'I don't know, Sir, what you mean: or what you know,' he stammered.
'I know more than you think. I know where your money has gone.'
'He jumped up. 'Where? Where? Where? Tell me.'
'It has gone into the bottomless gulf that they call the gaming table, Mr. Probus. It has been gambled away: the ships of my father's fleet: the cargoes: the accumulated treasures: the credit of the business: the private fortune of my cousin: your own money lent to Matthew: it has all gone: irrecoverably gone——'
'The gaming table!' he groaned. 'The gaming table! I never thought of that. Sir, do you know what you mean—the gaming table?'
No one but a money-lender knows all that may be meant by the gaming table.
'I know what I say. Matthew told you the truth. Everything has gone: ruin stares him in the face——Your money is gone with the rest.'
'The gaming table. And I never suspected it.... The gaming table!' He fell into a kind of trance or fit, with open mouth, white cheeks, and fixed eyes. This lasted only for a few moments.
'Mr. Probus,' I went on, 'I cannot say that I am sorry for your misfortunes; but I hope we shall never meet again.'
He got up, slowly. His face was full of despair. I confess that I pitied him. For he gave way altogether to a madness of grief.
'Gone?' he cried. 'No—no—no—not gone—it can't be gone.' He threw himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He sobbed: he moaned: when he lifted his head again his features were distorted. 'It is my all,' he cried. 'Oh! you don't know what it is to lose your all. I can never get any more—I am old: I have few clients left—I get no new ones: the old cannot get new clients: my character is not what it was: they cry out after me in the street: they say I lend money at cent. per cent.—why not? They call me old cent. per cent. If I lose this money I am indeed lost.'
'We cannot help you, Mr. Probus.'
'Oh! yes, do what I ask you. Sell your chance. You will never outlive your cousin. You will save my life. Think of saving a man's life. As for your cousin, let him go his own way. I hate him. It is you, you, Mr. William, I have always loved.'
'No.'
He turned to Alice and fell on his knees.
'Persuade him, Madam. You are all goodness. Oh! persuade him—think of your child. You can make him rich with a stroke of a pen—think of that. Oh! think of that!' The tears ran down his cheeks.
'Sir, I think only of my husband's father. And of his wishes, which are commands.'
'Enough said'—there was too much said already—'your money is gone, Mr. Probus.'
'Gone?' he repeated, but no longer in terms of entreaty. He was now fallen into the other extreme; he was blind and mad with rage and despair. 'No—no—it's not gone. I will get it out of you. Those who threw you into prison can do worse—worse. You have brought it on yourself. It is your ruin or mine. Once more——' With trembling fingers he held out the paper for me to sign.
'No.'
He stayed no longer: he threw out his arms again: it was as if his breath refused to come: and he turned away. He looked like a broken-down man, crawling, bent, with hanging head, along the road.
As soon as he was gone, Ramage opened the door and came out cautiously.
'Mr. Will,' he cried. 'For Heaven's sake, sir. For your dear lady's sake: for the child's sake: get out of the way. Nothing else will serve. He is desperate; and he is as cunning as the Devil himself. To get back his money he will shrink from nothing.'
'Indeed, Ramage,' I said, 'I think you are right. I will take a holiday for awhile.'
'When the bankruptcy comes,' he said, 'there will be no more danger, because all the money would be divided among the creditors. Better to run away than to be ruined.'
I promised to think of flight. Indeed, my mind was shaken. I was not afraid of open villainy, but of that which might be concealed and designed in secret. It would perhaps be best to go where the man could not find me.
So Ramage departed. When he saw me again, it was in a very different place.
The bell of Lambeth Church began to toll. It seemed to me like a funeral knell, though it was the bell for the afternoon service. The wind came up from the river chilled with the November air. My heart sank.
'My dear,' said Alice, 'let us go to Church. Oh! the mark of the Evil Spirit is stamped upon the unhappy man's forehead. Let us pray not for ourselves, but for God's mercy upon a wandering soul.'
I followed her as she led the way, carrying the child. Alas! How long before I could sit with her again to hear the prayers of the church among godly folk!
After this plain warning: after knowing the nature of the design against me: after the savage threats of the man Probus: I ought to have hesitated no longer: I should have taken Alice and the child to her brother Tom, and should then have retired somewhere until the inevitable bankruptcy relieved me from fear of conspiracy. Once before, I had suffered from delay: yet had I not learned the perils of procrastination. I had formed in my mind an idea that they would try in some way to fix upon me the crime of forgery, and I thought that this would take time: so that I was not hurried: I confess that I was disquieted: but I was not hurried.
On Monday morning I repaired to Soho Square and laid the whole business before Jenny.
'Will,' she said, after hearing all and asking a few questions, 'this seems a very serious affair. You have to deal with a man driven frantic by the loss of all his money: the money that he has spent his life in scraping together. He throws out hints about your possible death in the counting-house, and makes a bargain in case you die: he threatens you with some mysterious revenge.'
'I believe he will trump up some charge of forgery.'
'He is quite unscrupulous. Now, I will tell you something. The man Merridew's perjury about your alleged debt put me on the scent. Probus works through Merridew. First of all Merridew owes him money—more than he can pay. This debt goes on rolling up. This puts Merridew in his power. What Probus orders Merridew must do.'
'Is there always behind every villain a greater villain?'
'I suppose so. The greater the rogue the safer he is. Merridew goes to the shopkeepers and offers to return them stolen goods—at a price. It is one of his ways of making money. Then he finds out their necessities. Most shopkeepers are always in want of money. Then Merridew takes them to Probus who lends them money. Oh! at first there was never such a kind friend—on the easiest terms: they can pay when they please: then they want a little more: and so they go on. When their debt has risen to half the value of their stock, Probus wants to be paid. Then he sells them up. The father of the family becomes bankrupt and goes into a prison for the rest of his days: what becomes of the children I know not—no one knows. I dare say some of them go to St. Giles's.'
This is what Jenny told me. I know not if it is true, but I think it must be.
'Well, you see, that Probus pulls the strings and sets Merridew's arms and legs at work, and Merridew has all the rogues under his thumb. Now you understand why the position is serious.'
She considered for a few minutes. 'Will,' she said, 'for sure they will talk it over at the Black Jack. When anything is arranged it is generally done in the kitchen and in the morning.' She looked at the clock. 'It is now nearly one. If I were to go round!' She considered again. 'Doll will be there. They may be there too. But this time they must not recognise me. Wait a bit, Will.'
She left me and presently came back dressed, not as an Orange Girl, but as a common person, such as one may see anywhere in St. Giles's. She had on a linsey woolsey frock: a dirty white apron all in holes: a kerchief round her neck: another over her head tied under her chin: a straw hat also tied under her chin: and woollen mittens on her hands. One cheek was smudged as by a coal, and her left eye was blackened: no one would have recognised her. On her arm she carried a basket carefully covered up.
'Now,' she said, 'I'm a woman with a basket full of stolen goods for Mother Wilmot.'
I let her out by the garden-door which opened on to Hog's Lane. Presently she returned: from what she told me, this was what passed.
She found her mother nodding over knitting, and her sister Doll busy with the slate. The kitchen was well-nigh empty because most of the frequenters were abroad picking up their living. Like the sparrows they pick it up as they can from pockets and doorways and from shop bulks.
'Doll,' she whispered. 'Pretend not to know me. Turn over the things in the basket.'
'What is it, Jenny?'
She looked round the room. There were only two or three sitting by the fire. 'No one who knows me,' she said. 'Tell me, Doll. Has Mr. Merridew been here—and when?'
'Why, he's only just gone. Him and the Bishop—and the Captain—and another one—a gentleman he looked like. All in black.'
'All in black? Was he tall and thin and stooping? So?'
'Yes. They've been talking over it all the morning.'
'What is it, Doll? You've got ears like gimlets. I sometimes think it must be pleasant to be able to hear so much that goes on.'
'I can hear a thing if I like. The Bishop don't like it, Jenny.' She dropped her voice. 'It's business for getting a man out of the way. They'll have to give evidence at the Old Bailey, and he's afraid.'
'How is the man to be put out of the way?'
'I don't know. There's money on it. But they're afraid.'
'Why are they afraid?'
'Because they're going to make a man swing. If he doesn't swing, they will.'
'I suppose it's an innocent man, Doll.'
'How should I know? It isn't one of themselves. If the case breaks down they'll have to swing. Mr. Merridew promised them so much, for I heard him. He means it, too—and they know it. I heard him. "If you do break down," he says, "after all, you will be no worse off than you are at present. For your time's up and you know it, both of you. So, if you break down, you will be arrested for conspiracy and detained on my information on a capital charge." After which—he made so——' with her finger on her neck.
'Well, what did they say, Doll?'
'The Bishop said it would be easier and quicker to knock him on the head at once. Mr. Merridew wouldn't hear of it. He said if they obeyed him they should have two years' more rope. If not, they knew what to expect. So they went away with him, looking mighty uneasy.'
'When is it to be, Doll?'
'Lord, sister, you are mighty curious. 'Tis no affair of yours. Best know nothing, I say. Only a body must hear things. And it makes the time pass knowing what to expect.'
'Can you find out when it is to be?'
'If I learn, I will tell you. It's all settled, I know that. We shall have the pair of them giving evidence in the Old Bailey.' Doll laughed at the thought. 'All St. Giles's will go to the Court to hear—all them that dare.'
'So they went away with Mr. Merridew,' Jenny repeated, thoughtfully.
'Yes, after a mug of purl, but the Bishop went away shaking. Not on account of the crime, I suppose, but with the thought of being cross-examined in the Old Bailey, and the terror that he might be recognised. But the only London Prison that knew him was the King's Bench.'
Jenny took up her basket and went away. Just outside the door she met a young country fellow: he had come up from some village in consequence of trouble concerned with a girl: Jenny had had speech with him already, as you have heard, at the Black Jack.
'Jack,' she said, 'you don't remember me: I was at the Black Jack some time ago in the evening. They called me Madam. Now you remember.'
'Ay——' he said, looking at her curiously. 'But I shouldn't know you again. You are dressed different.'
'Jack, why don't you go home?'
'A man must live,' he replied.
'You'll be hanged. For sure and certain, one of these days, you'll be hanged. Now, Jack, I'll give you a chance. Let us sit here by the rails, and talk—then people won't suspect. You've seen Mr. Merridew to-day. I thought so. He told you that he might want you on some serious job. I thought so. Your looks are still innocent, Jack. Now tell me all about it—and I'll give you money to take you home again out of the way and safe.'
Jack had very little to tell. He had been in the kitchen that morning. Mr. Merridew called him—bade him not to go away: said that he should want him perhaps for a good job: so he waited. Then a gentleman came in: he was in black—a long, and lean figure. Jack would know him again; and they all four—but not Jack—talked very earnestly together. Then the gentleman went away and presently Mr. Merridew also went away, with the Bishop and the Captain.
'Very good, Jack. I will see you to-morrow morning again—just in the same place. Don't forget. If anything else occurs you will tell me. Poor Jack! I should be sorry to see so proper a fellow hanged,' so she nodded and laughed and pressed his hand and left him.
She came home: she joined me again. There was something hatching; that was certain.
'Perhaps,' she said, 'the plot is not directed against you. Merridew is always finding out where a house can be broken or a bale of stuff stolen.'
'Then what did Probus want there?'
'The long, lean man in black was not Probus, perhaps.'
She considered again.
'After all, Will, I think the best thing is for you to disappear. They are desperate villains. Get out of their way. Your friend Ramage gave you the best advice possible. If all he says is true, Matthew cannot hold out much longer. Once he is bankrupt, your death will no longer help Probus. Where could you go?'
I told her that I thought of Dublin, where I might get into the orchestra of the theatre. So after a little discussion, it was settled. Jenny, always generous, undertook to provide for Alice in my absence, and gave me a sum of money for present necessities.
I stayed there all day. In the evening I played at a concert in the Assembly Room. After the concert I took supper with Jenny.
During supper Jenny entertained me with a fuller description of the wretches from whose hands she was trying to rescue me. There was no turn or trick of villainy that Jenny did not know. She made no excuses for knowing so much—it was part of her education to hear continually talk of these things. They make up disguises in which it is impossible to recognise them: they arrange that respectable people shall swear to their having been miles away at the time of the crime: they practise on the ignorance of some: on the cunning of others. They prey upon mankind. And all the time, behind every villain stands a greater villain. Behind the humble footpad stands the Captain: behind the Captain stands the thief-taker: behind the thief-taker stands the money-lender himself unseen. It would surely be to the advantage of the Law could it tackle the greater villains first. A cart-load of gentlemen like Mr. Probus on its way to Tyburn would perhaps be more useful than many cartloads of poor pickpockets and hedge-lifters. Sometimes, however, as this history will relate, Justice with tardy step overtakes a Probus, and that with punishment so dreadful that he is left incapable of any further wickedness.
'Now,' she said, 'when Probus wants money, he squeezes Merridew. Then he lays information against some poor wretch who expected a longer rope. In order to get at these wretches he has to encourage them to break the law. So you see, if he has to make a payment to Probus, he must manufacture criminals. As I said, there cannot be many things worse than the making of criminals for the satisfaction of the money-lender.'
I hardly understood, at the time, the full villainy of this system. In fact, I was wholly absorbed in my own particular case. What was going to be done?
About midnight I bade this kindest of women farewell.
'Remember, Will,' she said, 'trust nothing to chance. Take boat down the river before daybreak. There is sure to be a Holyhead coach somewhere in the morning. In a month or two you can come back again in safety.'
Yes—I was to come back in safety in that time, but not as Jenny meant. I shouldered my trusty club and marched off.
My way home lay through Dean Street as far as St. Ann's Church: then I passed across Leicester Fields: and through Green Street at the south-east angle of the Fields into St. Martin's Lane. All this part of the way is greatly infested at night by lurking footpads from the choice purlieus of Seven Dials and Soho. Of footpads, however, I had very little fear: they are at best a cowardly crew, even two or three together, and a man with a stout cudgel and some skill at a quarter-staff or single-stick need not be afraid of them: generally, two or three passengers will join together in order to get across the Fields which are especially the dangerous part: on many nights it was so late when I left the Square that even footpads, highwaymen, pickpockets and all were fairly home and in bed before I walked through the streets.
This evening by bad luck, I was alone. I found no other passengers going my way. But I had no fear. I poised my cudgel and set out, expecting perhaps an encounter with a footpad, but nothing worse. And it was not yet late, as hours go, in London: there were still people in the streets.
What had happened was this. As soon as Probus learned the truth about the gaming-table—a fatal thing it was to disclose my knowledge—he understood two things: first, that his money was irrevocably gone: and second, that if I revealed the truth to the Alderman in his suburban retreat, he must needs investigate the position of things in which case Bankruptcy would be precipitated. After that, whether I died or signed the agreement, or refused to sign it would matter nothing to him. Whereas, on the other hand, if my signature could be obtained before the bankruptcy, then money could be raised upon the succession: and if I were to die, then the whole of the money would be paid on the day of my death to Matthew. Whatever was done must therefore be done as soon as possible.
Therefore, he resolved that the plot should be carried into execution on the very Monday evening. He caused the cottage to be watched by one of the girls who frequented the Black Jack: she followed me all the way from Lambeth to Soho Square: and she carried intelligence where to find me to the tavern, where Probus himself with Merridew, the Bishop, and the Captain, was now waiting.
They understood that I was playing at a concert: they therefore sallied out about the time when the concert would be finishing and waited for me in the Square: at eleven o'clock I sallied forth: I walked down Dean Street: they ran down Greek Street to meet me at the other end, where there are fewer people: but (I heard this afterwards) changed their minds and got over the Fields into Green Street behind the Mews, where they resolved to wait for me. The Bishop posted himself on one side: the Captain on the other: Mr. Probus and Mr. Merridew waited a little further down the street. It was a dangerous plot that they were going to attempt: I am not surprised that neither the Bishop nor the Captain had much stomach for the play. At this place, which has as bad a reputation as any part of London, there are seldom any passengers after night-fall; after midnight, none. It is dark: the houses are inhabited by criminal and disorderly people—but all this is well known to everybody.
I walked briskly along, anticipating no danger of this kind. Suddenly, I heard footsteps in front of me and behind me: there was a movement in the quiet street; by such light as the stars gave, I saw before me the rascally face of the Bishop: I lifted my cudgel: I half turned:—crash!—I remember nothing more.
When I came to my senses, or to some part of my senses, I found myself lying on a sanded floor: my head was filled with a dull and heavy pain: my eyes were dazed: to open them brought on an agony of pain. For awhile the voices I heard were like the buzzing of bees.
I grew better: I was able to distinguish a little: but I could not yet open my eyes.
The first voice that I recognized was that of Mr. Probus—the rasping, harsh, terrifying voice—who could mistake it?
'A bad case, gentlemen,' he was saying, 'a very bad case: it was fortunate that I was passing on my way, if only to identify the prisoner. Dear me! I knew his honoured father, gentlemen; I was his father's unworthy attorney. His father was none other than Sir Peter Halliday. The young man was turned out of the house for misconduct. A bad case——Who would have thought that Sir Peter's son would die at Tyburn?'
Then there was another voice: rich and rolling, like a low stop of the organ—I knew that too. It was the voice of the Bishop.
'My name, Mr. Constable, is Carstairs; Samuel Carstairs; the Rev. Samuel Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity, Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor, sometime of Trinity College, Dublin. I am an Irish clergyman, at present without cure of souls. I was walking home after certain godly exercises'—in the Black Jack—I suppose—'when this fellow ran out in front of me, crying "Your money or your life." I am not a fighting man, Sir, but a servant of the Lord. I gave him my purse, entreating him to spare my life. As he took it, some other gentleman, unknown to me, ran to my assistance, and knocked the villain down. Perhaps, Mr. Constable, you would direct his pockets to be searched. The purse contained seventeen guineas.'
I felt hands in my pocket. Something was taken out.
'Ha!' cried the Doctor. 'Let the money be counted.'
I heard the click of coin and another voice cried 'Seventeen guineas.'
'Well,' said Mr. Probus, 'there cannot be much doubt after that.'
'I rejoice,' said the Doctor, 'not so much that the money is found—though I assure you, worthy Sir, I could ill afford the loss—as because it clearly proves the truth of my evidence—if, that is to say, there could be any question as to its truth, or anyone with the hardihood to doubt it.'
At this point, I was able to open my eyes. The place I knew for a Round House. The Constable in charge sat at a table, a book before him, entering the case: Mr. Probus stood beside him, shaking his virtuous head with sorrow. The Doctor was holding up his hands to express a good clergyman's horror of the crime: Mr. Merridew was standing on the other side of the Constable, and beside him the Captain, who now stepped forward briskly.
'My name,' he said, 'is Ferdinando Fenwick. I am a country man from Cumberland. I was walking with this gentleman'—he indicated Mr. Merridew. 'We were walking together for purposes of mutual protection, for I have been warned against this part of London, when I saw the action described by this pious clergyman. The man ran forward raising his cudgel. I have brought it with me—You can see, Sir, that it is a murderous weapon. I saw the gentleman here, whose name I did not catch——'
'Carstairs—By your leave, Sir—Samuel Carstairs—The Rev. Samuel Carstairs—Doctor of Divinity—Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor.'
'Thank you, Sir. I saw him hand over his purse. The villain raised his cudgel again. I verily believe he intended to murder as well as to rob his victim. I therefore ran to the rescue and with a blow of my stick felled the ruffian.'
The Constable looked doubtfully at Mr. Merridew, whom he knew by sight, as everybody connected with the criminal part of the law certainly did: he knew him as Sheriff's officer, nominally: thief-taker by secret profession: thief-maker, as matter of notoriety at the Courts. From him he looked at Mr. Probus, but more doubtfully, because he knew nothing about him except that he was an attorney, which means to such people as the Constable, devil incarnate. He also looked doubtfully at the Captain, whose face, perhaps, he knew. Considering that the Captain had been living for eight years at least in and about St. Giles's, and robbing about all the roads that run out of London, perhaps the Constable did know him by sight.
'Well,' he said, 'I suppose Sir John will look into it to-morrow. As for this gentleman who says he is——I remember——'
Here Mr. Probus slipped something into his hand.
'It is not for me,' the worthy Constable added, 'to remember anything. Besides, I may be wrong. Well, gentlemen, you will all attend to-morrow morning at Bow Street and give your evidence before Sir John Fielding.'
So they went away and I lay on the floor still wondering stupidly what would happen next.
Just then two watchmen came in. One was leading, or dragging, or carrying a young gentleman richly dressed but so drunk that he could neither stand nor speak: the other brought with him a poor creature—a woman—young—only a girl still—dressed in rags and tatters; shivering: unwashed; uncombed; weak and emaciated: a deplorable object.
The Constable turned to the first case.
'Give the gentleman a chair,' he said. 'Put him before the fire. Reach me his watch and his purse. Search his pockets, watchman.'
'Please your honour,' said the watchman, 'I have searched his pockets. We came too late, Sir. Nothing in them.'
'The town is full of villains—full of villains,' said the officer, with honest indignation. 'Well, put him in the chair. A gentleman can send for guineas if he hasn't got any guineas. Did he assault you, watchman? I thought so—Well—Let him sleep it off. Who's this woman?'
The watchman deposed to finding her walking about the deserted streets because she had nowhere to go.
'Has she got any money? Then just put her in the strong room—and carry this poor devil in after her. If that story holds—well—lay him on the bench—and take care of his head.'
They pushed the girl into the strong-room: carried me after her: laid me down on a wide stone bench without any kind of pillow or covering. Then they went out locking the door behind them.
I suppose that I should have suffered more than I did had it not been for the stupefying effect of the blow upon my head. I have only a dim recollection of the night. The place was filled with poor wretches, men and women, who could not afford to bribe the Constable. In this land of freedom to be a poor rogue is hanging matter: to be a rogue with money in pocket and purse is quite another thing: that rogue goes free. The rogue runs the gauntlet: first, he may get off by bribing the watchman: if he fails to do that, he may bribe the constable: or if the worst happens, he may then bribe the magistrate. I understand, however, that this has been changed, and that there are now no Justices who take bribes. Now, if the watchman brings few cases to the constable, and those all poor rogues, he may lose his place: and if the constable pockets all the bribes and brings the magistrate none, he may lose his place. So that it is mutually agreed between the three that each is to have his share. All mankind are for ever seeking and praying for Justice, and behold, this is all we have got in the boasted eighteenth century. I suppose, however, that in such a case as mine, a charge of highway robbery, in which the prisoner was taken red-handed, no constable would dare to take a bribe.
From time to time in the night we were disturbed by the grating of the key in the lock as the door was opened for the admission of another poor wretch. Then these interruptions ceased, and we were left in quiet.
When the day broke through the bars of the only window, I could look round upon the people, my companions in misfortune. There were three or four women in tawdry finery—very poor and miserable creatures who would be happier in the worst prison than in the way they lived: two or three pickpockets and footpads: one or two prentices, who would be sent to Bridewell and flogged for being found drunk. There was very little talk. Mostly, the wretches sat in gloomy silence. They had not even the curiosity to ask each other as to the offenses with which they were charged.
As the light increased the women began to whisper. They exhorted each other to courage. Before them all, in imagination, stood the dreadful whipping-post of Bridewell. Some of them have had an experience of that punishment.
'It takes but two or three minutes,' they said. 'Then it soon passes off. Mind you screech as if they were murdering you. That frightens the Alderman, and brings down the knocker. Don't begin to fret about it.' They were talking about their whippings in Bridewell. 'Perhaps Sir John will let you go. Sometimes he does.' My head pained, and I closed my eyes again.
At about eight o'clock the doors were flung wide open. Everyone started, shuddered, and stood up. 'Now, then,' cried a harsh voice, 'out with you! Out, I say.'
I was still giddy with last night's blow: my hair was stiff with blood: my head ached, but I was able to walk out with the others. The constables arranged us in a kind of procession, and put the handcuffs on every one. Then we were marched through the streets two by two, guarded by constables, to Bow Street Office, the Magistrate of which was then Sir John Fielding.
There was some slight comfort in the thought that he was blind: he could not be prejudiced against me by my appearance, for my face was smeared with blood: my hair was stiff with blood. There was blood on my coat, and where there was not blood there was the mud of the street in which I had lain senseless.
The business of the Court was proceeding. The Magistrate sat at a table: his eyes were bandaged. The eyes of Justice should be always bandaged. Over his head on the wall hung the Lion and the Unicorn: the prisoners were placed in a railed space: the witnesses in another, those in my case, I observed, were in readiness and waiting: three or four Bow Street runners were standing in the Court: there was a dock for the prisoner facing the magistrate.
The cases took little time. There is a dreadful sameness about the charges. The women were despatched summarily and sent off to Bridewell: they received their sentences with cries and lamentations, which stopped quickly enough when they found that they could not move the magistrate: the pickpockets were ordered to be whipped: the other rogues were committed to prison. They were destined, for the most part, to transportation beyond the seas. It is useful for the country to get rid of its rogues: it seems also humane to send them to a country where they may lead an honest life. Alas! the humanity of the law is marred by the execution of the sentence, for though the voyage does not last more than six or eight weeks, the gaol fever taken on board the ship; the sea sickness; the stench; the dirt; the foul air of the ship, commonly kill at least a third of the poor creatures thus sent out. As for those who are left, many of them run away from their masters: make their way to a port, get on board a ship, and are carried back to London, where they are fain to go back to their old companions and resume their old habits, and get known to Mr. Merridew and his friends, and so at last find themselves in the condemned cells.
My case came on, at last. I was placed in the dock facing the magistrate. The clerk read to him the notes of the case provided by the chief constable.
'Your name, prisoner?' he asked.
'I am William Halliday,' I said, 'only son of the late Sir Peter Halliday, formerly Lord Mayor of London. I am a musician now in the employment of Madam Vallance, Proprietor of the Assembly Rooms in Soho Square.'
The Magistrate whispered to his clerk.
Then the evidence was given. One after the other they manfully stood up: kissed the book: and committed perjury. Sir John Fielding asked the Doctor several questions. He was evidently doubtful: his clerk whispered again: he pressed the doctor as to alleged profession and position. However, the man stuck to his tale. The fact that the purse was found in my pocket was very strong. Then the Captain told his story.
Mr. Merridew did not attempt any disguise: he was too well known in Court: he stated that he was a Sheriff's officer—named Merridew—everybody in the court gazed upon him with the greatest curiosity, the women whispering and looking from him to me. 'Who is he?' they asked each other. 'What has he done? Do you know him—do you?' The surprise at the appearance of a stranger in the dock charged on the evidence of the worthy sheriff's officer caused general surprise. However, Mr. Merridew took no notice of the whispering. He was apparently callous: he took it perhaps as proof of popularity and admiration: he gave his evidence in the manner of one accustomed to bear witness, as indeed he was, having perhaps given evidence oftener than any other living man. He stated that he had joined a stranger to walk from the Tottenham Court Road to Charing Cross, each carrying a cudgel for self-defence: that he observed the action described by the worthy and learned Doctor of Divinity from Ireland: that his companion, this gallant young gentleman, rushed out to the rescue of the clergyman, and so forth. So he retired with a front of iron.
Mr. Probus added to the evidence which you have already heard the statement that he came accidentally upon the party and after the business was over: that he happened to have been attorney to the late Sir Peter Halliday: that he recognized the robber as the unnatural son of that good man, turned out of his father's home for his many crimes and vices: and that in the interest of justice and respect for the laws of his country he went out of his way, and was at great personal loss and inconvenience in order to give this evidence.
The Magistrate put no questions to him. He turned to me and asked if I had anything to say or any evidence to offer.
I had none, except—that I was no highwayman, but a respectable musician, and that this was a conspiracy.
'You will have the opportunity,' said Sir John, 'of proving the fact. Meantime, in the face of this evidence, conspiracy or not, I have no choice but to commit you to Newgate, there to remain until your trial.'
They set me aside and the next case was called.
So you understand, there are other ways of compassing a man's death besides simple murder. It is sufficient to enter into a conspiracy and to charge him with an offence which, by the laws of the country, is punishable by death.
A man must be made of brass or wrought-iron who can enter the gloomy portals of Newgate as a prisoner without a trembling of the limbs and a sinking of the heart. Not even consciousness of innocence is sufficient to sustain a prisoner, for alas! even the innocent are sometimes found guilty. Once within the first doors I was fain to lay hold upon the nearest turnkey or I should have fallen into a swoon; a thing which, they tell me, happens with many, for the first entrance into prison is worse to the imagination even than the standing up in the dock to take one's trial in open court. There is, in the external aspect of the prison: in the gloom which hangs over the prison: in the mixture of despair and misery and drunkenness and madness and remorse which fills the prison, an air which strikes terror to the very soul. They took me into a large vaulted ante-room, lit by windows high up, with the turnkey's private room opening out of it, and doors leading into the interior parts of the Prison. The room was filled with people waiting their turn to visit the prisoners; they carried baskets and packages and bottles; their provisions, in a word, for the Prison allows the prisoners no more than one small loaf of bread every day. Some of the visitors were quiet, sober people: some were women on whose cheeks lay tears: some were noisy, reckless young men, who laughed over the coming fate of their friends; spoke of Tyburn Fair; of kicking off the shoes at the gallows; of dying game; of Newgate music—meaning the clatter of the irons; of whining and snivelling; and so forth. They took in wine, or perhaps rum under the name of wine. There were also girls whose appearance and manner certainly did not seem as if sorrow and sympathy with the unfortunate had alone brought them to this place. Some of the girls also carried bottles of wine with them in baskets.
I was then brought before the Governor who, I thought, would perhaps hear me if I declared the truth. But I was wrong. He barely looked at me; he entered my name and occupation, and the nature of the crime with which I was charged. Then he coldly ordered me to be taken in and ironed.
The turnkey led me into a room hung with irons. 'What side?' he asked.
I told him I knew nothing about any sides.
'Why,' he said, 'I thought all the world knew so much. There's the State side. If you go there you will pay for admission three guineas; for garnish and a pair of light irons, one guinea; for rent of a bed half a guinea a week; and for another guinea you can have coals and candles, plates and a knife. Will that suit you?' He looked disdainfully at the dirt and blood with which I was covered, as if he thought the State side was not for the likes of me.
'Alas!' I replied, 'I cannot go to the State side.'
'I thought not, by the look of you. Well, there's the master's side next; the fee for admission is only thirteen and sixpence: irons, half a guinea: the rent of a bed or part of a bed half a crown, and as for your food, what you like to order and pay for. No credit at this tavern, which is the sign of the Clinking Iron. Will that suit you?'
'No, I can pay nothing.'
'Then why waste time asking questions? There's the common side; you've got to go into that, and very grateful you ought to be that there is a common side at all for such a filthy Beast as you.'
My choice must needs be the last because I had no money at all: not a single solitary shilling—my obliging friends when they put their purse into my pocket as a proof of the alleged robbery, abstracted my own—which no doubt the worthy Professor of Sacred Theology had in his pocket while he was explaining the nature of the attack to the Constable.
The turnkey while he grumbled about waste of time—a prisoner ought to say at once if he had no money: officers of the Prison were not paid to tell stories to every ragged, filthy footpad; the common side was as good as any other on the way to Tyburn: what could a ragamuffin covered with blood and filth expect?—picked out a pair of irons: they were the rustiest and the heaviest that he could find: as he hammered them on he said that for half a crown he would drive the rivet into my heel only that he would rob his friend Jack Ketch of the pleasure of turning off a poor whining devil who came into Newgate without a copper. 'Damme!' he cried, as he finished his work, 'if I believe you ever tried to rob anyone!'
'I did not,' I replied. At which he laughed, recovering his good temper, and opening a door shoved me through and shut it behind me.
The common side of Newgate is a place which, though I was in it no more than two hours or so, remains fixed in my memory and will stay there as long as life remains. The yard was filled to overflowing with a company of the vilest, the filthiest, and the most shameless that it is possible to imagine. They were pickpockets, footpads, shoplifters, robbers of every kind; they were in rags; they were unwashed and unshaven; some of them were drunk; some of them were emaciated by insufficient food—a penny loaf a day was doled out to those who had no money and no friends: that was actually all that the poor wretches had to keep body and soul together: the place was crowded not only with the prisoners, but with their friends and relations of both sexes; the noise, the cursings, the ribald laugh; the drunken song; the fighting and quarrelling can never be imagined. And, in the narrow space of the yard which is like the bottom of a deep well, there is no air moving, so that the stench is enough, at first, to make a horse sick.
I can liken it to nothing but a sty too narrow for the swine that crowded it; so full of unclean beasts was it, so full of noise and pushing and quarrelling: so full of passions, jealousies, and suspicions ungoverned, was it. Or I would liken it to a chamber in hell when the sharp agony of physical suffering is for a while changed for the equal pains of such companionship and such discourse as those of the common side. I stood near the door as the turnkey had pushed me in, staring stupidly about. Some sat on the stone bench with tobacco-pipes and pots of beer: some played cards on the bench: some walked about: there were women visitors, but not one whose face showed shame or sorrow. To such people as these Newgate is like an occasional attack of sickness; a whipping is but one symptom of the disease: imprisonment is the natural cure of the disease; hanging is only the natural common and inevitable end when the disease is incurable, just as death in his bed happens to a man with fever.
While I looked about me, a man stepped out of the crowd. 'Garnish!' he cried, holding out his hand. Then they all crowded round, crying 'Garnish! garnish!' I held up my hands: I assured them that I was penniless. The man who had first spoken waved back the others with his hand. 'Friend,' he said, 'if you have no money, off with your coat.'
Then, I know not what happened, because I think I must have fallen into a kind of fit. When I recovered I was lying along the stone bench: my coat was gone: my waistcoat was gone; my shirt was in rags; my shoes—on which were silver buckles, were gone; and my stockings, which were of black silk. My head was in a woman's lap.
'Well done,' she said, 'I thought you'd come round. 'Twas the touching of the wound on your head. Brutes and beasts you are, all of you! all of you! One comfort is you'll all be hanged, and that very soon. It'll be a happy world without you.'
'Come, Nan,' one of the men said, 'you know it's the rule. If a gentleman won't pay his garnish he must give up his coat.'
'Give up his coat! You've stripped him to the skin. And him with an open wound in his head bleeding again like a pig!'
The people melted away: they offered no further apology; but the coat and the rest of the things were not returned.
My good Samaritan, to judge by her dress and appearance, was one of the commonest of common women—the wife or the mistress of a Gaol-bird; the companion of thieves; the accomplice of villains. Yet there was left on her still, whatever the habit of her life, this touch of human kindness that made her come to the assistance of a helpless stranger. No Christian could have done more. 'Forasmuch,' said Christ, 'as you did it unto one of these you did it unto Me.' When I read these words I think of this poor woman, and I pray for her.
'Lie still a minute,' she said, 'I will stanch the bleeding with a little gin,' she pulled out a flat bottle. 'It is good gin. I will pour a little on the wound. That can't hurt—so.' But it did hurt. 'Now, my pretty gentleman, for you are a gentleman, though maybe only a gentleman rider and woundily in want of a wash. Take a sip for yourself, don't be afraid. Take a long sip. I brought it here for my man, but he's dead. He died in the night after a fight in the yard here. He got a knife between his ribs,' she spoke of this occurrence as if such a conclusion to a fight was quite in the common way. 'Look here, sir, you've no business in this place. Haven't you got any friends to pay for the Master's side? Now you're easier, and the bleeding has stopped. Can you stand, do you think?'
I made a shift to get to my feet, shivering in the cold damp November air. She had a bundle laying on the bench. ''Tis my man's clothes,' she said. 'Take his coat and shoes. You must. Else with nothing but the boards to sleep upon you'll be starved to death. Now I must go and tell his friends that my man is dead. Well—he won't be hanged. I never did like to think that I should be the widow of a Tyburn bird.'
She put on me the warm thick coat that had been her husband's; she put on his shoes. I was still stupid and dull of understanding. But I tried to thank her.
Some weeks afterwards, when I was at length released, I ventured back into the prison in hopes of finding the name and the residence of the woman—Samaritan, if ever there was one. The turnkeys could tell me nothing. The gaol was full of women, they said. My friend was named Nan. They were all Nans. She was the wife of a prisoner who died in the place. They were always dying on the common side. That was nothing. They all know each other by name; but it was six weeks ago; prisoners change every day; they are brought in; they are sent out to be hanged, pilloried, whipped or transported. In a word they knew nothing and would not take the trouble to inquire. What did it matter to these men made callous by intimacy with suffering, that a woman of the lower kind had done a kind and charitable action? Nevertheless, we have Christ's own assurance—His words—His promise. The woman's action will be remembered on the day when her sins shall be passed before a merciful Judge. Her sins! Alas! she was what she was brought up to be; her sins lie upon the head of those who suffer her, and those like to her, to grow up without religion, or virtue, or example, or admonition.
By this time I was growing faint with hunger as well as with loss of blood and fatigue. I had taken nothing for fourteen hours; namely, since supper the evening before the attack. The first effect of hunger is to stop the power of thought. There fell upon me a feeling of carelessness as if nothing mattered: the night in the watch-house: the appearance before the magistrate: my reception on the common side: all passed across my brain as if they belonged to someone else. I rose with difficulty, but staggered and fell back upon the bench. My head was light: I seemed strangely happy. This lightness of head was quickly followed by a drowsiness which became stupor. How long I lay there I know not. I remember nothing until a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder. 'Come,' it was the voice of a turnkey. 'This is not the kind of place for an afternoon nap in November. Come this way. A lady wants to see you.'
He led me to the door of the common side: and threw it open: in the waiting-room was none other than Jenny herself. How had she learned what had happened?
'Oh! my poor Will!' she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. 'This is even worse than I expected. But first you must be made comfortable. Here, you fellow,' she called the turnkey. 'Take him away. I will pay for everything. Let him be washed and get his wound dressed; give him a clean shirt and get him at once new clothes.'
'If your ladyship pleases—'
'Change these rusty irons for the lightest you have. Put him into the best cell that you have on the State side. Get a dinner for him: anything that is quickest—cold beef—ham—bread—a bottle of Madeira. Go—quick.' She stamped her foot with authority; she put into the man's hand enough money to pay for half a dozen prisoners on the State side. 'Now, fly—don't crawl—fly!—one would think you were all asleep. A pretty place this is to sleep in!'
The man knocked off my heavy irons and substituted a pair of lighter ones, highly polished and even ornamental. He took me away and washed me; it was in the turnkeys' room on the right hand of the entrance; he also with some dexterity dressed my wound, dressed and cleaned my hair—it was filled with clotted blood; he fitted me with new clothes, and in less time than one would think possible, I was taken back looking once more like a respectable person, even a gentleman if I chose to consider myself entitled to claim that empty rank. I found Jenny waiting for me in the best cell that Newgate could offer on the State side: a meal was spread for me, with a bottle of wine.
'Before we say a word, Will, sit down and eat. Heavens! You have had nothing since our supper last night.'
I checked an impulse to thank her: I drove back the swelling in my heart. Reader—I was too hungry for these emotions: I had first to satisfy starving nature. While I ate and drank Jenny talked.
'You shall tell me the whole story presently, Will. Meantime, go on with your dinner. You must want it, my poor friend. Now let me tell you why I am here. You know I was uneasy about the conspiracy that was hatching. I feared it might be meant for you. So great was my uneasiness that I bade my sister to keep watching and listening: this morning about one o'clock I went to the Black Jack myself to learn if she had discovered anything.
'Well, she had discovered everything. She said that at eleven o'clock this morning the two fellows called the Bishop and the Captain, whom I had taken out of the King's Bench, came to the Black Jack, laughing and very merry: they called for a mug of purl and a pack of cards: that while they played they talked out loud because there was no one in the house except themselves. Doll they disregarded as they always do, because Doll is generally occupied with her slate and her scores, which she adds up as wrong as she can. They said that it was as good as a play to see the Attorney playing the indignant friend of the family, and how their own evidence could not possibly be set aside, and the case was as good as finished and done with; that the fellow went off to Newgate as dumb as an ox to the shambles; and the poor devil had no money and no friends, and must needs swing, and the whole job was as clean and creditable piece of work as had ever been turned out. It must be hanging: nobody could get him off. Then they fell to wondering as well, what Mr. Probus had done it for; and what he would get by it; and whether (a speculation which pleased them most) he had not put himself into Mr. Merridew's power, in which case they might have the holy joy of seeing the attorney himself, when his rope was out, sitting in the cart. And they congratulated each other on their own share in the job; ten guineas apiece, down, and a promise of more when the man was out of the way: with a long extension of time.' I condense Jenny's narrative which was long, and I alter the language which was wandering.
'When Doll told me all this,' she concluded, 'I had no longer any doubt that the man whom they had succeeded in placing in Newgate was none other than yourself, my poor Will—so I took a coach and drove here.'
I then told her exactly how everything had happened.
'I hope,' she said, 'that Matthew, if he is in the conspiracy, does not know what has been done. Besides, the chief gainer will be Probus, not Matthew. Remember, Will, it is just a race; if he can compass your death before Matthew becomes bankrupt, then he will get back all his money—all his money. Think of that: if not, he will lose the whole. Well, Will, he thinks nobody knows except himself. He is mistaken. We shall see—we shall see.' So she fell to considering again.
'If there is a loophole of escape,' she went on, 'he will wriggle out. Let us think. What do we know?'
'We only know through Ramage,' I replied. 'Is that enough to prove the conspiracy? I know what those two men are who are the leading witnesses—how can I prove it? I know that they were suborned by Probus and that they are in the power of Merridew. How can I prove it? I know that Probus has talked to my cousin about my possible death, but what does that prove? I know that he will benefit by my death to the amount of many thousands, but how can I prove it? My mouth will be closed. Where are my witnesses?'
'You can't prove anything, Will. And therefore you had better not try.'
'Jenny.' The tears came to my unmanly eyes. 'Leave me. Go, break the news to Alice, and prepare her mind to see me die.'
'I will break the news to Alice, but I will not prepare her mind to see you die. For, my dear cousin, you shall not die.' She spoke with assurance. She was standing up and she brought her hand down upon the table with a slap which with her flashing eyes and coloured cheek inspired confidence for the moment. 'You shall not die by the conspiracy of these villains.'
'How to prevent them?'
'It would be easy if their friends would bear evidence against them. But they will not. They will sit in the Court and admire the tragic perjuries of the witnesses. There is one rule among my people which is never broken; no one must peach on his brother. Shall dog bite dog? If that rule is broken it is never forgiven—never—so long as the offender lives.'
'Then, what can we do?'
'The short way would be to buy them. But in this respect they cannot be bought. They will rob or murder or perjure themselves with cheerfulness, but they will not peach on their brother. Money will not tempt them. Jealousy might, but there are no women in this case. Revenge might, but there is here no private quarrel. Besides, they are all in the hands of the man Merridew. To thwart him would bring certain destruction on their heads. And if there was any other reason, they are naturally anxious to avoid a Court of Justice. They would rather see their own children hanged than go into a court to give evidence, true or false.'
'Then I must suffer, Jenny.'
'Nay, Will, I said not so much—I was only putting the case before myself. I see many difficulties but there is always a way out—always an end.'
'Always an end.' I repeated. 'Oh! Jenny. What an end!'
A Newgate fit was on me; that is, a fit of despondency which is almost despair. All the inmates of Newgate know what it means; the rattling of the irons; the recollection of the trial to come; a word that jars; and the Newgate shuddering seizes a man and shakes him up and down till it is spent. Jenny made me drink a glass of wine. The fit passed away.
'I feel,' I said at last, 'as if the rope was already round my neck. My poor Alice! My poor child! Thou wilt be the son of a highwayman and a Tyburn bird. To the third and fourth generation ...'
'I know nothing about generations,' Jenny interrupted. 'All I know is that you are going to be saved. Why, man, consider. Probus knows nothing about me; these conspirators know nothing about Madame Vallance; none of them have the least suspicion; and must not have: that you know Jenny of the Black Jack. Now I shall try to get a case as to the conspiracy clear without attacking the loyalty of the gang to each other. I have thought of such a plan. And I know an attorney. You have seen him. He is tolerably honest. He shall advise us—I will send him here. Be of good cheer, Will. I go to fetch Alice. Put on a smiling countenance to greet her. Come, you are a man. Lift the drooping spirit of the woman who loves you. Keep up her heart if not your own.'
She came back at about five: the day was already over; the yards and courts of the Prison were already dark. My cell was lit with a pair of candles when Jenny brought Alice and her brother Tom to see me.
Alice, poor child! fell into my arms and so lay for a long time, unable to speak for the sobs that tore her almost in pieces, yet unwilling to let me see her weakness.
Tom—the good fellow—assumed the same air of cheerfulness which he had learned to show in the King's Bench. He sniffed the air approvingly. He looked round with pretended satisfaction. 'Ha!' he said, 'this place hath been misrepresented. The room is convenient, if small; the furniture solid: the air is not so close as one might expect. For a brief residence—a temporary residence—a man might ... might—I say—' He cleared his throat; the tears came into his eyes: he sank into a chair. 'Oh! Will ... Will,' he cried, breaking down, and unable to pretend any longer.
Then no one spoke. Indeed all our hearts were full.
'It is not so much on your account, Will,' said Jenny—I observed that she wore a domino, and indeed, she never came to the prison after the first visit without a domino, a precaution by no means unusual, because ladies might not like to be seen in Newgate, and in any case it might arouse suspicions if Jenny were recognised. 'I say it is not on your account, so much as for the sake of this dear creature. Madam—Alice—I implore you—take courage; we have the proofs of the conspiracy in our hands. It is a black and hellish plot. The only difficulty is as to the best means of using our knowledge, and here, I confess, for the moment, I am not certain—'
Alice recovered herself and stood up, holding my hand. 'I cannot believe,' she said, 'that such wickedness as this will be permitted to succeed. It would bring shame and sorrow on children and grandchildren to the third and fourth generations.'
'You all talk about generations,' said Jenny. 'For my part I think of you that are alive, not those who are to come. Well, so far it has not succeeded. For the conspirators are known to me and I am Will's cousin—and this they know not.'
They stayed talking till nine o'clock when visitors had to leave the Prison. Jenny cheered all our hearts. She would hear of no difficulties: all was clear: all was easy: she had the conspirators in her power. To-morrow she would return with her honest and clever attorney. So Alice went away with a lighter heart, and I was left for the night alone in my cell with a gleam of hope. In the morning that gleam left me, and the day broke upon the place of gloom and brought with it only misery and despair.
In the forenoon Jenny returned with her attorney. He was the man who had already acted for me. His name was Dewberry; he was possessed of a manner easy and assured, which inspired confidence: in face and figure he was attractive, and he betrayed no eagerness to possess himself of his client's money. I observed also, at the outset, that, like all the rest he was the servant (who would, if he could, become the lover) of Jenny.
'Now, Mr. Halliday,' he said, 'I have heard some part of your story from Madame Vallance. I want, next, to hear your own version.' So I told it, while he listened gravely, making notes.
'It is certainly,' he said, 'a very strong point that your death would give Probus the chance of recovering his money. Your cousin could then pay him off, if he wished, in full. Whether he would do so is another question. If bankruptcy arrives and finds you still living, all the creditors would be considered together. Madame,' he turned to Jenny, 'you who have so fine a head for management, let us hear your opinion.'
'I think of nothing else,' she said. 'Yet I cannot satisfy myself. I have thought that my sister Doll might warn the Captain that both he and the Bishop would be exposed in Court. But what would happen? They would instantly go off with the news to Merridew. And then? An information against Doll and my mother for receiving stolen goods. And what would happen then? You know very well, Mr. Dewberry. They would have to buy their release by forbidding the exposure! Why, they are the most notorious receivers living. Or, suppose Doll plainly told them that her sister Jenny knew the whole case—they don't know at present—at least, I think not—where I am—but they can easily find out—that I knew the whole case and meant to expose them. What would happen next? Murder, my masters. I should be found on my bed with my throat cut, and a letter to show that it was done by one of my maids.'
'Jenny, for Heaven's sake, do not run these risks.'
'Not if I can help it, Will. Do you know what I think of—besides? It is a doubt whether Matthew would be more rejoiced to see the conspiracy succeed and you put out of the way, or to witness the conviction of Probus for conspiracy.'
'Softly—softly, Madam,' said the attorney; 'we are a long way yet from the trial, even, of Mr. Probus.'
'Jenny,' I said, 'your words bring me confidence.'
'If you feel all the confidence that there is in Newgate it will not be enough, Will, for the confidence that you ought to have. But we must work in silence. If our friends only knew what we are talking here, why then—the Lord help the landlady of the Black Jack and her two daughters, Jenny and Doll!'
'You must be aware, Sir,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'that it is absolutely necessary for us to preserve silence upon everything connected with your defence. You must not communicate any details upon the subject to your most intimate friends and relations.'
'He means Alice,' said Jenny.
'We must have secrecy.'
'You may trust a man whose life is at stake.'
'Yes. Now the principal witnesses are the pretended Divine and the pretended country gentleman. They rest in the assurance that none of their friends will betray them. We must see what can be done. If we prove that your Irish Divine is a common rogue we make his evidence suspected, but we do not prove the conspiracy. The fellow might brave it out, and still swear to the attempted robbery. Then as to the other worthy, we may prove that he is a notorious rogue. Still he may swear stoutly to his evidence. We must prove, in addition, that these two rogues are known to each other—'
'That can be proved by any who were in the King's Bench Prison with them—'
'And we must connect them with Probus and Merridew.'
'I can prove that as well,' said Jenny. 'That is, if—'
She paused.
'If your witnesses will give evidence. Madam, I would not pour cold water on your confidence—but—will your witnesses go into the box?'
Jenny smiled. 'I believe,' she said, 'that I can fill the Court with witnesses.'
'I want more than belief—I want certainty.'
'There is another way,' said Jenny. 'If we could let Mr. Probus understand that the sudden and unexpected appearance of a new set of creditors would force on Bankruptcy immediately—'
Mr. Dewberry interposed hastily. 'Madam, I implore you. There is no necessity at all. Sir, this lady would actually sacrifice her own fortune and her future prospects in your cause.'
'For his safety and for his life—everything.'
'I assure you, dear Madam, there is no need. Your affairs want only patience, and they will adjust themselves. To throw them also upon your husband's other liabilities would not help this gentleman. For this reason. There are a thousand tricks and subtleties which a man of Mr. Probus's knowledge may employ for the postponement of bankruptcy until after the trial of our friend here. You know not the resources of the law in a trained hand. I mean that, supposing Mr. Probus to reckon on the success of this conspiracy—in which I grieve to find a brother in the profession involved; he may cause these delays to extend until his end is accomplished or defeated. A man of the Law, Madam, has great powers.'
I groaned.
'Another point is that, unless I am much mistaken, this conspiracy is intended to intimidate and not to be carried out. Mr. Probus will offer you, I take it, your liberty on condition of your yielding in the matter of that money.'
'Never!' I declared. 'I will die first!'
'Then it remains to be seen if he will carry the thing through.'
So they went on arguing on this side and on that side: which line of action was best: which was dangerous: in the end, as you shall see, Jenny took the management of the case into her own hands with results which astonished Mr. Dewberry as well as the Court, myself, and the four heroes of the conspiracy.
Five weeks, I learned, would elapse before my case would be tried in Court. It was a long and a tedious time to contemplate in advance. Meantime, I was kept in ignorance, for the most part, of what was being done. Afterwards I learned that Jenny carried on the work in secrecy, so that not only the conspirators might not have the least suspicion but that even Mr. Dewberry did not know what was doing until she placed the case complete, in his hands a few days before the trial. Jenny contrived all: Jenny paid for all: what the case cost her in money I never learned. She spared nothing, neither labour, nor travel, nor money. Meantime I lived on now in hope, now in despondency: to go outside among my fellow prisoners was to increase the wretchedness of prison. Every morning Alice brought provisions for the day. Tom brought me my violin and music so that I was not without some consolations.
As I remember this gloomy period, I remember with thankfulness how I was stayed and comforted by two women, of whom one was a Saint: and the other was—well, Heaven forbid that I should call her a Sinner, in whom I never found the least blemish: but not, at least, a Christian. The first offered up prayers for me day and night, wrestling in prayer like Jacob, for the open manifestation of my innocence. Alice was filled with a sublime faith. The Lord whom she worshipped was very near to her. He would destroy His enemies; He would preserve the innocent; the wicked would be cast down and put to perpetual shame. Never have I witnessed a faith so simple and so strong. Yet to all seeming; to the conspirators themselves; I had not a single witness whom I could call in my defence: that a man was poor favoured the chance of his becoming a robber; that a brother-in-law, also a prisoner in the Rules, should be ready to say that I was incapable of such an action could not help. What could we allege against the clear and strong evidence that the four perjured villains would offer when they should stand up, and swear away my life? 'Have courage,' said Alice, 'Help cometh from the Lord. He will have mercy upon the child and—oh! Will—Will—He will have mercy upon the father of the child.'
Mr. Dewberry came often. He had little to tell me. Jenny had gone away. Jenny had not told him what she was doing. 'Sir,' he said, 'but for the confidence I have in that incomparable woman and in her assurances I should feel anxious. For as yet, and we are within a fortnight of the trial, I have not a single witness who can prove the real character of the pretended Divine and the pretended country gentleman. But since Madam assures us—' He produced his snuff-box and offered it— 'Why—then, Sir—in that case—I believe in the success of your defence.'