THE COMPANY OF REVENGE
The case was over—I stepped out of the Dock: I was free: everybody, including Mr. Caterham, K.C., was shaking my hand: the Lord Mayor sent for me to the Bench and shook my hand warmly: he said that he had known my worthy father, Sir Peter, and that he rejoiced that my innocence had been made as clear as the noonday: all the Jury shook hands with me: my cousin Tom paid my dues to the prison, without payment of which even a free man, proved innocent, must go back to the prison again and there stay till he discharges them—because a gaoler everywhere has a heart made of flint. At last, surrounded by my friends I went out of Court. Outside in the street there was a crowd who shouted and cried my name with 'Death to the Conspirators!' But I saw many who did not shout. Who are they who had no sympathy with innocence? They stood apart, with lowering faces. They came down from the public gallery where—I was afterwards told—the appearance in that witness-box first of the well-known landlady of the Black Jack—their ancient friend: next, of her daughter—also their friend: thirdly, of the young fellow called Jack, one of themselves, a rogue and the companion of rogues: and lastly, of the woman of whom they had been so proud, Jenny the actress, Jenny the Orange Girl: Jenny of Drury Lane: filled them with dismay and rage. What? Their own people turn against their own friends? The landlady of the Black Jack, even the landlady of the Black Jack, that most notorious receiver of stolen goods, and harbourer of rogues, to give evidence against her own customers? Thief betray thief? Dog bite dog? Heard ever man the like? Now you understand the lowering and gloomy faces. These people whispered to each other in the Gallery of the Court House: they murmured to each other outside on the pavement: when we climbed into a hackney coach—Jenny—her mother and sister—the young fellow called Jack and myself—they followed us—in pairs;—by fours, talking low and cursing below their breath. After a while they desisted: but one or two of them still kept up with the coach.
I sent Alice home under charge of Tom. I would get home, I said, as quickly as I could, after seeing Jenny safely at her own house.
We arrived at the house in Soho Square. It was empty save for some women-servants, for there was no entertainment that evening. We went into the small room on the left and lit the candles.
It was then about seven o'clock in the evening and quite dark, as the time of year was November. Jenny was restless and excited. She went to the window and looked out. 'The Square is quiet,' she said. 'How long will it remain quiet?'
The servants brought in some supper. Jenny took a little glass of wine. She then went away and returned in a plain dress with a cloak and hood.
'I must be ready,' she said, 'to set off on my travels—whither? Mother'—she turned to the old lady—'you are a witch. Look into the fire and tell me what you see.'
The old woman filled and drained a glass of Madeira and turned her chair round. She gazed intently into the red coals.
'I see,' she said, 'a crowd of people. I see a Court. I see the condemned cell....' She turned away. 'No, Jenny, I will look no more. 'Twas thus I looked in the fire before thy father was taken. Thus and thus did I see. I will look no longer.'
'Well,' said Doll, 'what will they do next? They know now where you live, Madame Vallance.'