And now, indeed, began the time of endurance and suspense. To the bravest of women came moments of depression—what else could be expected when her days and nights were spent in a condemned cell? In this gloomy apartment Jenny was now compelled to live. The place lies in a corner of the women's yard or Court; it contains two rooms, one of them a small bedroom, the other, when there are only one or two in residence, a living room. One other prisoner was already in this cell, awaiting her time for execution. Alas! she was a mere child, not more than sixteen, and looking younger: a poor, ignorant creature who had never learned the difference between right and wrong: who had been brought up, as was Jenny herself, among children of rogues, themselves rogues from infancy. The law was going to kill this child because the law itself had found no way to protect her. Alas for our humanity! Alas for our statesmen! Alas for our Church! Will there never arise a Prophet in the land to show us how much better it is to teach than to kill?

Outside, the yard was all day long filled with women either convicted or waiting to be tried: some of them were in prison for short sentences: some were waiting to be whipped: some were waiting for ships to carry them to the plantations: all alike were foul in language; unwashed, uncombed and draggled; rough and coarse and common. Such women, gathered together in one place, make each other worse: they swear like men: they fight like men: they drink like men: their hair hangs loose over their shoulders: the 'loose jumps' of leather which they use for stays are never changed: the ragged kerchief over their shoulders is never washed: the linsey-woolsey frock is foul with every kind of stain: their loud harsh voices have no feminine softness: their red brawny arms terrify the spectator: in their faces, even of the youngest, is no look of Venus.

Taken to this place, Jenny had to wait, expectant, for the relief that was promised her by Lord Brockenhurst. Her cheek grew pale and thin: her eyes became unnaturally bright: I feared gaol fever but happily she was spared this dreadful malady. Yet she kept up the appearance of cheerfulness, and greeted me every day with a smile that was never forced, and a grasp that was never chilled.

For exercise Jenny had the crowded yard. There, with no one to protect her, she walked a little every morning, the women falling back, right and left, to let her pass. They offered her no molestation. To save her fancy man—so ran the legend—she had compassed the ruin of her old friends: with this object ('twas the only one they could understand) she put up her mother to bear witness against her own customers. Well: it was to save her fancy man—the same came every day to see her in the prison: that was some excuse for her: would not any woman do as much for her man? And now she was herself condemned all through the other woman whose man she had put in prison and in pillory. So far, then, they were quits, and might all become friends again. And they remembered as a point in Jenny's favour that the noble welcome with which the thief-taker was received—a thing at which all Roguery rejoiced—was entirely due to her exertions. These things passed from one to the other clothed in the language peculiar to such people.

Jenny took two or three turns in the yard, every morning when the prison air is freshest, and then went back to her cell, where she remained for the rest of the day.

In those days she talked to me more freely than before and a great deal about herself. She was forced to talk and to think about herself, for the first time in her life. Her thoughts went back to the past when all she could expect was to become such as the poor creatures with her in the prison. Yet these poor women, whom I found so terrible to look upon and to hear, she regarded with a tenderness which I thought excessive. I now understand that it was more humane than at that time was within my comprehension.

'They are not terrible to me,' she said. 'I know them—what they are and what has made them so. I can speak their language, but I must not let them know that I understand. It is the Thieves' tongue made up of Gipsy and of Tinkers' talk. They talk about me all day—even when I am in their midst. Poor wretches! They are not so bad as they look.'

'Nay, Jenny, but to see them beside you!'

'If we grow up among people, Will, and are used to them, we do not think much of their manners and their looks. When I was a child I played among them. Many a cuff have I had: many a slap for getting in their way: but many a bit of gingerbread and many an apple. You think them terrible. If they were clean and had their hair dressed they would not be terrible any longer. Oh! Will, they are not very far from the fine ladies—no—nor so very much below the best of good women, even Alice. They are women, though you flog them at Bridewell and hang them at Tyburn—they are still women. And they love—in their poor fond faithful way—the very hand that knocks them down and the very foot that kicks them. They love—Oh! the poor women—they love.'

She broke off, with a sob in her voice. I marvelled at the time because I had always looked upon the creatures as something below humanity: as belonging to a tribe of savages such as Swift called the Yahoos. Afterwards, I understood; and then I marvelled more.

Another time she talked about her profession as an actress. 'Acting,' she said, 'cannot be otherwise than delightful—but it takes an actor away from himself. When one has been two or three years on the stage nothing is left but the stage and the dressing-room: the company behind the scenes and the audience in front. Nothing is real. Everything that happens is but a scene in a play. When the curtain drops upon this Act, that is, when they let me go, I shall rest for five minutes while the next Act is getting ready: the play of Clarinda, or the Orange Girl, has some excellent scenes. You remember that scene when the mob wrecked the house: and the scene when the mob pelted Mr. Merridew—well, I should not be in the least surprised to meet Mr. Merridew himself walking along Holborn with one eye on a young thief in training for a shoplifter: and I might look in at the Black Jack and see my mother taking her morning dram and Doll adding up the scores upon the slate. In five minutes after the curtain has dropped what has happened is little more to me than the last scene in the play at Drury. Why, if I were put into the cart and carried out to Tyburn I should still be the heroine playing my part to a breathless house. And I believe I should enjoy that part of the performance as much as anything. You saw how I played the Virgin Martyr in Court.'

'Yet this is real enough, God knows,' I said, looking round the place.

'I dare say it looks so to you. To me, it is part of the Play. Will, the Play is nearly over. I knew all along that disaster was coming upon me. But the worst is over—the worst is over. I know that the worst is over. I can now foretell what is coming next.' She looked straight before her, her eyes luminous in the dark cell. 'I can see,' she said, 'a time of peace and calm. Well, Will, reality or not, that scene will be pleasant. I shall go out of this place very soon—But I know not when, and I cannot see myself at any time again upon the boards of Drury. I am certain that I shall never go back there. I cannot see myself in Soho Square either. I shall never go back there. I see fields and hills and woods'—she shuddered and with a gesture pushed the vision from her. 'Will—it is strange, all is strange: it is a beautiful country, but I know it not—I cannot understand it.'

It was not the first time, as you have seen, that she showed this strange power of peering into the future. Whether this fair-haired and blue-eyed woman was really a child of the gipsies, or, as Lord Brockenhurst conjectured, a stolen child, she had the powers that we commonly find in gipsy women who are fortune-tellers all the world over. That she compelled all men to become her servants you have seen: that she could also compel women to follow and obey her was proved by what she did during that three or four weeks which she spent in the condemned cell: the same magic arts—yet she was no witch: and she could read the future—a gift which is marvellous in our eyes.

Her power over others, even the most savage people, was shown by the changed behaviour of the poor girl waiting for execution. I have mentioned her: she was at first a wild creature: she fled to the darkest corner of the cell and there crouched with eyes of suspicion and terror: she snatched her food and ran into her corner to eat it: she was altogether unwashed and altogether in rags: she was bare-footed, bare-legged and bare-armed: her hair which should have been light—like Jenny's own hair, was matted with dirt: it looked as if it had never known a comb: yet long and beautiful hair: her eyes were blue, large and limpid. She had never known kindness, or love, or care since the day when her mother was marched away to Newgate wearing handcuffs. She was, I say, a mere savage. The child might have been sixteen, but she looked thirteen. Still, sixteen is young for Tyburn. Jenny found this child in her cell: condemned like herself; and she tamed her. Not in a single day, but in a few days. She tamed her with kindness; with soft words in the language which the child understood best: with soft touches: with gifts of pretty things: I suppose she gave her sweetmeats—I know not what she did, but in a few days I found the savage wild creature converted into a shy, timid girl—clinging to Jenny and following her about like a favourite spaniel. She was washed and combed and dressed from head to foot: she wore stockings and shoes: her hair, just confined by a ribbon, hung over her shoulders in lovely tresses: she had become an interesting child who promised to grow into a lovely maiden. And yet she was to be carried out to Tyburn and there hanged.

Then, when the girl had assumed a civilized look, Jenny began to lament her approaching fate of which the poor creature seemed herself unconscious. Indeed, I think the child understood nothing at her trial or her sentence except that she was horribly frightened and was carried out of court crying.

'Is it not terrible,' she asked, 'that we must hang children—ignorant children?'

'It is the law of the land, Jenny. Judges have only to administer the law of the land.'

'Then it is a cruel law, and the Judges ought to say so. A man is a murderer who condemns a child to death, even if it is the law, without declaring against it.'

'Nay, Jenny'—this she could not understand for the reasons I have already given—'we must remember that the children suffer for the sins of the fathers, unto the third and fourth generation.'

She stared. 'Why,' she said, 'the poor child has been taught no better.' And, indeed, there seems no answer to this plea. If in the mysteries of Providence we must so suffer, the Law of men should not punish ignorance. 'To hang children!' she insisted. 'To destroy their lives before they have well begun! And for what? For taking something not their own—Oh! Will, it is monstrous. Just for a bit of cloth—only a bit of cloth off a counter. Oh! the poor child! the poor child!'

Then, just as she had spared no trouble to get me out of my danger so she now began to work for the rescue of this child. She spoke to the Governor about it. He looked astonished: children of fifteen, or so, were frequently executed for one offence or the other: the Law was doubtless severe: but criminals of all kinds were multiplying: after all, they were out of the way when they were hanged: this girl, for instance, would only grow up like the rest, a plague and a curse to the community. Still he gave Jenny advice, and by her instruction I drew up a Petition from the child herself addressed to no less a person than her Gracious Majesty the young Queen, who was said to have a kindly heart. The petition, with certain changes, might almost have been that of Jenny herself for her own case. Here is a piece of it.

'Your Petitioner humbly submits that she was born and brought up in a part of London occupied entirely by thieves, rogues, and vagabonds: that she was taught from infancy that the only way by which she could earn her daily bread was by stealing: that the only art or trade she had ever learned was that of stealing without being detected: that she was never at any school or Church or under any kind of instruction whatever: that she was never taught the meaning of right or wrong: that she had learned no religion and no morals and knew not what they meant; and that being caught in the act of stealing a piece of cloth value six shillings from a shop, she is now lying under sentence of death.'

To make a long story short, Jenny entrusted this Petition to Lord Brockenhurst, who generously interested himself in the girl and undertook that the Petition should reach the hands of Her Majesty the Queen—with the result, as you shall presently hear, that the girl's life was spared.

This incident has nothing to do with the story, save that it shows Jenny's generous nature and her good heart; thus in the midst of her own anxieties to think of the troubles of others. Nay, she not only saved the life of this girl, but she brought her to a new mind and to new thoughts: and, whereas she had been before what you have seen, she converted the child into a decent, well conducted civil girl, worthy of better things—even to marry an honest man and to become the mother of stout lads and sturdy wenches. Let us consider how many lives might have been destroyed had they hanged this young girl. I have sometimes calculated that if they hang a hundred women every year, most of them young, they deprive the country of five hundred children whose loss may mean the loss of two thousand five hundred grandchildren, and so on. Can any country afford to lose so many valuable soldiers and sailors every year, the number still mounting up? Why, then, cannot we take the children when they are still young out of Roguery and place them in some house where they will be taught religion and morals and a craft? At present the cry is all 'Hang! Hang! Hang!' or 'Flog! Flog! Flog!' So the soldiers and the sailors and the wretched women are tied up and flogged well nigh to death: and the carts go rumbling along Holborn loaded with the poor creatures on their way to be hanged: but the rogues increase and multiply. Since hanging and flogging do no good cannot we try Jenny's method of kindness? I say this writing many years afterwards—because at that time I did not understand the law of kindness which I now perceive to be the Heavenly Law of Charity. Jenny, who had no glimmer of religion, poor thing, in her quick way divined the Law of Charity.

Why, she changed even the women in the Prison Yard. There was great suffering among them. Many of them had no friends to bring them food: they had nothing but the daily dole of the penny loaf. Presently, I observed that they looked more contented and better fed: they were less noisy: there was less quarrelling and fighting: they were even cleaner to look at. All this was Jenny's doing. She fed them first: then when their craving for food, which made them quarrelsome, was allayed, she went among them and talked to them one at a time. I have seen her, I have seen how the rough coarse common creatures would respond, little by little, to words of kindness. She advised them about their affairs: she made them confess what they had done: why, was she not one of themselves?

'I knew you,' she said to one, 'long ago in Hog's Lane: you lived in the Old Bell Alley: we were girls together. Come into my cell and I will find you something more to put on; and your hair wants to be combed and put up, doesn't it? And your face would look so much better if it were washed. Come with me——' and so on with one after the other: not the least case being the girl who had laid information and committed perjury against her. It was what Jenny said—though the saying was then too hard for me. They are women: as are all men and women, whether we call some Yahoos or not: they are women: there is not such very great difference between the greatest lady and the lowest woman: both are women: both are ruled by the same irresistible forces of love. Some day, perhaps, some gentlewoman will put the part of the Christian religion—I mean the Law of Charity—into practice. It is strange that a woman who was not a Christian, and had no religion, should first teach me that Charity means more than the giving of alms.

'Let me,' said Jenny, 'do something for these poor creatures while I am among them. That will not be for long. Then they will fall back again into their own ways.'

'But, Jenny, you are spending all your money.'

'An actress never wants money. When I get out of this place I have made up my mind what to do. I will not return to Drury Lane: I will go over to Dublin. That is the strange country with hills and woods which I see before me always. It is Ireland. I will go on the Dublin stage. As for the money, I brought with me all there was in the house when I left it: and all my jewels—but they are not worth much. These women have had some of the money, and the turnkeys have had some, and Mr. Dewberry has had some: and I think there is not much left.'

The question of money pressed hard because I had none, and as yet no new situation, and when Jenny was released she would certainly want money to carry her on.

She laughed, seeing my seriousness. 'Oh! Will—Will,' she said. 'You are a musician and yet you are anxious about money. But you were born in the City. Now in a theatre nobody thinks about money. When the money is plenty it is freely lent: when there is none it is freely borrowed. Believe me, Will, I shall want no money: I never have wanted money. Did I ever tell you, Will, my own fortune? An old gipsy woman told me. "What others envy she shall have: what she would have she shall lack. She shall pass through dangers without harm: she shall be happy in the end. Yet not in the way she would most desire." That is a strange fortune, is it not? Now I am in the midst of dangers, yet nothing will do me harm. What do I most desire? What do all women most desire? You were born in the City, Will, where they do not study the human heart. Therefore you know not. The old woman was a witch, as they all are—all the gipsy women—so far I have had what others envy—and—alas! Will, I still lack what most I desire.'

'What is it, Jenny?'

'Ask your violin, Will. Ask your music. Ask the play upon the stage what women most desire. Oh! Foolish youth! they ask what you have given to Alice—they ask the happiness of love.'

If the time was long to those who watched and waited, it was worse for her who suffered. I believe if I remember aright that our poor Jenny spent five or perhaps six weeks in that noisome cell; her cheek, as I have said, grew thin and pale from the bad air and the confinement; but her courage she never lost for a single day. She asked for no consolations and desired no soothing to alleviate the weariness of her prison. Of those fine ladies who called before she was tried not one came now: nor did any of the actresses, her old friends and rivals, visit her. They came before the trial, just as they visit a notorious robber, because it is interesting to gape upon a person who stands in the great danger of a trial for his life, or has done some daring act of villainy, or is about to undergo some terrible ordeal. When her trial was over and it became certain in everybody's mind that, although the woman had pleaded guilty: although she was condemned: she would not suffer the capital sentence, the interest of the public in the case rapidly declined and in a few days ceased wholly: the great ladies ran after other excitements: they sent letters to the new singer: they sent rings to their favourite actor: they crowded the prison of the fashionable highwaymen: the actresses, for their part, reflected that they would probably have Jenny back among them before long casting them all in the shade: so they left off calling: the portrait painters went elsewhere after studies likely to be popular. Truly it was a lamentable instance of the breath of popular favour fickle and uncertain. 'The Case of Clarinda' was forgotten as soon as people had made up their minds that Clarinda was not to be hanged, although she had screened her mother and pleaded guilty and received sentence of death.

The only persons who now came to the cell were Lord Brockenhurst and Mr. Dewberry the attorney, not to speak of the Governor of the Prison, who came daily to ask after his fair prisoner's health. His Lordship let us know day by day concerning the efforts being made on Jenny's behalf. The reason why they were so slow was partly due to a feeling on the part of the Judge that though the motive of the prisoner might be good she had confessed to a heinous crime, and the Law must not be made ridiculous. Therefore, a few weeks of prison should be allowed, whatever was done afterwards, in vindication of the Majesty of the Law. 'But,' said Lord Brockenhurst, 'he is at least on your side. So much I know for a fact. It is a great thing to have the Judge on your side.' He also told us that the Counsel for the Prosecution, a gentleman of great eminence in the Law, was also very active on our behalf: that the Jurymen had drawn up a petition and signed it unanimously for Jenny's pardon and release: that the Queen was also reported to be interested in the case and in favour of clemency, the whole circumstances being so unusual and the behaviour of the prisoner so strangely actuated by filial affection even towards an unworthy object: and that the general opinion of the people was that it was impossible to suppose that a woman in Jenny's position, commanding receipts of thousands every night of a masquerade, could condescend to so low and miserable a business as receiving a bundle of stolen goods, not worth a couple of guineas altogether, with the assistance of wretched confederates whose evidence might hang her: and further that the minds of the people being made up they thought no more about the matter. In a word, that all was going well, but we must wait: he could not tell us how long, and possess our souls in patience.

'If only we do not die of gaol fever,' Jenny sighed. 'Faugh! To die in the reek and the stench of this place. My Lord, I am always your most obliged servant. Perhaps the Judge would consider his opinion and give me at least the choice of death. Let me die like my own people. They lie down in a little tent which keeps off the cold rain and the hot sun: on their backs they lie looking through the open front at the sky and the clouds and presently they shut their eyes and their limbs grow cold. Then they are buried in the hedge without coffin or winding-sheet.'

'And without prayers,' said his Lordship. 'Dear Madame, they are not your people. There was never yet gipsy with fair hair and blue eyes. You shall not die in a tent, but in a bed with those who love you weeping over you. And you shall be borne to a marble tomb in the Church with the singing men and the boys chanting the service for the good of your soul.'

The doctrine was unsound, but the meaning of his Lordship was good.

'The good of my soul,' Jenny repeated, doubtfully. 'Well, my Lord, I have at least learned something from the people who stole me—if they did steal me. I love the light and the sunshine and the wind. Restore me to these and I will promise never, never, never to have another mother who will tempt me with second-hand petticoats.'

She laughed, but Lord Brockenhurst, who was a grave gentleman, did not laugh.

'Madame,' he said, kissing her fingers—of which he never seemed to weary—'I should desire nothing better than to lead you into meadows and beside gentle streams where the Zephyrs would bring back their rosy hue to your pale cheek. We must not speak of death but of life.'

'But not of love, my Lord,' she interrupted. 'Remember I have a husband. He is in the King's Bench Prison, a bankrupt, there to remain for life, because he can never hope to pay his debts. But he is my husband.'

'Of everything but love, Madame,' he replied with the dignity which sat upon him as naturally as grace sat upon Jenny. 'Seriously, I have a house some fifty miles from here. It stands among deep woods, beside a flowing stream: behind it is a hill, not terrible with crags but of a gentle ascent: it has gardens and orchards: around is a park with flocks of the timid deer: not far off you may discover the tower of a village Church and hear the music of the bells. Thither, thither, Madame, I will lead you when you are free from the misery of this place, and there you shall stay till your spirits are restored and your mind recreated: nay, you shall stay there, if you will so honour me, all your life. The house and all that belongs to it shall be your own. I will be content if once in a while I may spend a day or two with you, as your honoured guest.'

'Oh! my Lord,' Jenny made reply, through her tears, 'you are too good to me. Indeed I deserve none of this kindness.'

'You deserve all—all—divine Jenny—that a man can offer. Believe me there is nothing that is too good or too great for such as Jenny Wilmot.'

This dialogue was only one of many. Truly, as Jenny said, here was a faithful and a loyal friend.

One more friend was found, as faithful and as loyal, but more humble. You remember the country lad called Jack, who had fallen into Merridew's clutches and had already entered under his guidance upon the career of a rogue. He it was who gave evidence which helped to connect all four plotters with the plot. He it was, also, who carried off the old woman and Doll by the waggon to Horsham in Sussex. We thought no more about him. He had done his service and had received his pay and had gone his own way. The lad had an honest look—a wholesome country-bred face, different from the pale cheeks of the boys and the swollen faces of the men with whom he had begun to sit. In a word, he was not yet branded with the mark of Cain. But, I say, we had forgotten him. He was one of the characters in the last scene but one of the play which we were performing with Miss Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane Theatre as the heroine.

Now, one morning, while I was playing something to please our prisoner in her cell the turnkey brought us a visitor. It was none other than the country lad. He stood at the open door and pulled his hair, holding his hat in one hand.

'Your servant to command, Madame,' he said timidly, pronouncing his words in the broad country manner which is too uncouth to be presented to eyes polite.

'Why,' cried Jenny, 'it is Jack! How fares it, honest Jack?' and so took him by the hand as if he was of her station. Jenny had no sense of what is due to rank and station. 'Why,' she said, when I spoke to her about it, 'we are all players in the same company: and we all like speaking parts.'

'And how did you leave Mother and Doll?' she went on.

'Purely well, Madame. They got out of the waggon about two miles from Horsham at a tavern by the roadside. It was shut up. Doll saw it. "Mother," she said, "it would do for us." They wanted me to stay, and if they could get the House I should be tapster and drawer. But I thought I would go home. So I left them.'

'And then you went home.'

'Ay—I went home. But they didn't want me there. And the parson talked about the whipping-post. So I came away again. And I found out where you were, Madame, and I came to offer my humble services.'

'Thank you kindly, Jack. But what can I do with you here?'

'I will fetch and carry. I want no wages but just to live. Let me stay with your Ladyship.'

He looked so earnest and so honest that Jenny turned to me. 'He might be useful. I believe he is honest. What say you, Will?'

What could I say? Should I turn away a friend when we might want all the friends we could find? How we were to keep our new servant was more than I knew: however, there he was, upon our hands. It was a kindly act of Jenny, when her fortunes were at their worst to take over this poor lad who was thrown upon the world without a trade—save that of rustic labourer, which is useless in London: without a character: and without friends. Jenny's consent saved him—he could remain honest.

'Vex not your soul about money, Will. We shall want none. There is always money when it is really wanted. See how cheaply I live: I cannot wear out my fine clothes—indeed, the mob has left me mighty few to wear: I have no rent to pay nor any servants. It is true that my money is nearly gone, but there are still things—well—things of which you know nothing: and the Judge who thinks so much about the Majesty of the Law—will surely relent before long. If he would come to see me I think I could soften his heart.'

'Indeed you would, Jenny, if it was of the hardness of the nether millstone.'