Jack Sheppard. William Harrison Ainsworth
of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other.
"Oh, you're here, are you?" said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh: "I've been looking for you everywhere."
"Let me go," implored Mrs. Sheppard—"pray let me go. You hurt the child. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?"
"Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. "If you don't stop its squalling, I will. I hate children. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies."
Well knowing the savage temper of the person she had to deal with, and how likely he was to put his threat into execution, Mrs. Sheppard did not dare to return any answer; but, disengaging herself from his embrace, endeavoured meekly to comply with his request.
"And now, widow," continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a bench, "I've a piece o' good news for you."
"Good news will be news to me. What is it?"
"Guess," rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression into his forbidding countenance.
Mrs. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning too well, she answered—"I can't guess."
"Well, then," returned the ruffian, "to put you out o' suspense, as the topsman remarked to poor Tom Sheppard, afore he turned him off, I'm come to make you an honourable proposal o' marriage. You won't refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. Don't shake so. What I said about your brat was all stuff. I didn't mean it. It's my way when I'm ruffled. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long.—I'll give him the edication of a prig—teach him the use of his forks betimes—and make him, in the end, as clever a cracksman as his father."
"Never!" shrieked Mrs. Sheppard; "never! never!"
"Halloa! what's this?" demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. "Do you mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how I please—eh?"
"Don't question me, but leave me," replied the widow wildly; "you had better."
"Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet."
"I am not unprotected," rejoined the poor woman; "there's some one at the window. Help! help!"
But her cries were unheeded. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
"It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. Come, come, be reasonable, and listen to me. Your kid has already brought me good luck, and may bring me still more if his edication's attended to. This purse," he added, chinking it in the air, "and this ring, were given me for him just now by the lady, who made a false step on leaving your house. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened."
As he said this, a slight noise was heard without.
"What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind."
"It's Jonathan Wild," returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him. "I told you I was not unprotected."
"He protect you," retorted Blueskin, maliciously; "you haven't a worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door—and with reason too, as I can testify."
"Man!" screamed Mrs. Sheppard, with a vehemence that shook even the hardened wretch beside her, "begone, and tempt me not."
"What should I tempt you to?" asked Blueskin, in surprise.
"To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. "Go—go!"
"I see what you mean," rejoined Blueskin, tossing a large case-knife, which he took from his pocket, in the air, and catching it dexterously by the haft as it fell; "you owe Jonathan a grudge;—so do I. He hanged your first husband. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do the same by your second. But d—n him! let's talk o' something more agreeable. Look at this ring;—it's a diamond, and worth a mint o' money. It shall be your wedding ring. Look at it, I say. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. A-L-I-V-A—Aliva—T-R-E-N—Trencher that's it. Aliva Trencher."
"Aliva Trenchard!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, hastily; "is that the name?"
"Ay, ay, now I look again it is Trenchard. How came you to know it? Have you heard the name before?"
"I think I have—long, long ago, when I was a child," replied Mrs. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. Where can I have heard it!"
"Devil knows," rejoined Blueskin. "Let it pass. The ring's yours, and you're mine. Here, put it on your finger."
Mrs. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her force to repel his advances.
"Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely.
"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. Sheppard, struggling to escape, and holding the infant at arm's length; "have mercy on this helpless innocent!"
And the child, alarmed by the strife, added its feeble cries to its mother's shrieks.
"Set it down, I tell you," thundered Blueskin, "or I shall do it a mischief."
"Never!" cried Mrs. Sheppard.
Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. In the struggle her cap fell off. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held her fast. The chamber rang with her shrieks. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground.
When Mrs. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild kneeling beside the body of Blueskin. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription.
"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair."
"Is the poor lady alive?" asked Mrs. Sheppard, eagerly.
"'Sblood!" exclaimed Jonathan, hastily thrusting the ring into his vest, and taking up a heavy horseman's pistol with which he had felled Blueskin—"I thought you'd been senseless."
"Is she alive?" repeated the widow.
"What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly.
"Oh, nothing—nothing," returned Mrs. Sheppard. "But pray tell me if her husband has escaped?"
"Her husband!" echoed Jonathan scornfully. "A husband has little to fear from his wife's kinsfolk. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. However, as things have turned up, it's fortunate that I came back."
"It is, indeed," replied Mrs. Sheppard; "most fortunate for me."
"For you!" exclaimed Jonathan; "don't flatter yourself that I'm thinking of you. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before