“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