son. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved — that I cannot do.”
“Your esteem is all he will require,” urged Winifred.
“He has it, and will ever have it,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, passionately — “he has my boundless gratitude, and devotion. But I am not worthy to be any man’s wife — far less his wife. Winifred, you are deceived in me. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. No — no, it must never be.”
“You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” rejoined Winifred kindly. “Your faults were the faults of circumstances.”
“Palliate them as you may,” replied the widow, gravely, “they were faults; and as such, cannot be repaired by a greater wrong. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it at all, since it distresses you,” returned Winifred; “but, as I knew my father intended to propose to you, if poor Jack should be respited —”
“If he should be respited?” repeated Mrs. Sheppard, with startling eagerness. “Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!”
Winifred made no answer.
“Your hesitation convinces me he does,” replied the widow. “Is Thames returned from London?”
“Not yet,” replied the other; “but I expect him every minute. My father’s chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild.”
“That fiend is ever in my path,” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, with a look, the wildness of which greatly alarmed her companion. “I cannot scare him thence.”
“Hark!” cried Winifred, “Thames is arrived. I hear the sound of his horse’s feet in the yard. Now you will learn the result.”
“Heaven support me!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, faintly.
“Breathe at this phial,” said Winifred.
Shortly afterwards — it seemed an age to the anxious mother — Mr. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion — partly, perhaps, from both causes — and wore his left arm in a sling.
“Well!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. “He is respited?”
“Alas! no,” replied Thames, sadly. “The warrant for his execution is arrived. There is no further hope.”
“My poor son!” groaned the widow, sinking backwards.
“Heaven have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Wood.
“Poor Jack!” cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover’s bosom.
Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
At length, she suddenly started to her feet; and before Winifred could prevent her, staggered up to Thames.
“When is he to suffer?” she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him.
“On Friday,” he replied.
“Friday!” echoed Mrs. Sheppard; “and to-day is Monday. He has three days to live. Only three days. Three short days. Horrible!”
“Poor soul! her senses are going again,” said Mr. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks. “I was afraid it would be so.”
“Only three days,” reiterated the widow, “three short short days — and then all is over. Jonathan’s wicked threat is fulfilled at last. The gallows is in view — I see it with all its hideous apparatus! — ough!” and shuddering violently, she placed her hands before her, as if to exclude some frightful vision from her sight.
“Do not despair, my sweet soul,” said Wood, in a soothing tone.
“Do not despair!” echoed Mrs. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor — “Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry — suffered till my heart is broken — prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb — and all of no avail. He will be hanged — hanged — hanged. Ha! ha! What have I left but despair and madness? Promise me one thing, Mr. Wood,” she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter’s arm, “promise it me.”
“Anything, my dear,” replied Wood, “What is it?”
“Bury us together in one grave in Willesden churchyard. There is a small yew-tree west of the church. Beneath that tree let us lie. In one grave, mind. Do you promise to do this?”
“Solemnly,” rejoined the carpenter.
“Enough,” said the widow, gratefully. “I must see him to-night.”
“Impossible, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” said Thames. “To-morrow I will take you to him.”
“To-morrow will be too late,” replied the widow, in a hollow voice, “I feel it will. I must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again. I must bless him before I die. I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return.”
“Be pacified, sweet soul,” said Wood, looking meaningly at Thames; “you shall go, and I will accompany you.”
“A mother’s blessing on you,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, fervently. “And now,” she added, with somewhat more composure, “leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts — to prepare myself for what I have to go through — to pray for my son.”
“Shall we do so?” whispered Winifred to her father.
“By all means,” returned Wood; “don’t delay an instant.” And, followed by the young couple, who gazed wistfully at the poor sufferer, he hastily quitted the room, and locked the door after him.
Mrs. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear —“Mother!”
She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son’s outstretched arms. “Mother! dear mother!” cried Jack, folding her to his breast.
“My son! my dear, dear son!” returned Mrs. Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent’s tenderness.
Jack was completely overcome. His chest heaved violently, and big tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks.
“I don’t deserve it,” he said, at length; “but I would have risked a thousand deaths
