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.'