“Pity!” shrieked the widow.
“I’ll be his evil genius!” vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture.
“Begone, wretch!” cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; “or I will drive you hence with my curses.”
“Curse on, and welcome,” jeered Wild.
Mrs. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her tongue. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child.
“A mother’s prayers — a mother’s blessings,” she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, “will avail against a fiend’s malice.”
“We shall see,” rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel.
And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor.
* * * * *
1. At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this life. —Strype’s Stow. Book. IX. ch. III.
CHAPTER 6.
THE STORM.
As soon as he was liberated by his persecutors, Mr. Wood set off at full speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his eyes, as almost to take away the power of reflection), he held on at a brisk pace till his strength completely failed him.
On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led him; and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him. This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood. He knew it to be St. Saviour’s Church. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul’s was plainly distinguishable. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. The peculiar appearance of the sky was not without some influence in awakening these terrors. Over one of the pinnacles of the tower a speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon, then newly born and newly risen. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. Sometimes the moon was totally eclipsed; at others, it shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses rolling in the firmament. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night.
Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the “Welsh Trumpeter.”
“Let me have a glass of brandy,” said he, addressing the host.
“Too late, master,” replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; “just shut up shop.”
“Zounds! David Pugh, don’t you know your old friend and countryman?” exclaimed the carpenter.
“Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?” cried David in astonishment. “What the devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh? — you seem in a queer plight.”
“Give me the brandy, and I’ll tell you,” replied Wood.
“Here, wife — hostess — fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. — There, Mr. Wood,” cried David, pouring out a glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, “that’ll warm the cockles of your heart. Don’t be afraid, man — off with it. It’s right Nantz. I keep it for my own drinking,” he added in a lower tone.
Mr. Wood having disposed of the brandy, and pronounced himself much better, hurried close to the fire-side, and informed his friend in a few words of the inhospitable treatment he had experienced from the gentlemen of the Mint; whereupon Mr. Pugh, who, as well as the carpenter, was a descendant of Cadwallader, waxed extremely wrath; gave utterance to a number of fierce-sounding imprecations in the Welsh tongue; and was just beginning to express the greatest anxiety to catch some of the rascals at the Trumpeter, when Mr. Wood cut him short by stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as possible in order to avoid the storm.
“A storm!” exclaimed the landlord. “Gadzooks! I thought something was coming on; for when I looked at the weather-glass an hour ago, it had sunk lower than I ever remember it.”
“We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord,” observed an old one-eyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire-side. “The glass never sinks in that way, d’ye see, without a hurricane follerin’, I’ve knowed it often do so in the West Injees. Moreover, a souple o’ porpusses came up with the tide this mornin’, and ha’ bin flounderin’ about i’ the Thames abuv Lunnun Bridge all day long; and them say-monsters, you know, always proves sure fore runners of a gale.”
“Then the sooner I’m off the better,” cried Wood; “what’s to pay, David?”
“Don’t affront me, Owen, by asking such a question,” returned the landlord; “hadn’t you better stop and finish the bottle?”
“Not a drop more,” replied Wood. “Enough’s as good as a feast. Good night!”
“Well, if you won’t be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen,” observed the landlord, “there’s a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. Halloa, Ben!” cried he, shaking a broad-backed fellow, equipped in a short-skirted doublet, and having a badge upon his arm — “scullers wanted.”
“Holloa! my hearty!” cried Ben, starting to his feet.
“This gentleman wants a pair of oars,” said the landlord.
“Where to, master?” asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.
“Arundel Stairs,” replied Wood, “the nearest point to Wych Street.”
“Come along, master,” said the waterman.
“Hark ‘ee, Ben,” said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; “you may try, but dash my timbers if you’ll ever cross the Thames to-night.”
“And why not, old saltwater?” inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth.
“‘Cos there’s a gale a-getting up as’ll perwent you, young freshwater,” replied the tar.
“It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip,” laughed Ben: “the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. The weather’s been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I’ve never turned my back upon it.”
“May be not,” replied the old sailor, drily; “but you’ll find it too stiff for you to-night, anyhow. Howsomdever, if you should reach t’other side, take an old feller’s advice, and don’t be foolhardy enough to venter back again.”
“I