The Orange Girl

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER XXI

  "GUILTY, MY LORD"

  The days slipped away. Visitors came, gazed, and departed. Our attorneyexhorted Jenny every day to consider her decision and to prepare adefence.

  'Consider, Madame,' he urged earnestly, 'you will stand before a Courtalready prepossessed by the knowledge of your history, in your favour.There will be no pressure of points against you. It will be shown, nay,it is already well known, that you have, by your own unaided efforts,defeated a most odious conspiracy and made it possible for theconspirators to be brought to justice. This fact, further, assignsreasons and motives for the persecution and the malignity of theirfriends. I am prepared to show that at the time when you are chargedwith receiving stolen property you were occupying a fine position; thatyou were solvent because you were receiving large sums of money: thatyou were the last person to be tempted even to receive stolen goodsespecially those of a mean and worthless character. Those who mightotherwise be ready to perjure themselves against you will be afraid tospeak since this last business. You have this protection brought aboutby your own action. It will be impossible to prove that you had anyknowledge of the property found on your premises.'

  'All that is true. Yet, dear Sir, I cannot change my mind.'

  'It is so true that I cannot believe it possible under the circumstancesfor a jury to convict: you are also, Madame, which is a very importantfeature in the case, possessed of a face and form whose loveliness aloneproclaims your innocence.'

  'Oh! Sir, if loveliness had aught to do with justice! But could I, eventhen, rely upon that claim?'

  'Let me instruct Counsel. He will brush aside the evidence! GoodHeavens! What evidence! A woman swears that she saw the property carriedinto your house during the whole of a certain night. That is quitepossible. Certain shopkeepers have been found to swear to some of thearticles found in your rooms as their own. How do they know? One bale ofgoods is like another. That kind of evidence is worth very little. Butif the things are theirs how are you to be connected with them? I shallprove that you lived in a great house with many servants: that it wasquite easy to carry things in and out of that house without yourknowledge: I shall call your servants, who will swear that they knownothing of any such conveyance of goods. I will prepare a defence foryou in which you will state that you had no knowledge of these things:nor do you know when, or by whom, they were brought into the house: youwill point to your troop of servants, including footmen, waiters,carvers, cooks, butlers and women of all kinds: you will ask if amanager of any place of entertainment is to be held responsible for whatwas brought under his roof--that you were not in want of money and thatif you were the rubbish lying in your garrets would be of no use to you.And so on. There could not possibly be found a better defence.'

  'I know one better still,' said Jenny quietly.

  'Tell me what it is, then.'

  'I have already told you. Once more then. My mother has long beennotorious as a receiver of stolen goods. The people used to bring theirplunder to the Black Jack by a back entrance: under the house there arestone vaults and a great deal of property can be stored there. When Iunderstood that we should want the evidence of my mother I was obligedto offer her a large sum of money as a bribe before she would consent.When she found that I would give no more, she accepted my offer but onconditions. 'Remember,' she said. 'None of us will ever be able to showour faces at the Black Jack any more. We should be murdered for sure,for going against our own people.'

  'Well,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'doubtless she was right. But what were theconditions?'

  'They were connected with the stolen goods. The vaults contained a greatdeal of property which could not be sold at once. If I would suffer herto store that property in my house, she would consent Sir, at that time,and in order to defeat those villains, I would have consented toanything. It was agreed that my mother and sister should move the thingsby night after the Black Jack was shut up. I suppose the woman watched.So you see, unfortunately, I did consent without thinking.'

  'You did consent--oh!' he groaned. 'But, after all, your mother andsister will not give evidence. Where is the evidence of your consent?Are they out of sight? Good. Let them keep out of sight.'

  'But there is more. Dear Sir, you will say I am very imprudent. When itwas arranged for my mother to go away after the trial and lie snug forawhile, she could not bear to think of losing all her property, andso--still without thinking of consequences--I bought the whole lot.'

  'You bought! Oh! This, indeed, I did not expect. You bought the whole!However, one comfort, no one knows except your mother.'

  'And my sister. Now, Sir, Doll will not allow my mother to suffer alone.If she is accused of receiving I shall be charged with buying theproperty.'

  'I wish the mob had burned the place.'

  'Nobody can wish that more than myself. Now consider. If I plead "NotGuilty" and am acquitted, my mother will certainly be arrested. Therewill be a Hue and Cry after her, and I shall then be charged again withbuying stolen property, knowing it to be stolen. No, Sir, my mind isquite made up. I shall plead Guilty. If the evidence is only what weknow, there will be no further inquiry after the property. So, at least,my mother will be safe.'

  Mr. Dewberry said nothing for a while. 'Would your mother,' he asked,'do as much for you?'

  'I dare say she would. We have our virtues, we poor rogues, sometimes.'

  He remonstrated with her: he repeated over and over again his assurancethat her defence was as perfect as a defence could be. She could not beexamined or cross-examined. The evidence of the woman would be confinedto one point. It was all in vain: she was obstinate.

  'I shall plead Guilty,' she said.

  Finally he went away and left me alone with her.

  'Jenny,' I said, 'sometimes I believe you are mad so far as your owninterests are concerned.'

  'No, Will--only crafty. Now listen a little. I have one firm, strong,powerful friend--I mean Lord Brockenhurst. If a woman wants a man toremain in love with her, she must keep him off. He knows all about me,he says: he has made up the prettiest tale possible. And he actuallybelieves it.'

  'Made up a tale, Jenny?'

  'It was a very pretty story that he wrote called the "Case of Clarinda,"This is a prettier story still. It appears that I am the lost and stolenchild of noble parents. My birth is stamped upon my face. Never a gipsyyet was known to have light hair like mine, and blue eyes like mine. Ihave been brought up in ignorance of my parentage, by a woman ofdishonest character who stole me in infancy. She made me, against mywish (for a person of my rank naturally loathes employment so menial)an Orange Girl of Drury Lane Theatre. Then I rose above that station bythe possession of parts inherited, and became an actress and the Toastof the Town. The woman clung to her pretended daughter still. Then Ileft the stage in order to be married: when I found my husband littlebetter than a sordid gambler, I left his house and opened theAssembly-room: the woman, for her own safety, made, unknown to me, astorehouse of my garrets. That is his story. But the end is betterstill. My true nobility of soul, inherited from my unknown illustriousancestors, prompts me to plead Guilty in order to save this pretendedmother. Now, Will----'

  'How does the story help?'

  'Because it has already got abroad. Because it will incline everybody'sheart to get me saved.'

  'Yes--but an acquittal is so easy.'

  'Will, you can never understand what it means to belong to such a familyas mine. Suppose I get my acquittal. Then--afterwards----'

  'What will follow afterwards?'

  'Do you think that they will let me return to the stage? I must face therevenge of the family--the family of St. Giles's. Through me the Bishopand the Captain have been put in pillory and are now in prison. Theybelong to the family--my family, and I have brought them to ruin--Imyself. One of themselves. Can they forgive me? Nay, Will, I was broughtup among them: it is their only point of honour. Can I expect them toforgive me? Never--until--unless----' She stopped and trembled.

  'Unless-
-what?'

  'Unless I pay for it, as I have made those two rogues pay for it. UnlessI pass through the fiery furnace of trial and sentence, even if it leadsme to the condemned cell. After that, Will, I may perhaps look forforgiveness.'

  A man must be a stock or a stone not to be moved by such words as these.'Oh, Jenny!' I said, 'you have brought all this upon yourself--for me.'

  'Yes, Will, for you and for yours. I have counted the cost. Your life isworth it all--and more. Don't think I never flinched. No. I had thoughtsof letting everything go. Why should I imperil myself--my life--todefeat a villain? It was easy to do nothing. Then one night I saw aghost--oh! a real ghost. It was Alice, and in her arms lay your boy.'Jenny rose slowly. The afternoon was turning into early evening: thecell was already in twilight. She rose, and gradually, so great is thepower of an actress, that even though my eyes were overcast, I saw thenarrow cell no longer. There was no Jenny. In her place stood anotherwoman. It was Alice. In the arms of that spirit lay the semblance of achild. And the spirit spoke. It was the voice of Alice. 'Woman!' shesaid, solemnly, 'give me back my husband. Give the boy the honour of hisfather. Murderess! Thou wouldst kill the father and ruin the son. Thereshall be no peace or rest or quiet for thee to the end. Save him--forthou must. Suffer and endure what follows. Thou shalt suffer, but thoushalt not be destroyed.' Alice spoke: it was as if she came there withintent to say those words. Then she vanished. And with a trembling ofgreat fear, even as Saul trembled when he saw the spirit of Samuel, Isaw Jenny standing in the place where Alice had been.

  She fell into her chair: she burst into tears--the first and the lastthat ever I saw upon her cheek: she covered her face with her hands.

  I soothed her, I assured her of all that I could say in gratitudeinfinite: perhaps I mingled my tears with hers.

  'Oh, Will,' she cried. 'Do not vex yourself over the fate of anorange-wench. What does it matter for such a creature as myself?'

  The Old Bailey never witnessed a greater crowd than that which filledthe court to witness the trial of Mistress Jenny Wilmot, charged withreceiving stolen goods knowing them to be stolen. Her assumed name ofMadame Vallance was forgotten: her married name of Halliday wasforgotten: on everybody's tongue she was Jenny Wilmot the actress: JennyWilmot the Toast of the Town: Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane. They spoke ofher beauty, her grace, her vivacity: these were still remembered inspite of her absence from the stage of nearly two years. Now two yearsis a long time for an actress, unless she is very good indeed, to beremembered. But the 'Case of Clarinda' was by this time known to everyclub and coffee-house in London: not a City clerk or shopman but had thestory pat, with oaths and sighs and tears. My Lord Brockenhurst had donehis share in changing public opinion, and the later story, that of thenoble origin of the stolen girl, was also whispered from mouth tomouth.

  The court, I say, was crowded. Behind the chairs of the Lord Mayor andJudge, the Aldermen and the Sheriffs, were other chairs filled withgreat ladies: the public gallery was also filled with ladies who wereadmitted by tickets issued by sheriffs: the entrances and doorways andthe body of the court were filled with gentlemen, actors and actressesmixed with an evil-looking and evil-smelling company from St. Giles's.

  The witnesses, among whom I failed to observe the revengeful woman,consisted, I was pleased to see, of no more than the two or threeshopkeepers who were waiting to swear to their own property. They stoodbeside the witness-box, wearing the look of determined and pleasedrevenge common to those who have been robbed. The Jury were sworn oneafter the other, and took their seats. I could not fail to observe thatthe unrelenting faces with which they had received me, the highwayman,were changed into faces of sweet commiseration. If ever Jury betrayed byoutward signs a full intention, beforehand, of bringing in a verdict ofNot Guilty, with the addition, if the Judge would allow it, that thelady left the dock without a blemish upon her character, it was thatjury--yet a jury composed entirely of persons engaged in trade, whowould naturally be severe upon the crime of receiving stolen goods.

  When the Court were ready to take their places the prisoner was broughtin, and all the people murmured with astonishment and admiration andpity, for the prisoner was dressed as for her wedding day. She was allin white without a touch of any other colour. Her lovely fair hair wasdressed without powder over a high cushion with white silk ribbonshanging to her shoulders: her white silk frock drawn back in front,showed a white satin petticoat: white silk gloves covered her hands andarms: she carried a nosegay of white jonquils: a necklace of pearls hunground her neck: her belt was of worked silver. She took her place in thedock: she disposed her flowers between the spikes, among the sprigs ofrue. Her air was calm and collected: not boastful: sad as was natural:resigned as was becoming: neither bold nor shrinking: there was noaffectation of confidence nor any agitation of terror. She was like aQueen: she was full of dignity. She seemed to say, 'Look at me, all ofyou. Can you believe that I--I--I--such as I--Jenny Wilmot--couldactually stoop to receive a lot of stolen rags and old petticoats andbales of stuff worth no more altogether than two or three guineas?'

  During the whole time of the trial the eyes of everybody in court, Iobserved, were turned upon the prisoner. Never before, I am sure, did amore lovely prisoner stand in the Dock: never was there one whoseposition was more commiserated: they were all, I verily believe, readyto set her free at once: but for the act and deed of the prisonerherself. Her attitude: her face: her dress all proclaimed aloud thewords which I have written down above. Everybody had seen her on thestage playing principally the coquette, the woman of fashion and folly,the hoyden, the affected prude--but not a part like this. 'Ye gods!' Iheard a young barrister exclaim. 'She looks like an angel: an angel sentdown to Newgate!' The strange, new, unexpected look of virginalinnocence stamped on the brow of the once daring and headlong actressstartled the people: it went to the heart of everyone: it made everybodypresent feel that they were assisting at a martyrdom: nay, as if theywere themselves, unwillingly, bringing faggots to pile the fire. Beforethe trial began many an eye was dim, many a cheek was humid.

  The Court entered: the people rose: the Counsel bowed to the Bench: theLord Mayor took his seat: beside him the Judge: with him the Aldermenand the Sheriffs: the prisoner also did reverence to the Court like agentlewoman receiving company. One would not have been surprised had myLord Mayor stepped down and kissed her on the cheek in City fashion. Butneither in her look nor in her actions was there betrayed the least signof degradation, fear, or shame.

  When a somewhat lengthy indictment had been read, she raised her head.'My Lord, I would first desire to ask for my name to be amended.'

  'What amendment do you desire?'

  'I am described as Madame Vallance, alias Jenny Wilmot, actress. It istrue that Jenny Wilmot was my maiden name, and that I assumed the nameof Madame Vallance when I left the stage and opened the Assembly Rooms.My true name is Jenny Halliday, and I am the wife of Mr. MatthewHalliday, son of Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman, and partner in the Houseof Halliday Brothers, West India Wharf, by the Steel Yard in the Parishof All Hallows the Great.'

  The Judge, whom nothing could surprise, answered with the awful coldnesswhich becomes a Judge and so terrifies a prisoner. 'There is no disputeconcerning identity. Plead in your married name, if you will.'

  'Then, my Lord, I plead Guilty.'

  She had done it, then. With a case so strong: with an assurance ofacquittal, she had pleaded Guilty. My heart sank. Yet I knew what shewould do. The Lord Mayor whispered the judge again.

  'You are ignorant of law and procedure in Courts of Justice,' he said.'I will allow you to withdraw that plea. Have you no Counsel?'

  'I need none, my Lord. I plead Guilty.'

  The people all held their breath. Then the 'Case of Clarinda' was trueafter all.

  'I am anxious,' the Judge went on, 'that you should have a fair trial.Appoint a Counsel. Advise with him.'

  'I plead Guilty' she repeated.

  The Judge threw himself back in his seat 'Let t
he trial proceed,' hesaid.

  The Counsel for the Prosecution opened the case. It was, he said aremarkable case, because there seemed no sufficient reason or temptationfor breaking the law, or for receiving stolen property. The informationwas laid by a woman living in the purlieus of St. Giles's Parish: shewas, very probably, a person of no character at all: but character wasnot wanted in this case because her information would be supplemented bythe evidence of several persons of the highest respectability who wouldswear to certain articles as their own property. The woman in fact,would depose to the conveyance of stolen goods to the house in question:she gave information the goods were actually found there: and otherwitnesses would claim as their own many things among the property sofound.

  'Gentlemen of the Jury,' he went on, 'this is a case of a painfulnature. The prisoner who pleads guilty--who rejects the clemency--thekindly benevolence--of the Court--is a person who, as you know, a yearor two ago was delighting the town by the vivacity of her acting and thebeauty of her person: she left the stage, the world knew not why, orwhat had become of her: it now appears that she took a certain house inSoho Square, where she carried on assemblies, masquerades, and otheramusements still delighting the town: there is nothing to make onebelieve that she was in pecuniary embarrassments: and we now learn thatshe is actually the wife of a City merchant of great wealth andreputation.' Here his neighbour hurriedly wrote something on a paper:and handed it to him. 'My learned friend,' he said correcting himself,'informs me that this House, until recently in the highest repute, hasfallen into evil times and is now bankrupt. But, gentlemen, whether theprisoner attempted to stave off her husband's bankruptcy or not, theproperty which she received was of so trifling a character that it wouldseem as if she was breaking the Law for the sake of a few shillings. Thethings found in her possession were not those which we are accustomed toregard as the booty of robbers: there are no jewels, gold chains, silvercups, lace, silks or anything at all but things belonging to poor peopleor to people just raised above poverty. There are women's petticoats,men's nightcaps: watches in tortoise-shell cases: knives and forks:small spoons, handkerchiefs: stockings, even: wigs, and so forth. Iexpected, I confess when I surveyed this rubbish, to hear a defence onthe ground that such a person in a position so responsible--with friendsso numerous, some of them of high rank, could not condescend tocountenance the mean and sordid traffic. I confess that I looked forwardto this trial as a means of finding out the real criminal who had takenadvantage of access to the house and impudently used the rooms in MadameVallance's premises for their own dishonest purposes. That expectationmust be now disappointed: that hope must be abandoned. By her ownrepeated confession, the prisoner has assured the Court that she isguilty.

  'The case,' he went on, 'has grown out of one recently heard before thisCourt. It was one in which the present prisoner exerted herself veryactively in the cause of a man named Halliday, presumably a connectionof her own by marriage. Halliday was charged with highway robbery. Theevidence was clear and direct. The prisoner before us, however, withgreat activity and courage, brought together an overwhelming mass ofevidence which proved that the charge was a conspiracy of the blackestand foulest kind. The conspirators are now undergoing their sentence. Bythis brave action an innocent life was saved and four villains were sentto prison. I mention the fact because it shows that the prisonerpossesses many noble qualities, which make it the more marvellous thatshe should be guilty of acts so mean, so paltry, so sordid. The womanwho will appear before you was the mistress of one of theseconspirators. Her information was doubtless laid as an act of revenge.Yet we cannot weigh motives.' And so on.

  It appeared that the evidence was of a merely formal character and thatthe witnesses would not be cross-examined. The first witness was thewoman of whom you know. She, among other women prisoners in Newgate, hadbeen kept from starvation by Jenny; this fact might have softened herheart: but unfortunately the recent sufferings of her lover in pilloryre-awakened her desire for revenge. She was an eager witness: she wantedto begin at once and to tell her tale her own way. The main point nowwas a statement invented since her evidence before the magistrate. Shenow declared that she herself was engaged by the prisoner to carry theproperty to the Assembly Rooms. This abominable perjury she stoutlymaintained. The Counsel for the Prosecution questioned her apparently inorder to elicit the facts: in reality, as I now believe, in order tomake her contradict herself. She was asked where she put the things: whyin the garret: what servants helped her: who received her: who carriedcandles for her: why the prisoner selected her for the job: what shareshe had in the riots: whether she was in prison on that account: and soon. She was a poor ignorant creature, thirsting for revenge: thereforeshe maintained stoutly that the prisoner had paid her for moving thegoods into her house.

  Whether by accident or design, nothing was said about the Black Jack orabout the landlady of that establishment. I suppose that the Prosecutionwas only anxious to establish the bare facts to which the prisoner hadpleaded Guilty.

  The manner in which the witness gave her evidence: the fire in her eyesand in her cheeks: the dirty slovenly look of the woman: her uncombedhair: her voice: her gestures: her manifest perjuries andcontradictions: disgusted all who looked on: the Judge laid down his penand leaned back in his chair as if what she said was of no concern: theAldermen looked at the Judge as much as to ask how long this was to bepermitted: the Jury whispered and shook their heads: the ladies presentknotted their brows and fanned themselves and whispered each otherangrily. At last she sat down flaming and vehement to the end. Herevidence had in fact ruined the case. Why, she had the impudence toallege that the property she had herself carried to the house wasreceived by Madame herself, who ordered her footmen to carry it to thegarrets.

  She was followed by the shopkeepers who had been robbed. They swore tocertain goods of no great value, which had been stolen from them. Theirevidence was quickly given. There was, in fact, no evidence reallyimplicating the prisoner except that of the woman. There was clearlysomething behind: something not explained, which everybody waswhispering to each other--it had been revealed in the famous papercalled 'The Case of Clarinda.' And now I understood what Jenny meantwhen she said that her defence would bring her mother into the business.For Counsel would have inquired into the Black Jack story and asked whatthe things were doing there: how they came there: who was the landlord:with many other particulars, some of which would have brought out thetruth. As for the woman, whether by feminine cunning or by accident, sheconcealed the relationship between Jenny and the Black Jack: she hadreally seen the sister and the mother carrying things to the house inSoho Square: she did not then know that Madame Vallance was Jenny: shefound out the fact at the trial: she then invented the story of beinghired for carrying the property _because she knew it was there_. Allthat the Court knew, however, was the fact that such a woman as stoodbefore them, this angel of loveliness this woman of position: hadactually confessed to the crime of receiving the miserable odds andends--the rags and tawdry finery--stolen from quite poor people. It wasamazing: it was incredible.

  'That is my case, my Lord,' said the Counsel with a sigh, as if he wasashamed of having conducted it at all.

  'Prisoner at the Bar,' said the Judge, 'you have heard the verdict ofthe Jury. You may now say anything you wish in explanation orextenuation.'

  'What can I have to say, my Lord,' she replied simply but with dignity,'since I pleaded guilty? Nevertheless, I have to thank the Counsel forthe Prosecution, who almost proved my pleading impossible.'

  The Judge summed up in a few words. The verdict of the Jury included arecommendation to mercy.

  The Judge assumed the black cap: he pronounced sentence of Death: theOrdinary appeared in his robes and prayed that the Lord would have mercyon her soul: the warder tied the usual slip of string about theprisoner's thumb to show what hanging meant. The only person unaffectedby the sentence was the prisoner herself. Never before had she acted sofinely: never before, indeed, had Jenny been c
alled upon to play such apart. She stood with clasped hands gazing into the face of the Judge,not with defiance, not with wonder: not with resentment: but with a meekacceptance. The women in the court, the great ladies behind the LordMayor wept and sobbed without restraint: even the younger members of theouter Bar were affected to unmanly humidity of the eyes.

  Now when the verdict of the Jury was pronounced, and before the sentenceof the Judge, Jenny did a strange thing, which moved the people almostmore than the words of the sentence. She took up a small roll which laybefore her. It was a black lace veil. She threw this over her head: itfell down upon her shoulders nearly to her waist. She held it up whilethe Judge was speaking: when he finished she dropped it over her face.So with the veil of Death falling over her spotless robes of Innocenceshe stepped down from the dock and followed the men in blue back to theprison. 'Ye Gods!' cried one of the barristers, 'she is nothing lessthan the Virgin Martyr!' Indeed she seemed nothing less than one of theChristian martyrs, the confessors faithful to the end whom no torturesand no punishment could turn aside from the path of martyrdom.

  I hurried round to the prison. 'Ah! Sir,' sighed a turnkey, 'she mustnow go to the condemned cell. Pity! Pity!' They were all herfriends--every one of these officers, hardened by years of daily contactwith the scum of the people. 'But they won't hang her. They can't.'

  'And all for her mother,' said another. 'I remember old Sal of the BlackJack, also her sister Dolly. All to save that fat old carrion carcass.Well, well. You can go in, sir.'

  Jenny was standing by the table. She greeted me with a sad smile. 'It isall over at last,' she said. 'It is harder to play a part on a realstage than in a theatre. Did I play well, Will?'

  'You left a House in tears, Jenny. Oh!' I cried impatiently, 'Is thiswhat you wanted?'

  'Yes, I am quite satisfied. I really was afraid at one time that theCounsel would throw up the case because his leading witness was so grossand impudent a liar. Didst ever hear a woman perjure herself so roundlyand so often? What next?'

  'Yes, Jenny. What next?'

  'I don't know, Will. The Assembly Rooms which are taken in my name areseized, I hear, by my husband's creditors. But all the furniture andfittings have been destroyed already. That is done with, then. Am I tobegin again in order to have everything seized again?' She talked as ifher immediate enlargement was certain. I could not have the heart towhisper discouragement.

  'There is still the stage, Jenny. The world will welcome you backagain.'

  'Do you think so? The Orange Girl they could stand; it pleased the Pitto remember how they used to buy my oranges. But the woman who has comeout of a condemned cell? The woman who pleaded guilty to receivingstolen goods? I doubt it will.'

  'What does that matter? Everybody knows why you pleaded Guilty. You areClarinda.'

  'An audience at a theatre, Will, sometimes shows neither pity norconsideration for an actress. They say what they like: they shout whatthey like: they insult her as they please--an actress is fair game: tomake an actress run off the stage in a flood of tears is what theydelight in. They would be pleased to ask what I have done with thestolen goods.'

  'What will you do then, Jenny?'

  There came along, at this point, another visitor. It was none other thanthe Counsel for the Prosecution. He stood at the door of the cell, butseeing me, he hesitated.

  'Come in, Sir,' said Jenny. 'You wish to speak to me. Speak. Thisgentleman, my husband's first cousin, can hear all that you have to askor I to reply.'

  'Madame,' he bowed as to a Countess. 'This is a wretched place for you.I trust, however that it will not be for long. The recommendation of theJury will certainly have weight: the Judge is benevolently disposed: youhave many friends.'

  'I hope, Sir, that I have some friends who will not believe that I havebought a parcel of stolen petticoats?'

  'Your friends will stand by you: of that I am certain. Madame, I venturehere to ask you, if I may do so without the charge of impertinentcuriosity--believe me--I am not so actuated----'

  'Surely, Sir. Ask what you will.'

  'I would ask you then, why you pleaded Guilty. The case was certain fromthe outset to break down. I might have pressed the witness as to theproperty itself, but I refrained because her perjuries were manifest.Why then, Madame--if I may ask--why?'

  'Perhaps I had learned that certain things had been sent to my garrets,but I paid no thought to any risk or danger----'

  'That might have been pleaded.'

  'The case being over, that property can bring no other person intotrouble, I believe?'

  'I should think not. The case is ended.'

  'Then, Sir, I pray you to consider this question. If some person veryclosely connected with yourself were actually guilty of this crime: ifyou yourself were charged with it: if your acquittal would lead to thatperson's conviction, what would you do?'

  'That is what they whisper,' he replied. 'Madame, I hope that such achoice may never be made to me. Is this true--what you suggest--whatpeople whisper?'

  'Many things are whispered concerning me,' said Jenny proudly. 'I do notheed those whispers. Well, Sir, such a choice has been presented to me.It is part of the penalty of my birth that such a choice could bepossible.'

  'Then it is true?' he insisted; 'the "Case of Clarinda" is true?'

  'Sir, it is true in many points. I was once an Orange Girl of DruryLane. My people were residents of St. Giles's in the Fields. I wasbrought up in the courts and lanes of that quarter. You, Sir, are alawyer. Need I explain further the nature of that choice?'

  'Madam,' said the lawyer, 'I think you are the best woman in the worldas you are the loveliest.' So saying he lifted her hand to his lips,bowing low, and left us.

  'Well,' said Jenny, 'I think I have done pretty well for my mother andfor Doll. Their slate is clean again. They can begin fair. Receiving hasbeen her principal trade so long that she is not likely to be satisfiedwith drawing beer. But the past is wiped out. And as for myself----'She sighed. 'What next? Matthew is where the wicked can no longertrouble. Merridew, poor wretch! has also ceased from troubling. Myfriends of St. Giles's will be satisfied because I have now done what Itold you I should do, and gone through the fiery furnace. Why,' shelooked around the bare and narrow walls, 'I believe I am in it still.But the flames do not burn, nor does the hot air scorch--believe me,dear Will--oh! believe me--I would do it all again--all again--I regretnothing--Will, nothing. Assure Alice that I would do it allagain--exactly as I have done.'

  With a full heart I left her. What next? What next?