Jack Sheppard. Vol. 2. Ainsworth William Harrison

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      Jack Sheppard: A Romance, Vol. 2 (of 3)

      CHAPTER XIII. THE MAGDALENE

      The household of the worthy carpenter, it may be conceived, was thrown into the utmost confusion and distress by the unaccountable disappearance of the two boys. As time wore on, and they did not return, Mr. Wood’s anxiety grew so insupportable, that he seized his hat with the intention of sallying forth in search of them, though he did not know whither to bend his steps, when his departure was arrested by a gentle knock at the door.

      “There he is!” cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving by the exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject only. “There he is!”

      “I fear not,” said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head. “Thames would let himself in; and Jack generally finds an entrance through the backdoor or the shop-window, when he has been out at untimely hours. But, go and see who it is, love. Stay! I’ll go myself.”

      His daughter, however, anticipated him. She flew to the door, but returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the intelligence that it was “only Mrs. Sheppard.”

      “Who?” almost screamed Mrs. Wood.

      “Jack Sheppard’s mother,” answered the little girl, dejectedly; “she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you.”

      “For me!” vociferated Mrs. Wood, in indignant surprise. “Eggs for me! You mistake, child. They must be for your father.”

      “No; I’m quite sure she said they’re for you,” replied Winifred; “but she does want to see father.”

      “I thought as much,” sneered Mrs. Wood.

      “I’ll go to her directly,” said Wood, bustling towards the door. “I dare say she has called to inquire about Jack.”

      “I dare say no such thing,” interposed his better half, authoritatively; “remain where you are, Sir.”

      “At all events, let me send her away, my dear,” supplicated the carpenter, anxious to avert the impending storm.

      “Do you hear me?” cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. “Stir a foot, at your peril.”

      “But, my love,” still remonstrated Wood, “you know I’m going to look after the boys–”

      “After Mrs. Sheppard, you mean, Sir,” interrupted his wife, ironically. “Don’t think to deceive me by your false pretences. Marry, come up! I’m not so easily deluded. Sit down, I command you. Winny, show the person into this room. I’ll see her myself; and that’s more than she bargained for, I’ll be sworn.”

      Finding it useless to struggle further, Mr. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent’s commission.

      “At length, I have my wish,” continued Mrs. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. “I shall behold the shameless hussy, face to face; and, if I find her as good-looking as she’s represented, I don’t know what I’ll do in the end; but I’ll begin by scratching her eyes out.”

      In this temper, it will naturally be imagined, that Mrs. Wood’s reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. As she approached, the carpenter’s wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. But she was disappointed. Mrs. Sheppard’s dress—extremely neat and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending material,—offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble, and her looks so modest, that—if she had been ill-looking—she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled against her. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman.

      As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may not be improper to notice it here. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. One marked difference between the poor outcast, who, oppressed by poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in the stupifying draught,—that worst “medicine of a mind diseased,”—and those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to comfort and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous course of events, was exhibited in the mouth. For the fresh and feverish hue of lip which years ago characterised this feature, was now substituted a pure and wholesome bloom, evincing a total change of habits; and, though the coarse character of the mouth remained, in some degree, unaltered, it was so modified in expression, that it could no longer be accounted a blemish. In fact, the whole face had undergone a transformation. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow’s countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her.

      “Well, Mrs. Sheppard,” said the carpenter, advancing to meet her, and trying to look as cheerful and composed as he could; “what brings you to town, eh?—Nothing amiss, I trust?”

      “Nothing whatever, Sir,” answered the widow. “A neighbour offered me a drive to Paddington; and, as I haven’t heard of my son for some time, I couldn’t resist the temptation of stepping on to inquire after him, and to thank you for your great goodness to us both, I’ve brought a little garden-stuff and a few new-laid eggs for you, Ma’am,” she added turning to Mrs. Wood, who appeared to be collecting her energies for a terrible explosion, “in the hope that they may prove acceptable. Here’s a nosegay for you, my love,” she continued, opening her basket, and presenting a fragrant bunch of flowers to Winifred, “if your mother will allow me to give it you.”

      “Don’t touch it, Winny!” screamed Mrs. Wood, “it may be poisoned.”

      “I’m not afraid, mother,” said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. “How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?”

      “Put them where they came from,” replied Mrs. Wood, severely, “and go to bed.”

      “But, mother, mayn’t I sit up to see whether Thames returns?” implored Winifred.

      “What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child,” rejoined Mrs. Wood, sharply. “I’ve spoken. And my word’s law—with you, at least,” she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her husband.

      The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew.

      Mrs. Sheppard, who witnessed this occurrence with dismay, looked timorously at Wood, in expectation of some hint being given as to the course she had better pursue; but, receiving none, for the carpenter was too much agitated to attend to her, she ventured to express a fear that she was intruding.

      “Intruding!” echoed Mrs. Wood; “to be sure you are! I wonder how you dare show your face in this house, hussy!”

      “I thought you sent for me, Ma’am,” replied the widow, humbly.

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