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?

I believe he meant the lords who were obsequious to the Cardinal: we may read it, to suit those times, the impudent menials who lord it over their Master's house.

I thought of those lines as I waited, neglected, in the Hall among the lacqueys. Fortunately I was reminded of other lines by the same great author.

I turned to one of them whose shoulder knots and his rod of office proclaimed him one in authority.

'Sir,' I said, 'I am the bearer of a letter for his Lordship.'

'Wait, friend, wait. His Lordship will receive presently.'

'Sir. It is an important letter. It is from a lady. I assure you that his Lordship would be much vexed not to receive it.'

'Give it to me, then.'

'Sir. By your leave. It is very important. Can you contrive to put it into his Lordship's hand immediately?'

He looked at me with an air of surprise, and made no reply.

'Pardon me, Sir,' I said, taking out my purse, in which were two guineas—all I had in the world—'I forgot to add that I rely on your good offices,' with that I slipped a guinea into his hand.

'Ay—' he said. 'Now you talk sense. Well, Sir, you may trust me. His Lordship shall have the letter within an hour, as soon as his company begins to go.'

With this assurance I was fain to be content. So I came away hoping that the fellow would keep his word. This, happily, he did.

It was too late at that hour to seek out Matthew in his counting-house. Besides, I confess that I felt pity for the poor wretch thus hastening to destruction. His haggard look at the trial showed the miseries he was suffering. He gave his evidence, as you have heard on the threat that otherwise he would be charged with the other four with conspiracy: and now a misfortune almost as bad was to fall upon him. To go to him would have the appearance of exulting over these misfortunes. Yet it was necessary to tell him.

I went home sadly. That Jenny should suffer the wreck and destruction of her house in Soho Square, was hard: that she should, also, which was much worse, be arrested on a capital charge and committed to Newgate: that she should have nothing to say or to plead in defence: in revenge for the part she had played in proving my innocence: these things, I say, were difficult to understand. Why should she not plead 'Not Guilty,' and leave it to the prosecution to prove that she was the owner of the property or that she knew it was in her house? Who would believe the word of the revengeful fury who swore to seeing the things taken to the house by the old woman and her daughter? Would not a clever counsel make her contradict herself? and confess, somehow, that she herself had laid the things there by way of a trap?

So I argued, blind, in my anxiety.

'Will,' said Alice, 'you would meet misfortune by falsehood. Fie! You would lay a trap set by a clever talker to catch this miserable ignorant woman. Fie!'

'What then?' I cried. 'Ignorant or not she is a mischievous and a revengeful woman. My dear, I would save Jenny at any cost.'

'I think Jenny is right, Will. She will meet the charge by simply pleading "Guilty" to whatever they can prove against her: namely, having the things in her house, knowing that they were stolen. I think it is her wisest course. No questions will be asked: no one will believe that a woman in her position could actually be guilty of receiving stolen goods so worthless: it will be understood by everybody that she is screening someone—some close relation—even at the risk of her own life.'

I replied by a groan of dissent.

'Jenny is not an actress for nothing. She ought not to have bought the things at all: or she ought to have destroyed them: this I suppose she would have done, but she forgot: she was wholly occupied in saving you. We must remember that with gratitude unspeakable, Will.'

'Yes, wife, God knows I do.'

'The world has been told over and over again that poor Jenny was once an Orange Girl: do people ever expect Orange Girls to come of respectable parents? To take guilt upon yourself—in order to screen your mother—will appear to the world as a noble and generous act. It would have taken you and me, Will, a month to discover the best way out of the trouble. But Jenny saw her way at once.'

In the end Alice proved to be right. Jenny chose the very best thing possible, as you shall see.

In the morning I began by making my way to the old familiar place, the Counting House and Wharf close to All-hallows the Great. The Wharf was quite empty and desolate: the cranes were there, but there were no lighters: the casks and bales that formerly encumbered the place were gone: in the outer counting-house there were no clerks except Ramage. But the place was filled with lawyers' clerks attornies, creditors and their representatives. The talk was loud and angry: all were talking together: all were threatening terrible things unless their claims were paid in full.

Ramage held up his hands when he saw me and shook his head.

'Will my cousin see me, Ramage?' I asked. 'Tell him I have something of the greatest importance to say to him.'

'It is all over, Mr. William,' he whispered. 'The blow has fallen. After the things which came out in the Old Bailey there was no hope. It was all over the City at once and on Change in the afternoon. You will find him within. I fear you will find that he has been drinking. Go in, Sir, you must not pay any heed to what he says. He has been strange and unlike himself for a long time. No wonder with all these troubles.' Thus did the faithful servant stand up for the credit of an unworthy master. 'Go in, Sir. He will insult you. But don't mind what he says.'

I went in. Matthew was evidently half drunk. He had a bottle of brandy before him, and he was drinking fast and furiously.

'Gaol-bird!' he cried, banging his fist on the table and talking thickly. 'Newgate-bird—what do you want? Money? You all want money. You may go away then. I haven't got any money. All the money's gone. All the money's lost.' So he went on repeating his words, and maundering and forgetting one moment what he had said just before.

'Matthew,' I said, 'I have not come to ask for money or for anything. I have brought you news.'

'What news? There is no news but bad news. Perhaps somebody has murdered Probus. Why don't you murder Probus—murder—murder Probus?' I suffered him to go on in his foolish way without reply. 'Do you know, Will,' he lay back in his chair and plunged his hands in his pockets, 'there is nobody I should like to see murdered so much as Probus—Ezekiel Probus, excepting yourself. If I could see both of you hanging side by side, I should be happy; but if I could see you both murdered with a bludgeon I could go—I could go—I could go to the King's Bench cheerfully—cheerfully.'

It was no use prolonging the interview. I told him, briefly, why I had come.

'Your wife,' I said, 'has had her house sacked and the whole of her property destroyed by the mob.'

'I am glad of that—very glad to hear that. All of it destroyed you say? This is good news indeed.'

'She can no longer carry on her business at the Soho Square Assembly Rooms. The property destroyed consists largely of furniture supplied for the use of the Rooms. It is not yet paid for. Therefore, she will be compelled to refer her creditors to you.'

'Her creditors? Does this abandoned woman owe any money, then?'

'I believe about £30,000 is the sum of her liabilities.'

He laughed. He laughed cheerfully, as if it was one of the merriest and heartiest jokes he had ever heard. 'Is that all? Why, man, it's nothing. Put it on my back; and as much more as you please: as much as the Bank of England contains. Why, I can bear it all. Nothing makes any difference now. Tell her she is quite welcome to double it, if she can get the credit. It's all one to me.'

'That is what I came to tell you.'

'Very good, gaol-bird. Probus very nearly succeeded, did he not? You felt a kind of a tightening about the neck, I suppose. Never mind. Don't be disappointed. I dare say you will go to Tyburn after all. You are young yet, and then the fortune will come to me—and we shall see—we shall see'—he drank another glass of Nantes—'we shall see——What was I going to say?'

So I left him and went on my way to Newgate.

Jenny was in conference with her attorney.

'Come in, Will. I have no secrets from my cousin, Mr. Dewberry. Now, if you please, give me your opinion.'

'First, then, if you plead Not Guilty—what can they prove against you? That certain things were found in your garrets? How did they get there? A wretched, revengeful drab says that your mother and sister put them there. Is her word to be believed? She is the sweetheart of a conspirator and presumably a highwayman, whom you have been instrumental in consigning to a prison, with probably a severe punishment to follow. Where are your mother and sister? They are gone away? Where? You cannot be asked. But you do not know. Why? To escape the revenge of the mob who have wrecked their house. Very well. There the case ends—and breaks down.'

'Not so. It does not break down. My mother has long been known as the greatest receiver in the trade. She bought more and sold more than anybody else. The Court dressmakers came to her to buy her lace and her embroidery for the great Court Ladies. Why, she is the most notorious woman in London. If I am acquitted, they will get up a Hue and Cry for her, and they will certainly find her. And then there isn't a thief in prison or out who will not give evidence against her, after the evidence she has given against the thieves. And as for Doll—my sister's name is Doll—in order to save her own skin, she will most certainly be ready to give evidence to the effect that I bought the things of my mother and paid for them. Which I did. As I told you.'

'You never told me so. I don't know that it matters much. I am only trying to see my way to an acquittal. And considering there is nobody but that woman to testify to the conveyance of the goods, really, I think there ought to be no doubt as to the result.'

'Mr. Dewberry,' Jenny laid her hand upon his arm. 'Understand me. I have been kept down, all my life, by my origin. As soon as this business is over I shall try in some way or other to get clear away from them all—Oh! what an origin it is! Oh, how I have always envied the children of honest parents. Why—my father——'

'Dear lady, do not speak of these things.'

'Well, then, my cousins—I mean those of them who are not yet hanged—live in the courts and blind alleys of St. Giles's. I have no longer any patience with them—it makes me wretched to think of them, and it humiliates me to go among them because I have to become again one of them and I do it so easily. Well, Sir, I am what I am: yet strange as it may seem to you—I will not lend my help to getting my mother and sister hanged.'

Mr. Dewberry took her hand and kissed it. 'Proceed, Madame,' he said gravely.

'If, then, I plead Guilty, the woman's evidence will be received without any dispute or discussion, and when sentence is passed, the case will be closed. No one, afterwards, will venture to charge my mother with that crime.'

'I suppose not. But the sentence, Madame, the sentence!'

She shuddered. 'I know what the sentence will be. But I am not afraid. I have friends who will come to my assistance.'

In fact one of them appeared at that very moment. He was a gentleman of a singularly sweet and pleasant countenance, on which kindness, honour, and loyalty were stamped without the least uncertainty. He was dressed very finely in a satin coat and waistcoat, and he wore a sash and a star.

'Divine Jenny!' he said, taking her hand and kissing it. 'Is it possible that I find thee in such a place and in such a situation as this?'

Jenny suffered her hand to remain in his. When I think of her and of her behaviour at this juncture I am amazed at her power of acting. She represented, not her own feelings, which were those of the greatest disgust towards her nearest relations (to whom one is taught to pay respect), but the feelings which she wished Lord Brockenhurst, and, through him, the world at large, should believe of her.

In her left hand she held a white lace handkerchief, scented with some delicate perfume: the woman was one of those who are never without some subtle fragrance which seemed to belong to her, naturally. This handkerchief she applied to her eyes—from time to time: they were dry, to my certain knowledge but the act was the outward semblance of weeping.

'My Lord,' said Jenny, 'this gentleman is my cousin—not of St. Giles's—my husband's cousin—My husband, however, I cannot suffer to approach me. This other gentleman is Mr. Dewberry, of Great St. Thomas Apostle in the City of London, attorney at Law. They are considering my case with me. By your Lordship's permission we will renew our conference in your presence. If, on the other hand, you would prefer to hear, alone, what I have to state, they will leave us.'

'I am in your hands, Jenny,' he kissed her hand again and let it go. 'My sole desire is to be of service. Pray remember, Jenny, that whatever I promise I try to perform. All the service that I can render you in this time of trouble is at your command.'

I placed a chair for him and looked to Jenny to begin.

She sat down and buried her face in her hands while we all waited.

'My Lord,' she rose at last and continued standing, 'I once told you—at a time when it was impossible to conceal anything from you, that I was originally an Orange Girl at the Theatre where you honoured me frequently by witnessing my humble performances.'

'Say, rather, Jenny, inspired performances.'

She bowed her head, like some queen. 'If your Lordship pleases. I also told you that my parents were of the very lowest—so low that one can get no lower.'

'You did.'

'Now, my Lord, I am accused of receiving stolen property in my house, knowing the property to be stolen.'

'Oh! Monstrous! Most monstrous!'

'My accuser is a girl whose sweetheart is now by my evidence and the evidence of others lying in this prison beside me, on a charge of conspiracy. With the girl it is an act of revenge. She would tell you as much. The mob, also in revenge for exposing a most diabolical plot, has wrecked and sacked my mother's house in St. Giles's and my own in Soho Square. They have destroyed all that I possessed. I am therefore ruined. But that is nothing. On the stage we care very little about losing or gaining money. This woman has now brought a charge against me which I blush even to name.'

'You have only to deny the charge, Jenny. There is not a man in London who would doubt the word of the incomparable Jenny Wilmot.'

She bowed her head again. 'I would I could think so.'

She made as if she would go on; then stopped and hesitated, looking down as if in doubt and shame.

'My Lord, I will put the case to you quite plainly. Mr. Dewberry is of opinion that the result, if the matter is brought before the court will certainly be decided in my favour.'

'I am certain on the point,' said the Attorney. 'I beg your Lordship's pardon for my interruption.'

'Oh! Sir, who has a better right to interrupt?' He turned again to Jenny, whom he devoured with his eyes. Truly if ever any man was in love it was Lord Brockenhurst.

'If I were acquitted,' she went on. 'Indeed, I believe I should be acquitted—but the case would not be ended by that acquittal. Suppose, my Lord—I put a case—it need not be mine'—she plucked at the lace of her handkerchief as if deeply agitated—'I say, it need not be my own case—I suppose a case. Such a charge is brought against a person—perhaps innocent. She is acquitted—But the charge remains. It will then be brought against the real criminal. Out of revenge every thief in St. Giles's would crowd in to give evidence. That person's fate would be certain. She would be—she would be—your Lordship will spare me the word.' Again she covered her eyes. Then she lifted her head again and went on. 'I know that the—person—is guilty—She deserves nothing short of what the law provides. Yet reflect, my Lord. Born among rogues: brought up among rogues: without education and moral principles, or honour, or religion, can one wonder if such a person turns to crime? And can you wonder, my Lord'—again she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands—'can you wonder if the daughter should resolve to save the mother's life, by taking—upon herself—the guilt—the confession—the consequences of the crime?'

She was silent save for a sob that convulsed her frame. His Lordship heard with humid eyes. When she had finished he rose with tears that streamed down his face. For a while he could not speak. Then he turned to Mr. Dewberry.

'Sir,' he said, 'tell me—tell me—what she means.'

'She means, my Lord, to plead Guilty and to take the consequences. By so doing she will save her mother—yes, my Lord, her mother—even at the sacrifice of her own life.'

'Oh!' he cried, 'it must not be! Great Heavens! It must not be. Jenny—Jenny—thou art, I swear, an angel.'

'No, my Lord, no angel.'

'Yes, an angel! Hear me, Jenny. I will stand by thee. The world shall know—the world that loves thee—By —— the world shall know what a treasure it possesses in the incomparable Jenny Wilmot. As an actress thou art without an equal. As a child—as a daughter—history records no greater heroism. Thou shalt be written down in history beside the woman who saved her father from starvation and the woman who saved her husband from the traitor's block. I can endure it no longer, Jenny. To-morrow when my spirits are less agitated, I will come again.' He stooped and kissed her bowed head and so left us.

A common or vulgar actress when the man for whom she had been playing had gone, would have laughed or in some way betrayed herself. Not so Jenny. She waited a reasonable time after his Lordship's departure and then lifted her head, placed her handkerchief—still dry—to her eyes and stood up.

'Mr. Dewberry,' she said, 'do you agree with me in the line I have resolved to take?'

'Madame, I do,' he replied emphatically.

'And you, Will?'

I hesitated, because I perceived that she had been playing a part. Yet an innocent part. She did not, certainly, desire to bring her mother and sister to a shameful end: but, at the same time, she did not wish it to be known that she had really paid for the property and ordered its removal to her own house: she did not regard the landlady of the Black Jack with all the filial affection (not to speak of respect) which her emotion undoubtedly conveyed to his Lordship: on the other hand, it would serve her own case—as well as her estimable mother—better that she should be regarded as a voluntary victim to save a parent than that she should be acquitted in order to give place to her mother who would certainly be convicted.

'I agree, Jenny—I agree,' I answered.

'Sir,' said Mr. Dewberry as we walked away, 'I have often heard Miss Jenny Wilmot described as an incomparable actress. I am now convinced of the fact.'