The Orange Girl Part 50

'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 cushion 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 fashion 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 fashion. 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.

My true name is Jenny Halliday, and I am the wife of Mr. Matthew Halliday, son of Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman, and partner in the House of Halliday Brothers, West India Wharf, by the Steel Yard in the Parish of All Hallows the Great.'

The Judge, whom nothing could surprise, answered with the awful coldness which becomes a Judge and so terrifies a prisoner. 'There is no dispute concerning ident.i.ty. 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 a.s.surance of acquittal, she had pleaded Guilty. My heart sank. Yet I knew what she would 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 true after 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 the trial proceed,' he said.

The Counsel for the Prosecution opened the case. It was, he said a remarkable case, because there seemed no sufficient reason or temptation for breaking the law, or for receiving stolen property. The information was laid by a woman living in the purlieus of St. Giles's Parish: she was, very probably, a person of no character at all: but character was not wanted in this case because her information would be supplemented by the evidence of several persons of the highest respectability who would swear 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 other witnesses would claim as their own many things among the property so found.

'Gentlemen of the Jury,' he went on, 'this is a case of a painful nature. The prisoner who pleads guilty--who rejects the clemency--the kindly benevolence--of the Court--is a person who, as you know, a year or two ago was delighting the town by the vivacity of her acting and the beauty of her person: she left the stage, the world knew not why, or what had become of her: it now appears that she took a certain house in Soho Square, where she carried on a.s.semblies, masquerades, and other amus.e.m.e.nts still delighting the town: there is nothing to make one believe that she was in pecuniary embarra.s.sments: and we now learn that she is actually the wife of a City merchant of great wealth and reputation.' 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, has fallen into evil times and is now bankrupt. But, gentlemen, whether the prisoner attempted to stave off her husband's bankruptcy or not, the property which she received was of so trifling a character that it would seem as if she was breaking the Law for the sake of a few shillings. The things found in her possession were not those which we are accustomed to regard as the booty of robbers: there are no jewels, gold chains, silver cups, lace, silks or anything at all but things belonging to poor people or to people just raised above poverty. There are women's petticoats, men's nightcaps: watches in tortoise-sh.e.l.l cases: knives and forks: small spoons, handkerchiefs: stockings, even: wigs, and so forth. I expected, I confess when I surveyed this rubbish, to hear a defence on the ground that such a person in a position so responsible--with friends so numerous, some of them of high rank, could not condescend to countenance the mean and sordid traffic. I confess that I looked forward to this trial as a means of finding out the real criminal who had taken advantage of access to the house and impudently used the rooms in Madame Vallance's premises for their own dishonest purposes. That expectation must be now disappointed: that hope must be abandoned. By her own repeated confession, the prisoner has a.s.sured the Court that she is guilty.

'The case,' he went on, 'has grown out of one recently heard before this Court. It was one in which the present prisoner exerted herself very actively in the cause of a man named Halliday, presumably a connection of her own by marriage. Halliday was charged with highway robbery. The evidence was clear and direct. The prisoner before us, however, with great activity and courage, brought together an overwhelming ma.s.s of evidence which proved that the charge was a conspiracy of the blackest and foulest kind. The conspirators are now undergoing their sentence. By this brave action an innocent life was saved and four villains were sent to prison. I mention the fact because it shows that the prisoner possesses many n.o.ble qualities, which make it the more marvellous that she should be guilty of acts so mean, so paltry, so sordid. The woman who will appear before you was the mistress of one of these conspirators. 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 that the witnesses would not be cross-examined. The first witness was the woman of whom you know. She, among other women prisoners in Newgate, had been kept from starvation by Jenny; this fact might have softened her heart: but unfortunately the recent sufferings of her lover in pillory re-awakened her desire for revenge. She was an eager witness: she wanted to begin at once and to tell her tale her own way. The main point now was a statement invented since her evidence before the magistrate. She now declared that she herself was engaged by the prisoner to carry the property to the a.s.sembly Rooms. This abominable perjury she stoutly maintained. The Counsel for the Prosecution questioned her apparently in order to elicit the facts: in reality, as I now believe, in order to make her contradict herself. She was asked where she put the things: why in the garret: what servants helped her: who received her: who carried candles for her: why the prisoner selected her for the job: what share she had in the riots: whether she was in prison on that account: and so on. She was a poor ignorant creature, thirsting for revenge: therefore she maintained stoutly that the prisoner had paid her for moving the goods into her house.

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

The manner in which the witness gave her evidence: the fire in her eyes and in her cheeks: the dirty slovenly look of the woman: her uncombed hair: her voice: her gestures: her manifest perjuries and contradictions: disgusted all who looked on: the Judge laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair as if what she said was of no concern: the Aldermen looked at the Judge as much as to ask how long this was to be permitted: the Jury whispered and shook their heads: the ladies present knotted their brows and fanned themselves and whispered each other angrily. At last she sat down flaming and vehement to the end. Her evidence had in fact ruined the case. Why, she had the impudence to allege that the property she had herself carried to the house was received by Madame herself, who ordered her footmen to carry it to the garrets.

She was followed by the shopkeepers who had been robbed. They swore to certain goods of no great value, which had been stolen from them. Their evidence was quickly given. There was, in fact, no evidence really implicating the prisoner except that of the woman. There was clearly something behind: something not explained, which everybody was whispering to each other--it had been revealed in the famous paper called 'The Case of Clarinda.' And now I understood what Jenny meant when she said that her defence would bring her mother into the business.

For Counsel would have inquired into the Black Jack story and asked what the things were doing there: how they came there: who was the landlord: with many other particulars, some of which would have brought out the truth. As for the woman, whether by feminine cunning or by accident, she concealed the relationship between Jenny and the Black Jack: she had really seen the sister and the mother carrying things to the house in Soho Square: she did not then know that Madame Vallance was Jenny: she found out the fact at the trial: she then invented the story of being hired for carrying the property _because she knew it was there_. All that the Court knew, however, was the fact that such a woman as stood before them, this angel of loveliness this woman of position: had actually confessed to the crime of receiving the miserable odds and ends--the rags and tawdry finery--stolen from quite poor people. It was amazing: it was incredible.

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

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

'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 for the Prosecution, who almost proved my pleading impossible.'

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

The Judge a.s.sumed the black cap: he p.r.o.nounced sentence of Death: the Ordinary appeared in his robes and prayed that the Lord would have mercy on her soul: the warder tied the usual slip of string about the prisoner's thumb to show what hanging meant. The only person unaffected by the sentence was the prisoner herself. Never before had she acted so finely: never before, indeed, had Jenny been called upon to play such a part. She stood with clasped hands gazing into the face of the Judge, not with defiance, not with wonder: not with resentment: but with a meek acceptance. The women in the court, the great ladies behind the Lord Mayor wept and sobbed without restraint: even the younger members of the outer Bar were affected to unmanly humidity of the eyes.

Now when the verdict of the Jury was p.r.o.nounced, and before the sentence of the Judge, Jenny did a strange thing, which moved the people almost more than the words of the sentence. She took up a small roll which lay before her. It was a black lace veil. She threw this over her head: it fell down upon her shoulders nearly to her waist. She held it up while the Judge was speaking: when he finished she dropped it over her face.