Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 125

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They had scarcely been gone a moment, when a confused noise was heard without, and Charcam re-entered the room, with a countenance of the utmost bewilderment and alarm.

“What’s the matter with the man?” demanded Wild.

“Her ladyship —” faltered the attendant.

“What of her?” cried the knight. “Is she returned!”

“Y— e — s, Sir Rowland,” stammered Charcam.

“The devil!” ejaculated Jonathan. “Here’s a cross-bite.”

“But that’s not all, your honour,” continued Charcam; “Mrs. Norris says she’s dying.”

“Dying!” echoed the knight.

“Dying, Sir Rowland. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings — worse than ever she was before. And Mrs. Norris was so frightened that she ordered the postboys to drive back as fast as they could. She never expected to get her ladyship home alive.”

“My God!” cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, “I have killed her.”

“No doubt,” rejoined Wild, with a sneer; “but don’t let all the world know it.”

“They’re lifting her out of the carriage,” interposed Charcam; “will it please your honour to send for some advice and the chaplain?”

“Fly for both,” returned Sir Rowland, in a tone of bitter anguish.

“Stay!” interposed Jonathan. “Where are the boys?”

“In the hall.”

“Her ladyship will pass through it?”

“Of course; there’s no other way.”

“Then, bring them into this room, the first thing — quick! They must not meet, Sir Rowland,” he added, as Charcam hastened to obey his instructions.

“Heaven has decreed it otherwise,” replied the knight, dejectedly. “I yield to fate.”

“Yield to nothing,” returned Wild, trying to re-assure him; “above all, when your designs prosper. Man’s fate is in his own hands. You are your nephew’s executioner, or he is yours. Cast off this weakness. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever. Go to your sister, and do not quit her till all is over. Leave the rest to me.”

Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. Borne in the arms of a couple of assistants, and preceded by Mrs. Norris, wringing her hands and wepping, the unfortunate lady was placed upon a couch. At the same time, Charcam, who seemed perfectly distracted by the recent occurrences, dragged in Thames, leaving Jack Sheppard outside in the custody of the dwarfish Jew.

“Hell’s curses!” muttered Jonathan between his teeth; “that fool will ruin all. Take him away,” he added, striding up to Charcam.

“Let him remain,” interposed Trenchard.

“As you please, Sir Rowland,” returned Jonathan, with affected indifference; “but I’m not going to hunt the deer for another to eat the ven’son, depend on ’t.”

But seeing that no notice was taken of the retort, he drew a little aside, and folded his arms, muttering, “This whim will soon be over. She can’t last long. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please.”

Sir Rowland, meantime, throw himself on his knees beside his sister, and, clasping her chilly fingers within his own, besought her forgiveness in the most passionate terms. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. But, after some restoratives had been administered by Mrs. Norris, she revived a little.

“Rowland,” she said, in a faint voice, “I have not many minutes to live. Where is Father Spencer? I must have absolution. I have something that weighs heavily upon my mind.”

Sir Rowland’s brow darkened.

“I have sent for him,” Aliva, he answered; “he will be here directly, with your medical advisers.”

“They are useless,” she returned. “Medicine cannot save mo now.”

“Dear sister ——”

“I should die happy, if I could behold my child.”

“Comfort yourself, then, Aliva. You shall behold him.”

“You are mocking me, Rowland. Jests are not for seasons like this.”

“I am not, by Heaven,” returned the knight, solemnly. “Leave us, Mrs. Norris, and do not return till Father Spencer arrives.”

“Your ladyship ——” hesitated Norris.

“Go!” said Lady Trafford; “it is my last request.”

And her faithful attendant, drowned in tears, withdrew, followed by the two assistants.

Jonathan stepped behind a curtain.

“Rowland,” said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, “you have assured me that I shall behold my son. Where is he?”

“Within this room,” replied the knight.

“Here!” shrieked Lady Trafford.

“Here,” repeated her brother. “But calm yourself, dear sister, or the interview will be too much for you.”

“I am calm — quite calm, Rowland,” she answered, with lips whose agitation belied her words. “Then, the story of his death was false. I knew it. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child — an innocent child. God forgive you!”

“May He, indeed, forgive me!” returned Trenchard, crossing himself devoutly; “but my guilt is not the less heavy, because your child escaped. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son.”

“Blessings upon him!” cried Lady Trafford, fervently. “But trifle with mo no longer. Moments are ages now. Let me see my child, if he is really here?”

“Behold him!” returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him towards her.

“Ah!” exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength. “My sight is failing me. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. Yes!” she screamed, “these are his father’s features! It is — it is my son!”

“Mother!” cried Thames; “are you, indeed, my mother?”

“I am, indeed — my own sweet boy!” she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to her breast.

“Oh! — to see you thus!” cried Thames, in an agony of affliction.

“Don’t weep, my love,” replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. “I am happy — quite happy now.”

During this touching interview, a change had come over Sir Rowland, and he half repented of what he had done.

“You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth’s father, Aliva,” he said.

“I dare not, Rowland,” she answered. “I cannot break my vow. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more. Undraw the curtain, love,” she added to Thames, “that I may look at you.”

“Ha!” exclaimed her son, starting back, as he obeyed her, and disclosed Jonathan Wild.

“Be silent,” said Jonathan, in a menacing whisper.

“What have you seen?” inquired Lady Trafford.

“My enemy,” replied her son.

“Your enemy!” she returned imperfectly comprehending him. “Sir Rowland is your uncle — he will be your guardian — he will protect you. Will you not, brother?”

“Promise,” said a deep voice in Trenchard’s ear.

“He will kill me,” cried Thames. “There is a man in this room who seeks my life.”

“Impossible!” rejoined his mother.

“Look at these fetters,” returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; “they were put on by my uncle’s command.”

“Ah!” shrieked Lady Trafford.

“Not a moment is to be lost,” whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. “His life — or yours?”

“No one shall harm you more, my dear,” cried Lady Trafford. “Your uncle must protect you. It will be his interest to do so. He will be dependent on you.”

“Do what you please with him,” muttered Trenchard to Wild.

“Take off these chains, Rowland,” said Lady Trafford, “instantly, I command you.”

“I will,” replied Jonathan, advancing, and rudely seizing Thames.

“Mother!” cried the son, “help!”

“What is this?” shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. “Oh, God! would you take him from me? — would you murder him?”

“His father’s name? — and he is free,” rejoined Rowland, holding her arms.

“Release him first — and I will disclose it!” cried Lady Trafford; “on my soul, I will!”

“Speak then!” returned Rowland.

“Too late!” shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards — “too late! — oh!”

Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son’s mouth, and forced him out of the room.

When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side.

“This is your work,” said the knight, sternly.

“Not entirely,” replied Jonathan, calmly; “though I shouldn’t be ashamed of it if it were. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from her, Sir Rowland. Women are hypocrites to the last — true only to themselves.”

“Peace!” cried the knight, fiercely.

“No offence,” returned Jonathan. “I was merely about to observe that I am in possession of her secret.”

“You!”

“Didn’t I tell you that the fugitive Darrell gave me a glove! But we’ll speak of this hereafter. You can purchase the information from me whenever you’re so disposed. I shan’t drive a hard bargain. To the point however. I came back to say, that I’ve placed your nephew in a coach; and, if you’ll be at my lock in the Old Bailey an hour after midnight, you shall hear the last tidings of him.”

“I will be there,” answered Trenchard, gloomily.

“You’ll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland — short accounts, you know.”

“Fear nothing. You shall have your reward.”

“Thank’ee — thank’ee. My house is the next door to the Cooper’s Arms, in the Old Bailey, opposite Newgate. You’ll find me at supper.”

So saying, he bowed and departed.

“That man should have been an Italian bravo,” murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: “he has neither fear nor compunction. Would I could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance.”

Soon after this Mrs. Norris entered the room, followed by Father Spencer. On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and extended over the dead body of his unfortunate sister.