Part 50 (1/2)

'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 stolen child of n.o.ble parents. My birth is stamped upon my face. Never a gipsy yet was known to have light hair like mine, and blue eyes like mine. I have been brought up in ignorance of my parentage, by a woman of dishonest character who stole me in infancy. She made me, against my wish (for a person of my rank naturally loathes employment so menial) an Orange Girl of Drury Lane Theatre. Then I rose above that station by the possession of parts inherited, and became an actress and the Toast of the Town. The woman clung to her pretended daughter still. Then I left the stage in order to be married: when I found my husband little better than a sordid gambler, I left his house and opened the a.s.sembly-room: the woman, for her own safety, made, unknown to me, a storehouse of my garrets. That is his story. But the end is better still. My true n.o.bility of soul, inherited from my unknown ill.u.s.trious ancestors, prompts me to plead Guilty in order to save this pretended mother. Now, Will----'

'How does the story help?'

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

'Yes--but an acquittal is so easy.'

'Will, you can never understand what it means to belong to such a family as 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 the revenge of the family--the family of St. Giles's. Through me the Bishop and the Captain have been put in pillory and are now in prison. They belong to the family--my family, and I have brought them to ruin--I myself. One of themselves. Can they forgive me? Nay, Will, I was brought up among them: it is their only point of honour. Can I expect them to forgive 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. Unless I pa.s.s through the fiery furnace of trial and sentence, even if it leads me to the condemned cell. After that, Will, I may perhaps look for forgiveness.'

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 is worth it all--and more. Don't think I never flinched. No. I had thoughts of letting everything go. Why should I imperil myself--my life--to defeat a villain? It was easy to do nothing. Then one night I saw a ghost--oh! a real ghost. It was Alice, and in her arms lay your boy.'

Jenny rose slowly. The afternoon was turning into early evening: the cell was already in twilight. She rose, and gradually, so great is the power of an actress, that even though my eyes were overcast, I saw the narrow cell no longer. There was no Jenny. In her place stood another woman. It was Alice. In the arms of that spirit lay the semblance of a child. And the spirit spoke. It was the voice of Alice. 'Woman!' she said, solemnly, 'give me back my husband. Give the boy the honour of his father. Murderess! Thou wouldst kill the father and ruin the son. There shall be no peace or rest or quiet for thee to the end. Save him--for thou must. Suffer and endure what follows. Thou shalt suffer, but thou shalt not be destroyed.' Alice spoke: it was as if she came there with intent to say those words. Then she vanished. And with a trembling of great fear, even as Saul trembled when he saw the spirit of Samuel, I saw Jenny standing in the place where Alice had been.

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

I soothed her, I a.s.sured her of all that I could say in grat.i.tude infinite: perhaps I mingled my tears with hers.

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

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

The court, I say, was crowded. Behind the chairs of the Lord Mayor and Judge, the Aldermen and the Sheriffs, were other chairs filled with great ladies: the public gallery was also filled with ladies who were admitted by tickets issued by sheriffs: the entrances and doorways and the body of the court were filled with gentlemen, actors and actresses mixed 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 three shopkeepers who were waiting to swear to their own property. They stood beside the witness-box, wearing the look of determined and pleased revenge common to those who have been robbed. The Jury were sworn one after the other, and took their seats. I could not fail to observe that the unrelenting faces with which they had received me, the highwayman, were changed into faces of sweet commiseration. If ever Jury betrayed by outward signs a full intention, beforehand, of bringing in a verdict of Not Guilty, with the addition, if the Judge would allow it, that the lady left the dock without a blemish upon her character, it was that jury--yet a jury composed entirely of persons engaged in trade, who would naturally be severe upon the crime of receiving stolen goods.

When the Court were ready to take their places the prisoner was brought in, and all the people murmured with astonishment and admiration and pity, for the prisoner was dressed as for her wedding day. She was all in white without a touch of any other colour. Her lovely fair hair was dressed without powder over a high cus.h.i.+on with white silk ribbons hanging to her shoulders: her white silk frock drawn back in front, showed a white satin petticoat: white silk gloves covered her hands and arms: she carried a nosegay of white jonquils: a necklace of pearls hung round her neck: her belt was of worked silver. She took her place in the dock: she disposed her flowers between the spikes, among the sprigs of rue. Her air was calm and collected: not boastful: sad as was natural: resigned as was becoming: neither bold nor shrinking: there was no affectation of confidence nor any agitation of terror. She was like a Queen: she was full of dignity. She seemed to say, 'Look at me, all of you. Can you believe that I--I--I--such as I--Jenny Wilmot--could actually stoop to receive a lot of stolen rags and old petticoats and bales of stuff worth no more altogether than two or three guineas?'

During the whole time of the trial the eyes of everybody in court, I observed, were turned upon the prisoner. Never before, I am sure, did a more lovely prisoner stand in the Dock: never was there one whose position was more commiserated: they were all, I verily believe, ready to set her free at once: but for the act and deed of the prisoner herself. Her att.i.tude: her face: her dress all proclaimed aloud the words which I have written down above. Everybody had seen her on the stage playing princ.i.p.ally the coquette, the woman of fas.h.i.+on and folly, the hoyden, the affected prude--but not a part like this. 'Ye G.o.ds!' I heard a young barrister exclaim. 'She looks like an angel: an angel sent down to Newgate!' The strange, new, unexpected look of virginal innocence stamped on the brow of the once daring and headlong actress startled the people: it went to the heart of everyone: it made everybody present feel that they were a.s.sisting at a martyrdom: nay, as if they were themselves, unwillingly, bringing f.a.ggots to pile the fire. Before the trial began many an eye was dim, many a cheek was humid.

The Court entered: the people rose: the Counsel bowed to the Bench: the Lord Mayor took his seat: beside him the Judge: with him the Aldermen and the Sheriffs: the prisoner also did reverence to the Court like a gentlewoman receiving company. One would not have been surprised had my Lord Mayor stepped down and kissed her on the cheek in City fas.h.i.+on. But neither in her look nor in her actions was there betrayed the least sign of 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 is true that Jenny Wilmot was my maiden name, and that I a.s.sumed the name of Madame Vallance when I left the stage and opened the a.s.sembly Rooms.