CHAPTER XXII
FROM THE CONDEMNED CELL
And now, indeed, began the time of endurance and suspense. To thebravest of women came moments of depression--what else could be expectedwhen her days and nights were spent in a condemned cell? In this gloomyapartment Jenny was now compelled to live. The place lies in a corner ofthe women's yard or Court; it contains two rooms, one of them a smallbedroom, the other, when there are only one or two in residence, aliving room. One other prisoner was already in this cell, awaiting hertime for execution. Alas! she was a mere child, not more than sixteen,and looking younger: a poor, ignorant creature who had never learned thedifference between right and wrong: who had been brought up, as wasJenny herself, among children of rogues, themselves rogues from infancy.The law was going to kill this child because the law itself had found noway to protect her. Alas for our humanity! Alas for our statesmen! Alasfor our Church! Will there never arise a Prophet in the land to show ushow much better it is to teach than to kill?
Outside, the yard was all day long filled with women either convicted orwaiting to be tried: some of them were in prison for short sentences:some were waiting to be whipped: some were waiting for ships to carrythem to the plantations: all alike were foul in language; unwashed,uncombed and draggled; rough and coarse and common. Such women, gatheredtogether in one place, make each other worse: they swear like men: theyfight like men: they drink like men: their hair hangs loose over theirshoulders: the 'loose jumps' of leather which they use for stays arenever changed: the ragged kerchief over their shoulders is never washed:the linsey-woolsey frock is foul with every kind of stain: their loudharsh voices have no feminine softness: their red brawny arms terrifythe spectator: in their faces, even of the youngest, is no look ofVenus.
Taken to this place, Jenny had to wait, expectant, for the relief thatwas promised her by Lord Brockenhurst. Her cheek grew pale and thin: hereyes became unnaturally bright: I feared gaol fever but happily she wasspared this dreadful malady. Yet she kept up the appearance ofcheerfulness, and greeted me every day with a smile that was neverforced, and a grasp that was never chilled.
For exercise Jenny had the crowded yard. There, with no one to protecther, she walked a little every morning, the women falling back, rightand left, to let her pass. They offered her no molestation. To save herfancy man--so ran the legend--she had compassed the ruin of her oldfriends: with this object ('twas the only one they could understand) sheput up her mother to bear witness against her own customers. Well: itwas to save her fancy man--the same came every day to see her in theprison: that was some excuse for her: would not any woman do as much forher man? And now she was herself condemned all through the other womanwhose man she had put in prison and in pillory. So far, then, they werequits, and might all become friends again. And they remembered as apoint in Jenny's favour that the noble welcome with which thethief-taker was received--a thing at which all Roguery rejoiced--wasentirely due to her exertions. These things passed from one to the otherclothed in the language peculiar to such people.
Jenny took two or three turns in the yard, every morning when the prisonair is freshest, and then went back to her cell, where she remained forthe rest of the day.
In those days she talked to me more freely than before and a great dealabout herself. She was forced to talk and to think about herself, forthe first time in her life. Her thoughts went back to the past when allshe could expect was to become such as the poor creatures with her inthe prison. Yet these poor women, whom I found so terrible to look uponand to hear, she regarded with a tenderness which I thought excessive. Inow understand that it was more humane than at that time was within mycomprehension.
'They are not terrible to me,' she said. 'I know them--what they are andwhat has made them so. I can speak their language, but I must not letthem know that I understand. It is the Thieves' tongue made up of Gipsyand of Tinkers' talk. They talk about me all day--even when I am intheir 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 thinkmuch of their manners and their looks. When I was a child I played amongthem. Many a cuff have I had: many a slap for getting in their way: butmany a bit of gingerbread and many an apple. You think them terrible. Ifthey were clean and had their hair dressed they would not be terribleany longer. Oh! Will, they are not very far from the fineladies--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 atTyburn--they are still women. And they love--in their poor fond faithfulway--the very hand that knocks them down and the very foot that kicksthem. They love--Oh! the poor women--they love.'
She broke off, with a sob in her voice. I marvelled at the time becauseI had always looked upon the creatures as something below humanity: asbelonging 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 actoraway from himself. When one has been two or three years on the stagenothing is left but the stage and the dressing-room: the company behindthe scenes and the audience in front. Nothing is real. Everything thathappens 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 thenext Act is getting ready: the play of _Clarinda_, or the _Orange Girl_,has some excellent scenes. You remember that scene when the mob wreckedthe house: and the scene when the mob pelted Mr. Merridew--well, Ishould not be in the least surprised to meet Mr. Merridew himselfwalking along Holborn with one eye on a young thief in training for ashoplifter: and I might look in at the Black Jack and see my mothertaking her morning dram and Doll adding up the scores upon the slate. Infive minutes after the curtain has dropped what has happened is littlemore to me than the last scene in the play at Drury. Why, if I were putinto the cart and carried out to Tyburn I should still be the heroineplaying my part to a breathless house. And I believe I should enjoy thatpart of the performance as much as anything. You saw how I played theVirgin 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, thePlay 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 ofpeace 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 Icannot see myself at any time again upon the boards of Drury. I amcertain that I shall never go back there. I cannot see myself in SohoSquare either. I shall never go back there. I see fields and hills andwoods'--she shuddered and with a gesture pushed the vision from her.'Will--it is strange, all is strange: it is a beautiful country, but Iknow it not--I cannot understand it.'
It was not the first time, as you have seen, that she showed thisstrange power of peering into the future. Whether this fair-haired andblue-eyed woman was really a child of the gipsies, or, as LordBrockenhurst conjectured, a stolen child, she had the powers that wecommonly find in gipsy women who are fortune-tellers all the world over.That she compelled all men to become her servants you have seen: thatshe could also compel women to follow and obey her was proved by whatshe did during that three or four weeks which she spent in the condemnedcell: the same magic arts--yet she was no witch: and she could read thefuture--a gift which is marvellous in our eyes.
Her power over others, even the most savage people, was shown by thechanged behaviour of the poor girl waiting for execution. I havementioned her: she was at first a wild creature: she fled to the darkestcorner 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 wasaltogether unwashed an
d altogether in rags: she was bare-footed,bare-legged and bare-armed: her hair which should have been light--likeJenny's own hair, was matted with dirt: it looked as if it had neverknown a comb: yet long and beautiful hair: her eyes were blue, large andlimpid. She had never known kindness, or love, or care since the daywhen her mother was marched away to Newgate wearing handcuffs. She was,I say, a mere savage. The child might have been sixteen, but she lookedthirteen. Still, sixteen is young for Tyburn. Jenny found this child inher cell: condemned like herself; and she tamed her. Not in a singleday, but in a few days. She tamed her with kindness; with soft words inthe language which the child understood best: with soft touches: withgifts of pretty things: I suppose she gave her sweetmeats--I know notwhat she did, but in a few days I found the savage wild creatureconverted into a shy, timid girl--clinging to Jenny and following herabout like a favourite spaniel. She was washed and combed and dressedfrom head to foot: she wore stockings and shoes: her hair, just confinedby a ribbon, hung over her shoulders in lovely tresses: she had becomean interesting child who promised to grow into a lovely maiden. And yetshe was to be carried out to Tyburn and there hanged.
Then, when the girl had assumed a civilized look, Jenny began to lamenther approaching fate of which the poor creature seemed herselfunconscious. Indeed, I think the child understood nothing at her trialor her sentence except that she was horribly frightened and was carriedout of court crying.
'Is it not terrible,' she asked, 'that we must hang children--ignorantchildren?'
'It is the law of the land, Jenny. Judges have only to administer thelaw of the land.'
'Then it is a cruel law, and the Judges ought to say so. A man is amurderer who condemns a child to death, even if it is the law, withoutdeclaring against it.'
'Nay, Jenny'--this she could not understand for the reasons I havealready given--'we must remember that the children suffer for the sinsof 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 ofProvidence we must so suffer, the Law of men should not punishignorance. 'To hang children!' she insisted. 'To destroy their livesbefore they have well begun! And for what? For taking something nottheir own--Oh! Will, it is monstrous. Just for a bit of cloth--only abit 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 soshe now began to work for the rescue of this child. She spoke to theGovernor about it. He looked astonished: children of fifteen, or so,were frequently executed for one offence or the other: the Law wasdoubtless severe: but criminals of all kinds were multiplying: afterall, they were out of the way when they were hanged: this girl, forinstance, would only grow up like the rest, a plague and a curse to thecommunity. Still he gave Jenny advice, and by her instruction I drew upa Petition from the child herself addressed to no less a person than herGracious Majesty the young Queen, who was said to have a kindly heart.The petition, with certain changes, might almost have been that of Jennyherself for her own case. Here is a piece of it.
'Your Petitioner humbly submits that she was born and brought up in apart of London occupied entirely by thieves, rogues, and vagabonds: thatshe was taught from infancy that the only way by which she could earnher daily bread was by stealing: that the only art or trade she had everlearned was that of stealing without being detected: that she was neverat any school or Church or under any kind of instruction whatever: thatshe was never taught the meaning of right or wrong: that she had learnedno religion and no morals and knew not what they meant; and that beingcaught in the act of stealing a piece of cloth value six shillings froma shop, she is now lying under sentence of death.'
To make a long story short, Jenny entrusted this Petition to LordBrockenhurst, who generously interested himself in the girl andundertook that the Petition should reach the hands of Her Majesty theQueen--with the result, as you shall presently hear, that the girl'slife was spared.
This incident has nothing to do with the story, save that it showsJenny's generous nature and her good heart; thus in the midst of her ownanxieties to think of the troubles of others. Nay, she not only savedthe life of this girl, but she brought her to a new mind and to newthoughts: and, whereas she had been before what you have seen, sheconverted the child into a decent, well conducted civil girl, worthy ofbetter things--even to marry an honest man and to become the mother ofstout lads and sturdy wenches. Let us consider how many lives might havebeen destroyed had they hanged this young girl. I have sometimescalculated that if they hang a hundred women every year, most of themyoung, they deprive the country of five hundred children whose loss maymean the loss of two thousand five hundred grandchildren, and so on. Canany country afford to lose so many valuable soldiers and sailors everyyear, the number still mounting up? Why, then, cannot we take thechildren when they are still young out of Roguery and place them in somehouse where they will be taught religion and morals and a craft? Atpresent the cry is all 'Hang! Hang! Hang!' or 'Flog! Flog! Flog!' So thesoldiers and the sailors and the wretched women are tied up and floggedwell nigh to death: and the carts go rumbling along Holborn loaded withthe poor creatures on their way to be hanged: but the rogues increaseand multiply. Since hanging and flogging do no good cannot we tryJenny's method of kindness? I say this writing many yearsafterwards--because at that time I did not understand the law ofkindness 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 theLaw of Charity.
Why, she changed even the women in the Prison Yard. There was greatsuffering among them. Many of them had no friends to bring them food:they had nothing but the daily dole of the penny loaf. Presently, Iobserved that they looked more contented and better fed: they were lessnoisy: there was less quarrelling and fighting: they were even cleanerto look at. All this was Jenny's doing. She fed them first: then whentheir craving for food, which made them quarrelsome, was allayed, shewent among them and talked to them one at a time. I have seen her, Ihave seen how the rough coarse common creatures would respond, little bylittle, to words of kindness. She advised them about their affairs: shemade them confess what they had done: why, was she not one ofthemselves?
'I knew you,' she said to one, 'long ago in Hog's Lane: you lived in theOld Bell Alley: we were girls together. Come into my cell and I willfind you something more to put on; and your hair wants to be combed andput up, doesn't it? And your face would look so much better if it werewashed. Come with me----' and so on with one after the other: not theleast case being the girl who had laid information and committed perjuryagainst her. It was what Jenny said--though the saying was then too hardfor me. They are women: as are all men and women, whether we call someYahoos or not: they are women: there is not such very great differencebetween the greatest lady and the lowest woman: both are women: both areruled by the same irresistible forces of love. Some day, perhaps, somegentlewoman will put the part of the Christian religion--I mean the Lawof Charity--into practice. It is strange that a woman who was not aChristian, and had no religion, should first teach me that Charity meansmore than the giving of alms.
'Let me,' said Jenny, 'do something for these poor creatures while I amamong them. That will not be for long. Then they will fall back againinto 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 madeup my mind what to do. I will not return to Drury Lane: I will go overto Dublin. That is the strange country with hills and woods which I seebefore me always. It is Ireland. I will go on the Dublin stage. As forthe 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 hadsome of the money, and the turnkeys have had some, and Mr. Dewberry hashad some: and I think there is not much left.'
The question of money pressed hard because I had none, and as yet no newsituation, and
when Jenny was released she would certainly want money tocarry her on.
She laughed, seeing my seriousness. 'Oh! Will--Will,' she said. 'You area musician and yet you are anxious about money. But you were born in theCity. Now in a theatre nobody thinks about money. When the money isplenty 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. DidI ever tell you, Will, my own fortune? An old gipsy woman told me. "Whatothers envy she shall have: what she would have she shall lack. Sheshall 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, isit 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 inthe City, Will, where they do not study the human heart. Therefore youknow not. The old woman was a witch, as they all are--all the gipsywomen--so far I have had what others envy--and--alas! Will, I still lackwhat most I desire.'
'What is it, Jenny?'
'Ask your violin, Will. Ask your music. Ask the play upon the stage whatwomen most desire. Oh! Foolish youth! they ask what you have given toAlice--they ask the happiness of love.'
If the time was long to those who watched and waited, it was worse forher who suffered. I believe if I remember aright that our poor Jennyspent five or perhaps six weeks in that noisome cell; her cheek, as Ihave said, grew thin and pale from the bad air and the confinement; buther courage she never lost for a single day. She asked for noconsolations and desired no soothing to alleviate the weariness of herprison. Of those fine ladies who called before she was tried not onecame now: nor did any of the actresses, her old friends and rivals,visit her. They came before the trial, just as they visit a notoriousrobber, because it is interesting to gape upon a person who stands inthe great danger of a trial for his life, or has done some daring act ofvillainy, or is about to undergo some terrible ordeal. When her trialwas over and it became certain in everybody's mind that, although thewoman had pleaded guilty: although she was condemned: she would notsuffer the capital sentence, the interest of the public in the caserapidly declined and in a few days ceased wholly: the great ladies ranafter other excitements: they sent letters to the new singer: they sentrings to their favourite actor: they crowded the prison of thefashionable highwaymen: the actresses, for their part, reflected thatthey would probably have Jenny back among them before long casting themall in the shade: so they left off calling: the portrait painters wentelsewhere after studies likely to be popular. Truly it was a lamentableinstance of the breath of popular favour fickle and uncertain. 'The Caseof Clarinda' was forgotten as soon as people had made up their mindsthat Clarinda was not to be hanged, although she had screened her motherand 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, whocame daily to ask after his fair prisoner's health. His Lordship let usknow day by day concerning the efforts being made on Jenny's behalf. Thereason why they were so slow was partly due to a feeling on the part ofthe Judge that though the motive of the prisoner might be good she hadconfessed to a heinous crime, and the Law must not be made ridiculous.Therefore, a few weeks of prison should be allowed, whatever was doneafterwards, in vindication of the Majesty of the Law. 'But,' said LordBrockenhurst, '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 usthat the Counsel for the Prosecution, a gentleman of great eminence inthe Law, was also very active on our behalf: that the Jurymen had drawnup 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 infavour of clemency, the whole circumstances being so unusual and thebehaviour of the prisoner so strangely actuated by filial affection eventowards an unworthy object: and that the general opinion of the peoplewas that it was impossible to suppose that a woman in Jenny's position,commanding receipts of thousands every night of a masquerade, couldcondescend to so low and miserable a business as receiving a bundle ofstolen goods, not worth a couple of guineas altogether, with theassistance of wretched confederates whose evidence might hang her: andfurther that the minds of the people being made up they thought no moreabout 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 inthe reek and the stench of this place. My Lord, I am always your mostobliged servant. Perhaps the Judge would consider his opinion and giveme at least the choice of death. Let me die like my own people. They liedown in a little tent which keeps off the cold rain and the hot sun: ontheir backs they lie looking through the open front at the sky and theclouds 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 notyour people. There was never yet gipsy with fair hair and blue eyes. Youshall not die in a tent, but in a bed with those who love you weepingover you. And you shall be borne to a marble tomb in the Church with thesinging men and the boys chanting the service for the good of yoursoul.'
The doctrine was unsound, but the meaning of his Lordship was good.
'The good of my soul,' Jenny repeated, doubtfully. 'Well, my Lord, Ihave at least learned something from the people who stole me--if theydid steal me. I love the light and the sunshine and the wind. Restore meto these and I will promise never, never, never to have another motherwho will tempt me with second-hand petticoats.'
She laughed, but Lord Brockenhurst, who was a grave gentleman, did notlaugh.
'Madame,' he said, kissing her fingers--of which he never seemed toweary--'I should desire nothing better than to lead you into meadows andbeside gentle streams where the Zephyrs would bring back their rosy hueto 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 satupon him as naturally as grace sat upon Jenny. 'Seriously, I have ahouse some fifty miles from here. It stands among deep woods, beside aflowing stream: behind it is a hill, not terrible with crags but of agentle ascent: it has gardens and orchards: around is a park with flocksof the timid deer: not far off you may discover the tower of a villageChurch and hear the music of the bells. Thither, thither, Madame, I willlead you when you are free from the misery of this place, and there youshall 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 houseand all that belongs to it shall be your own. I will be content if oncein 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 tome. Indeed I deserve none of this kindness.'
'You deserve all--all--divine Jenny--that a man can offer. Believe methere is nothing that is too good or too great for such as JennyWilmot.'
This dialogue was only one of many. Truly, as Jenny said, here was afaithful 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'sclutches and had already entered under his guidance upon the career of arogue. He it was who gave evidence which helped to connect all fourplotters with the plot. He it was, also, who carried off the old womanand Doll by the waggon to Horsham in Sussex. We thought no more abouthim. He had done his service and had received his pay and had gone hisown 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 themen with whom he had begun to sit. In a word, he was not yet brandedwith the mark of Cain. But, I say, we had forgotten h
im. He was one ofthe characters in the last scene but one of the play which we wereperforming with Miss Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane Theatre as the heroine.
Now, one morning, while I was playing something to please our prisonerin her cell the turnkey brought us a visitor. It was none other than thecountry lad. He stood at the open door and pulled his hair, holding hishat in one hand.
'Your servant to command, Madame,' he said timidly, pronouncing hiswords in the broad country manner which is too uncouth to be presentedto eyes polite.
'Why,' cried Jenny, 'it is Jack! How fares it, honest Jack?' and so tookhim by the hand as if he was of her station. Jenny had no sense of whatis due to rank and station. 'Why,' she said, when I spoke to her aboutit, 'we are all players in the same company: and we all like speakingparts.'
'And how did you leave Mother and Doll?' she went on.
'Purely well, Madame. They got out of the waggon about two miles fromHorsham 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 ifthey could get the House I should be tapster and drawer. But I thought Iwould 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 talkedabout the whipping-post. So I came away again. And I found out where youwere, 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 staywith your Ladyship.'
He looked so earnest and so honest that Jenny turned to me. 'He might beuseful. I believe he is honest. What say you, Will?'
What could I say? Should I turn away a friend when we might want all thefriends we could find? How we were to keep our new servant was more thanI knew: however, there he was, upon our hands. It was a kindly act ofJenny, when her fortunes were at their worst to take over this poor ladwho was thrown upon the world without a trade--save that of rusticlabourer, which is useless in London: without a character: and withoutfriends. Jenny's consent saved him--he could remain honest.
'Vex not your soul about money, Will. We shall want none. There isalways money when it is really wanted. See how cheaply I live: I cannotwear out my fine clothes--indeed, the mob has left me mighty few towear: I have no rent to pay nor any servants. It is true that my moneyis nearly gone, but there are still things--well--things of which youknow nothing: and the Judge who thinks so much about the Majesty of theLaw--will surely relent before long. If he would come to see me I thinkI could soften his heart.'
'Indeed you would, Jenny, if it was of the hardness of the nethermillstone.'