My good Samaritan, to judge by her dress and appearance, was one of the commonest of common women—the wife or the mistress of a Gaol-bird; the companion of thieves; the accomplice of villains. Yet there was left on her still, whatever the habit of her life, this touch of human kindness that made her come to the assistance of a helpless stranger. No Christian could have done more. 'Forasmuch,' said Christ, 'as you did it unto one of these you did it unto Me.' When I read these words I think of this poor woman, and I pray for her.
'Lie still a minute,' she said, 'I will stanch the bleeding with a little gin,' she pulled out a flat bottle. 'It is good gin. I will pour a little on the wound. That can't hurt—so.' But it did hurt. 'Now, my pretty gentleman, for you are a gentleman, though maybe only a gentleman rider and woundily in want of a wash. Take a sip for yourself, don't be afraid. Take a long sip. I brought it here for my man, but he's dead. He died in the night after a fight in the yard here. He got a knife between his ribs,' she spoke of this occurrence as if such a conclusion to a fight was quite in the common way. 'Look here, sir, you've no business in this place. Haven't you got any friends to pay for the Master's side? Now you're easier, and the bleeding has stopped. Can you stand, do you think?'
I made a shift to get to my feet, shivering in the cold damp November air. She had a bundle laying on the bench. ''Tis my man's clothes,' she said. 'Take his coat and shoes. You must. Else with nothing but the boards to sleep upon you'll be starved to death. Now I must go and tell his friends that my man is dead. Well—he won't be hanged. I never did like to think that I should be the widow of a Tyburn bird.'
She put on me the warm thick coat that had been her husband's; she put on his shoes. I was still stupid and dull of understanding. But I tried to thank her.
Some weeks afterwards, when I was at length released, I ventured back into the prison in hopes of finding the name and the residence of the woman—Samaritan, if ever there was one. The turnkeys could tell me nothing. The gaol was full of women, they said. My friend was named Nan. They were all Nans. She was the wife of a prisoner who died in the place. They were always dying on the common side. That was nothing. They all know each other by name; but it was six weeks ago; prisoners change every day; they are brought in; they are sent out to be hanged, pilloried, whipped or transported. In a word they knew nothing and would not take the trouble to inquire. What did it matter to these men made callous by intimacy with suffering, that a woman of the lower kind had done a kind and charitable action? Nevertheless, we have Christ's own assurance—His words—His promise. The woman's action will be remembered on the day when her sins shall be passed before a merciful Judge. Her sins! Alas! she was what she was brought up to be; her sins lie upon the head of those who suffer her, and those like to her, to grow up without religion, or virtue, or example, or admonition.
By this time I was growing faint with hunger as well as with loss of blood and fatigue. I had taken nothing for fourteen hours; namely, since supper the evening before the attack. The first effect of hunger is to stop the power of thought. There fell upon me a feeling of carelessness as if nothing mattered: the night in the watch-house: the appearance before the magistrate: my reception on the common side: all passed across my brain as if they belonged to someone else. I rose with difficulty, but staggered and fell back upon the bench. My head was light: I seemed strangely happy. This lightness of head was quickly followed by a drowsiness which became stupor. How long I lay there I know not. I remember nothing until a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder. 'Come,' it was the voice of a turnkey. 'This is not the kind of place for an afternoon nap in November. Come this way. A lady wants to see you.'
He led me to the door of the common side: and threw it open: in the waiting-room was none other than Jenny herself. How had she learned what had happened?
'Oh! my poor Will!' she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. 'This is even worse than I expected. But first you must be made comfortable. Here, you fellow,' she called the turnkey. 'Take him away. I will pay for everything. Let him be washed and get his wound dressed; give him a clean shirt and get him at once new clothes.'
'If your ladyship pleases—'
'Change these rusty irons for the lightest you have. Put him into the best cell that you have on the State side. Get a dinner for him: anything that is quickest—cold beef—ham—bread—a bottle of Madeira. Go—quick.' She stamped her foot with authority; she put into the man's hand enough money to pay for half a dozen prisoners on the State side. 'Now, fly—don't crawl—fly!—one would think you were all asleep. A pretty place this is to sleep in!'