“If I wasn’t a person as ’as bin put upon by ’er ’usband,” she ejaculated, darting a scornful glance in the direction of a door past which they walked—“I wouldn’t never demean myself by a takin’ a lodger. But ’avin’ a man as give me ’is name, an’ precious little else—an’ whose delight it ’as bin to flaunt it on the main, so to speak—an’ who now ’as ’is mind runnin’ constant on circuses, an’ fat women—(w’ich is nothink else but a throwin’ of my figger in my face)—I should be in a better position than I now am, Miss. But Peter Quist won’t deceive me with ’is circuses—the low Turk—an’ so I tells ’im.”
They had, by this time, reached the room—a pleasant and airy place, and very simply furnished. Clara would probably have decided to take it, whatever terms might have been asked, when she saw that its one small window looked right on to the prison; but, as a matter of fact, the rent proved to be very small, and the woman, being pleased with the bright face of the girl, asked for no reference.
Perhaps from the fact that she felt most desperately lonely and friendless, in that strange place, Clara determined that she would tell the landlady frankly what her mission was, and ask her advice. Accordingly, with many tears, she told the woman that she had come to Chelmsford, in the hope of seeing or befriending a prisoner—a friend of hers, then awaiting his trial. The woman proved to be genuinely sympathetic, and, after a little cogitation, decided to consult her husband about the matter.
“Mind you,” she said, in a voice of caution—“I’m not sayin’ but wot Quist is a bit of a fool; salt water do ’ave that effect on the best o’ men; it seems to soak through, some’ow and make ’em soft. But ’e’s got a ’eart, ’as Quist—an’ now an’ then, ’e knows wot ’e’s about. It ain’t often—but we may ’appen to catch ’im at a lucky time.”
Clara, willingly consenting to consult this oracle, and inwardly praying that he might have his full wits about him, they adjourned downstairs in search of him. He proved to be an exceedingly amiable looking man, with a heavy fringe of whiskers all round a jolly red face.
The circumstances having been briefly explained by his wife, the man—no other than our old friend Captain Peter Quist—poured himself out, from a stone bottle, what he termed “a toothful”—and proceeded to give the matter weighty consideration.
“You see, my lass,” he said—“w’en the Law ’as once got a ’old on a man, an’ clapped ’im under ’atches, as it were—that man ’as got to go through with it, right up to the end. Might I venture for to ask wot your friend is put in irons for?”
“Indeed—he is quite innocent,” exclaimed Clara. “But he has been sent to take his trial—oh—I beg that you will not think the worse of him for that—for murder.”
The Captain whistled softly, and raised his eyebrows. “An’ wot might be the name of this innocent gent?” he asked, after a pause.
“Mr. Chater,” replied Clara, in a low voice.