"GUILTY, MY LORD"
The days slipped away. Visitors came, gazed, and departed. Our attorney
exhorted Jenny every day to consider her decision and to prepare a
defence.
'Consider, Madame,' he urged earnestly, 'you will stand before a Court
already prepossessed by the knowledge of your history, in your favour.
There will be no pressure of points against you. It will be shown, nay,
it is already well known, that you have, by your own unaided efforts,
defeated a most odious conspiracy and made it possible for the
conspirators to be brought to justice. This fact, further, assigns
reasons and motives for the persecution and the malignity of their
friends. I am prepared to show that at the time when you are charged
with receiving stolen property you were occupying a fine position; that
you were solvent because you were receiving large sums of money: that
you were the last person to be tempted even to receive stolen goods
especially those of a mean and worthless character. Those who might
otherwise be ready to perjure themselves against you will be afraid to
speak since this last business. You have this protection brought about
by your own action. It will be impossible to prove that you had any
knowledge of the property found on your premises.'
'All that is true. Yet, dear Sir, I cannot change my mind.'
'It is so true that I cannot believe it possible under the circumstances
for a jury to convict: you are also, Madame, which is a very important
feature in the case, possessed of a face and form whose loveliness alone
proclaims your innocence.'
'Oh! Sir, if loveliness had aught to do with justice! But could I, even
then, rely upon that claim?'
'Let me instruct Counsel. He will brush aside the evidence! Good
Heavens! What evidence! A woman swears that she saw the property carried
into your house during the whole of a certain night. That is quite
possible. Certain shopkeepers have been found to swear to some of the
articles found in your rooms as their own. How do they know? One bale of
goods is like another. That kind of evidence is worth very little. But
if the things are theirs how are you to be connected with them? I shall
prove that you lived in a great house with many servants: that it was
quite easy to carry things in and out of that house without your
knowledge: I shall call your servants, who will swear that they know
nothing of any such conveyance of goods. I will prepare a defence for
you in which you will state that you had no knowledge of these things:
nor do you know when, or by whom, they were brought into the house: you
will point to your troop of servants, including footmen, waiters,
carvers, cooks, butlers and women of all kinds: you will ask if a
manager of any place of entertainment is to be held responsible for what
was brought under his roof--that you were not in want of money and that
if you were the rubbish lying in your garrets would be of no use to you.
And so on. There could not possibly be found a better defence.'
'I know one better still,' said Jenny quietly.
'Tell me what it is, then.'
'I have already told you. Once more then. My mother has long been
notorious as a receiver of stolen goods. The people used to bring their
plunder to the Black Jack by a back entrance: under the house there are
stone vaults and a great deal of property can be stored there. When I
understood that we should want the evidence of my mother I was obliged
to offer her a large sum of money as a bribe before she would consent.
When she found that I would give no more, she accepted my offer but on
conditions. 'Remember,' she said. 'None of us will ever be able to show
our faces at the Black Jack any more. We should be murdered for sure,
for going against our own people.'
'Well,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'doubtless she was right. But what were the
conditions?'
'They were connected with the stolen goods. The vaults contained a great
deal of property which could not be sold at once. If I would suffer her
to store that property in my house, she would consent Sir, at that time,
and in order to defeat those villains, I would have consented to
anything. It was agreed that my mother and sister should move the things
by night after the Black Jack was shut up. I suppose the woman watched.
So you see, unfortunately, I did consent without thinking.'
'You did consent--oh!' he groaned. 'But, after all, your mother and
sister will not give evidence. Where is the evidence of your consent?
Are they out of sight? Good. Let them keep out of sight.'
'But there is more. Dear Sir, you will say I am very imprudent. When it
was arranged for my mother to go away after the trial and lie snug for
awhile, she could not bear to think of losing all her property, and
so--still without thinking of consequences--I bought the whole lot.'
'You bought! Oh! This, indeed, I did not expect. You bought the whole!
However, one comfort, no one knows except your mother.'
'And my sister. Now, Sir, Doll will not allow my mother to suffer alone.
If she is accused of receiving I shall be charged with buying the
property.'
'I wish the mob had burned the place.'
'Nobody can wish that more than myself. Now consider. If I plead "Not
Guilty" and am acquitted, my mother will certainly be arrested. There
will be a Hue and Cry after her, and I shall then be charged again with
buying stolen property, knowing it to be stolen. No, Sir, my mind is
quite made up. I shall plead Guilty. If the evidence is only what we
know, there will be no further inquiry after the property. So, at least,
my mother will be safe.'
Mr. Dewberry said nothing for a while. 'Would your mother,' he asked,
'do as much for you?'
'I dare say she would. We have our virtues, we poor rogues, sometimes.'
He remonstrated with her: he repeated over and over again his assurance
that her defence was as perfect as a defence could be. She could not be
examined or cross-examined. The evidence of the woman would be confined
to one point. It was all in vain: she was obstinate.
'I shall plead Guilty,' she said.
Finally he went away and left me alone with her.
'Jenny,' I said, 'sometimes I believe you are mad so far as your own
interests are concerned.'
'No, Will--only crafty. Now listen a little. I have one firm, strong,
powerful friend--I mean Lord Brockenhurst. If a woman wants a man to
remain in love with her, she must keep him off. He knows all about me,
he says: he has made up the prettiest tale possible. And he actually
believes it.'
'Made up a tale, Jenny?'
'It was a very pretty story that he wrote called the "Case of Clarinda,"
This is a prettier story still. It appears that I am the lost and stolen
child of noble parents. My birth is stamped upon my face. Never a gipsy
yet was known to have light hair like mine, and blue eyes like mine. I
have been brought up in ignorance of my parentage, by a woman of
dishonest character who stole me in infancy. She made me, against my
wish (for a person of my rank naturally loathes employment so menial)
an Orange Girl of Drury Lane Theatre. Then I rose above that station by
the possession of parts inherited, and became an actress and the Toast
of the Town. The woman clung to her pretended daughter still. Then I
left the stage in order to be married: when I found my husband little
better than a sordid gambler, I left his house and opened the
Assembly-room: the woman, for her own safety, made, unknown to me, a
storehouse of my garrets. That is his story. But the end is better
still. My true nobility of soul, inherited from my unknown illustrious
ancestors, prompts me to plead Guilty in order to save this pretended
mother. Now, Will----'
'How does the story help?'
'Because it has already got abroad. Because it will incline everybody's
heart to get me saved.'
'Yes--but an acquittal is so easy.'
'Will, you can never understand what it means to belong to such a family
as mine. Suppose I get my acquittal. Then--afterwards----'
'What will follow afterwards?'
'Do you think that they will let me return to the stage? I must face the
revenge of the family--the family of St. Giles's. Through me the Bishop
and the Captain have been put in pillory and are now in prison. They
belong to the family--my family, and I have brought them to ruin--I
myself. One of themselves. Can they forgive me? Nay, Will, I was brought
up among them: it is their only point of honour. Can I expect them to
forgive me? Never--until--unless----' She stopped and trembled.
'Unless--what?'
'Unless I pay for it, as I have made those two rogues pay for it. Unless
I pass through the fiery furnace of trial and sentence, even if it leads
me to the condemned cell. After that, Will, I may perhaps look for
forgiveness.'
A man must be a stock or a stone not to be moved by such words as these.
'Oh, Jenny!' I said, 'you have brought all this upon yourself--for me.'
'Yes, Will, for you and for yours. I have counted the cost. Your life is
worth it all--and more. Don't think I never flinched. No. I had thoughts
of letting everything go. Why should I imperil myself--my life--to
defeat a villain? It was easy to do nothing. Then one night I saw a
ghost--oh! a real ghost. It was Alice, and in her arms lay your boy.'
Jenny rose slowly. The afternoon was turning into early evening: the
cell was already in twilight. She rose, and gradually, so great is the
power of an actress, that even though my eyes were overcast, I saw the
narrow cell no longer. There was no Jenny. In her place stood another
woman. It was Alice. In the arms of that spirit lay the semblance of a
child. And the spirit spoke. It was the voice of Alice. 'Woman!' she
said, solemnly, 'give me back my husband. Give the boy the honour of his
father. Murderess! Thou wouldst kill the father and ruin the son. There
shall be no peace or rest or quiet for thee to the end. Save him--for
thou must. Suffer and endure what follows. Thou shalt suffer, but thou
shalt not be destroyed.' Alice spoke: it was as if she came there with
intent to say those words. Then she vanished. And with a trembling of
great fear, even as Saul trembled when he saw the spirit of Samuel, I
saw Jenny standing in the place where Alice had been.
She fell into her chair: she burst into tears--the first and the last
that ever I saw upon her cheek: she covered her face with her hands.
I soothed her, I assured her of all that I could say in gratitude
infinite: perhaps I mingled my tears with hers.
'Oh, Will,' she cried. 'Do not vex yourself over the fate of an
orange-wench. What does it matter for such a creature as myself?'
The Old Bailey never witnessed a greater crowd than that which filled
the court to witness the trial of Mistress Jenny Wilmot, charged with
receiving stolen goods knowing them to be stolen. Her assumed name of
Madame Vallance was forgotten: her married name of Halliday was
forgotten: on everybody's tongue she was Jenny Wilmot the actress: Jenny
Wilmot the Toast of the Town: Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane. They spoke of
her beauty, her grace, her vivacity: these were still remembered in
spite of her absence from the stage of nearly two years. Now two years
is a long time for an actress, unless she is very good indeed, to be
remembered. But the 'Case of Clarinda' was by this time known to every
club and coffee-house in London: not a City clerk or shopman but had the
story pat, with oaths and sighs and tears. My Lord Brockenhurst had done
his share in changing public opinion, and the later story, that of the
noble origin of the stolen girl, was also whispered from mouth to
mouth.
The court, I say, was crowded. Behind the chairs of the Lord Mayor and
Judge, the Aldermen and the Sheriffs, were other chairs filled with
great ladies: the public gallery was also filled with ladies who were
admitted by tickets issued by sheriffs: the entrances and doorways and
the body of the court were filled with gentlemen, actors and actresses
mixed with an evil-looking and evil-smelling company from St. Giles's.
The witnesses, among whom I failed to observe the revengeful woman,
consisted, I was pleased to see, of no more than the two or three
shopkeepers who were waiting to swear to their own property. They stood
beside the witness-box, wearing the look of determined and pleased
revenge common to those who have been robbed. The Jury were sworn one
after the other, and took their seats. I could not fail to observe that
the unrelenting faces with which they had received me, the highwayman,
were changed into faces of sweet commiseration. If ever Jury betrayed by
outward signs a full intention, beforehand, of bringing in a verdict of
Not Guilty, with the addition, if the Judge would allow it, that the
lady left the dock without a blemish upon her character, it was that
jury--yet a jury composed entirely of persons engaged in trade, who
would naturally be severe upon the crime of receiving stolen goods.
When the Court were ready to take their places the prisoner was brought
in, and all the people murmured with astonishment and admiration and
pity, for the prisoner was dressed as for her wedding day. She was all
in white without a touch of any other colour. Her lovely fair hair was
dressed without powder over a high cushion with white silk ribbons
hanging to her shoulders: her white silk frock drawn back in front,
showed a white satin petticoat: white silk gloves covered her hands and
arms: she carried a nosegay of white jonquils: a necklace of pearls hung
round her neck: her belt was of worked silver. She took her place in the
dock: she disposed her flowers between the spikes, among the sprigs of
rue. Her air was calm and collected: not boastful: sad as was natural:
resigned as was becoming: neither bold nor shrinking: there was no
affectation of confidence nor any agitation of terror. She was like a
Queen: she was full of dignity. She seemed to say, 'Look at me, all of
you. Can you believe that I--I--I--such as I--Jenny Wilmot--could
actually stoop to receive a lot of stolen rags and old petticoats and
bales of stuff worth no more altogether than two or three guineas?'
During the whole time of the trial the eyes of everybody in court, I
observed, were turned upon the prisoner. Never before, I am sure, did a
more lovely prisoner stand in the Dock: never was there one whose
position was more commiserated: they were all, I verily believe, ready
to set her free at once: but for the act and deed of the prisoner
herself. Her attitude: her face: her dress all proclaimed aloud the
words which I have written down above. Everybody had seen her on the
stage playing principally the coquette, the woman of fashion and folly,
the hoyden, the affected prude--but not a part like this. 'Ye gods!' I
heard a young barrister exclaim. 'She looks like an angel: an angel sent
down to Newgate!' The strange, new, unexpected look of virginal
innocence stamped on the brow of the once daring and headlong actress
startled the people: it went to the heart of everyone: it made everybody
present feel that they were assisting at a martyrdom: nay, as if they
were themselves, unwillingly, bringing faggots to pile the fire. Before
the trial began many an eye was dim, many a cheek was humid.
The Court entered: the people rose: the Counsel bowed to the Bench: the
Lord Mayor took his seat: beside him the Judge: with him the Aldermen
and the Sheriffs: the prisoner also did reverence to the Court like a
gentlewoman receiving company. One would not have been surprised had my
Lord Mayor stepped down and kissed her on the cheek in City fashion. But
neither in her look nor in her actions was there betrayed the least sign
of degradation, fear, or shame.
When a somewhat lengthy indictment had been read, she raised her head.
'My Lord, I would first desire to ask for my name to be amended.'
'What amendment do you desire?'
'I am described as Madame Vallance, alias Jenny Wilmot, actress. It is
true that Jenny Wilmot was my maiden name, and that I assumed the name
of Madame Vallance when I left the stage and opened the Assembly Rooms.
My true name is Jenny Halliday, and I am the wife of Mr. Matthew
Halliday, son of Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman, and partner in the House
of Halliday Brothers, West India Wharf, by the Steel Yard in the Parish
of All Hallows the Great.'
The Judge, whom nothing could surprise, answered with the awful coldness
which becomes a Judge and so terrifies a prisoner. 'There is no dispute
concerning identity. Plead in your married name, if you will.'
'Then, my Lord, I plead Guilty.'
She had done it, then. With a case so strong: with an assurance of
acquittal, she had pleaded Guilty. My heart sank. Yet I knew what she
would do. The Lord Mayor whispered the judge again.
'You are ignorant of law and procedure in Courts of Justice,' he said.
'I will allow you to withdraw that plea. Have you no Counsel?'
'I need none, my Lord. I plead Guilty.'
The people all held their breath. Then the 'Case of Clarinda' was true
after all.
'I am anxious,' the Judge went on, 'that you should have a fair trial.
Appoint a Counsel. Advise with him.'
'I plead Guilty' she repeated.
The Judge threw himself back in his seat 'Let the trial proceed,' he
said.
The Counsel for the Prosecution opened the case. It was, he said a
remarkable case, because there seemed no sufficient reason or temptation
for breaking the law, or for receiving stolen property. The information
was laid by a woman living in the purlieus of St. Giles's Parish: she
was, very probably, a person of no character at all: but character was
not wanted in this case because her information would be supplemented by
the evidence of several persons of the highest respectability who would
swear to certain articles as their own property. The woman in fact,
would depose to the conveyance of stolen goods to the house in question:
she gave information the goods were actually found there: and other
witnesses would claim as their own many things among the property so
found.
'Gentlemen of the Jury,' he went on, 'this is a case of a painful
nature. The prisoner who pleads guilty--who rejects the clemency--the
kindly benevolence--of the Court--is a person who, as you know, a year
or two ago was delighting the town by the vivacity of her acting and the
beauty of her person: she left the stage, the world knew not why, or
what had become of her: it now appears that she took a certain house in
Soho Square, where she carried on assemblies, masquerades, and other
amusements still delighting the town: there is nothing to make one
believe that she was in pecuniary embarrassments: and we now learn that
she is actually the wife of a City merchant of great wealth and
reputation.' Here his neighbour hurriedly wrote something on a paper:
and handed it to him. 'My learned friend,' he said correcting himself,
'informs me that this House, until recently in the highest repute, has
fallen into evil times and is now bankrupt. But, gentlemen, whether the
prisoner attempted to stave off her husband's bankruptcy or not, the
property which she received was of so trifling a character that it would
seem as if she was breaking the Law for the sake of a few shillings. The
things found in her possession were not those which we are accustomed to
regard as the booty of robbers: there are no jewels, gold chains, silver
cups, lace, silks or anything at all but things belonging to poor people
or to people just raised above poverty. There are women's petticoats,
men's nightcaps: watches in tortoise-shell cases: knives and forks:
small spoons, handkerchiefs: stockings, even: wigs, and so forth. I
expected, I confess when I surveyed this rubbish, to hear a defence on
the ground that such a person in a position so responsible--with friends
so numerous, some of them of high rank, could not condescend to
countenance the mean and sordid traffic. I confess that I looked forward
to this trial as a means of finding out the real criminal who had taken
advantage of access to the house and impudently used the rooms in Madame
Vallance's premises for their own dishonest purposes. That expectation
must be now disappointed: that hope must be abandoned. By her own
repeated confession, the prisoner has assured the Court that she is
guilty.
'The case,' he went on, 'has grown out of one recently heard before this
Court. It was one in which the present prisoner exerted herself very
actively in the cause of a man named Halliday, presumably a connection
of her own by marriage. Halliday was charged with highway robbery. The
evidence was clear and direct. The prisoner before us, however, with
great activity and courage, brought together an overwhelming mass of
evidence which proved that the charge was a conspiracy of the blackest
and foulest kind. The conspirators are now undergoing their sentence. By
this brave action an innocent life was saved and four villains were sent
to prison. I mention the fact because it shows that the prisoner
possesses many noble qualities, which make it the more marvellous that
she should be guilty of acts so mean, so paltry, so sordid. The woman
who will appear before you was the mistress of one of these
conspirators. Her information was doubtless laid as an act of revenge.
Yet we cannot weigh motives.' And so on.
It appeared that the evidence was of a merely formal character and that
the witnesses would not be cross-examined. The first witness was the
woman of whom you know. She, among other women prisoners in Newgate, had
been kept from starvation by Jenny; this fact might have softened her
heart: but unfortunately the recent sufferings of her lover in pillory
re-awakened her desire for revenge. She was an eager witness: she wanted
to begin at once and to tell her tale her own way. The main point now
was a statement invented since her evidence before the magistrate. She
now declared that she herself was engaged by the prisoner to carry the
property to the Assembly Rooms. This abominable perjury she stoutly
maintained. The Counsel for the Prosecution questioned her apparently in
order to elicit the facts: in reality, as I now believe, in order to
make her contradict herself. She was asked where she put the things: why
in the garret: what servants helped her: who received her: who carried
candles for her: why the prisoner selected her for the job: what share
she had in the riots: whether she was in prison on that account: and so
on. She was a poor ignorant creature, thirsting for revenge: therefore
she maintained stoutly that the prisoner had paid her for moving the
goods into her house.
Whether by accident or design, nothing was said about the Black Jack or
about the landlady of that establishment. I suppose that the Prosecution
was only anxious to establish the bare facts to which the prisoner had
pleaded Guilty.
The manner in which the witness gave her evidence: the fire in her eyes
and in her cheeks: the dirty slovenly look of the woman: her uncombed
hair: her voice: her gestures: her manifest perjuries and
contradictions: disgusted all who looked on: the Judge laid down his pen
and leaned back in his chair as if what she said was of no concern: the
Aldermen looked at the Judge as much as to ask how long this was to be
permitted: the Jury whispered and shook their heads: the ladies present
knotted their brows and fanned themselves and whispered each other
angrily. At last she sat down flaming and vehement to the end. Her
evidence had in fact ruined the case. Why, she had the impudence to
allege that the property she had herself carried to the house was
received by Madame herself, who ordered her footmen to carry it to the
garrets.
She was followed by the shopkeepers who had been robbed. They swore to
certain goods of no great value, which had been stolen from them. Their
evidence was quickly given. There was, in fact, no evidence really
implicating the prisoner except that of the woman. There was clearly
something behind: something not explained, which everybody was
whispering to each other--it had been revealed in the famous paper
called 'The Case of Clarinda.' And now I understood what Jenny meant
when she said that her defence would bring her mother into the business.
For Counsel would have inquired into the Black Jack story and asked what
the things were doing there: how they came there: who was the landlord:
with many other particulars, some of which would have brought out the
truth. As for the woman, whether by feminine cunning or by accident, she
concealed the relationship between Jenny and the Black Jack: she had
really seen the sister and the mother carrying things to the house in
Soho Square: she did not then know that Madame Vallance was Jenny: she
found out the fact at the trial: she then invented the story of being
hired for carrying the property _because she knew it was there_. All
that the Court knew, however, was the fact that such a woman as stood
before them, this angel of loveliness this woman of position: had
actually confessed to the crime of receiving the miserable odds and
ends--the rags and tawdry finery--stolen from quite poor people. It was
amazing: it was incredible.
'That is my case, my Lord,' said the Counsel with a sigh, as if he was
ashamed of having conducted it at all.
'Prisoner at the Bar,' said the Judge, 'you have heard the verdict of
the Jury. You may now say anything you wish in explanation or
extenuation.'
'What can I have to say, my Lord,' she replied simply but with dignity,
'since I pleaded guilty? Nevertheless, I have to thank the Counsel for
the Prosecution, who almost proved my pleading impossible.'
The Judge summed up in a few words. The verdict of the Jury included a
recommendation to mercy.
The Judge assumed the black cap: he pronounced sentence of Death: the
Ordinary appeared in his robes and prayed that the Lord would have mercy
on her soul: the warder tied the usual slip of string about the
prisoner's thumb to show what hanging meant. The only person unaffected
by the sentence was the prisoner herself. Never before had she acted so
finely: never before, indeed, had Jenny been called upon to play such a
part. She stood with clasped hands gazing into the face of the Judge,
not with defiance, not with wonder: not with resentment: but with a meek
acceptance. The women in the court, the great ladies behind the Lord
Mayor wept and sobbed without restraint: even the younger members of the
outer Bar were affected to unmanly humidity of the eyes.
Now when the verdict of the Jury was pronounced, and before the sentence
of the Judge, Jenny did a strange thing, which moved the people almost
more than the words of the sentence. She took up a small roll which lay
before her. It was a black lace veil. She threw this over her head: it
fell down upon her shoulders nearly to her waist. She held it up while
the Judge was speaking: when he finished she dropped it over her face.
So with the veil of Death falling over her spotless robes of Innocence
she stepped down from the dock and followed the men in blue back to the
prison. 'Ye Gods!' cried one of the barristers, 'she is nothing less
than the Virgin Martyr!' Indeed she seemed nothing less than one of the
Christian martyrs, the confessors faithful to the end whom no tortures
and no punishment could turn aside from the path of martyrdom.
I hurried round to the prison. 'Ah! Sir,' sighed a turnkey, 'she must
now go to the condemned cell. Pity! Pity!' They were all her
friends--every one of these officers, hardened by years of daily contact
with the scum of the people. 'But they won't hang her. They can't.'
'And all for her mother,' said another. 'I remember old Sal of the Black
Jack, also her sister Dolly. All to save that fat old carrion carcass.
Well, well. You can go in, sir.'
Jenny was standing by the table. She greeted me with a sad smile. 'It is
all over at last,' she said. 'It is harder to play a part on a real
stage than in a theatre. Did I play well, Will?'
'You left a House in tears, Jenny. Oh!' I cried impatiently, 'Is this
what you wanted?'
'Yes, I am quite satisfied. I really was afraid at one time that the
Counsel would throw up the case because his leading witness was so gross
and impudent a liar. Didst ever hear a woman perjure herself so roundly
and so often? What next?'
'Yes, Jenny. What next?'
'I don't know, Will. The Assembly Rooms which are taken in my name are
seized, I hear, by my husband's creditors. But all the furniture and
fittings have been destroyed already. That is done with, then. Am I to
begin again in order to have everything seized again?' She talked as if
her immediate enlargement was certain. I could not have the heart to
whisper discouragement.
'There is still the stage, Jenny. The world will welcome you back
again.'
'Do you think so? The Orange Girl they could stand; it pleased the Pit
to remember how they used to buy my oranges. But the woman who has come
out of a condemned cell? The woman who pleaded guilty to receiving
stolen goods? I doubt it will.'
'What does that matter? Everybody knows why you pleaded Guilty. You are
Clarinda.'
'An audience at a theatre, Will, sometimes shows neither pity nor
consideration for an actress. They say what they like: they shout what
they like: they insult her as they please--an actress is fair game: to
make an actress run off the stage in a flood of tears is what they
delight in. They would be pleased to ask what I have done with the
stolen goods.'
'What will you do then, Jenny?'
There came along, at this point, another visitor. It was none other than
the Counsel for the Prosecution. He stood at the door of the cell, but
seeing me, he hesitated.
'Come in, Sir,' said Jenny. 'You wish to speak to me. Speak. This
gentleman, my husband's first cousin, can hear all that you have to ask
or I to reply.'
'Madame,' he bowed as to a Countess. 'This is a wretched place for you.
I trust, however that it will not be for long. The recommendation of the
Jury will certainly have weight: the Judge is benevolently disposed: you
have many friends.'
'I hope, Sir, that I have some friends who will not believe that I have
bought a parcel of stolen petticoats?'
'Your friends will stand by you: of that I am certain. Madame, I venture
here to ask you, if I may do so without the charge of impertinent
curiosity--believe me--I am not so actuated----'
'Surely, Sir. Ask what you will.'
'I would ask you then, why you pleaded Guilty. The case was certain from
the outset to break down. I might have pressed the witness as to the
property itself, but I refrained because her perjuries were manifest.
Why then, Madame--if I may ask--why?'
'Perhaps I had learned that certain things had been sent to my garrets,
but I paid no thought to any risk or danger----'
'That might have been pleaded.'
'The case being over, that property can bring no other person into
trouble, I believe?'
'I should think not. The case is ended.'
'Then, Sir, I pray you to consider this question. If some person very
closely connected with yourself were actually guilty of this crime: if
you yourself were charged with it: if your acquittal would lead to that
person's conviction, what would you do?'
'That is what they whisper,' he replied. 'Madame, I hope that such a
choice may never be made to me. Is this true--what you suggest--what
people whisper?'
'Many things are whispered concerning me,' said Jenny proudly. 'I do not
heed those whispers. Well, Sir, such a choice has been presented to me.
It is part of the penalty of my birth that such a choice could be
possible.'
'Then it is true?' he insisted; 'the "Case of Clarinda" is true?'
'Sir, it is true in many points. I was once an Orange Girl of Drury
Lane. My people were residents of St. Giles's in the Fields. I was
brought up in the courts and lanes of that quarter. You, Sir, are a
lawyer. Need I explain further the nature of that choice?'
'Madam,' said the lawyer, 'I think you are the best woman in the world
as you are the loveliest.' So saying he lifted her hand to his lips,
bowing low, and left us.
'Well,' said Jenny, 'I think I have done pretty well for my mother and
for Doll. Their slate is clean again. They can begin fair. Receiving has
been her principal trade so long that she is not likely to be satisfied
with drawing beer. But the past is wiped out. And as for myself----'
She sighed. 'What next? Matthew is where the wicked can no longer
trouble. Merridew, poor wretch! has also ceased from troubling. My
friends of St. Giles's will be satisfied because I have now done what I
told you I should do, and gone through the fiery furnace. Why,' she
looked around the bare and narrow walls, 'I believe I am in it still.
But the flames do not burn, nor does the hot air scorch--believe me,
dear Will--oh! believe me--I would do it all again--all again--I regret
nothing--Will, nothing. Assure Alice that I would do it all
again--exactly as I have done.'
With a full heart I left her. What next? What next?