Jack Sheppard | Page 5

The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her
breast.
"Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her
steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?--silence gives consent,
eh?"
Mrs. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by
emotion.
"Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone
between jest and earnest.
"I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears; "indeed,
indeed, I cannot."
"So I've found out the way to move her," thought the carpenter; "those
tears will do her some good, at all events. Not part with him!" added he
aloud. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune
sure_ly_? I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. Remember what the
conjuror said."

"I do remember it, Sir," replied Mrs. Sheppard, "and am most grateful
for your offer. But I dare not accept it."
"Dare not!" echoed the carpenter; "I don't understand you, Joan."
"I mean to say, Sir," answered Mrs. Sheppard in a troubled voice, "that
if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. I have
neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband--I have only him."
"If I ask you to part with him, my good woman, it's to better his
condition, I suppose, ain't it?" rejoined Wood angrily; for, though he
had no serious intention of carrying his proposal into effect, he was
rather offended at having it declined. "It's not an offer," continued he,
"that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the
year."
And muttering some remarks, which we do not care to repeat, reflecting
upon the consistency of the sex, he was preparing once more to depart,
when Mrs. Sheppard stopped him.
"Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to
part with him, you shall have him without another word."
"Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry."
"Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray
don't. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you
what hardships I have undergone--to what frightful extremities I have
been reduced--and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty
subsistence for this child's sake,--if you could feel what it is to stand
alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me, and
shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the
wretched,--if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the
knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more
dear to me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for
him,--if you were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than
reproach me, because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I
feel would break my heart. But give me till to-morrow--only till

to-morrow--I may be able to part with him then."
The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had
previously been with Mrs. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could
command his feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention
of her distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty
execration upon his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither
separate her from her child, nor suffer any one else to separate them.
"Plague on't!" added he: "I never meant to take your babby from you.
But I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you
pretended. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. However,
confession of a fault makes half amends for it. A time may come when
this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never
want a friend in Owen Wood."
As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of his
benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused him
from his slumbers. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed
them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered
a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the
caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if
imploring protection.
"I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,"
observed Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.
"I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. "No friend like the
mother, for the babby knows no other."
"And that's true," rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; "for if I had not been a
mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a
widow."
"You mustn't