'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 pass 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 assured her of all that I could say in gratitude 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?'