as to be outside the throng of people. 'We can talk, I suppose, undisturbed, and unheard, though, so far as I care, all the world may hear. Bless me! The people look as if a woman was a rare object here.' She looked round at the crowd. 'Yet there are women among your prisoners. Well, then, what have you got to say? Speak up, and quickly, because I like not the place or the company. You wrote to me. Now go on.'
'I wrote to you,' said the Bishop, 'asking a great favour. I know that we have no reason to expect that or any other favour from you.'
'You have no reason. But go on.'
'We came here, you know' – his voice dropped to a whisper, but I heard what he said – 'in order to escape a great danger.'
'I heard. You told me. The danger was in connection with a gentleman and a post-chaise.'
'A villainous charge,' said the Captain.
'Villainous indeed,' repeated the Bishop. 'I could prove to you in five minutes and quite to your satisfaction that the Captain was engaged at Newmarket on the day in question, while I myself was conducting a funeral in place of the Vicar in a country village thirty miles on the other side of London.'
'An excellent defence, truly. But I will leave that to the lawyers. Well, the debt was sworn against you by Mr. Merridew.' I pricked up my ears at this because this was the name of the man, as you shall hear, who swore a debt which never existed against me. Could there be two Merridews?
'That was mere form. Unfortunately other detainers are out against both of us. I know not how they found out that we were here. Mr. Merridew refuses to take us out. He says that he thinks our time is up, and so he knows that we are safe.' He shuddered. Afterwards I understood why. 'There is the danger that we may have to remain here till he takes us out. As for our present necessities – ' He drew out his purse and dangled it – a long purse with a very few guineas in it. 'You see, Madam, to stay here, where there is no opportunity of honest work, is ruin and starvation.'
'Honest work! Why, if you go out, you will only continue in your old courses.'
'They are at least honest and even pious courses,' said the Bishop with a snuffle.
'As you please. But there is still the former danger.'
'No. The gentleman understands now that he only mislaid his pocket-book. Mr. Merridew found it for him. The drafts and notes were still in it, fortunately. The gentleman has redeemed the papers from Mr. Merridew. He will not take any further steps.'
'If I take you out,' she spoke to the Captain, 'you know what will happen. Better stay here in safety.'
'What else can a man do?' asked the Captain.
'You might go abroad; go to America – anything is better than the Road and the certain end.' She made a gesture with her hand, easy to be understood.
'If a man has a long rope, what else can he expect?'
'And you?' she turned to the Bishop, 'what will become of you? Will you stay in London where you are known in every street?'
'I have had thoughts of trying Ireland. A good many things can be done in Ireland. The Irish are a confiding people.'
'Do what you please. It is nothing to me what becomes of both of you. I interfere because – oh! you know why. And as for your future – that, I suppose, will be arranged for you by your friend Mr. Merridew.
Putting together what my friend the starveling poet told me and what they themselves confessed, they were clearly a pair of rogues, and she knew it, and she was going to help them. Charity covereth a multitude of sins. Yet, surely, it was remarkable that a gentlewoman should come to the King's Bench Prison in order to send two abominable criminals back to their old haunts.
'Any place is better than this,' said the Captain.
'Much better than this,' echoed the Bishop. 'Give me freedom while I live. A short life – ' but he was certainly past forty – 'and a free life, for me.'
'How much is it, then, altogether, for the pair of you?'
'The detainers, not counting Mr. Merridew's, amount to close upon seventy pounds. Then there are the costs and the fees.'
'Oh!' she cried impatiently, 'what is the good of setting you loose again? Why should I let loose upon the world such a pair of rogues? Why not keep you here so that you may at least die in your beds?'
The Bishop looked astonished at this outburst. 'Why,' he said, slowly, 'we are what we are. That is true. What else can we be? Nobody knows better than you what we are. Come, now, nobody, I say, knows better than you what we are.'
'Yes,' she replied with a sigh. 'I do know very well – I wish I did not.'
And nobody knows better than you,' he went on, roughly, 'that what we are we must continue to be. What else can we do?'
'Say no more,' she replied, sighing again. 'There is no help, I suppose. When I made up my mind to come here at all, I made up my mind that I would take you out – both of you. Yet – it is like walking over a grave, I shiver' – she did actually shiver as she spoke. 'I feel as if I were contriving a mischief for myself. These signs always come true – a mischief,' she repeated, 'to myself' – indeed she was, as you shall afterwards learn. 'As for the world you will certainly do as much mischief to that as you can.'
'As we can, Madam,' said the Bishop with a smile – he was easy now that he knew her mind. Before, he was inclined to be rough. 'The world, on the other hand, is always trying to do a mischief to me.'
'But mischief to you, Madam?' cried the captain, that mirror of gallantry. 'A soldier is all gratitude and honour. Mischief to you? Impossible!'
'And a Divine,' added the other with a grin, 'is all truth, fidelity, and honesty. His profession compels these qualities.'
'Quite so. Well, gentlemen of honour and truth, you shall once more return to the scenes and the pursuits and the companions that you love. Moll and Doll and Poll impatiently await you at the Black Jack. And I see, only a short mile from that hospitable place, another refuge – call it the Black Jug – where before long you will pass a few pleasant days of rest and repose before going forth in a glorious procession.'
'If we go forth in that procession', murmured the Bishop with lowering face, 'there are other people quite as deserving, who will sit there beside us.'
'Go,' she said. 'I have talked enough and more than enough with such as you. Go.'
They bowed again and walked away.
Now I heard this interview, half of which I did not understand, with amazement unspeakable. The lady was going to release this pair of villains – Why? Out of the boundless charity of her benevolent heart?
She looked after the precious pair, standing for a moment with her hand shading her eyes. The light went out of her face: a cloud fell upon it: she sighed again: her lips parted: she caught her breath. Ah! Poor lady! Thy face was made for joy and not for sorrow. What thought, what memory, was it that compelled the cloud and chased away the sunshine?
She turned her head – she moved away. I was still standing at my window looking on: as she passed she started and stopped short, her face expressing the greatest possible bewilderment and amazement.
'It is not …' she cried – 'Surely – No – Yet the resemblance is so great. Sir, I thought – at first – you were a gentleman of my
