“Afraid of what?” demanded Bess, her foot on the step of the chaise, and turning back with her bright eyes full of scorn. “Afraid of what? Of these two post-boys? La! I could wallop ’em both together;” which seemed true, as both postilions were considerably smaller than she was. “And afraid of highwaymen? Not me. I’d say, ‘Take my money: it’s not much, for most of what I have is in the bank at London; but just let me go my way,’—which they would.” Bess’s money, however, was mostly in notes, and those were very artfully concealed in her stockings.
And so saying, she stepped into the chaise, and was soon bowling along rapidly to London.
Her thoughts on the way were anxious, but not wholly gloomy. She relied on her money and on her knowledge of the prison to get Dicky out. And she knew him to be so intelligent and so familiar with England that once out of prison he could escape detection almost anywhere, and as soon as the hubbub of his disappearance had quieted down, it would be easy enough to smuggle him across the water. The whole of the day was consumed in the journey, and it was past nightfall on a soft July night when her chaise rolled under the dark and forbidding archway of Newgate she so well remembered. It seemed darker and blacker to her than ever, and the grimy lantern that swung overhead was like a sinister eye in an evil face.
There was a main door, which was bolted and barred, but a little way off was a small door, opening, as it were, into a cellar. Bess went straight to this little door, and beat a thundering rat-tat-tat upon it. In a moment it was opened, showing her a dismal little room, in which sat Diggory Hutchinson, looking not a day older than he was when he so awkwardly sued for Bess’s favor, seven years before.
“You don’t know me, Diggory,” said Bess with a bright smile, walking forward into the light from a couple of tallow candles.
Truly, Diggory knew her, and yet did not know her. Was this modish creature, with her silk mantle, her embroidered hood, her fan at her side, and a jewel in her stomacher, old Tim Lukens’s niece? Diggory tried to reconstruct her as he remembered her,—in her coarse stuff gown, and clumsy shoes, with her shapely arms showing below her short sleeves. But it was vain. There were two Bess Lukenses, and to this one he was stranger, and was a little afraid of her.
“Come, man,” cried Bess, “I am here on important business, and I want you to keep it quiet. Are there any Jesuit gentlemen here?”
“Yes,” answered Diggory, still disconcerted. “Mr. Richard Egremont,—a cousin to him as was Mr. Roger Egremont, that you remembers.”
“That’s all I want to know,” replied Bess, cheerfully, surprised that she should have found her man so easily, and found him alive. “Now, like a good man, don’t go rousing the place. I know you need not. I know how Newgate is conducted, bad luck to it, and you won’t be for getting me in any trouble, now, will you? That’s a good Diggory.”
She had stepped up close to Diggory, and had put one strong, well-shaped hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes with a frank, compelling gaze. Many men and women stronger and better than poor Diggory Hutchinson had succumbed to the natural charm of that glance and that touch, so he only said,—