CHAPTER V
THE BLACK JACK
Jenny finished her story, much as you have heard it, though some hasbeen forgotten.
'And now,' she said, 'I will take you to the very place where I wasborn. You shall see for yourself the house, and my mother and my sisterand the company among whom I was brought up. Wait for a moment while Ichange my dress. I cannot go like this. And I do not want all of them tolearn where I now live.'
She returned in a few minutes dressed in the garb of an orange girl ofDrury. Everybody knows how these girls are attired; a frock of thecommonest linsey-woolsey; a kerchief over her head tied under her chin:another kerchief round her neck and bosom; her sleeves coming down toher elbows; on her arm a round deep basket filled with oranges. But noorange girl ever had so sweet a face; so fine a carriage; hands and armsso white. Nor could any disguise deprive this lovely creature of herbeauty or rob her face of its pure and virginal expression. That such abeing should come out of the Black Jack! But then we find the white lilygrowing beside a haystack or a pigsty and none the less white anddelicate and fragrant.
The tavern called the Black Jack stands over against the west front ofSt. Giles's Church, at the corner of Denmark Street, with a doubleentrance which has proved useful, I believe, on the appearance ofconstables or Bow Street runners. The Church which is large andhandsome, worthy of better parishioners, stands in the midst of aquarter famous for harbouring, producing and encouraging the mostaudacious rogues and the most impudent drabs that can be found in thewhole of London. As for the Church, of course they never enter it: asfor religion, they have never learned any: as for morals, they know ofnone; as for the laws, they defy them; as for hanging, whipping andimprisonment, they heed them no more than other folk heed the necessityof death or the chances of pain and suffering, before death releasesthem.
Every man must die, they say. Few people among them live naturally morethan forty years or so. Fever, small-pox, ague, carry off most of theirclass before forty. If, therefore, one takes part in the march to Tyburnat five-and-thirty one does but lose two or three years of life. Then,again, there is the punishment of the lash--that seems very terrible.But every man, rich or poor, has to endure pain; very often pain worsethan that of the lash. Certainly, the agony of the whip is not worsethan that of rheumatism or gout: it is sooner over: it makes no man anythe older: it does not unfit him for his work: after a day or two, he isnone the worse for it. As for imprisonment; a prison, if your friendslook after you, may be made, with the help of a few companions, ascheerful a place as the kitchen of the Black Jack with drinking andsinging and tobacco. This kind of talk is the religion of Roguedom, andsince it is so, we may cease to wonder why these people are not deterredby the severity of their punishments. For no punishment can deter whenit is not feared: that is beyond question: and since after punishment,the rogue is still regarded as a rogue, whom no one will employ,punishment does not convert. Nor does the prison chaplain effect anymiracles in conversion, because no one listens to his exhortations.
Over against the church of St. Giles's, the tavern of the Black Jacklifts its shameless head: the projecting upper windows bend threateningbrows against the west end of the Church with its pillars of whitestone: the house has villainy written large over all the front: it iscovered with yellow places breaking away in lumps and showing the blacktimbers behind: the roof, of red tiles, is sunken in parts: many of thewindows are broken and stuffed with rags.
The ground floor consists of a long low room: at one end is a bar with acounter, behind it casks of beer and rum and shelves with bottlescontaining cordials: there is a door behind the bar opening to a cellarstaircase: and is said to communicate with a subterranean passageleading one knows not whither. It is also rumoured that the cellar, intowhich no one but the landlady of the Black Jack and her daughter hasever penetrated, is a large stone vault with pillars and arches, theremains of some Roman Catholic building. The kitchen, or public room, ison the ground floor about twelve inches below the level of the street:it is entered by two steps: the window is garnished with red curtains,which on wintry evenings give the place a warm and cheerful look: thebright colour promises a roaring fire and lights and drink. Both in thesummer and winter the place is always cheerful because it is alwaysfilled with company.
Three or four candles in sconces light up the room, and, in addition, agenerous fire always burning every night, adds to the light of theplace. The fire is kept up partly for warmth: partly for the convenienceof those who bring their suppers with them and cook them on the fire.Also, for their convenience, frying-pans and gridirons are lying readybeside the fireplace: and for the convenience of the punch-drinkers ahuge kettle bubbles on the hob. Two tables stand for those who taketheir supper here. As the food principally in favour consists ofbloaters, red herrings, sprats, mackerel, pig's fry, pork, fat bacon,beefsteak and onions, liver and lights and other coarse but savourydishes, the mingled fragrance makes the air delightful and refreshing.As the windows are never open the air is never free from this fragrance,added to which is the reek, or stench of old beer, rum, gin, and ranktobacco taken in the horrid manner of the lower classes, by means of aclay pipe, not in the more courtly fashion of snuff. Nor must one forgetthe--pah!--the company--the people themselves, the men and women, theboys and girls who frequent this tavern nightly. Taking all intoaccount, I think it would be difficult, outside Newgate, to find a morenoisome den than the kitchen or bar-room of the Black Jack.
All round the room ran a bench: the company sat on the bench, every manwith a pipe of tobacco and a mug of drink: the walls were streaming: onefelt inclined to run away--out into the fresh air for breath. The spacein the middle was mostly kept open for a fight, perhaps: for a dance,perhaps, if a fiddler could be found. Every evening, I believe, therewas a fight either between two men, or between two women: or between twoboys. What would an Englishman of the baser sort become if he wereforbidden to fight?
I describe what I saw after we entered. When Jenny pushed open the doorand the breath of that tavern ascended to my nostrils I trembled andhesitated.
'Strong, at first, isn't it?' said Jenny. 'Cousin Will, to stand hereand breathe the air that comes up carries me back to my childhood. Youare ready to face it? After a little one grows accustomed. They like it,the people inside.' She stood with the handle of the half opened door inher hand. 'Now,' she said. 'You shall visit the Rogues' Delight: theThieves' Kitchen: the Black Jack: the favourite House of Call for thegallows bird. You shall see what manner of woman is the old lady mymother: and what sort of woman is the young lady my sister.'
'I am ready, Jenny,' I replied, with an effort. One would join a forlornhope almost as readily.
'Don't mind me. Take no notice whatever I say or do,' she whispered. 'Imust humour the wretches. It is more than twelve months since I havebeen among them. They may resent my absence. However, you keep quiet,and say nothing. Call for drink if you like, and pretend to be an oldhand in the place.'
Jenny threw up her head: opened her lips: laughed loudly and impudently:looked round her with an impudent stare: became, in a word, once more,one of the brazen young queans who sell oranges and exchange rude jokeswith the gentlemen in the Pit of Drury Lane Theatre. It was a wonderfulchange. I saw a girl who would perhaps be beautiful if she had preservedany rags or the least appearance of feminine modesty: as for Jenny'ssweet and attractive look of innocence, that had vanished. She had, infact, resumed her former self, and more than her former self. I saw heras she had been. Was there ever before known such a thing that a girlwho had never been taught what was meant by feminine modesty should beable to assume, at will, the look of one brought up in a convent--allinnocence and ignorance--and, at will, be able to put it off and go backto her former self? No--it is impossible: the innocence of Jenny's faceproclaimed the innocence of Jenny's soul.
'Follow me,' she said. 'Keep close, or expect a pewter plate or a pothurled at your head. They love not strangers.'
She pushed open the door: she descende
d the steps: I followed. The roomwas quite full, and the reek of it made me sick and faint for a moment.But to the worst of stinks one quickly grows hardened.
'By----!' cried a voice from out of the smoke. 'It's Madame.'
'Lawks, Mother'--this was a girl's voice-''tis Jenny. Why, Jenny, weall thought you was grown too proud for the Black Jack.'
'Good-evening all,' she cried with a loud coarse laugh; she added, as afinishing stroke of art, a certain click or choking in the middle of thelaugh such as one may hear among the lowest sort of women as they walkalong the street. 'How are you, mother? You did not expect me to come into-night, did you? How's business? How are you, Doll? Adding up thefigures on the slate as usual? How are you, boys? I haven't seen any ofyou at the Theatre for a spell. That's because I've been resting.Actresses must rest sometimes. Where have I been? That's my business.Who with? That's my business, too. Now'--she brandished her basket, andwalked about among them shaking her petticoats in the way of theimpudent orange girls--'choose a fine Chaney orange! Choose a fineChaney orange! One for your sweetheart, my curly boy? Here is a fineone: pay me when I come again. Doll, chalk up to the gentleman an orangefor his girl. One for this pretty country girl? Take it, my beauty. Iwill tell your fortune presently--a lover and a pile of gold and babiesas sweet as this orange.' So she got rid of her oranges, offering andpresenting them here and there with the impudence of the craft sheassumed, yet with something of her own inimitable grace which she couldnot quite put off. Then she turned to me. 'Sit down here,' she ordered.'Lads,' she said, 'I've brought you a friend of mine. He's a fiddler bytrade. If you like he will fiddle for you till he puts fire into yourtoes and springs into your heels.'
'Who is he?' cried a voice. Through the smoke I now recognised theBishop, formerly of the King's Bench Prison. The reverend gentleman'sface was redder and his cheek fuller than when last I saw him. Heseemed, however, in better case: he had gotten a new cassock: his bandsand his cuffs were of whiter hue: his wig was better shaped and betterdressed: it came, I make no doubt, from some place where are depositedthe wigs snatched from the passengers in hackney coaches or even in thestreets. His looks, however, were certainly more prosperous than when Ihad seen him last. He did not recognise me, which was as well. Besidehim sat the Captain, also more prosperous to all appearance. He wore apurple coat and a fawn-coloured waistcoat: he had rings on his fingers,and his hat was laced with gold: he wore gold buckles: buttons silvergilt and white silk stockings. He looked what he was--a ruffian, arobber, and a swashbuckler. He had a girl on his knee, and one arm roundher waist: she was a handsome, red-faced wench dressed up in all kindsof finery, somewhat decayed and second hand. A pipe was between thegallant Captain's lips and a glass of punch was in his right hand. 'Twasa picture of Rogues' Paradise: warmth, light, fire, clothes, drink,tobacco, good company, and a fine girl. What more can a man want?
'Who's your man?' repeated the Bishop. 'We are not going to havestrangers here spying on us for what we do. Who is he?'
'Who is he? What's that to you? I shall bring anybody I like to theBlack Jack. If you don't like your Company, Bishop, get up and go.' Hegrowled, but made no attempt to rise. 'If'--she appealed to the Companygenerally--'I choose to bring my fancy man here, am I to ask theBishop's leave?' Then before there was time for a reply: 'Mother, bustleabout. Let every man call for what he wants. Score it to me. Thisevening I pay for all.'
Her mother, a fat old woman of fifty, red faced, with the look ofcallous indifference that belongs to such a woman, sat behind the Bar, apiece of knitting in her hand. She got up grumbling.
'Oh! ay,' she said. 'When Jenny comes you must all get drunk at herexpense. She'd better give me the money to keep for her. Well--whatshall it be? Doll, stir about: stir about--you leave it all to me. Askthe gentlemen what they will take. And the ladies too. Whatever theylike. Jenny pays to-night. Whatever they like--that's Jenny'sway--whatever they like so that it ruins my poor girl.'
Doll, the other daughter, made no response. She was continually occupiedwith the slate, and I suppose she was slow at calculation for she keptadding up over and over again, wiping out with her wet finger and addingup again. The Black Jack refused credit as a rule: most of the companyhad to pay for what they called for on the spot; but there were a few towhom limited credit was granted, as a privilege.
The girl called Doll, I remarked, was not in the least like her sister.She had black hair and a somewhat swarthy complexion and appeared tobelong, as indeed she did, to the people called gipsies. The mother hadalso the same black hair and dark skin. Strange, that a girl of Jenny'scomplexion with her fair hair, blue eyes, and peach-like skin, shouldcome of the same stock. I sought in vain for any likeness between Jennyand this girl. I thought that she might present the same features with adifference: debased: but I could find none. She wore a red kerchief tiedround her head, a red ribbon tied round her neck: a red scarf tied roundher waist. In her way she was a handsome girl: in her manners she showedno inclination to oblige the company or to be civil to them. She paid noheed when her mother bade her stir about. On the contrary, she went onwith her sums on the slate.
It was Jenny who ran round laughing and joking with the men, orderingpunch for one and gin for another. Most of the company regarded her withbewilderment. It was long since she had been among them: they knewsomething about her: she was the daughter of the house: she had been anorange girl at Drury: she had been an actress at the same theatre: someof them had seen her there: then she disappeared, and no one knew whereshe was.
One young fellow there was who sat on the bench with hanging head. Hehad apparently no friends among the company. 'Here,' cried Jenny, 'is alad half awake. What art doing here, friend?' The lad shook his headmournfully. 'Hast any money?' He shook his head again. Jenny pulled outa piece of silver. 'Go,' she said. 'Get food, and'--she whispered--'comeback here no more. Go--get thee home again.' And so, let me believe, shesaved one lad that night from the gallows. For he got up slowly andwalked out.
There was another lad also from the country whose fresh cheek andcountry dress betokened the fact. He sat sheepishly, as a new comer.
Jenny stopped before him. 'And pray what do they call thee, Sirrah?Jack? 'Twill serve. What lay is it, Jack? Oh! Shop-lifting?' He nodded.'For Mr. Merridew?' she whispered. He nodded again. 'Drink punch, Jack,and forget thyself awhile.'
Some of the men were dressed like the Captain, but not so fine: thebuttons had been cut off their coats and their shoes had lost thebuckles. There were boys among them: boys who had none of the innocenceof childhood; their faces betrayed a life of hunting and being hunted:they were always on the prowl for prey or were running away and hiding.They had all been whipped, held under the pump, thrown into ponds,clapped in prison. They were all doomed to be hanged. In their habits ofdrink as in their crimes, they were grown up. In truth there were nofaces in the whole room which looked more hopeless than those of theboys.
The women, of whom there were nearly as many as there were men, wereeither bedizened in tawdry finery or they were in rags: some wearing nomore than a frock stiffened by the accumulation of years, black leatherstays, and a kerchief for the neck with another for the head: their hairhung about their shoulders loose; and undressed: it was not unbecomingin the young, but in the older women it became what is called rats'tails. With most of the men, their dress was simple and scanty. Shirtswere scarce: stockings without holes in them were rare: buttons hadmostly vanished.
Most of them, I observed further, had an anxious, hungry look: not thelook of a creature of prey which has always in it something that isnoble: but the look of one insufficiently fed. I believe that theordinary lot of the rogue is, even on this earth, miserable beyondexpression: uncertain as to food: cruelly hard in cold weather in thematter of raiment.
In a little while they were all happy: happier, I am sure, than they hadbeen for a long time. While they drank and while they talked, I observedamong them a veritable brotherhood. The most successful rogue--he ingold lace--was hail fellow
with the most ragged. And although thesuccessful rogue stood the nearest to the gallows, and he knew it andthe other rogue knew it, yet the beginner envied the success of hisbrother as a soldier envies the successful general. They drank andlaughed: they drank more and they laughed more. Then the Captain calledsilence for a song.
'Now, you fiddler!' he cried with a curse. 'Sit up, man, and show us howyou can play.'
The tune, the Captain told me, was 'The Warbling of the Lark.' I struckup that air which every frequenter of Vauxhall, or even the Dog andDuck, knows very well, and the Captain began his song.
Now in such a company I expected a song in praise of Roguery andRobbery; or at least something of the kind introduced in Gay's Opera. Onthe contrary, the song which the Captain gave us was a sentimentalditty which you may hear at any Pleasure Garden on a summer evening: itwas all about the flames of love which could only be extinguished byChloe: and a broken heart: and darts and groves, and, in fact, a songsuch as would be sung in a concert before a party of ladies. The fellowhad a good voice, and rolled out his lovesick strains to the admirationof the women, some of whom even shed tears. This is the kind of songthey like: not the song in praise of a Highwayman's life, because inmatters of imagination these women are but poorly provided, and theyalways see the reality beyond the words, and if they love the man hiscertain end makes them unhappy. But hearts, and flames and love! That,if you please, which is unreal, seems real.
When he finished, Jenny sprang to her feet. I will dance for you, lads.'She turned to me. 'Play up--the Hey.'
She ran into the middle of the room, bowed to the people as if she hadbeen on the stage, and danced with such grace and freedom and simplicitythat it ravished my heart. Her sister, I observed, went on adding upfigures on the slate without paying the least attention to theperformance.
'Ah!' said her mother growing confidential. 'Thus would she dance whenshe was quite a little thing on the stones in front of the church, whenthe fiddler played in the house. A clever girl, she was, even then, aclever girl! You are her friend. I hope, Sir, that you are going tobehave handsome by my girl. You look like one of the right sort. Makeover, while there is time. I will keep the swag for you--you may trustthe poor girl's mother. Many a brave fellow she might have had: many abrave fellow: they come and go----I wish you a long rope young man, ifso be you're kind to my girl. Life is short--what odds, so long as 'tismerry? Where do you work, if I may ask?'
'Jenny will tell you, perhaps,' I replied.
'I don't know, I don't know. Since she left off the orange line, Jennyhasn't been the same to her old mother: not to tell her things, I mean,and to take her advice. I should have made her rich by this time if shehad taken my advice.'
'Many people like to have their own way, don't they?'
'They do, Sir--they do--to their loss.' She took another pull at thepunch and began to get maudlin and to shed tears--while she enlargedupon what she would have done had Jenny only listened to her. I gatheredfrom her discourse that the old gipsy woman, like the whole of hertribe, was without a gleam or a spark of virtue or goodness. Her naturewas sordid and depraved through and through. With such a mother--poorJenny!
Suddenly the old woman stopped short and sat upright with a look ofterror.
'Good Lord!' she murmured. 'It's Mr. Merridew!'
At sight of the new-comer standing on the steps a dead silence fell uponthe whole Company. All knew him by name: those who knew his facewhispered to each other: all quailed before him; down to the meanestlittle pickpocket, they knew him and feared him. Every face becamewhite; even the faces of the women who shook with terror on account ofthe men. I observed the girl on the Captain's knee catch him by the handand place herself in front of him, as if to save him. Then his arm lefther waist and she slipped down and sat humbly on the bench beside herman. Thus there was some human affection among these poor things. Butthe Captain's face blanched with terror and the glass that he waslifting to his lips remained halfway on its journey. The Bishop's facecould not turn white, in any extremity of fear, but it becameyellow--while his eyes rolled about and he grasped the table beside himin his agitation. Doll, I observed, after a glance to learn the cause ofthe sudden silence went on sucking her fingers, rubbing out the figureson the slate and adding them up again.
'Who is it?' I whispered to Jenny.
'Hush! It's the thief-taker: they are all afraid that their time hascome. If he wants one of them he will have to get up and go.'
'Won't they fight, then? Do they sit still to be taken?'
'Fight Mr. Merridew? As well walk straight to Tyburn.'
The man was a large and heavy creature, having something of the look ofa prosperous farmer. His face, however, was coarse and brutal. And helooked round the terrified room as if he was selecting a pig from aherd, with as much pity and no more! This was the man whose perjurieshad added a new detainer to my imprisonment. I could have fallen uponhim with the first weapon handy, but refrained.
He came into the room. 'Your place stinks, Mother,' he said, 'and it'sso thick with tobacco and the steam of the punch that a body can't seeacross.'
'To be sure, Mr. Merridew,' the old woman apologised. 'If we'd known youwere coming----'
'There would have been a large company, would there not?'
'Well, Sir, you see us here, as we are, as orderly and peaceful a houseas your Worship would desire.'
The fellow grinned. 'Orderly, truly, mother. It is a quiet and awell-conducted company, isn't it? These are quiet and well-conductedgirls are they not?' He chucked one of the girls under the chin.
'As much as you like--there,' said the girl, impudently, 'so long as youkeep your fingers off my neck.'
At this playful allusion to his profession, that of sending people tothe gallows, Mr. Merridew laughed and patted the girl on the cheek. 'Mydear,' he said, 'if you were on my list you should get rich and youshould have the longest rope of any one.'
* * * * *
'The man,' Jenny told me afterwards, 'is the greatest villain in thewhole world. He is a thief-taker by profession.'
'You mean, he informs and takes the reward.'
'Yes: but he makes the thing which he sells. He lays traps forpickpockets and such small fry and while he has them in his power heencourages them to become bigger rogues who will be worth more to him.Do you understand? A highwayman is worth about eighty pounds' reward tohim: a man returned from transportation before his time is worth no morethan forty. He does not therefore give up the returned convict until hehas returned to his highway robberies. All those fellows you saw lastnight are in his power. The Captain is a returned convict whose timemust before long be up, for Merridew only allows a certain amount ofrope. He says he cannot afford more. As for the Bishop, he will go onlonger: he is useful in many other ways: he can write letters and forgethings and invent villainies: he persuades the young fellows to take tothe road. I think he will be suffered to go on as long as his powerslast.'
'Why was your mother so terrified?'
Jenny hesitated. 'Because--I told you, but you do notunderstand--because she, too, is in his power for receiving stolengoods. My mother is what they call a fence. Oh!' she shook herselfimpatiently: 'they are all rogues together. I wonder I can ever hold upmy head. To think of the Black Jack and the Company there!'
* * * * *
The Captain sprang to his feet with an effort at ease and politeness.'What will your Honour think of us?' he cried. 'Gentlemen, Mr. Merridewis thirsty and no one offers him a drink. Call for it, sir--call for thebest this house affords.'
'Punch, mother,' the great man replied. 'Thank you, Captain.'
Then the Bishop, not to be outdone, got up too. 'Gentlemen,' he said,'let us all drink to the health of Mr. Merridew. He is our truestfriend. Now, gentlemen. Together. After me.' He held up his hand. Theywatched the sign and all together drank and shouted--hollow shouts theywere--to the health of the man who was going to sell them all to thehangman. I wond
ered that they had not run upon him with their knives anddespatched him as he stood before them, unarmed. But this they dared notdo.
Mr. Merridew acknowledged the compliment. 'Boys and gallant riders,' hesaid, 'I thank you. There was a friend of ours whom I expected to findhere, but I do not see him.' He looked round the room curiously. I thinkhe enjoyed the general terror. 'No matter, I shall find him at theSpotted Dog.'
Every one breathed relief. No one, then, of that company was wanted. TheCaptain sat down and drank off a whole glass of punch: the rest of themen looked at each other as sailors might look whose ship has justscraped the rock.
'I like to look in, friendly, as it might be,' Mr. Merridew went on,'especially when I don't want anybody--just to see you enjoyingyourselves, happy and comfortable together, as you should be. There's noprofession more happy and comfortable, is there? That's what I alwayssay, even to the ungrateful. Plenty to eat: no work to do: no mastersover you: girls, and drink, and music, and dancing, every night. Find meanother trade half so prosperous. Mother, I'll take a second glass ofpunch. I drink your healths--all of you--Bless you!' The fellow lookedso brutal, and so cunning that I longed to kill him as one would kill anoxious beast.
'A long rope and a merry life,' he went on. 'It is not my fault,gentlemen, that the rope is not longer. The expenses are great and theprofits are small. Meantime, go on and prosper. You are all safe undermy care. Without me, who knows what would happen to all this goodlycompany? A long rope, I say, and a merry life.'
He tossed off his glass and went out.
When he was gone, the talk began again, but it was flat. The mirth hadgone out of the party. It was as if the Angel of Death himself hadpassed through the room.
I played to them, but only the boys would dance: Jenny asked them tosing, but only the girls would sing, and, truth to say, the poorcreatures' efforts were not musical. They drank, but moodily. TheCaptain took glass after glass, but his arm had left the girl's waist:she now sat neglected on the bench beside him. The Bishop, sobered bythe fright, said nothing, but sat with his eyes fixed upon the sandedfloor, shuddering. He thought his time had come, and the shock made himfor the moment reflect. Yet what was the good of reflecting? They werein the hands of a relentless monster: he would sell them when it wasworth his while to put younger men in their place. They tried to forgetthis, but from time to time, his presence, or the absence of one oftheir Company, reminded them and then they were subdued for a time. Itfilled me with pity: it made me think a little better of them that theyshould be capable of being thus affected.
Jenny touched my arm. 'Come,' she said. 'Let us be gone.' So without anyfarewells she led the way out. The old woman, by this time, was soundasleep beside her half finished glass: and Doll was still adding up thefigures on her slate, putting her finger in her mouth, rubbing out andadding up again.
Outside, the tall white spire of St. Giles's looked down upon us. In thechurchyard the white tombs stood in peace, and overhead the moon sailedin splendour.
Jenny drew a long breath: she caught one of the rails of the churchyardand looked in curiously.
'Will,' she said shuddering, 'I am ashamed of myself because the mannersand the talk come back to me so easily. Once I am with them, I becomeone of them again. I tremble when the man Merridew appears. It is as ifhe will do me, too, a mischief some day. I cannot forget the old timesand the old talk. Yet I know how dreadful it is. Look at the graves,Will. Under them they sleep so quiet; they never move: they don't hearanything: and beside them every night collects this company ofgaol-birds and Tyburn birds. Why, they don't shiver and shake when Mr.Merridew looks in.'
'Let us get back, Jenny.' I shuddered, like all the rest.
'Will, I have seen that man--that monster--that wretch--for whom nopunishment is enough--three times. Each time I have felt that, like therest of those poor rogues, my own life was in his hands. Do you think hecan do me a mischief? Why do I ask? I know that he will. I am neverwrong.'
'What mischief, Jenny, could he do?'
'I don't know. It is a prophetic feeling. But who knows what such avillain may be concocting? Good-night, you happy people in the graves.Good-night.'
I drew her away, and walked with her to her own door in the Square.
'Will?' she asked, 'what do you think of me now?'
'Whatever I think, Jenny, I am all wonder and admiration that youare--what you are--when I see--what you might have been.'
She burst into tears. She flung her empty basket out into the road.'Oh,' she cried, 'if I could escape from them! If I could only escapefrom them for ever! I should think nothing too terrible if only I couldescape from them!'
A month or two later I remembered those words. Nothing too terrible ifonly she could escape from them!