The only persons who now came to the cell were Lord Brockenhurst and Mr. Dewberry the attorney, not to speak of the Governor of the Prison, who came daily to ask after his fair prisoner's health. His Lordship let us know day by day concerning the efforts being made on Jenny's behalf. The reason why they were so slow was partly due to a feeling on the part of the Judge that though the motive of the prisoner might be good she had confessed to a heinous crime, and the Law must not be made ridiculous. Therefore, a few weeks of prison should be allowed, whatever was done afterwards, in vindication of the Majesty of the Law. 'But,' said Lord Brockenhurst, 'he is at least on your side. So much I know for a fact. It is a great thing to have the Judge on your side.' He also told us that the Counsel for the Prosecution, a gentleman of great eminence in the Law, was also very active on our behalf: that the Jurymen had drawn up a petition and signed it unanimously for Jenny's pardon and release: that the Queen was also reported to be interested in the case and in favour of clemency, the whole circumstances being so unusual and the behaviour of the prisoner so strangely actuated by filial affection even towards an unworthy object: and that the general opinion of the people was that it was impossible to suppose that a woman in Jenny's position, commanding receipts of thousands every night of a masquerade, could condescend to so low and miserable a business as receiving a bundle of stolen goods, not worth a couple of guineas altogether, with the assistance of wretched confederates whose evidence might hang her: and further that the minds of the people being made up they thought no more about the matter. In a word, that all was going well, but we must wait: he could not tell us how long, and possess our souls in patience.
'If only we do not die of gaol fever,' Jenny sighed. 'Faugh! To die in the reek and the stench of this place. My Lord, I am always your most obliged servant. Perhaps the Judge would consider his opinion and give me at least the choice of death. Let me die like my own people. They lie down in a little tent which keeps off the cold rain and the hot sun: on their backs they lie looking through the open front at the sky and the clouds and presently they shut their eyes and their limbs grow cold. Then they are buried in the hedge without coffin or winding-sheet.'
'And without prayers,' said his Lordship. 'Dear Madame, they are not your people. There was never yet gipsy with fair hair and blue eyes. You shall not die in a tent, but in a bed with those who love you weeping over you. And you shall be borne to a marble tomb in the Church with the singing men and the boys chanting the service for the good of your soul.'
The doctrine was unsound, but the meaning of his Lordship was good.
'The good of my soul,' Jenny repeated, doubtfully. 'Well, my Lord, I have at least learned something from the people who stole me—if they did steal me. I love the light and the sunshine and the wind. Restore me to these and I will promise never, never, never to have another mother who will tempt me with second-hand petticoats.'
She laughed, but Lord Brockenhurst, who was a grave gentleman, did not laugh.
'Madame,' he said, kissing her fingers—of which he never seemed to weary—'I should desire nothing better than to lead you into meadows and beside gentle streams where the Zephyrs would bring back their rosy hue to your pale cheek. We must not speak of death but of life.'
'But not of love, my Lord,' she interrupted. 'Remember I have a husband. He is in the King's Bench Prison, a bankrupt, there to remain for life, because he can never hope to pay his debts. But he is my husband.'
'Of everything but love, Madame,' he replied with the dignity which sat upon him as naturally as grace sat upon Jenny. 'Seriously, I have a house some fifty miles from here. It stands among deep woods, beside a flowing stream: behind it is a hill, not terrible with crags but of a gentle ascent: it has gardens and orchards: around is a park with flocks of the timid deer: not far off you may discover the tower of a village Church and hear the music of the bells. Thither, thither, Madame, I will lead you when you are free from the misery of this place, and there you shall stay till your spirits are restored and your mind recreated: nay, you shall stay there, if you will so honour me, all your life. The house and all that belongs to it shall be your own. I will be content if once in a while I may spend a day or two with you, as your honoured guest.'
'Oh! my Lord,' Jenny made reply, through her tears, 'you are too good to me. Indeed I deserve none of this kindness.'