At that very moment, while we were trying to find words befitting the occasion which would not admit of grief yet demanded the respect due to Death, arrived the news so long expected.

The Governor of the Prison, accompanied by our friend the Counsel for the Prosecution, stood at the door, followed by one of the Turnkeys.

'Madame,' said the Governor, 'I come to bring you news.' But he looked so serious that my heart sank.

'And I, Madame,' said the lawyer, 'shall be pleased to add a codicil to this intelligence.'

'Gentlemen, I have already this morning received news enough for one day at least. Am I, gentlemen, ordered to adorn the next procession along the Oxford Road?'

'No, Madame,' the Governor replied. 'But I wish the news were more joyful. I had hoped—I had expected—considering the whole case——'

I looked at Jenny. She turned suddenly pale; I thought she was going to faint. Consider: she had persuaded herself that a full and immediate pardon would be granted. She had no doubt as to that point. She did not faint; she recovered and spoke with white lips and a hard forced voice.

'Tell me quick!'

'Madame, His Majesty has graciously commuted the sentence into transportation to the plantations for the term of five years.'

Jenny made no reply. I groaned aloud. Transportation? To go out as a servant! To be bought by a planter and made to work in the tobacco fields under the lash? This for Jenny! All the world knew what transportation meant and what were the mercies served out to convicts.

The Governor sighed and shook his head. The lawyer took up the tale. 'Madame,' he said, 'believe me; everything has been done that could be done. Had you pleaded Not Guilty you would most certainly have been acquitted. Madame, I know your reasons, and I respect them. You pleaded Guilty. Your reasons were not such as could be laid before the King, unless privately. The Judge in your case is a lawyer of great eminence; that is to say, he is jealous of the Law; he holds that above all things the Law must be feared. He is called a hanging Judge, being a most merciful man; but the Law must be respected. There must not be one Law for the rich rogue and another for the poor rogue.'

'Rich or poor,' said Jenny, 'I am a rogue for having stolen nightcaps in my garrets; and I am a rogue and a vagabond because I am an actress.'

'Nay, Madame; but the Toast of the Town, the most lovely——'

'My loveliness does not stand me in much stead at this juncture. Tell me again. I am to be shipped across seas: I am to stay there five years: I am to herd on board with the wretched women outside: I am to work in the fields with them and with negroes: I am to be whipped by my master: I am to live on sweet potatoes. I am to wear sacking for all my clothes. Gentlemen,' she added with flushed cheek, 'go, tell the King that I will not accept this mercy.'

'Nay, Madame,' said the lawyer with persuasive tongue. 'You go too fast. Those who have friends can evade the obligations of service; you, who have so many friends, will find that you have nothing to fear beyond the voyage and a short residence in a pleasant climate. For my own part, dear Madame, I hope to see you before another year begins back upon the boards of Drury Lane, with all the town at your feet. I pine, Madame, I languish for the first evening to arrive.'

'Jenny,' I whispered, 'for Heaven's sake be careful. Consider; this gentleman cannot be deceiving you. If there is, as he says, no real obligation to service; and if, as he says, the sentence means only a short residence in a pleasant country—then surely you must accept. There is, however, the voyage. Perhaps, Sir,' I addressed the lawyer, 'it will be possible for Madame to take the voyage in a private cabin apart from the rest of the—the company.'

'It will certainly be possible. She may take state rooms for herself and her maid: she will be treated as a gentlewoman. It is only a question of arrangement with the Captain. Madame, I assure you, upon my honour, that the sentence means no more than what I have stated. It is a brief exile in which you will endure no other indignity than that of sailing on board the ship which carries a few scores of the wretches going out as slaves—if one may call an Englishman a slave.'

Jenny wavered. Her cheek was still red with shame and disappointment. She wavered.

'Jenny,' I said, taking her hand.

She sat down. 'Let it be, then, as you will.'

'That is bravely resolved,' said the Governor. 'And now I shall have the pleasure of removing you immediately from this close and confined chamber to one more airy and more commodious.'

'Gentlemen,' said Jenny, still crestfallen, 'I thank you both for your good intentions. I should love you better if you would put a sword through me and so end it. Perhaps, however, the ship may go to the bottom. Let us hope so. It must sink, I am sure, so heavy will be the heart of lead on board it.'

So, with renewed protestations of assistance and goodwill the lawyer went away with the Governor. In the yard I observed that he stopped and looked upon the crowd of women, many of whom he would help to the gallows. Does such a lawyer, always occupied in getting up and preparing a case, so as to persuade a jury into a verdict of 'Guilty' ever feel remorse at having done so, or repugnance at doing it again? Do the ghosts of those whom he has sent to the other world haunt his bedside at night? One may as well ask if the Judge who pronounces the sentence feels remorse or pity. He is the mouth of the Law; the Counsel feeds the mouth; the Governor of Newgate is the arm of the Law. However, that the Counsel for the Prosecution should take so much interest in the release of a prisoner is, I should think, without example in the history of Newgate, where they have never had before, and can never have again, a prisoner so lovely, so attractive, so interesting, as Jenny. After him came another visitor. It was my Lord Brockenhurst who brought us the news we had already heard—but with a difference.

'Madame,' he said, after telling us what we had already heard, 'I shall always regret that I was not the first to let you know. Indeed, I have flown. The commutation of the sentence involves a voyage; that cannot be denied; but there is no obligation to service. That will be arranged for you; I can undertake so much, if necessary. The voyage is no great matter; six weeks if you are fortunate; eight weeks, at most, will set you on shore; the country is said to be beautiful; the climate is healthy, the Virginians are mostly gentlemen of good family.'

'I thank you, my Lord, for your kind words.'

'There is another thing, Madame. I am empowered to assure you that the Petition which you drew up for your young protÉgÉe here has been graciously received by Her Majesty the Queen. She has herself asked for the remission of the capital sentence. The girl's life will be spared.'

'This is good news, at least.'

'On conditions, which you must expect. She will go with you to Virginia for five years. You can take her as your maid, if you please.'

'With me for five years?' Jenny repeated. 'I know so little of what is ordered——'

'Briefly, Madame, a prisoner under sentence of transportation is engaged as a servant, generally on a tobacco plantation, where he works with the negroes. If there should happen to be one among them of a superior class he becomes an accountant or even a manager; or if he can command influence or money his engagement is merely nominal. Your engagement will be a form which I shall arrange for you. This girl can remain with you. When you come home you can bring her with you.'

'In five years?'

'No—in much less time—in a few months. I am permitted on the highest authority to assure you that your banishment will be but short. As soon as it can with decency be asked for, a full pardon will be asked for and it will be granted. You will then only have to return in order to delight your friends once more.'

'When shall I have to go?'

'A ship is now fitting out. She sails in a week or a fortnight. You will sail as a cabin passenger, entrusted to the protection of the Captain. The—the other—passengers will be confined between decks, I believe.'

'My Lord, I am deeply touched by all your kindness.'

'Madame, I have done little—little indeed. Would it had been more! I shall now, with your permission, make arrangements with the Captain of the ship for your entertainment on the voyage and your reception on reaching the port.'

'So,' said Jenny, 'in one day I am deprived of my husband. I am a widow who never was a wife. I am deprived of my country—which is London; and of all my friends.'

His lordship's face changed. 'Your husband, Madame? Is he dead?'

'He died last night. Let us not speak of him.'

'Then you are free' He glanced at me: I saw his meaning and the purpose in his eyes. 'You are free.'

I stepped out, leaving them together. In a few minutes he came out with the look of one distracted, and not knowing what he was doing or whither he went.

Within the cell Jenny was sitting at the table with red and tearful eyes.

'That good and noble friend, Will, would make me Lady Brockenhurst.'

'Jenny—why not?'

'He would go with me: he would marry me here and sail with me. No—no—I promised his sister. What? Because I love a man—the best of men—should I give him children who would be ashamed of their mother and her origin? Mine would be a pretty history for them to learn, would it not? No, Will, no. Believe me I love him too well. Even if he were a meaner man, I could never bring my history to smirch the chronicles of a respectable family.'

She was silent a little. 'Will,' she said presently, looking up, 'all that I foretold has proved true. I want no money. I am going out to a strange country. It is not Ireland as I thought. It is Virginia. I see it again so plain—so clear—I shall know it when I land. But I can see no farther. There will be no return for me to Drury Lane. My vision stops short—now that I see you—somewhere—with me—I see Alice also. But I cannot see England or London—or the Black Jack or Drury Lane.'

Then we moved to the more commodious chamber, where I soothed her spirits with a cup of tea which is better far than wine or cordials for the refreshment of the mind. Presently she began to recover a little from her disappointment.

'It will be lonely at first,' she said, 'without a single friend, and I suppose that a transported convict—say that for me, Will—it hath a strange sound. It is like a slap in the face—a transported convict——'

'Nay, Jenny, do not say it.'

'I must. I say that though a transported convict must be despised, yet I shall have my girl here with me, and perhaps my Lord will prove right and I may come home again. Yet I do not think so. Will, there is one consolation. At last I shall get clean away from my own people. They used to congregate round the stage-door of the Theatre to congratulate their old friend on her success. The Orange-Girls were never tired of claiming old friendship. I married in order to get away from them, but Matthew never meant to keep his promise—I am tired, Will, of my own people. They have made me suffer too much. Henceforth let them go and hang without any help from me.'

'It is high time, Jenny.'

'The Act ends lamely, perhaps. It may be the last Act of the Play. The ship leaves the Quay. On the deck stands the heroine in white satin, waving her handkerchief. The people weep. The bo's'n blows his whistle. The sailors stamp about; the curtain falls. Will, if things are real—what am I to do when I get back—if I do get back? How am I to live?'

'Jenny,' I said seriously, 'I believe that one so good and so fearless, for whom daily prayers are offered, will be led by no will of her own, into some way of peace and happiness.'

'Think you so, good cousin? There spoke Alice. It is her language. She says that beyond the stars are eyes that can see and hands that can lead. Why, Will, for my people, the only hand that leads is the hand of hunger: the only hand that directs is the hand with the whip in it; as for eyes that see'—she shook her head sadly—'I wish there were,' she said. 'Perhaps there would then be some order in St. Giles's. And there would be some hope for the poor rogues. Oh! Will—the poor helpless, ignorant, miserable rogues—of whom I am one—a transported convict—a transported convict—how we suffer! how we die! And pass away and are forgotten! Will ... Will ... I go with a heavy heart—I go to meet my death. For never more shall I return. Where is the eye that sees? Oh! Will—where is the hand that leads?'