER, 1724
CHAPTER I. THE RETURN
Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in search of some particular habitation. The age of this individual could not be more than twenty-one; his figure was tall, robust, and gracefully proportioned; and his clear gray eye and open countenance bespoke a frank, generous, and resolute nature. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second’s days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome stranger. Unconscious of the interest he excited, and entirely occupied by his own thoughts—which, if his bosom could have been examined, would have been found composed of mingled hopes and fears—the young man walked on till he came to an old house, with great projecting bay windows on the first floor, and situated as nearly as possible at the back of St. Clement’s church. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLEN-DRAPER.
Tears started to the young man’s eyes on beholding the change, and it was with difficulty he could command himself sufficiently to make the inquiries he desired to do respecting the former owner of the house. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. Mr. Kneebone was attired in the extremity of the mode. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of “right Mechlin” was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. A stiff, formally-cut coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth, with rows of plate buttons, each of the size of a crown piece, on the sleeves, pockets, and skirts, reached the middle of his legs; and his costume was completed by the silver-hilted sword at his side, and the laced hat under his left arm.
Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business.
“I’m almost afraid to state it,” faltered the other; “but, may I ask whether Mr. Wood, the carpenter, who formerly resided here, is still living?”
“If you feel any anxiety on his account, Sir, I’m happy to be able to relieve it,” answered Kneebone, readily. “My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. And, for a man who’ll never see sixty again, he’s in excellent preservation, I assure you.”
“You delight me with the intelligence,” said the stranger, entirely recovering his cheerfulness of look.
“I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him.”
“Quite the contrary,” rejoined the woollen-draper, laughing good-humouredly. “Everything has prospered with him in an extraordinary manner. His business has thriven; legacies have unexpectedly dropped into his lap; and, to crown all, he has made a large fortune by a lucky speculation in South-Sea stock,—made it, too, where so many others have lost fortunes, your humble servant amongst the number—ha! ha! In a word, Sir, Mr. Wood is now in very affluent circumstances. He stuck to the shop as long as it was necessary, and longer, in my opinion. When he left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or rather—to deal frankly with you,—he placed me in them rent-free, for, I’m not ashamed to confess it, I’ve had losses, and heavy ones; and, if it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know where I should have been. Mr. Wood, Sir,” he added, with much emotion, “is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—” and he hesitated.
“Well, Sir?” cried the other, eagerly.
“His wife is still living,” returned Kneebone, drily.
“I understand,” replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. “But, it strikes me, I’ve heard that Mrs. Wood was once a favourite of yours.”
“So she was,” replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—“so she was. But those days are over—quite over. Since her husband has laid me under such a weight of obligation, I couldn’t, in honour, continue—hem!” and he took another explanatory pinch. “Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!”
“Say no more on the subject, Sir,” observed the stranger, gravely; “but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter.”
“That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess,” returned Kneebone, with a self-sufficient smirk.
The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence.
“Is she married?” he asked, after a brief pause.
“Married!—no—no,” replied the woollen-draper. “Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory.”
“You astonish me,” said the stranger, in a voice full of emotion.
“Why it is astonishing, certainly,” remarked Kneebone, “to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case. She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting. But she was not to be tempted.”
“She is a matchless creature!” exclaimed the young man.
“So I think,” replied Kneebone, again applying to the snuff-box, and by that means escaping the angry glance levelled at him by his companion.
“I have one inquiry more to make of you, Sir,” said the stranger, as soon as he had conquered his displeasure, “and I will then trouble you no further. You spoke just now of a youth whom Mr. Wood brought up. As far as I recollect, there were two. What has become of the other?”
“Why, surely you don’t mean Jack Sheppard?” cried the woollen-draper in surprise.
“That was the lad’s name,” returned the stranger.
“I guessed from your dress and manner, Sir, that you must have been long absent from your own country,” said Kneebone; “and now I’m convinced of it, or you wouldn’t have asked that question. Jack Sheppard is the talk and terror of the whole town. The ladies can’t sleep in their beds for him; and as to the men, they daren’t go to bed at all. He’s the most daring and expert housebreaker that ever used a crow-bar. He laughs at locks and bolts; and the more carefully you guard your premises from him, the more likely are you to insure an attack. His exploits and escapes are in every body’s mouth. He has been lodged in every round-house in the metropolis, and has broken out of them all, and boasts that no prison can hold him. We shall see. His skill has not been tried. At present, he is under the protection of Jonathan Wild.”
“Does that villain still maintain his power?” asked the stranger sternly.
“He does,” replied Kneebone, “and, what is more surprising, it seems to increase. Jonathan completely baffles and derides the ends of justice. It is useless to contend with him, even with right on your side. Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild’s machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. I charged the thief-taker, as was the fact, with having robbed me, by means of the lad Sheppard, whom he instigated to deed, of the very pocket-book he produced in evidence against me; but it was of no avail—I couldn’t obtain a hearing. Mr. Wood fared still worse. Bribed by a certain Sir Rowland Trenchard, Jonathan kidnapped the carpenter’s adopted son, Thames Darrell, and placed him in the hands of a Dutch Skipper, with orders to throw him overboard when he got out to sea; and though this was proved as clear as day, the rascal managed matters so adroitly, and gave such a different complexion to the whole affair, that he came off with flying colours. One reason, perhaps, of his success in this case might be, that having arrested his associate in the dark transaction, Sir Rowland Trenchard, on a charge of high treason, he was favoured by Walpole, who found his account in retaining such an agent. Be this as it may, Jonathan remained the victor; and shortly afterwards,—at the price of a third of his estate, it was whispered,—he procured Trenchard’s liberation from confinement.”
At the mention of the latter occurrence, a dark cloud gathered upon the stranger’s brow.
“Do you know anything further of Sir Rowland?” he asked.
“Nothing more than this,” answered Kneebone,—“that after the failure of his projects, and the downfall of his party, he retired to his seat, Ashton Hall, near Manchester, and has remained there ever since, entirely secluded from the world.”
The stranger was for a moment lost in reflection.
“And now, Sir,” he said, preparing to take his departure, “will you add to the obligation already conferred by informing me where I can meet with Mr. Wood?”
“With pleasure,” replied the woollen-draper. “He lives at Dollis Hill, a beautiful spot near Willesden, about four or five miles from town, where he has taken a farm. If you ride out there, and the place is well worth a visit, for the magnificent view it commands of some of the finest country in the neighbourhood of London,—you are certain to meet with him. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn’t stir from home for a week to come. He called here on his way back, after he had been to Bedlam to visit poor Mrs. Sheppard.”
“Jack’s mother?” exclaimed the young man. “Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?”
“She is, Sir,” answered the woollen-draper, sadly, “driven there by her son’s misconduct. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. But, in the midst of all her affliction, she has found a steady friend in Mr. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. Indeed, I’ve heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan.”
The stranger said nothing, but hastily brushed away a tear. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing.
Before the question could be answered, a side-door was opened, and a very handsome woman of Amazonian proportions presented herself, and marched familiarly up to Mr. Kneebone. She was extremely showily dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her lofty stature. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her.
“Don’t you perceive, my dear Mrs. Maggot, that I’m engaged,” said Kneebone, a little disconcerted.
“Who’ve you got with you?” demanded the Amazon, boldly.
“The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll,” replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. “I don’t know his name.” And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it.
“Well, he’s a pretty fellow at all events,” observed Mrs. Maggot, eyeing him from head to heel with evident satisfaction;—“a devilish pretty fellow!”
“Upon my word, Poll,” said Kneebone, becoming very red, “you might have a little more delicacy than to tell him so before my face.”
“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Maggot, drawing up her fine figure to its full height; “because I condescend to live with you, am I never to look at another man,—especially at one so much to my taste as this? Don’t think it!”
“You had better retire, Madam,” said the woollen-draper, sharply, “if you can’t conduct yourself with more propriety.”
“Order those who choose to obey you,” rejoined the lady scornfully. “Though you lorded it over that fond fool, Mrs. Wood, you shan’t lord it over me, I can promise you. That for you!” And she snapped her fingers in his face.
“Zounds!” cried Kneebone, furiously. “Go to your own room, woman, directly, or I’ll make you!”
“Make me!” echoed Mrs. Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous laugh. “Try!”
Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts to remove her were unavailing. At length, after he had given up the point from sheer exhaustion, the Amazon seized him by the throat, and pushed him backwards with such force that he rolled over the counter.
“There!” she cried, laughing, “that’ll teach you to lay hands upon me again. You should remember, before you try your strength against mine, that when I rescued you from the watch, and you induced me to come and live with you, I beat off four men, any of whom was a match for you—ha! ha!”
“My dear Poll!” said Kneebone, picking himself up, “I entreat you to moderate yourself.”
“Entreat a fiddlestick!” retorted Mrs. Maggot: “I’m tired of you, and will go back to my old lover, Jack Sheppard. He’s worth a dozen of you. Or, if this good-looking young fellow will only say the word, I’ll go with him.”
“You may go, and welcome, Madam!” rejoined Kneebone, spitefully. “But, I should think, after the specimen you’ve just given of your amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an incumbrance.”
“What say you, Sir?” said the Amazon, with an engaging leer at the stranger. “You will find me tractable enough; and, with me by, your side you need fear neither constable nor watchman. I’ve delivered Jack Sheppard from many an assault. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. Will you take me?”
However tempting Mrs. Maggot’s offer may appear, the young man thought fit to decline it, and, after a few words of well-merited compliment on her extraordinary prowess, and renewed thanks to Mr. Kneebone, he took his departure.
“Good bye!” cried Mrs. Maggot, kissing her hand to him. “I’ll find you out. And now,” she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, “I’ll go to Jack Sheppard.”
“You shall first go to Bridewell, you jade!” rejoined Kneebone. “Here, Tom,” he added, calling to a shop-boy, “run and fetch a constable.”
“He had better bring half-a-dozen,” said the Amazon, taking up a cloth-yard wand, and quietly seating herself; “one won’t do.”
On leaving Mr. Kneebone’s house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,—as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. This “fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave” was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators. Without the inclosure were reared several lofty gibbets, with their ghastly burthens. Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight. Influenced, probably, by what he had heard from Mr. Kneebone, respecting the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell into a gloomy reverie. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. The other individual, who was a little in advance, was concealed from the stranger’s view. Presently, however, a sudden movement occurred, and disclosed his features, which were those of a young man of nearly his own age. The dress of this person was excessively showy, and consisted of a scarlet riding-habit, lined and faced with blue, and bedizened with broad gold lace, a green silk-knit waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and decorated with a deep fringe, together with a hat tricked out in the same gaudy style. His figure was slight, but well-built; and, in stature he did not exceed five feet four. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. A mutual recognition took place at the same instant between the stranger and this individual. Both started. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger’s ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. Impelled by a feeling, into which we shall not pause to inquire, the stranger started after them; but they were better mounted, and soon distanced him. Remarking that they struck off at a turning on the left, he took the same road, and soon found himself on Paddington-Green. A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. From a man, who was standing beneath the shade of one these noble trees, information was obtained that the horsemen had ridden along the Harrow Road. With a faint view of overtaking them the pursuer urged his steed to a quicker pace. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from Kensall-Green.
By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Before retracing his steps, however, he allowed his gaze to range over the vast and beautiful prospect spread out beneath him, which is now hidden, from the traveller’s view by the high walls of the General Cemetery, and can, consequently, only be commanded from the interior of that attractive place of burial,—and which, before it was intersected by canals and railroads, and portioned out into hippodromes, was exquisite indeed. After feasting his eye upon this superb panorama, he was about to return, when he ascertained from a farmer that his nearest road to Willesden would be down a lane a little further on, to the right. Following this direction, he opened a gate, and struck into one of the most beautiful green lanes imaginable; which, after various windings, conducted him into a more frequented road, and eventually brought him to the place he sought. Glancing at the finger-post over the cage, which has been described as situated at the outskirts of the village, and seeing no directions to Dollis Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where it lay, from an elderly man, who was standing with another countryman near the little prison.
“Whose house do you want, master?” said the man, touching his hat.
“Mr. Wood’s,” was the reply.
“There is Dollis Hill,” said the man, pointing to a well-wooded eminence about a mile distant, “and there,” he added, indicating the roof of a house just visible above a grove of trees “is Mr. Wood’s. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you’ll come to Neasdon and then you’ll not have above half a mile to go.”
The young man thanked his informant, and was about to follow his instructions, when the other called after him–
“I say, master, did you ever hear tell of Mr. Wood’s famous ‘prentice?”
“What apprentice?” asked the stranger, in surprise.
“Why, Jack Sheppard, the notorious house-breaker,—him as has robbed half Lunnun, to be sure. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master’s house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman’s pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. The gentleman catched him i’ th’ fact, and we shut him up for safety i’ that pris’n. But,” said the fellow, with a laugh, “he soon contrived to make his way out on it, though. Ever since he’s become so famous, the folks about here ha’ christened it Jack Sheppard’s cage. His mother used to live i’ this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she’s i’ Bedlam, I’ve heerd.”
“I tell e’e what, John Dump,” said the other fellow, who had hitherto preserved silence, “I don’t know whether you talkin’ o’ Jack Sheppard has put him into my head or not; but I once had him pointed out to me, and if that were him as I seed then, he’s just now ridden past us, and put up at the Six Bells.”
“The deuce he has!” cried Dump. “If you were sure o’ that we might seize him, and get the reward for his apprehension.”
“That ‘ud be no such easy matter,” replied the countryman. “Jack’s a desperate fellow, and is always well armed; besides, he has a comrade with him. But I’ll tell e’e what we might do–”
The young man heard no more. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. As he passed the Six Bells, he noticed the steeds of the two horsemen at the door; and glancing into the house, perceived the younger of the two in the passage. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. After debating with himself whether he should further seek an interview, which, though, now in his power, was so sedulously shunned by the other party, he decided in the negative; and contenting himself with writing upon a slip of paper the hasty words,—“You are known by the villagers,—be upon your guard,”—he gave it to the ostler, with instructions to deliver it instantly to the owner of the horse he pointed out, and pursued his course.
Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. Bordered by fine timber, the road occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley, until a wider opening gave a full view of a delightful and varied prospect. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house.
Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. Wood’s dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. The progress of time was marked in Mr. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,—by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. A world of haystacks, bean-stacks, and straw-ricks flanked the granges adjoining his habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry, pigeons were feeding at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the stall, horses led to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain, and stalking majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of farming-men were passing and repassing about their various occupations. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruit-trees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring.
