Kitabı oku: «Jack Sheppard. Vol. 2», sayfa 9
CHAPTER VII. JACK SHEPPARD WARNS THAMES DARRELL
On the following night—namely Monday,—the family assembled together, for the first time since the fatal event, in the chamber to which Thames had been introduced on his arrival at Dollis Hill. As this had been Mrs. Wood’s favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. Determined, however, to conquer the feeling as soon as possible, Wood had given orders to have the evening meal served there; but, notwithstanding all his good resolutions upon his first entrance, he had much ado to maintain his self-command. His wife’s portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression.
Supper was over. It had been discussed in silence. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk—put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Having already expressed our determination not to betray any confidences of this sort, which, however interesting to the parties concerned, could not possibly be so to others, we shall omit also the “love passages,” and proceeding to such topics as may have general interest, take up the discourse at the point when Thames Darrell expressed his determination of starting for Manchester, as soon as Jack Sheppard’s examination had taken place.
“I am surprised we have received no summons for attendance to-day,” he remarked; “perhaps the other robber may be secured.”
“Or Jack have escaped,” remarked Winny.
“I don’t think that’s likely. But, this sad affair disposed of, I will not rest till I have avenged my murdered parents.”
“‘The avenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer’,” said Wood, who was culling for himself certain texts from the scriptures.
“It is the voice of inspiration,” said Thames; “and I receive it as a solemn command. The villain has enjoyed his security too long.”
“‘Bloody and deceitful men shall not live half their days’,” said Wood, reading aloud another passage.
“And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose,” rejoined Thames. “But, though the storm has spared him, I will not.”
“‘No doubt,’” said Wood, who had again turned over the leaves of the sacred volume—‘, “no doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he escaped the seas, yet vengeance suffereth not to live’.”
“No feelings of consanguinity shall stay my vengeance,” said Thames, sternly. “I will have no satisfaction but his life.”
“‘Thou shalt take no satisfaction for the life of a murderer which is guilty of death, but he shall surely be put to death’,” said Wood referring to another text.
“Do not steel your heart against him, dear Thames,” interposed Winifred.
“‘And thine eye shall not pity,’” said her father, in a tone of rebuke, “‘but, life shall be for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.’”
As these words were delivered by the carpenter with stern emphasis, a female servant entered the room, and stated that a gentleman was at the door, who wished to speak with Captain Darell on business of urgent importance.
“With me?” said Thames. “Who is it?”
“He didn’t give his name, Sir,” replied the maid; “but he’s a young gentleman.”
“Don’t go near him, dear Thames,” said Winifred; “he may have some ill intention.”
“Pshaw!” cried Thames. “What! refuse to see a person who desires to speak with me. Say I will come to him.”
“Law! Miss,” observed the maid, “there’s nothing mischievous in the person’s appearance, I’m sure. He’s as nice and civil-spoken a gentleman as need be; by the same token,” she added, in an under tone, “that he gave me a span new crown piece.”
“‘The thief cometh in the night, and the troop of robbers spoileth without,’” said Wood, who had a text for every emergency.
“Lor’ ha’ mussy, Sir!—how you do talk,” said the woman; “this is no robber, I’m sure. I should have known at a glance if it was. He’s more like a lord than—”
As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room.
The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. His appearance excited the greatest astonishment and consternation amid the group. Winifred screamed. Thames sprang to his feet, and half drew his sword, while Wood, removing his spectacles to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, exclaimed in a tone and with a look that betrayed the extremity of surprise—“Jack Sheppard!”
“Jack Sheppard!” echoed the maid. “Is this Jack Sheppard? Oh, la! I’m undone! We shall all have our throats cut! Oh! oh!” And she rushed, screaming, into the passage where she fell down in a fit.
The occasion of all this confusion and dismay, meanwhile, remained perfectly motionless; his figure erect, and with somewhat of dignity in his demeanour. He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed.
“Your audacity passes belief,” cried the latter, as soon as his surprise would allow him utterance. “If you have contrived to break out of your confinement, villain, this is the last place where you ought to show yourself.”
“And, therefore, the first I would visit,” replied Jack, boldly. “But, pardon my intrusion. I was resolved to see you. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends.”
“Well, villain!” replied Thames, “I know not the motive of your visit. But, if you have come to surrender yourself to justice, it is well. You cannot depart hence.”
“Cannot?” echoed Jack, a slight smile crossing his features. “But, let that pass. My motive in coming hither is to serve you, and save your life. If you choose to requite me by detaining me, you are at liberty to do so. I shall make no defence. That I am not ignorant of the reward offered for my capture this will show,” he added, taking a large placard headed ‘Murder’ from his pocket, and throwing it on the floor. “My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention. And, to show you that I have no intention of flying, I will myself close and lock the door. There is the key. Are you now satisfied?”
“No,” interposed Wood, furiously, “I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn.”
“A time may come when you will be gratified, Mr. Wood,” replied Jack, calmly.
“May come!—it will come!—it shall come!” cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. “I have some difficulty in preventing myself from becoming your executioner. Oh! that I should have nursed such a viper!”
“Hear me, Sir,” said Jack.
“No, I won’t hear you, murderer,” rejoined Wood.
“I am no murderer,” replied Sheppard. “I had no thought of injuring your wife, and would have died rather than commit so foul a crime.”
“Think not to delude me, audacious wretch,” cried the carpenter. “Even if you are not a principal, you are an accessory. If you had not brought your companion here, it would not have happened. But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing.”
“My conscience acquits me of all share in the offence,” replied Jack, humbly. “But the past is irremediable, and I did not come hither to exculpate myself, I came to save your life,” he added, turning to Thames.
“I was not aware it was in danger,” rejoined Darrell.
“Then you ought to be thankful to me for the warning. You are in danger.”
“From some of your associates?”
“From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard.”
“What means this idle boasting, villain?” said Thames. “Your uncle, Sir Rowland?”
“It is no idle boasting,” replied the other. “You are cousin to the housebreaker, Jack Sheppard.”
“If it were so, he would have great reason to be proud of the relationship, truly,” observed Wood, shrugging his shoulders.
“It is easy to make an assertion like this,” said Thames, contemptuously.
“And equally easy to prove it,” replied Jack, giving him the paper he had abstracted from Wild. “Read that.”
Thames hastily cast his eyes over it, and transferred it, with a look of incredulity, to Wood.
“Gracious Heavens! this is more wonderful than all the rest,” cried the carpenter, rubbing his eyes. “Thames, this is no forgery.”
“You believe it, father?”
“From the bottom of my heart. I always thought Mrs. Sheppard superior to her station.”
“So did I,” said Winifred. “Let me look at the paper.”
“Poor 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 VIII. OLD BEDLAM
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 consequence of the infamous abuse of its liberties, an act for the entire suppression of the Old Mint was passed in the ninth year of the reign of George the First, not many months before the date of the present epoch of this history; and as, after the destruction of Whitefriars, which took place in the reign of Charles the Second, owing to the protection afforded by its inmates to the Levellers and Fifth-monarchy-men, when the inhabitants of Alsatia crossed the water, and settled themselves in the borough of Southwark,—so now, driven out of their fastnesses, they again migrated, and recrossing the Thames, settled in Wapping, in a miserable quarter between Artichoke Lane and Nightingale Lane, which they termed the New Mint. Ousted from his old retreat, the Cross Shovels, Baptist Kettleby opened another tavern, conducted upon the same plan as the former, which he denominated the Seven Cities of Refuge. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast. Aware that they would not be allowed to remain long unmolested, the New Minters conducted themselves so outrageously, and with such extraordinary insolence, that measures were at this time being taken for their effectual suppression.
To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bed-side, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow.
“Don’t disturb yourself,” said his follower, motioning him to keep still; “it’s all right.”
“What time is it?” inquired Jack.
“Past noon,” replied Blueskin. “I didn’t awake you, because you seemed tired.”
“How did you escape?” asked Sheppard, who, as he shook off his slumber, began to recall the events of the previous night.
“Oh, easily enough,” rejoined the other. “I suppose I must have been senseless for some time; for, on coming to myself, I found this gash in my head, and the ground covered with blood. However, no one had discovered me, so I contrived to drag myself to my horse. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. I kept watch over you, for fear of a surprise on the part of Jonathan. But what’s to be done?”
“The first thing I do,” replied Jack, “will be to visit my poor mother in Bedlam.”
“You’d better take care of your mother’s son instead,” rejoined Blueskin. “It’s runnin’ a great risk.”
“Risk, or no risk, I shall go,” replied Jack. “Jonathan has threatened to do her some mischief. I am resolved to see her, without delay, and ascertain if it’s possible to remove her.”
“It’s a hopeless job,” grumbled Blueskin, “and harm will come of it. What are you to do with a mad mother at a time when you need all your wits to take care of yourself?”
“Don’t concern yourself further about me,” returned Jack. “Once for all, I shall go.”
“Won’t you take me?”
“No; you must await my return here.”
“Then I must wait a long time,” grumbled Blueskin. “You’ll never return.”
“We shall see,” replied Jack. “But, if I should not return, take this purse to Edgeworth Bess. You’ll find her at Black Mary’s Hole.”
And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields.
Old Bethlehem, or Bedlam,—every trace of which has been swept away, and the hospital for lunatics removed to Saint George’s Field,—was a vast and magnificent structure. Erected in Moorfields in 1675, upon the model of the Tuileries, it is said that Louis the Fourteenth was so incensed at the insult offered to his palace, that he had a counterpart of St. James’s built for offices of the meanest description. The size and grandeur of the edifice, indeed, drew down the ridicule of several of the wits of the age: by one of whom—the facetious Tom Brown—it was said, “Bedlam is a pleasant place, and abounds with amusements;—the first of which is the building, so stately a fabric for persons wholly insensible of the beauty and use of it: the outside being a perfect mockery of the inside, and admitting of two amusing queries,—Whether the persons that ordered the building of it, or those that inhabit it, were the maddest? and, whether the name and thing be not as disagreeable as harp and harrow.” By another—the no less facetious Ned Ward—it was termed, “A costly college for a crack-brained society, raised in a mad age, when the chiefs of the city were in a great danger of losing their senses, and so contrived it the more noble for their own reception; or they would never have flung away so much money to so foolish a purpose.” The cost of the building exceeded seventeen thousand pounds. However the taste of the architecture may be questioned, which was the formal French style of the period, the general effect was imposing. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,’ over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the well-known lines:—
“Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne,
And laughs to think Monroe would take her down,
Where, o’er the gates, by his famed father’s hand,
Great Cibber’s brazen, brainless brothers stand.”
Internally, it was divided by two long galleries, one over the other. These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates. The wards on the right were occupied by male patients, on the left by the female. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants.
Entering the outer gate, and traversing the broad gravel walk before-mentioned, Jack ascended the steps, and was admitted, on feeing the porter, by another iron gate, into the hospital. Here he was almost stunned by the deafening clamour resounding on all sides. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard. Amidst it all, however, there were several light-hearted and laughing groups walking from cell to cell to whom all this misery appeared matter of amusement. The doors of several of the wards were thrown open for these parties, and as Jack passed, he could not help glancing at the wretched inmates. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child’s violin. Here was a terrific figure gnashing his teeth, and howling like a wild beast;—there a lover, with hands clasped together and eyes turned passionately upward. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of “moody madness, laughing wild.”
Hastening from this heart-rending spectacle, Jack soon reached the grating that divided the men’s compartment from that appropriated to the women. Inquiring for Mrs. Sheppard, a matron offered to conduct him to her cell.
“You’ll find her quiet enough to-day, Sir,” observed the woman, as they walked along; “but she has been very outrageous latterly. Her nurse says she may live some time; but she seems to me to be sinking fast.”
“Heaven help her!” sighed Jack. “I hope not.”
“Her release would be a mercy,” pursued the matron. “Oh! Sir, if you’d seen her as I’ve seen her, you’d not wish her a continuance of misery.”
As Jack made no reply, the woman proceeded.
“They say her son’s taken at last, and is to be hanged. I’m glad of it, I’m sure; for it’s all owing to him his poor mother’s here. See what crime does, Sir. Those who act wickedly bring misery on all connected with them. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she’s not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. She will cry for days and nights together. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he’d have a lesson he’d never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. But he has never been near her—never.”
Rambling in this way, the matron at length came to a halt, and taking out a key, pointed to a door and said, “This is Mrs. Sheppard’s ward, Sir.”
“Leave us together, my good woman,” said Jack, putting a guinea into her hand.
“As long as you please, Sir,” answered the matron, dropping a curtsey. “There, Sir,” she added, unlocking the door, “you can go in. Don’t be frightened of her. She’s not mischievous—and besides she’s chained, and can’t reach you.”
So saying, she retired, and Jack entered the cell.
Prepared as he was for a dreadful shock, and with his nerves strung to endure it, Jack absolutely recoiled before the appalling object that met his gaze. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. This smile was more harrowing even than her former rigid look.
“You are an angel,” she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
“Rather a devil,” groaned her son, “to have done this.”
“You are an angel, I say,” continued the poor maniac; “and my Jack would have been like you, if he had lived. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.”
“Would he had done so!” cried Jack.
“Old Van told me if he grew up he would be hanged. He showed me a black mark under his ear, where the noose would be tied. And so I’ll tell you what I did—”
And she burst into a laugh that froze Jack’s blood in his veins.
“What did you do?” he asked, in a broken voice.
“I strangled him—ha! ha! ha!—strangled him while he was at my breast—ha! ha!”—And then with a sudden and fearful change of look, she added, “That’s what has driven me mad, I killed my child to save him from the gallows—oh! oh! One man hanged in a family is enough. If I’d not gone mad, they would have hanged me.”
“Poor soul!” ejaculated her son.
“I’ll tell you a dream I had last night,” continued the unfortunate being. “I was at Tyburn. There was a gallows erected, and a great mob round it—thousands of people, and all with white faces like corpses. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn’t be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson’s cassock and band. I knew him in spite of his dress. And when they came to the gallows, Jack leaped out of the cart, and the hangman tied up Jonathan instead—ha! ha! How the mob shouted and huzzaed—and I shouted too—ha! ha! ha!”
“Mother!” cried Jack, unable to endure this agonizing scene longer. “Don’t you know me, mother?”
“Ah!” shrieked Mrs. Sheppard. “What’s that?—Jack’s voice!”
“It is,” replied her son.
“The ceiling is breaking! the floor is opening! he is coming to me!” cried the unhappy woman.
“He stands before you,” rejoined her son.
“Where?” she cried. “I can’t see him. Where is he?”
“Here,” answered Jack.
“Are you his ghost, then?”
“No—no,” answered Jack. “I am your most unhappy son.”
“Let me touch you, then; let me feel if you are really flesh and blood,” cried the poor maniac, creeping towards him on all fours.
Jack did not advance to meet her. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent.
“Come to me!” cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—“come to me!” she cried, extending her thin arm towards him.
