The case was over—I stepped out of the Dock: I was free: everybody, including Mr. Caterham, K.C., was shaking my hand: the Lord Mayor sent for me to the Bench and shook my hand warmly: he said that he had known my worthy father, Sir Peter, and that he rejoiced that my innocence had been made as clear as the noonday: all the Jury shook hands with me: my cousin Tom paid my dues to the prison, without payment of which even a free man, proved innocent, must go back to the prison again and there stay till he discharges them—because a gaoler everywhere has a heart made of flint. At last, surrounded by my friends I went out of Court. Outside in the street there was a crowd who shouted and cried my name with 'Death to the Conspirators!' But I saw many who did not shout. Who are they who had no sympathy with innocence? They stood apart, with lowering faces. They came down from the public gallery where—I was afterwards told—the appearance in that witness-box first of the well-known landlady of the Black Jack—their ancient friend: next, of her daughter—also their friend: thirdly, of the young fellow called Jack, one of themselves, a rogue and the companion of rogues: and lastly, of the woman of whom they had been so proud, Jenny the actress, Jenny the Orange Girl: Jenny of Drury Lane: filled them with dismay and rage. What? Their own people turn against their own friends? The landlady of the Black Jack, even the landlady of the Black Jack, that most notorious receiver of stolen goods, and harbourer of rogues, to give evidence against her own customers? Thief betray thief? Dog bite dog? Heard ever man the like? Now you understand the lowering and gloomy faces. These people whispered to each other in the Gallery of the Court House: they murmured to each other outside on the pavement: when we climbed into a hackney coach—Jenny—her mother and sister—the young fellow called Jack and myself—they followed us—in pairs;—by fours, talking low and cursing below their breath. After a while they desisted: but one or two of them still kept up with the coach.
I sent Alice home under charge of Tom. I would get home, I said, as quickly as I could, after seeing Jenny safely at her own house.
We arrived at the house in Soho Square. It was empty save for some women-servants, for there was no entertainment that evening. We went into the small room on the left and lit the candles.
It was then about seven o'clock in the evening and quite dark, as the time of year was November. Jenny was restless and excited. She went to the window and looked out. 'The Square is quiet,' she said. 'How long will it remain quiet?'
The servants brought in some supper. Jenny took a little glass of wine. She then went away and returned in a plain dress with a cloak and hood.
'I must be ready,' she said, 'to set off on my travels—whither? Mother'—she turned to the old lady—'you are a witch. Look into the fire and tell me what you see.'
The old woman filled and drained a glass of Madeira and turned her chair round. She gazed intently into the red coals.
'I see,' she said, 'a crowd of people. I see a Court. I see the condemned cell....' She turned away. 'No, Jenny, I will look no more. 'Twas thus I looked in the fire before thy father was taken. Thus and thus did I see. I will look no longer.'
'Well,' said Doll, 'what will they do next? They know now where you live, Madame Vallance.'
The old woman sat down and sighed heavily. 'The Black Jack!' she murmured. 'We shall never see it again.'
Jenny was quiet and grave. 'We have beaten them,' she said. 'They never suspected that so complete a beating was in store for them. Now comes our turn—my turn rather.'
'Your turn, Jenny?'
'Yes, Will, my turn. Do you suppose they will forgive us? Why, we have given evidence against our own people. All St. Giles's trusted my mother and sister—Could one suspect the Black Jack? Why, because I was a daughter of the house, all St. Giles's trusted me—and we have betrayed them! There will be revenge and that quickly.'
Doll nodded expressively. Her mother groaned.
'What kind of revenge?'
Doll nodded her head again and drew a long breath. Her mother groaned again.
'I do not know, yet. Listen, Will. The people know very well that this case has been got up by myself. I found out, by my mother's assistance, those facts about the trials and floggings and imprisonments: I went into the country and secured the evidence. I brought up the gaolers to testify to the men's identity. I even went to my husband and promised—yes, I swore—that I would put him into the conspiracy as well as the other four if he did not give evidence without saying a word to Probus. And then I bought my mother out.'
'You bought out your mother?'
''Twas as sweet a business, Sir,' the old woman interrupted, 'as you ever saw. A matter of three pounds a day takings and two pounds a day profit.'
'I bought her out,' said Jenny. 'I also compensated her for the contents of her vaults.'
'Ah!' sighed the old woman. 'There were treasures!'
'The Black Jack is shut up. When the people go there this evening'—again Doll nodded—'they will find it closed—and they will wreck the place.'
'And drink up all that's left,' said Doll.
'Let us prevent murder. Jack, you will find it best for your health to get at far as possible out of London. Take my mother and sister to one of the taverns in the Borough. There's a waggon or a caravan starts every morning for some country place or other; never mind where. Go with them, Jack: stay with them for a while till they are settled. Mother, you won't be happy unless you can have a tavern somewhere. If you can find one, Jack will do for you. There you will be safe, I think. St. Giles's doesn't contain any of our people. But in London you will be murdered—you and Doll, too—for sure and certain.'
'For sure and certain,' said Doll, grimly.
Jenny gave her mother more money. 'That will carry you into the country,' she said. 'You can let me know, somehow, where you are. But take care not to let anyone know who would tell the people here. The gipsies are your best friends, not the thieves.'
I asked her if it was really necessary to make all these preparations.
'You don't know these people, Will. I do. The one thing to which they cling is their safety from the law so long as they are among themselves. There will be wild work this evening. As for me I have under my dress all my money and all my jewels. I am ready for flight.'
'Why, Jenny, you don't think they will attack you here?'
'I do, indeed. There is nothing more likely. Did you observe a woman running along Holborn beside the coach? I know that woman. She is the Captain's girl. Revenge was written on her face—easy to read—revenge—revenge. She stood beside the doorstep when we came in. She marked the house. She has gone back to St. Giles's to tell them where we can be found this evening. But they learned that fact in Court. Oh! They will come presently.'
'Well, Jenny, let us escape while we can.'
'There are many ways of escape,' she said. 'There is no hurry. We can pass over the roof of the next house and so into the garrets of the house beyond. I have proved this way of escape——Oh! Will, I counted the cost beforehand. Or there is the back door which opens on Hog Lane. We can get out that way. I am sure they will not think of the back door. Or it is easy to climb over the garden wall into the next house: there are plenty of ways. I am not afraid about our escape—if we can keep them out for a few minutes. But, Jack, you had better take my mother and sister away at once.'
'No,' said Jack, stoutly. 'Where you are, Madame, there I am.'
'You are a fool, Jack,' she replied with her sweet smile, which made him more foolish still. 'They will murder you if they can.'
'They shan't murder you, then,' the lad replied, clutching his cudgel.
By the time we finished supper and held this discourse it was close upon eight.
'Will,' said Jenny, 'you and Jack had better barricade the door. It is a strong door but even oak will give way. Take the card-tables and pile them up.'
The card-tables were thin slight things with curved legs all gilt and lacquer. But the long table was a heavy mahogany thing. We took out some of the pieces by which it was lengthened and closed it up. Then we carried it out to the hall and placed it against the door: the length of the door filled the breadth of the hall and jammed in the boards until it seemed as if it would bear any amount of pressure from without. We piled the smaller tables one above the other behind the large table: if the mob did get in, they would be encumbered for awhile among the legs of so many tables. This was the only attempt we could make at fortifying the house: the lower windows were protected by the iron railings outside.
'Will,' said Jenny, 'we have made the door safe. But Lord! what is to prevent their breaking down the railings and entering by the area? Or why should they not bring a ladder and force their way at the first floor?'
'Would they be so determined?'
'They scent blood. They are like the carrion crow. They mean blood and pillage. The latter they will have. Not the former.'
At this point we heard a low grumbling noise in the distance, which became the roar of many voices.
'They are already at the Black Jack,' said Jenny. 'I should like to see what they are doing. Come with me, Will. It is too dark for anyone to recognise me, and there will be a great crowd. All St. Giles's will be out to see the wreck of the Black Jack.'
She drew her hood over her head which in a measure hid her face, and taking my hand, she led me through the garden and so out by the back door into Hog Lane. The place, always quiet, was deserted and, besides, was nearly pitch dark, having no lamps in it.
Jenny's house—the Assembly Rooms of Soho Square—stood at the corner of Sutton Street, and with its gardens extended back into Hog Lane. Nearly opposite Sutton Street, a little lower down, the short street called Denmark Street ran from Hog Lane into St. Giles's High Street opposite the Church. The Black Jack stood opposite to the Church.
When we got to Denmark Street we took the north side, because there were fewer people there. Yet the crowd was gathering fast. We stood at the corner of the street at the East and where we could see what was going on and be ready to escape as quickly as possible in case of necessity.
A company of men with whom were a good many women and a few boys, were besieging the dark and deserted Black Jack. They were a company apart acting by themselves without any assistance from the crowd, which looked on approvingly and applauded. They neither asked for, nor would they accept, assistance. If any man from the outside offered to join them, he was roughly ordered back. 'It is their revenge, Will,' said Jenny. 'They will have no one with them to join in their own business.' Their resolution and the quiet way with which they acted—for the roars and shouting we heard did not proceed from the company of revenge but from the crowd that followed them—struck one with terror as if we were contemplating the irresistible decrees of Fate. They battered at the doors: as no one answered, they broke in the doors; but first with a volley of stones they broke every window in the house.
'Poor mother!' said Jenny. ''Twould break her heart. But she will lose nothing. I bought her out. It is the landlord who will suffer. Now they have found candles: they light up; see, they are going all over the house in search of the landlady.' We saw lights in the rooms one after the other. 'They will not find her: nor her money: nor anything that is valuable. It is all gone, gentlemen: all provided for and stowed away in a safer place. This is not a house where a woman who values her throat should be found, after to-day's work. See—now, they have made up their minds that no one is left in the house. What next? Will they set fire to it?'
No: they did not set fire to the house. They proceeded to break up everything: all the furniture: the beds, chairs and tables and to throw fragments out of windows into the open space below where some of them collected everything and made a bonfire. When the house was emptied they began to bring out the bottles and to haul up the casks out of the cellars: upon this there was a rush of the crowd from the outside: strange as it may appear the company of revenge were going to break the bottles and to set the casks running. But the mob rushed in: there was fighting for a few minutes: someone blew a whistle and the rioters drew apart, and stood together before the house. Then one of them; their leader, spoke.
'This is the revenge of St. Giles's on the landlady of the Black Jack. Drink up all her casks and all her bottles, and be damned to ye!'
The people that rushed upon the casks were like ravenous beasts of prey: you would have thought that they had never had their fill of strong drink before: indeed for such people it is impossible to have their fill of strong drink unless insensibility means satiety. They set the casks running: they made cups of their hands: they drank with their mouths from the taps: they filled empty bottles: they fought for the full bottles: the place was covered with broken glass: their faces were bleeding with cuts from broken bottles: the bonfire lifted its fierce flame hissing and roaring: at the open windows of houses hard-by women looked on, shrieking and applauding: some, within the railings of the Church, looked on as from a place of safety: as the flames lit up their pale faces, they might have been the ghosts of the dead, called out of their quiet graves to see what was going on.
'It is not their intention to burn down the Black Jack,' said Jenny. 'Then there will be a new landlady, and the Thieves' Kitchen will go on again.'
The leader of the Company blew his whistle, and the men fell into some kind of line.
'My turn now,' said Jenny. 'Let us fly, Will. Let us fly back again.'
We ran down Denmark Street into the quiet, dark Hog's Lane before the Company reached the place. We ran through the garden door and locked it. Then we went back to the house. The old woman was half drunk by this time and half asleep. Doll was sitting upright, waiting. Jack stood by the door.
'They are coming,' said Jenny. 'They have sacked the Black Jack, Doll. They would have murdered you had you been in the house: they have broken all the furniture and made a bonfire of it: and they have brought out all the liquor. The people are drinking it up now—beer and rum and gin—and wine. Well, you have lost nothing, Doll—nothing at all. Now they are coming here.' She rang the bell, and called the servants. There were six of them. 'There is a mob on their way to this house,' she told them. 'They are going to wreck the place and to murder me, if they can. You had better get out of the house as soon as you can. Put together all that you can carry, and go out of the back way. You can go to one of the inns in Holborn for the night: if any of you have the courage to venture through the streets of Soho, you might go to the Horse Guards and call the soldiers to save the house. Now be quick. To-morrow I will pay you your wages.'
The women looked astonished, as well they might. What sort of company was Madame keeping? There was the old woman bemused with drink: there was the young country man: who were they? What did it mean?
'The mob are coming to-night, Madame?'
'They are coming now. They will be here in a few minutes. If you would escape, go put your things together and fly by the garden door.'
They looked at each other: without a word they retired: and I suppose they got away immediately, because we saw no more of them.
And then we heard a steady tramp of feet along Sutton Street.
'They are here,' said Jenny.
We heard the feet, but there was no shouting. They marched in a silence which was more threatening than any noise. I closed the wooden shutters of the room. It was as well not to show any lights.
'I suppose,' said Doll, 'that you will give us time to escape. Otherwise we shall all four have our throats cut, and perhaps this gentleman too, for whom you've taken all this trouble—and him with a wife of his own. He'd better go back to her.'
'Yes, Doll,' Jenny replied meekly, without replying to the suggestion. 'You shall have time to escape.'
They drew up, apparently in very good order before the house, without any shouting, because most of the crowd that had followed them to the Black Jack were still on the spot drinking what they could get in the general scramble. There were some, however, who came with them and hung outside and behind the company of revenge who began to assemble and to shout 'Huzzah' after the way of the Londoners. But I believe they knew not what was intended save that it was revenge of some kind: there would most certainly be the breaking of windows and the smashing of doors: there would be the pleasant spectacle of revenge with more bonfires of broken furniture: perhaps more casks and bottles of strong drink: in all probability women would be turned out into the street with every kind of insult and ill-usage, as had happened, indeed, only a week before in the Strand when a company of sailors wrecked a house and turned the women out of doors with blows and curses.
First they knocked loudly at the door, shouting for the door to be opened or it would be the worse for everybody inside. Then they pushed the door which yielded not.
'They will not force the door easily,' said Jenny. 'Who will run downstairs and see that the area door is secure?'
I volunteered for this duty. The kitchen windows were provided with strong iron bars which would keep the people off for a time: the area door was strong and was barred within: for further precaution I locked and barred the kitchen door and a strong door at the head of the staircase: we should thus gain time.
Crash—smash—crash! Were you ever in a house while the mob outside were breaking the windows? Perhaps not. 'Tis like a field of battle with the rattle of musquetry. At one moment half the windows in the house were broken: at the next moment the other half went: and still crash—crash—the stones flew into the windows tearing out what little glass remained.
Then there was silence again.
'Our time is nearly up,' said Jenny. 'Doll, wake up mother. Tie her hat under her chin, wrap her handkerchief round her neck—so. What will they do next? Jack, are you afraid to reconnoitre? Go up to the first floor, and look out of window.'
I went with him. The stones were still flying thickly through the windows. We made our way along the wall till we came to the window. Then we went on hands and knees and crept to the window. I wrapped one hand in a curtain and held it before my face while I looked out.
They were lighting torches and conferring together. By the torchlight I could make out their faces. They were of the type which I had had a recent opportunity of studying in Newgate: the type which means both the hunter and the hunted. It is a cruel and hard type: a relentless type: the faces all had the same expression—it meant 'Revenge.' 'We have been betrayed,' said the faces, 'by our friends, by the very people we trusted: we will have revenge. As we have sacked the Black Jack, so we will sack the Assembly Rooms. As we would have killed the landlady of the Black Jack: so we will kill her daughter, the Orange Girl, if we find her.' That is what the faces seemed to say.
They were conferring what to do next. One of them I could see, advocated breaking down the iron railings: but they had no instruments: another wanted to use a battering ram against the front door but they had no battering-ram: a third proposed a ladder and entering by the first floor windows. But they had no ladder.
While they were thus debating a man came into the Square who brought a ladder for them. There was no further hesitation. 'Come, Jack,' I said. 'There is no time to be lost: we must get away as quickly as possible.'
'You go on,' said Jack, 'I will follow.'
He waited. The ladder was raised to the window at which he watched. A fellow ran up quickly. Jack sprang to his feet, threw up the sash and hurled him headlong off the ladder. The poor wretch fell on the spikes. He groaned but only once. He was killed. There was silence for a moment. Then there arose a mighty scream—I say it was like the screaming of a woman. The mob had tasted blood. It was their own—but it was blood. They yelled and roared. Some of them ran to hold the ladder while a dozen men ran up. Jack prudently retired, but locked the door behind him.
'I believe I have killed him,' he said quickly. 'The one who ran up the ladder. I think he fell on the spikes.'
'Come,' said Jenny. 'We must go at once if we mean to go at all. Wake up mother again, Doll. Farewell to my greatness. Will, I grudge not any cost—remember—whatever it is. Take me with you, to your own home for awhile, till I am able to look round again. These devils! they are overhead, I hear them falling over the furniture. Pray that they break their shins. Come, everybody.'
She blew out the candles and led the way. The old woman half awake was led out by Jack and Doll. I followed last. As we passed out into the garden, we could hear the cursing of the fellows overhead and the smashing of the door which Jack had locked.
In Sutton Street, over the garden wall, everything seemed quiet: that is, there were no footsteps as of a crowd. Yet in the Square the crowd roared and yelled, and from St. Giles's was still heard the clamour of the people fighting over the drink. We looked out of the garden door cautiously. No one was in Hog Lane, which was as deserted as a city in the Desert. We closed the door and turned to the right, and so making our way by streets which I knew well, either by day or by night, we got to St. Martin's Lane and then to Charing Cross where we found a hackney coach.
'Jenny,' I said in the coach, taking her hand. 'The evening spoils the day. All this you have suffered for my sake. What can I say? What can I feel?'
'Oh! Will, what are a few sticks of furniture and curtains compared to your safety and to Alice's happiness? I care not a straw. I am ruined, it is true; but—for the first time in my life, I am thankful for it—I am a married woman. My debts will all be transferred to Matthew. Will! Think of it! The first effect of the victory will be to make Matthew a bankrupt at once. After what he owned in Court, after he receives the news of my debts: there can be no delay. Henceforth, my dear Will, you will be safe from Mr. Probus.'
I was, indeed, to be safe from him, but in a way which she could not expect.
'Meantime,' she added, with a sigh, 'they have not done with me, yet.'
'Why, what further harm can they do you?'
'I know not. You asked the same question before. There is no end to the ways of a revengeful spirit. They will murder me, perhaps: or they will contrive some other way.'
'Then go out of their reach.'
'The only place of safety for me is with my own folks. I should be safe in a gipsy camp. They have their camps everywhere, but I do not want to live with them. No, Will. I shall remain. After all, the revenge of people like these soon passes away. They will wreck my house to-night. That very likely will seem to them enough. I should have thought so, but for the things that mother saw in the coals. She is a witch, indeed. I say, mother, you are a proper witch.' But the good lady was fast asleep.
We left her with her daughter Doll and the young fellow they called Jack, at the White Hart Inn. It appeared that a waggon was going on in the morning to Horsham in Sussex. They might as well stay at Horsham for a time as anywhere else. There was very little fear that the St. Giles's company of revenge would make any further inquiries about them. So they left us and I saw the pair no more—and cannot tell you what became of them in the end. As for the young fellow, you will hear more about him. The hackney coach took us to our cottage on the Bank where, after so many emotions and surprises, I, for one, slept well.
Let us return to the house in the Square. The rioters finding no one within, quickly pulled away the barricade of the front door and threw it open. Then the work of wrecking the place began. When you remember that supper was sometimes provided for two thousand people, you will understand the prodigious quantity of plates, dishes, knives, forks, tables, benches, and things that were stored in the pantries and kitchens. You have heard of the hangings, the curtains, the candelabra, the sconces, the musical instruments, the plants, the vases, the paintings, the coloured lamps, the card-tables, the candlesticks, the stores of candles—in a word the immense collection of all kinds necessary for carrying on the entertainments. It is true that the suppers were cooked at a tavern and sent in, cold; but they had to be served in dishes and provided with plates. There was no wine to speak of in the house, because the wine was sent in for the night from the tavern which supplied it. Everything in the house was broken. The company of revenge did its work thoroughly. Everything was broken: everything was thrown out of the windows: the centre of the Square was made the site of a huge bonfire which, I believe, must be remembered yet: all the furniture was piled up on this bonfire: the flames ascended to the skies: that of the Black Jack was a mere boy's bonfire compared to this, while the piles of broken glass and china rendered walking in the Square dangerous for many a day to come.
You have heard that Jenny recommended her women-servants to call out the soldiers. One of them dared to run through the dark streets to the Horse Guards. Half an hour, however, elapsed before the soldiers could be turned out. At last they started with muskets loaded and bayonets fixed: when they arrived, the work was nearly finished: it would have been better for poor Jenny had it been completely finished, as you will presently discover: the furniture was all broken and, with the hangings, curtains and carpets, was burning on the bonfire. The soldiers drew up before the door: the mob began throwing stones: the soldiers fired into them. Four or five fell—of whom two were killed on the spot: the rest were wounded. The mob soon ran away. Some of the soldiers proceeded to search the house: they found a dozen or twenty fellows engaged in smashing the mirrors and the candelabra in the dancing-hall: they secured them: and then, the mob all gone, and the bonfire dying away they left a guard of four or five and marched back with their prisoners and the wounded men. In the morning the soldiers fastened up the broken door somehow and left the empty house. Alas! If only the mob had been able to fire the house and to burn down and gut the place from cellar to garret.
This was the first act of revenge on the part of St. Giles's. There was to be another and a more deadly act.
The joy of the acquittal and the release was certainly dashed by the wild revenge of the mob in the evening. The wreck of the great house with all its costly fittings and decorations could be nothing short of ruin to poor Jenny. Still it was with heartfelt gratitude that I returned to my own roof with character unblemished. Alice had a little feast prepared, not so joyful as it might have been, though Jenny made a brave attempt to be cheerful. Tom was with us: the punch-bowl was filled: the glasses went round: Tom played and sang—nobody could sing more movingly than he when he was in that vein; that is, when he sat with a cheerful company round the steaming punch-bowl.
More revenge, however, was to follow. Next morning, about eight or nine of the clock, Jenny came out with me to walk upon the Bank. For the time of year the weather was fine, the sun, still warm, though it was now low down, and had a wintry aspect, shone upon the river: the wind tossed up the water in little waves; the boats rocked; the swans rolled about and threatened to capsize.
Jenny carried the boy, who laughed and played with her hair and impudently planted his fingers upon her cheek.
'Will,' she said, 'I must now contrive some other means of existence. The Assembly Rooms of Soho Square are wrecked and destroyed. That is certain. They are very likely burned down as well. All my furniture, all my property is destroyed. Of that I am quite certain. The villains would make short work once inside. Well, I can never recover credit enough to refit them. Besides, the mob might break in again, though I do not think they would. I am sorry for my creditors. They will be much more injured than I myself,' she laughed.
'Who are your creditors, Jenny?'
'Upholsterers, painters, furniture-makers, cooks, wine-merchants, bakers, grocers, drapers—half London, Will. There was never anybody a greater benefactor to trade. They let me go on, because you see, they thought the profits of the winter season would clear them. Poor dear confiding people!'
'Well, but Jenny, since they trusted you before, will they not trust you again?'
'They cannot, possibly. Consider what it would take to refit that great place. By this time all the mirrors and the paintings have been destroyed. Most likely the house is burned down as well; unless the soldiers came in time, which I doubt. They generally march up when the mischief is done.' So she began to toss and to dandle the boy, singing to it. 'Will,' she said, 'the happiest lot for a woman is to live retired and bring up her brats. If Matthew had been what he promised and taken me away from London and into the country!'
'Do you know how much you owe?'
'I heard, some time ago, that it was over £30,000. Masquerades, I fear, cannot be made to pay. They say I give them too much wine and too good. As for giving them too much, that is impossible. The men would drink, every night, a three-decker full; their throats are like the vasty deep.'
'But—is it possible? £30,000? Jenny, you can never pay that enormous sum.'
'My dear Will, I never thought I should be able to pay it. Unfortunately while it is unpaid the good people are not likely to give me any more money. No, Will, that chapter is finished. Exit Madame Vallance. Who comes next?'
'But there are the creditors to consider.' I began to have fears of a Debtors' Prison for Jenny.
'Oh! The creditors? The creditors, my dear Will, will be handed over to Matthew. You are a good musician but an indifferent lawyer. Matthew—Matthew—is responsible for his wife's liabilities. This is the only point which reconciles me to marriage with such a man. I am provided with a person who must take over all my debts. Dear Matthew! Kind Matthew! That worthy man, that incomparable husband will now, for the first time, understand the full felicities of the married state.'
'But Matthew can never pay this enormous sum of money.'
'I do not suppose he can. Then he will retreat to the Prison where he put you, and, as long as he lives, will have opportunity of blessing first the day when he married a wife, and next the day when he made it impossible for her to live with him. If I can no longer carry on my Assembly Rooms, what remains?'
'There is always the stage. Your friends desire nothing so much as your return to Drury Lane.'
'Yes, the stage. I might return to Drury Lane. But, Will, those good people who sacked the Black Jack and wrecked the house in the Square yesterday, they were my friends of old; some of them, I believe, are my cousins: they formerly came to applaud. Do you think they would come to applaud after what has happened? Not so. They would come with baskets full of rotten apples and addled eggs: they would salute me with those missiles; there would be frantic cursings and hissings; they would drive me off the stage with every brutal insult that their filthy minds could invent. Oh! I know my own people—my cousins. I know them.'
'They will forget you, Jenny.'
'Yes, if I keep quiet. If I put myself forward the old rancour will be revived. Who betrayed her old friends? Who sent the Bishop and the Captain to Newgate? Who got them put in pillory—where they will most certainly have to stand? Who caused all the addled eggs in London to fly in their innocent faces? I tell you, Will, I know my people. Are they not my people? And have I not betrayed them? You lovely boy—tell your Dada that Jenny will never repent or regret what she did for his sake: she would do it again, she would—she would—she would.'
'Oh! Jenny, you cut me to the heart. What can I do for you?'
'You can look happy again: and you can get the Newgate paleness out of your cheeks—that is what you can do, Will.'
At this point of our discourse I observed, without paying any attention to them, a little company of two men and a woman, walking across the Marsh in the direction of the Palace or the Church or perhaps the cottages. I looked at them without suspicion. Otherwise it would have been easy for Jenny to have jumped into a boat and to have escaped—for a time at least. But at this juncture we were singularly unfortunate. The house in Soho Square had not been burned; otherwise there would have been no further trouble. But you shall hear. I went back to the question of the liabilities. How could anyone be easy who owed £30,000?
'Since there is no help, Jenny, for the creditors, and since you are not responsible, why then, Jenny, you shall live with us, and it will be our pride and happiness to work for you.'
She laughed. No: that would not do either.
Meantime the people I had seen crossing the Marsh were drawing nearer. I now observed that the woman with the two men was none other than the girl I had seen at the Black Jack, sitting on the Captain's knee.
'Jenny,' I said, 'Quick! Here comes a woman who owes you no goodwill. Are you afraid of her? If so, let us take boat and escape across the river.'
'Is it one of the St. Giles's company? No, Will, I am not afraid of the woman, and you, I am sure, are not afraid of the men.'
They were within fifty feet of us. The woman broke away from the men and ran towards us. 'Here she is!' she cried. 'This is the woman. Make her prisoner. Quick! She will run away. I told you she would be here. Oh! Make her prisoner. Quick! Put on the handcuffs. Tie her hand and foot—she's a devil—bring out the chains. She is desperate. She will claw some of you with her nails. Once she bit off a man's ear. That was when she was an orange girl. Make her prisoner, good gentlemen, as quick as you can. Take care of her. She'll tear your eyes out for you.'
Jenny flushed scarlet and stood still. But she caught my hand. 'Don't leave me, Will,' she murmured. Leave her? But a terrible sinking of the heart warned me that something horrible and dreadful was falling upon us. What was it? 'I have felt it coming,' said Jenny. 'Come with me whatever they do.'
The woman was within six feet of us, standing on the Bank. A wild figure she was, bare-headed save for her hair which streamed out in the fresh breeze: she wore a black leather corset and a frock of some thick stuff with a woollen shawl or kerchief round her neck. Her red arms were bare to the elbow; she had a black eye and a disfiguring scratch across her cheek. Her bosom heaved; her lips trembled; her eyes were bright; her cheeks were flaming. I knew her now! She was the girl I had seen sitting on the Captain's knee. And I understood. This was more revenge.
The two men then approached. I knew them, too, alas! I had good reason to know them. They were officers of Bow Street Court.
'By your leave, Madame,' said one, 'I have an order to arrest the body of Madame Vallance, otherwise called Jenny Wilmot, otherwise Mrs. Matthew Halliday.' He produced his emblem of office, the short wand with a brass crown upon it.
'I am the person Sir. I suppose you have some reason—some charge—against me?'
'Receiving stolen goods, knowing the same to have been stolen.'
'Oh!' she caught at my arm. 'I had forgotten that danger—Will, do not leave me—not yet—not yet.' Then she recovered her self-possession. 'Well, gentlemen, I am your prisoner. This gentleman, my friend and cousin, may, I suppose, come with me?' Alice came to the door and looked out astonished to see two officers. 'Take your child, Alice,' said Jenny, 'I must go with these gentlemen. Not content with destroying my property, they are now trying to destroy my character. Will goes with me to see what it means. He will report to you later on!'
'Oh! your character!' said the woman. 'A pretty character you've got! How long since you had a character at all, I should like to know? Destroy your character? I will destroy your life—your life—your life—vile impudent drab—I shall take your life. You shall learn what it means to turn against your friends.'
'Come,' said one of the men, 'you've shown us where she was. No more jaw. Now leave us. Go. You have had your revenge.'
'Not yet—not till I see her in the cart. That is the only revenge that will satisfy me.'
Jenny looked at her with a kind of pity. 'Poor soul!' she said, gently. 'Do you think the man is worth all this revenge? Do you think he cares for you? Do you think you will care about him after a day or two? What do you think you will get by all the revenge possible? More of his love and fidelity? Who gave you that black eye? Will you make him any happier in his prison—will you make him any fonder?'
'Oh!' the woman gasped and caught her breath. 'Revenge? If I can find your mother and your sister I will kill them both with a pair of scissors.' She improved this prophecy by a few decorative adjectives. 'As for you, this will teach you to turn against your own folk—the poor rogues—you belong to us: and you turn against us. To save a man that belongs to other folk. Ha! The rope is round your neck already! Ha! I see you swinging. Ho!' She stopped and gasped again, being overcome with the emotion of satisfied revenge.
'Perhaps,' I said weakly, 'this good woman would take a guinea and go away quietly?'
'No! No!' she replied, 'not if you stuffed my pockets full of guineas. You've put my man in prison. They say he'll stand in pillory and p'r'aps be killed—the properest man in St. Giles's. They kill them sometimes in the pillory,' she shuddered, 'but p'r'aps they'll let him off easy. As for you, my fine Madame—you that look so haughty—you, the orange girl—you'll be hanged—you'll be hanged!' She screamed these words dancing about and cracking her fingers like a mad woman. Never before had I seen a woman so entirely possessed by the fury of love's bereavement. Do not imagine that I have set down her actual words—that I could not do—nor the half of what she said. And all for such a lover! for a footpad and highway robber; for a brute who beat her, kicked her, and knocked her down; a low, dirty villain, who made her fetch and carry and work for him; who had no tenderness, or any good thing in him at all. Yet he was her man; and she loved him; and she would be revenged for him. This woman, I say, was like a tigress bereft of her cubs. Had it not been for the constable who stood between and for myself who stood beside, she would have flown at poor Jenny with nail and claw and, indeed, any other weapon which Nature had given to woman. I saw two women fighting once for a man: 'twas in the King's Bench Prison; they were pulled apart after one had been disfigured for life by the other's teeth. This woman wanted only permission to rush in and do likewise. But the constable kept her back with his strong arm.
'Come,' he said, 'enough said. What's the use of crying and shrieking? You'll all be hanged in good time—all be hanged. What else are you fit for? And a blessed thing it is for you that you will be hanged. That's what I say. If you only knew it. Madame,' he said very respectfully, 'I must ask leave to take you before his worship.' He held out his hand: the hand of Law in all her branches from Counsel to thief taker is always held out. I gave him half a guinea.
The woman was still standing beside us, shaking and trembling under the agitation of the late storm. 'Here you,' said the officer, 'we've had enough of your filthy tongue. Get off with you. Go, I say.' He stepped forward with a menacing gesture. Among these women a blow generally follows a word. She turned and walked away. I followed her with my eyes. Her shoulders still heaved; her fingers worked: from time to time she turned and shook her fist: and though I could not hear I am certain she was talking to herself.
'Where are we going?' Jenny asked, humbly.
'To Sir John Fielding's, Bow Street, Madame. Lord! what signifies what a madwoman like that says? She's lost her man and she's off her head.'
'How are we to get there?'
'Well, Madam, there is no coach to be got this side the High Street. If I may make so bold there's the boats at the Horseferry. We can drop down the river more quickly than over London Bridge.'
Jenny made no remark. She sat in the boat with bent head, her cheeks still flaming.
'I am thinking, Will. Don't speak to me just at present.'
The boat carried us swiftly down the river.
'I am thinking,' she repeated, 'what is best to do. Will, I had quite forgotten the things.' I could not understand a word of what she said. 'I know now what I have to do. It's a hard thing to do, but it's the best.'
She explained no more, and we presently arrived at the Savoy Stairs and took a coach to Bow Street Police Court. It was only six weeks since I was there last, but on what a different errand!
The blind magistrate took our case and called for the evidence.
First, the woman who had delivered Jenny into the hands of the law deposed that she was a respectable milliner by trade; that she was accidentally in the neighbourhood of the Black Jack about midnight three nights before, when she became aware of something which excited her curiosity and interest. The landlady of the tavern and her daughter Doll were carrying between them a box full of something or other. She followed them, herself unseen. They walked down Denmark Street into Hog's Lane, and carried their box into a garden, the door of which was open: for greater certainty of knowing the place again she marked the door in the corner with a cross. Then the two women came out and returned to the Black Jack. All night long they were carrying things from the tavern to the garden gate; sometimes in boxes, sometimes in their arms; there were silk mantles and satin frocks and embroidered petticoats, very fine. That work kept them all night. Now, knowing the old woman to be a notorious fence, she was certain that these were stolen goods, and that they were removing them for safety to this house probably unknown to the master and the mistress; that in the morning when it was light she went back to the place and found that the garden-door was the back-door of the premises known as the Soho Square Assembly Rooms kept by a Madame Vallance.'
'Well? what then?' asked Sir John.
'Your worship, the next day was the trial of that gentleman there for robbing the Bishop and the Captain. I was in the Old Bailey, sir, and the gentleman would have been brought in guilty and hanged, as many a better man than he has suffered it without a whisper or a snivel—but this woman here—this Madame Vallance who is nothing in the world but Jenny Wilmot the actress—who was an Orange Girl at Drury Lane once—and is the daughter of the old woman that keeps the Black Jack.'
'The Black Jack!' said Sir John. 'The mob wrecked that house last night.'
'And the other house too. They would have set it on fire, your Honour,' said the girl, 'but the soldiers came up and stopped them. More's the pity.'
'Have a care, woman,' said the magistrate, 'or I shall commit you for taking part in the riot. Go on with your evidence if you have any more.'
She gave her evidence in a quick impetuous manner. It was like a cataract of angry burning words.
'It was in the garret that I found the things; I knew them at once. I'd been down in Mother Wilmot's cellars. Oh! I knew them at once. Jenny's got the stolen goods, I said. And so she had. So she had, your Honour, and oh! let her deny it—let her deny it—if she can.'
'You found property in the garret which you identified as stolen. Pray how did you know that fact?'
'Because it came from Mother Wilmot's cellars.'
'That does not prove it to be stolen.'
'Well, Sir, I happened to know some respectable people who had been robbed of late, and I made bold to tell them of it; and they found their own things, and here the worthy respectable gentlemen are to testify.'
'I will hear them presently.' Then Sir John began to ask the woman a few questions which mightily disconcerted her. If, he asked, she was a respectable milliner, where did she work? If she was a respectable woman, what was she doing in front of St. Giles's Church at midnight? If she were a respectable woman, how did she come to know the landlady of the Black Jack and her daughter? How was it she found herself in the garrets at all? At what time was she in the garrets? How did she come to know the people who had lost property of late? In a word he made the woman confess who she was and what she was. And he then, to her confusion and amazement, committed her for trial for taking part in the riots. So she was put aside, and presently consigned to Newgate with other rioters taken in the fact. In the end she was imprisoned and whipped. Still her evidence proved the deposit of goods in the garrets. The worthy gentlemen to whom she referred were three or four respectable tradesmen of Holborn. They deposed, one after the other, how they had suffered of late much from depredations which prevented them from exposing their goods at their doors; that this woman had called to warn them of certain things found by the rioters in the garrets of the Soho Square Assembly Rooms; that they went to see the things by permission of the guard of soldiers: that they found certain things of their own, which they identified by private marks upon them.
The evidence was concluded. 'Madame,' the magistrate said, 'you have heard the evidence. What have you to say? If you desire to call evidence for the defence I will remand the case. You can produce, perhaps, your mother and sister, though I confess, they are not likely to appear.'
'They got away yesterday, to avoid the fury of the mob, Sir. This woman is angry because I have proved her lover to be guilty of perjury.'
'That is evident. On the other hand, your house contained the stolen goods; your mother was seen taking them into the house. The circumstances are such as to make it evident that your mother desired a place of safety. It is proper to show that you were not an accomplice of the removal and the reception in your house.'
'I submit, Sir, that I can only prove this by calling my mother as witness, and, Sir, you have yourself acknowledged that she is not likely to appear.'
'Then, Madame, I can only ask you for anything you may say in defence.'
'Sir, I shall say nothing.'
This reply amazed me beyond anything. I expected her to deny indignantly any knowledge of the matter, and to declare that the things had been brought into the house without her knowledge. She would say nothing. Then Sir John committed her for trial. I placed her in a coach with such heaviness of heart as you may imagine and we drove to Newgate. Jenny was well remembered by the turnkeys, to whom she had been generous and even profuse, in my case. Turnkeys are never astonished, but the appearance of Madame was perhaps an exception to this general rule. However, on payment of certain guineas she was placed, alone, in the best cell that the woman's side could boast.
'Jenny!' I cried when we were alone. 'For God's sake what does it mean? Why did you not deny knowledge of the whole business? What have you to do with stolen goods? Even supposing that your mother took them there, what has that got to do with you?'
'I shall tell the whole truth to you, Will, and only to you. But you may tell Alice. From you I will keep no secrets.'
'Oh! Jenny, it is for me—for me—that you have fallen into all this trouble. What shall I do? What shall I do?' I looked round the mean, bare, and ugly walls of the cell. 'Twas a poor exchange from the private room in the Square. And all for me!
'What did your boy tell you this morning, Will? That Jenny never regrets—never repents—what she has done for you. She would do it all over again—over again—a hundred thousand times over again.' She buried her face in her hands for a moment. 'Twas not in woman's nature to restrain the tears. Then she sprang to her feet. 'What? you think I am going to cry because the woman has done this? At least she is coming to Newgate as well. Now, Will. I must tell you the truth. It was most important to get the evidence of my mother and of Doll. They connected Probus with the conspiracy. They helped to identify the two principal witnesses. Well, I had to buy their evidence. They made me pay a pretty price for it. As for Doll, you wouldn't believe what a grasping creature she is. That comes of keeping the slate. I had to compensate them for the loss of their daily takings at the Black Jack. I paid them for their stock of liquors—we saw the mob drinking it up last night: I paid them for their furniture and their clothes. I gave them money to get out of London with, and to keep them until they can get another tavern; they got money from me on one pretence or the other till I thought they were resolved on taking all I had. And when I had paid for everything and thought they were settled and done with there arose the question of the stolen goods. And I really thought the whole business was ruined and undone.'
'What question?'
'Why, my parent, Will, had got under the old house a spacious stone vault quite dry, built up with arches and paved with stone; there isn't a finer store-room in all London: it belonged once to some people—I don't know—religious people who liked shutting themselves up in the dark. I suppose that mother couldn't bear waste or the throwing away of good opportunities for she turned the vault into a cellar for stolen goods; she bought the goods; she stored them down below; she sold them to people who carried them about the country. Everybody knew it; and she was pretty safe because she had a good name for the prices she gave, and even Merridew had to let her alone. Well, what was to be done with the things in the vault? There was enough to hang them both a hundred times. They took me down to see them. I never suspected there was anything like the quantity of things. Plain silver melted down; gold melted down; precious stones picked out of rings; and snuff-boxes; patch boxes; rolls of silk; boxes of gloves; handkerchiefs; frocks and gowns and embroidered petticoats and mantles; ribbons of all kinds; the place was like a wonderful shop. Time was pressing. It was impossible for mother to sell everything at once; things have to be taken into the country and sold cautiously to the Squire's' lady, who knows very well what she is buying, just as her husband knows that he is buying smuggled brandy.'
'So you bought the things?'
'There was nothing else to do. Mother tied up the jewels in her handkerchief; Doll took the melted gold and silver; and they undertook to carry all the rest of the things across to the garden door in Hog Lane; the door by which we escaped yesterday; and to store them in my cellars and garrets. This, I suppose, they did. I paid for the things. They are mine, Will.'
'Oh!' I groaned.
'Yes, they are mine. This comes of being born in St. Giles's and belonging to the Black Jack. Well, I clean forgot all about the things. Well now; this is the point. If I deny knowledge of them they will send out a hue and cry for mother. She will certainly be found and brought up on the charge. And she is not the sort to suffer in silence. I know my people, Will: she and Doll will let it be known that I bought the things, so that we may all thus stand in the Dock together. And I assure you, Will, I would much rather stand in the Dock alone. I shall have a better chance.'
'Yes—but——'
'If I take the whole business on myself they won't drag in mother. They will let her alone and she will keep quiet for her own sake. Besides, seeing what this woman has got by her evidence I don't think the others will be eager to give their evidence. Now, Will, you know the exact truth. And—and—this is what one expects if you belong to the Black Jack.'
'But—Jenny—think—think.'
'I know what you would say, dear lad. They will hang me. It is a most ungraceful way of going out of the world. One would prefer a feather bed with dignity. But indeed; have no fears, Will. They will do nothing of the kind. If Jenny Wilmot made any friends at Drury Lane now is the time to prove them. But I must think what to do.'
She sat down to the table. There were writing materials upon it. She took quill in hand. Then she turned to me with her pretty smile. 'Oh! Will—what a disaster it was that the soldiers came up before the mob had set fire to the house! What a disaster! If the house was burned the things in the garrets would have been burned as well and all the stolen goods would have been destroyed and no trace left. What a disaster!' She laughed. 'What might have been called my good fortune has turned out the greatest misfortune that could have happened to me.'
'I must think,' she said. 'I must be alone and think out the whole situation. It all depends on what should be told and what should be concealed. That, I take it, is the history of everything. Some parts we hide and some we tell. I must think.'
I did not disturb her. She leaned her head upon her hand and was silent for awhile.
'Will,' she said, 'of all my friends there are but two on whom I can rely with any hope of help—only two. Yet they told me I had troops of friends. You have heard me speak of a certain noble lord who made love to me. He made love so seriously that he was ready to marry me. I refused him, as a reward. Besides his sister came and wept—I told you the story. I cannot bear to see even a woman weep. Well, Will, this man is, I am quite sure, a loyal and faithful gentleman, the only one of all my lovers whom I could respect. I am going to write to him. He promised me, upon his honour, to come to my assistance if ever I wanted any help of any kind. I am going to remind him of that promise. The next friend is the Manager of Drury. He will help me if he can, though he did not propose to marry me. I will write to him as well. And I must write to my attorney, who is also a friend of yours. Now, Will I want you to take by your own hand a letter to his lordship. Go to his town house in Curzon Street and ask the people to deliver the letter instantly. The other two letters you can send by messenger. And, Will, one more thing. I believe you ought to warn Matthew what to expect. Since he is going to be bankrupt on his own account it will not hurt him very much to be bankrupt on mine as well. Now wait a little, while I write the letters.'
I hastened on my errand, taking a boat to Westminster, whence it is a short walk across the Parks to Curzon Street, where my Lord Brockenhurst had his town house. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon: I found carriages and chaises waiting outside the open door, and the hall within filled with servants in livery lolling about and exchanging insolent remarks upon the people who crowded up the stairs. I am little versed in the customs of the Great, but I confess that the continual presence of these insolent and hulking varlets in the house and in all the rooms would be to me a burden intolerable. What says Doctor Johnson?