CHAPTER XL.
It was the ninth hour of the evening on the following day when a
carriage stopped at the gates of Newgate, and a lady got out and
entered the prison. It was by this time dark, for the year was
already beginning to show a slight diminution in the length of the
days; and there were few people just at that moment in the streets to
remark that she left a male companion behind her in the vehicle, who,
with his arms crossed upon his chest, and his eyes bent thoughtfully
upon the other side of the carriage, remained buried in deep and
seemingly gloomy meditation.
After the lapse of about ten minutes the lady returned, and said,
"You may come; but the governor says your visit must not be long, and
on no account must be mentioned." [Footnote: It is an undoubted
historical fact, that more persons visited and conversed long with
Fenwick in prison than the court was at all aware of.]
Wilton instantly stepped out of the carriage as Lady Mary Fenwick
spoke, and followed her into the prison. A turnkey was in waiting
with a light, and led them round the outer court and through one or
two dark and narrow passages to the cell in which Sir John Fenwick
was confined. There was another turnkey waiting without; and Wilton,
being admitted, found the wretched man whose crimes had brought him
thither, and whose cowardly treachery was even then preparing to make
his end disgraceful, sitting pale, haggard, and worn, with his elbow
resting on the small table in the middle of the cell, and his anxious
eye fixed upon that door from which he was never more to go forth but
to trial, to shame, and to death.
Lady Mary Fenwick, his unfortunate wife, whose eager and strenuous
exertions in her husband's behalf were sufficient to atone in some
degree for the error of countenancing those calumnies by which he
hoped to escape his well-deserved fate, accompanied or rather
followed Wilton into the cell; and as she did so, remarking the
haggard glance with which Sir John regarded the visitor, she held up
her finger with a meaning look, as if to entreat him to assume more
calmness, at least in his demeanour.
Sir John Fenwick made an effort to do so; and, with one of those
painful smiles wherewith wretchedness often attempts to cover its own
misery, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Brown. This is a poor place for
me to receive you in. I could have done better, if you had honoured
me by a visit in Northumberland."
"I grieve much, Sir John, to see you in it," replied Wilton, "and
trust t