as if everything was going to be put to rights again . . .
At noon, armed with the latest edition of The Illustrated London News— for he was a man who liked to keep abreast of events—Jawster Gray left his flat on Charing Cross and headed toward the White Bear at the top of Oxford Street. He looked forward to a cheese roll and a few pints, and a diversion of his loneliness which he always found in the crowded pub.
As he paused on the pavement to await a break in the never-ending stream of carriages, he again pondered his dilemma. Good Gawd! How many times he'd been back and forth over the same territory. Earlier that morning he'd hoped to lose himself in sleep. But his simple bed, which in the past had always granted him soothing respite, had refused for some reason to receive him. He'd turned feverishly for several hours and at last had surrendered to wakefulness, lying on his back like a beached ship, staring out the soot-smudged window at the pale golden rifts in the clouds.
Fifteen hundred pounds would unsmudge those windows right enough, indeed would lift him totally free of the grim alley which served as his walkway, the black, unvarnished door which led in to the smelly stairs which in turn led to the mean, narrow, cold room in which he had passed the last forty-two years.
A few minutes later he took refuge in the White Bear, heading toward his table by the window which afforded him a safe but generous view of Piccadilly. Several of the young serving girls greeted him warmly, their faces glistening with perspiration.
From across the congested room, one called cheerily, "Jawster, you're up and about early."
Usually he enjoyed giggling with the girls. Now rather cheerlessly he
returned the greeting. "A cheese roll," he called out, "and a pint of ale."
He sank heavily into the chair and spread the newspaper before him. For a moment he rested his head in his hands as though his brain were on the verge of exploding. Sweet Gawd! There had to be respite somewhere. Hungry for distraction, he opened his eyes to an article concerning the arrival of the Coburg cousins, German princes, Ernest and a lad named Albert, here for Princess Victoria's seventeenth birthday. Carefully he studied the accompanying illustration. Such pretty children, all of them, although Jawster had no idea how the ship of state would manage to sail under the frail hand of a woman. And he knew, as did all of London, that it was only a matter of time before the old King died and left the slim girl in his place.
Again he stared at the pretty pampered faces before him. He would have liked to have had children. But how could a decent man ask a decent woman to share his lot of twelve shillings a week, and not even that in the beginning.
But now? Was it too late? Fifteen hundred pounds, a piece of Kent land, a comfortable cheery widow, not too old, perhaps still capable of childbearing, a couple of good horses, his own carriage? Why not!
A smile blazed across his face as he stared, unseeing, at the crowds beyond the window. The serving girl was at his elbow now. "Lord, Jawster," she grinned. "The look on your face! What is it you're seein'? The shores of Heaven?"
Hungrily he reached for the cheese roll while she was still lowering the plate. Unfortunately at that moment he remembered again the whole dread pleasure and pain of his last meeting with the Prince of Eden, the free bottle of port, the offer of fifteen hundred pounds.
He settled back in his chair, folded the newspaper to one side, and listened to the pleasant hum of voices rise about him. He stared, still unseeing, out the window at the crush of traffic. Then what was his decision? Use his keys and his position of authority to help the young woman to escape, pocket the small fortune, and never come near Newgate or London again?
Or— Refuse the bargain, endure the open court spectacle of burning flesh, endure too the bond of friendship with the Prince of Eden broken, no more bottles of
At noon, armed with the latest edition of The Illustrated London News— for he was a man who liked to keep abreast of events—Jawster Gray left his flat on Charing Cross and headed toward the White Bear at the top of Oxford Street. He looked forward to a cheese roll and a few pints, and a diversion of his loneliness which he always found in the crowded pub.
As he paused on the pavement to await a break in the never-ending stream of carriages, he again pondered his dilemma. Good Gawd! How many times he'd been back and forth over the same territory. Earlier that morning he'd hoped to lose himself in sleep. But his simple bed, which in the past had always granted him soothing respite, had refused for some reason to receive him. He'd turned feverishly for several hours and at last had surrendered to wakefulness, lying on his back like a beached ship, staring out the soot-smudged window at the pale golden rifts in the clouds.
Fifteen hundred pounds would unsmudge those windows right enough, indeed would lift him totally free of the grim alley which served as his walkway, the black, unvarnished door which led in to the smelly stairs which in turn led to the mean, narrow, cold room in which he had passed the last forty-two years.
A few minutes later he took refuge in the White Bear, heading toward his table by the window which afforded him a safe but generous view of Piccadilly. Several of the young serving girls greeted him warmly, their faces glistening with perspiration.
From across the congested room, one called cheerily, "Jawster, you're up and about early."
Usually he enjoyed giggling with the girls. Now rather cheerlessly he
returned the greeting. "A cheese roll," he called out, "and a pint of ale."
He sank heavily into the chair and spread the newspaper before him. For a moment he rested his head in his hands as though his brain were on the verge of exploding. Sweet Gawd! There had to be respite somewhere. Hungry for distraction, he opened his eyes to an article concerning the arrival of the Coburg cousins, German princes, Ernest and a lad named Albert, here for Princess Victoria's seventeenth birthday. Carefully he studied the accompanying illustration. Such pretty children, all of them, although Jawster had no idea how the ship of state would manage to sail under the frail hand of a woman. And he knew, as did all of London, that it was only a matter of time before the old King died and left the slim girl in his place.
Again he stared at the pretty pampered faces before him. He would have liked to have had children. But how could a decent man ask a decent woman to share his lot of twelve shillings a week, and not even that in the beginning.
But now? Was it too late? Fifteen hundred pounds, a piece of Kent land, a comfortable cheery widow, not too old, perhaps still capable of childbearing, a couple of good horses, his own carriage? Why not!
A smile blazed across his face as he stared, unseeing, at the crowds beyond the window. The serving girl was at his elbow now. "Lord, Jawster," she grinned. "The look on your face! What is it you're seein'? The shores of Heaven?"
Hungrily he reached for the cheese roll while she was still lowering the plate. Unfortunately at that moment he remembered again the whole dread pleasure and pain of his last meeting with the Prince of Eden, the free bottle of port, the offer of fifteen hundred pounds.
He settled back in his chair, folded the newspaper to one side, and listened to the pleasant hum of voices rise about him. He stared, still unseeing, out the window at the crush of traffic. Then what was his decision? Use his keys and his position of authority to help the young woman to escape, pocket the small fortune, and never come near Newgate or London again?
Or— Refuse the bargain, endure the open court spectacle of burning flesh, endure too the bond of friendship with the Prince of Eden broken, no more bottles of
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