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THE ORANGE GIRL

by

SIR WALTER BESANT

Illustrated by Warren B. Davis







New York
Dodd, Mead & Company
1899

Copyright, 1898,
By Walter Besant.




[Illustration: "OVER THIS RURAL PLACE WE STRAYED AT OUR WILL."]




CONTENTS


                                                             PAGE

    PROLOGUE                                                    1


    PART I

    HOW I GOT INTO THE KING'S BENCH


        I I AM TURNED OUT INTO THE WORLD                       15

       II A CITY OF REFUGE                                     23

      III A WAY TO LIVE                                        29

       IV LOVE AND MUSIC                                       33

        V WEDDING BELLS AND THE BOOK OF THE PLAY               40

       VI A CITY FUNERAL                                       51

      VII THE READING OF THE WILL                              58

     VIII THE TEMPTATION                                       65

       IX THE CLAIM AND THE ARREST                             72

        X THE ARREST                                           79


    PART II

    OUT OF THE FRYING PAN INTO THE FIRE


        I RELEASE                                              91

       II HOW I GOT A NEW PLACE                                97

      III THE MASQUERADE                                      103

       IV WHO SHE WAS                                         116

        V THE BLACK JACK                                      130

       VI A WARNING AND ANOTHER OFFER                         143

      VII JENNY'S ADVICE                                      156

     VIII A SUCCESSFUL CONSPIRACY                             162

       IX NEWGATE                                             170

        X THE SAME OFFER                                      184

       XI THE IMPENDING TRIAL                                 191

      XII THE TRIAL                                           197

     XIII THE COMPANY OF REVENGE                              213

      XIV AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE                                225

       XV THE FILIAL MARTYR                                   238

      XVI THE SNARE WHICH THEY DIGGED FOR OTHERS              248

     XVII THE CASE OF CLARINDA                                253

    XVIII THE FALLEN ALDERMAN                                 261

      XIX THE END OF THE CONSPIRACY                           267

       XX THE HONOURS OF THE MOB                              273

      XXI GUILTY, MY LORD                                     280

     XXII FROM THE CONDEMNED CELL                             295

    XXIII AN UNEXPECTED EVENT                                 308

     XXIV COMMUTATION                                         316

      XXV TRANSPORTATION                                      322

     XXVI THE LAST TEMPTATION                                 336




PROLOGUE


On a certain afternoon in May, about four or five of the clock, I was
standing at the open window of my room in that Palace to which Fortune
leads her choicest favourites--the College, or Prison, as some call it,
of the King's Bench. I was at the time a prisoner for debt, with very
little chance of ever getting out. More fortunate than most of the
tenants, I was able to carry on my business. For instance, all that
morning I had been engaged in composing a song--it was afterwards sung
with great applause at the Dog and Duck; and on the bed reposed the
instrument with which I earned the greater part of my daily bread--my
faithful violin.

My window was on the ground-floor in the great building which was then
new, for the Prison had been transferred from the other side two or
three years before. This building contains more than two hundred rooms,
and twice that number of prisoners. Many of the ground-floor rooms have
been converted into shops--chandlers', grocers', mercers', hosiers'. You
may buy anything in these shops, except a good book. I believe that
there is no demand in the prison for such an article of commerce.
Song-books and jest-books and cards on the other hand, are constantly
called for. It was a day of bright sunshine. Outside, on the Grand
Parade--otherwise called King Street--which is a broad footway flagged,
strolled up and down in the sunshine an endless procession. They paced
the pavement from East to West; they turned and paced it again from West
to East. Among them were a few neatly attired, but by far the greater
number, men and women, were slatternly, untidy, and slipshod. Their
walk--nobody was ever seen to walk briskly in the Prison--was the
characteristic scuffle easily acquired in this place; the men were
mostly in slippers: some were in morning gowns: very few had their
heads dressed: some wore old-fashioned wigs, rusty and uncombed: some,
the poorer set, were bare-footed, and in such rags and tatters as would
not be tolerated in the open streets. The faces of the people as they
passed were various. There was the humorous face of the prisoner who
takes fortune philosophically: there was the face always resentful: the
face resigned: the face vacuous: the face of suffering: the face sodden
with drink: the face vicious: the face soured: the face saddened: the
face, like the clothes, ragged and ruined: everything but the face
happy--that cannot be found in the King's Bench Prison. Children ran
about playing and shouting: there were at this time many hundreds of
children in the prison. Against the wall--'tis surely twenty-five feet
higher than is needed--the racquet and fives players carried on their
games: at the lower end of the Parade some played the game called Bumble
Puppy: here and there tables were set where men drank and smoked pipes
of tobacco and played cards, though as yet it was only afternoon. The
people talked as they went along, but not with animation: now and then
one laughed; but the merriment of the College is very near the fount of
tears; it hath a sound hysterical. Some conversed eagerly with visitors:
by their eagerness you knew that they were newcomers. What did they talk
about? The means of release? Yet so few do get out. For the first three
or four years of imprisonment, when visitors call, prisoners talk of
nothing else. After that time visitors cease to call: and there is no
more talk of release. A man in the King's Bench is speedily forgotten.
He becomes dead to the world: dead and forgotten. Surely there is no
more pitiless and relentless enemy than a creditor. Yet in church every
Sunday he asks, and expects, that mercy from his God which he himself
refuses to his debtor.

On no other day in the year could the Prison look more cheerful. Yet as
I stood at the window there fell upon me such sadness as belongs only to
the Prison; it is a longing to be free: a yearning inconceivable for the
green fields and the trees. Such moods are common in the Prison. I have
seen men turn aside from their friends in the midst of a song, in the
height of the revelry, and slink away from the company with drooping
head and bowed shoulders. It is indeed difficult not to feel this
sadness from time to time. I was young: I had few friends, for a reason
that I shall tell you presently. For aught that I could see there was
nothing before me but a life-long imprisonment. Nobody, I say, can
understand the strength and the misery of this yearning for liberty--for
air--that sometimes seizes the prisoner and rends him and will not let
him go. Yet I was better off than many, because, though I could in no
way pay the money for which I was imprisoned, I was not without the
means of a livelihood. I had, as I have said, my fiddle. So long as a
man has a fiddle and can play it he need never want. To play the fiddle
is the safest of all trades, because the fiddler is always wanted. If a
company is drinking they will call for the fiddler to lift up their
hearts: if there are girls with them they will call for the fiddler to
make them dance: if they would sing they want the fiddler to lead them
off: if they are sitting in the coffee-room they call for the fiddler to
enliven them. Grave discourse or gay; young people or old: they are
always ready to call for the fiddler and to pay him for his trouble. So
that by dint of playing every evening, I did very well, and could afford
to dine at the two shilling ordinary and to drink every day a glass or
two of ale, and to pay my brother-in-law for the maintenance of Alice
and the boy.

Among the prisoners were two who always walked together: talked
together: and drank together. The others looked askance upon them. One,
who was called the Captain, wore a scarlet coat which might have been
newer, and a gold-laced hat which had once been finer. He was a tall,
burly fellow, with the kind of comeliness one may see in a horse-rider
at a fair, or a fellow who performs on a tight-rope; a man who carries
by storm the hearts of village girls and leaves them all forlorn. He
swaggered as he walked, and looked about him with an insolence which
made me, among others, desirous of tweaking him by the nose, if only to
see whether his courage was equal to his swagger. I have always, since,
regretted that I lost the opportunity. Duels are not allowed in the
College, and perhaps in an encounter with the simpler weapons provided
by Nature I might have been equal to the Captain. His manners at the
Ordinary were noisy and, if he had ever really carried His Majesty's
Commission, as to which there were whispers, it must have been in some
branch of the service where the urbanities of life were not required.
Further: it was known that he was always ready to play with anyone: and
at any time of the day: it was reported that he always won: this
reputation, coupled with his insolent carriage, caused him to be shunned
and suspected.

His companion, commonly known as the Bishop, was dressed in the habit of
a clergyman. He wore a frayed silk cassock and a gown with dirty bands.
His wig, which wanted dressing, was canonical. His age might have been
forty or more: his cheeks were red with strong drink: his neck was
puffed: his figure was square and corpulent: his voice was thick: he
looked in a word what he was, not a servant of the Lord at all, but of
the Devil.

At this period I had little experience or knowledge of the people who
live by rogueries and cheats: nor had I any suspicion when a stranger
appeared that he was not always what he pretended to be. At the same
time one could not believe that the hulking fellow in a scarlet coat had
ever received a commission from the King: nor could anyone believe that
the hoglike creature who wore a cassock and a gown and a clergyman's wig
was really in Holy Orders.

Among the collegians there was one who pleased me, though his raiment
was shabby to the last degree, by his manners, which were singularly
gentle; and his language, which was that of a scholar. He scorned the
vulgar idiom and turned with disgust from the universal verb (or
participle) with which annoyance or dislike or disappointment was
commonly expressed. And he spoke in measured terms as one who pronounces
a judgment. I heard afterward that he wrote critical papers on new books
in the _Gentlemen's Magazine_. But I never read new books unless they
are books of music. When he could afford to dine at the Ordinary, which
was about twice a week, he sat beside me and instructed me by his
discourse. He was a scholar of some college at Cambridge and a poet. I
sometimes think that it may be a loss to the world not to know its
poets. There are without doubt some who regard poetry as musicians
regard music. Now if the work of a Purcell or a Handel were to fall dead
and unnoticed it would be a most dreadful loss to music and a
discouragement for composers. So that there may be poets, of whom the
world hears nothing, whose verse is neglected and lost, though it might
be of great service to other poets or to mankind, if verse can in any
way help the world.

However, one day, when these two prisoners, the Captain and the Bishop,
had left the Ordinary and were brawling in the tavern hard by for a
bottle of Port, my friend the scholar turned to me.

'Sir,' he said, 'the Prison ought to be purged of such residents. They
should be sent to the Borough Compter or the Clink. Here we have
gentlemen: here we have tradesmen: here we have craftsmen: we are a
little World. Here are the temptations of the world': he looked across
the table where some of the ladies of the Prison were dining. 'The
tavern invites us: the gaming table offers us a seat: we have our
virtues and our vices. But we have not our crimes. And as a rule we
cannot boast among our company the presence of the Robber, the Forger,
or the Common Rogue. We have, in a word, no representative, as a rule of
the Gallows, the Pillory, the Stocks, the Cart-tail, and the Whipping
Post.'

I waited, for he did not like to be interrupted.

'Sir,' he went on, 'I am a Poet. As a child of the Muses'--I thought
they were unmarried but did not venture on that objection--'it is my
business to observe the crooked ways of men and the artful ways of
women, even though one may at times be misunderstood--as has once or
twice happened. One may be the temporary companion of a Rogue without
having to pick a pocket. I remember the faces of those two men--I saw
them in a Thieves' Kitchen whither I was taken in disguise by one who
knows them. The Captain, Sir, is a Highwayman, common and notorious. He
is now five-and-twenty, and his rope is certainly long out, so that he
is kept from Tyburn Tree by some special favour by Mr. Merridew the
Thief-Taker. The other, whom they call the Bishop, is a Rogue of some
education. He may last longer because he is useful and it would be hard
to replace him. He was once usher in a suburban school at Marybone, and
now writes lying, threatening or begging letters for the crew. He also
concocts villainies. He threatens to set the house on fire, or to bring
the householder into bankruptcy: or in some way to injure him fatally
unless he sends a certain sum of money. He tells gentlemen who have been
robbed that they can have their papers back, but not their money, by
sending a reward. His villainy is without any pity or mercy or
consideration. The Captain is a mere robber--a Barabbas. The Bishop is
worse: he has the soul of a Fiend in the body of a man.'

'But why,' I said 'are they here?'

'They are in hiding. A sham debt has been sworn against them. From their
dejected faces and from what I have overheard them saying, I learn that
a true debt has been added for another detainer. But indeed I know not
their affairs, except that they came here in order to be out of the way,
and that something has happened to disconcert their plans. As honest men
we must agree in hoping that their plans, which are certainly dishonest,
may succeed, in order that their presence among us may cease and so we
may breathe again. The air of the Prison is sometimes close and even
musty, but we do not desire it to be mistaken for the reek of St.
Giles's or the stench of Turnmill Street.'

However, I troubled myself but little as to these two men. And I know
not how long they were in the prison. Had I known what they would do for
me in the future I think I should have brained them there and then.

This afternoon the pair were talking together with none of the
listlessness that belongs to the King's Bench. 'Might as well get out at
once'--I heard fragments--'quite certain that he won't appear--no more
danger--if she will consent,' and so on--phrases to which I paid no
attention.

Suddenly, however, they stopped short, and both cried out together:

'She's come herself!'

I looked out of my window and beheld a Vision.

The lady was alone. She stood at the end of the Parade and looked about
her for a moment with hesitation, because the scene was new to her. She
saw the ragged rout playing racquets: drinking at their tables: leaning
against the pumps at each of which there is always a little gathering:
or strolling by in couples on the Parade. Then she advanced slowly,
looking to the right and to the left. She smiled upon the people as they
made way for her: no Queen could have smiled more graciously: yet not a
Queen, for there was no majesty in her face, which was inspired by, and
filled with, Venus herself, the Goddess of charm and grace and
loveliness. Never was a face more lovely and more full of love. As for
her dress, all that I can tell you is that I have never known at any
time how this lady was dressed: she carried, I remember, an
ivory-handled fan in her hand: she seemed to beholders to be dressed in
nothing but lace, ribbons and embroidery. Her figure was neither tall
nor short. Reasonably tall, for a woman ought not to be six feet high:
so tall as not to be insignificant: not so tall as to dwarf the men:
slender in shape and quick and active in her movements. Her eyes, which
I observed later, changed every moment with her change of mood: one
would say that they even changed their colour, which was a dark blue:
they could be limpid, or melting, or fiery, or pitiful; in a word, they
could express every fleeting emotion. Her features changed as much as
her eyes: one never knew how she would look, until one had watched and
known her in all her moods and passions: her lips were always ready to
smile: her face was continually lit up by the sunshine of joy and
happiness. But this woman wanted joy as some women want love. Her voice
was gentle and musical.

I speak of her as I knew her afterwards, not as she appeared on this,
the first day of meeting. I make no excuse for thus speaking of her,
because, in truth, the very thought of Jenny--I have too soon revealed
her name--makes me long to speak of what she was. Out of the fulness of
my heart I write about her. And as you will understand presently, I
could love without wronging my wife, and as much as a woman can be
loved, and yet in innocence and with the full approval of the other
woman whom also I loved.

At the sight of this apparition the whole Prison stared with open mouth.
Who was this angel, and for what fortunate prisoner did she come? At the
very outset, when I could not dream that she would ever condescend to
speak to me, she seemed the most lovely woman I had ever beheld. Some
women might possess more regular features: no one, sure, was ever so
lovely, so bewitching, so attractive. It is as if I could go on forever
repeating my words. The women of the Prison--poor tattered drabs, for
the most part--looked after her with sighs--oh! to dress like that! Some
of them murmured impudently to each other, 'Who gave her all that
finery?' Most of them only looked and longed and sighed. Oh! to be
dressed like her! To look like her! To smile like her! To put on that
embroidered petticoat--that frock--those gloves--to carry that fan--to
possess that figure--that manner! Well: to gaze upon the inaccessible
may sometimes do us good. The sight of this Wonder made those poor women
appear a little less slatternly. They straightened themselves: they
tidied their hair: the more ragged crept away.

As for the men, they followed her with looks of wonder and of worship.
For my own part I understood for the first time that power of beauty
which compels admiration, worship and service: when I am greatly moved
by music that memory comes back to me. In looking upon such a woman, one
asks not what has been her history: what she is: what she has done: one
accepts the heavenly cheerfulness of her smile: the heavenly wisdom
seated on her brow: the heavenly innocence in her eyes: the purity which
cannot be smirched or soiled by contact with things of the world.

I continued to gaze upon her while she walked up the Parade. To my
surprise this angelic creature stopped before the pair of worthies--the
bully in scarlet and the drunken divine. What could she want with them?
They received her with profound salutations, the Bishop sweeping the
ground with his greasy hat.

'Madam,' he said, 'we did not expect that you would yourself condescend
to such a place.'

'I wished to see you,' she replied, curtly. I seemed to remember her
voice.

'May we conduct you, Madam,' said the Captain, 'to the Coffee-room for
more private conversation. Perhaps a glass----'

'Or,' said the Bishop, for she refused the proffered glass with an
impatient gesture--could such a woman drink with such men? she refused,
I say, with a shake of her head, 'for greater privacy to our own room.
It is on the third floor. No one will venture to intrude upon us--and
there is a chair. I fear that, in the neglect, which is too common in
this place, the beds are not yet made,' He looked as if the morning wash
had not been performed either.

'What do I care, sir,' she asked, interrupting again, 'whether your beds
are made or not? I shall stay here,' She withdrew a little nearer to the
wall beside my window, so 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 acquaintance. You
are so much like him that I venture to ask you who you are?'

'A prison bird, Madam. Nothing more,'

'Yes, but you are so like that gentleman. May I ask your name?'

'My name, at your service, Madam, is Halliday. My friends call me Will
Halliday.'

'Will Halliday. Are you a brother--but that cannot be--of Mr. Matthew
Halliday?'

'I am his first cousin.'

'Matthew Halliday's first cousin? But he is rich. Does he allow you to
remain in this place?'

'It is not only by the sufferance of my cousin Matthew but by his desire
that I am here.'

'By his desire! Yes--I know something of your cousin, sir. It is by his
desire. I discover new virtues in your cousin the more I learn of him. I
suppose, then, that you are not on friendly terms with your cousin?'

'I am not indeed. Quite the contrary,'

'Can you tell me the reason why?'

'Because he desires my death. Therefore he has caused my arrest--he and
an attorney of the devil--named Probus.'

'Oh! Probus! I have heard of that Probus. Sir, I would willingly hear
more concerning this matter and your cousin and Mr. Probus, if you will
kindly tell me. I must now go, but with your permission I will come
again. It is not I assure you, out of idle curiosity that I ask these
questions.'

The next day, or the day after, the Captain and the Bishop walked out of
the Prison. When they were gone open talk went round the Prison, perhaps
started by the Poet, that one was a highwayman and the other a
sharper--perhaps a forger--a contriver of plots and plans to deceive the
unwary. I marvelled that they should have received the bounty of so
fine a lady, for indeed, whether highwayman or sharper or honest men,
they were as foul-mouthed a pair of reprobates--drunken withal--as we
had in the prison.

And then I remembered, suddenly, the reason why I recognised the lady's
voice and why there was something in the face also that I seemed to
know. I had been but once in my life to the Theatre. On that occasion
there was an actress whose beauty and vivacity gave me the greatest
possible delight. One may perhaps forget the face of an actress playing
a part, because she alters her face with every part: but her voice, when
it is a sweet voice, one remembers. The lady was that actress. I
remembered her--and her name. She was Miss Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane.




PART I

HOW I GOT INTO THE KING'S BENCH




CHAPTER I

I AM TURNED OUT INTO THE WORLD


In the year 1760 or thereabouts, everybody knew the name of Sir Peter
Halliday, Merchant. The House in which Sir Peter was the Senior Partner
possessed a fleet of West Indiamen which traded between the Port of
London and Jamaica, Barbadoes, and the other English Islands, taking out
all kinds of stuffs, weapons, implements, clothing, wine, silks, gloves,
and everything else that the planters could want, and returning laden
with sugar in bags, mahogany, arrack, and whatever else the islands
produce. Our wharf was that which stands next to the Tower stairs: the
counting-house was on the wharf: there the clerks worked daily from
seven in the morning till eight at night. As a boy it was my delight to
go on board the ships when they arrived. There I ran up and down the
companion: into the dark lower deck where the midshipmen messed and
slept among the flying cockroaches, which buzzed into their faces and
the rats which ran over them and the creatures which infest a ship in
hot latitudes and come on board with the gunny-bags, such as centipedes,
scorpions, and great spiders. And I would stand and watch the barges
when they came alongside to receive the cargo. Then with a yeo-heave-oh!
and a chantey of the sailors, mostly meaningless, yet pleasant to hear,
they tossed the bags of sugar into the barge as if they were loaves of
bread, and the casks of rum as if they had been pint pots. Or I would
talk to the sailors and hear stories of maroon niggers and how the
planters engaged the sailors to go ashore in search of these fierce
runaways and shoot them down in the mountains: and stories of shark and
barra coota: of hurricanos and islands where men had been put ashore to
starve and die miserably: of pirates, of whom there have always been
plenty in the Caribbean Sea since that ocean was first discovered.
Strange things these sailors brought home with them: coral, pink and
white: preserved flying-fish: creatures put in spirits: carved
cocoanuts: everybody knows the treasures of the sailor arrived in port.

This, I say, was my delight as a boy: thus I learned to think of things
outside the narrow bounds of the counting-house and the City walls.
Marvellous it is to mark how while the Pool is crammed with ships from
all parts of the world, the Londoner will go on in ignorance of any
world beyond the walls of the City or the boundaries of his parish.
Therefore, I say, it was better for me than the study of Moll's
Geography to converse with these sailors and to listen to their
adventures.

Another thing they taught me. It is well known that on board every ship
there is one, at least, who can play the fiddle. A ship without a
fiddler is robbed of the sailors' chief joy. Now, ever since I remember
anything I was always making music: out of the whistle pipe: the
twanging Jews' harp: the comb and paper: but above all out of the
fiddle. I had a fiddle: I found it in a garret of our house in Great
College Street. I made a sailor tell me how to practise upon it:
whenever one of our ships put into port I made friends with the fiddler
on board and got more lessons; so that I was under instruction, in this
rude manner for the greater part of the year, and before I was twelve I
could play anything readily and after the fashion, rough and vigorous,
of the sailors with whom strength of arm reckons before style.

I belong to a family which for nearly two hundred years have been
Puritans. Some of them were preachers and divines under Cromwell. Their
descendants retained the strict observance of opinions which forbid
mirth and merriment, even among young people. Although they conformed to
the Church of England, they held that music of all kinds: the theatre:
dancing at the Assembly: reading poetry and tales: and wearing of fine
dress must be sinful, because they call attention from the salvation of
the soul, the only thing about which the sinner ought to think. Why it
was worse to let the mind dwell upon music than upon money-getting I
know not, nor have I ever been able to discover. It will be understood,
however, that ours was a strict household. It consisted of my father,
myself, a housekeeper and five servants, all godly. We had long prayers,
morning and evening; we attended the Church of St. Stephen Walbrook,
instead of our own parish church of St. Michael Paternoster, because
there was no organ in it: we went to church on Sundays twice: and twice
in the week to the Gift Lectures, of which there were two. My father was
a stern man, of great dignity. When he was Lord Mayor he was greatly
feared by malefactors. He was of a full habit of body, with a large red
face, his neck swollen into rolls. Like all merchants in his position he
drank a great deal of port, of which he possessed a noble cellar.

I have often wondered why it was never discovered that I practised the
fiddle in the garret. To be sure, it was only at those hours when my
father was on the wharf. When I had the door shut and the windows open
the maids below thought, I suppose, that the sounds came from the next
house. However that may be, I was never found out.

Now this fondness for music produced an unfortunate result. The sight of
a book of arithmetic always filled me with a disgust unspeakable. The
sight of a book of accounts inspired me with loathing. The daily aspect
of my father's clerks all sitting in a row on high stools, and all
driving the quill with heads bending over the paper, made me, even as a
child, believe theirs to be the most miserable lot that Fortune has to
offer her most unhappy victims. I still think so. Give me any other kind
of life: make me a bargee: a coal-heaver: a sailor before the mast: an
apothecary: a schoolmaster's usher: in all these occupations there will
be something to redeem the position: but for the accountant there is
nothing. All day long he sits within four walls: his pay is miserable:
his food is insufficient: when in the evening he crawls away, there is
only time left for him to take a little supper and go to his miserable
bed.

Imagine, therefore, my loathing when I understood that at the age of
sixteen I was to take my place among these unfortunates, and to work my
way towards the succession which awaited me--the partnership held by my
father--by becoming a clerk like unto these others whom I had always
pitied and generally despised. From that lot, however, there was no
escape. All the partners, from father to son, had so worked their way.
The reason of this rule was that the young men in this way acquired a
knowledge of the business in all its branches before they were called
upon to direct its enterprise, and to enter upon new ventures. I daresay
that it was a good practical rule. But in my own case I found it almost
intolerable.

I was unlike the clerks in one or two respects: I had good food and
plenty of it. And I received no salary.

I had a cousin, named Matthew, son of my father's younger brother and
partner, Alderman Paul Halliday, Citizen and Lorimer, who had not yet
passed the chair. Matthew, though his father was the younger son, was
three or four years older than myself. He, therefore, mounted the
clerks' stool so many years before me. He was a young man with a face
and carriage serious and thoughtful (to all appearance) beyond his
years. He had a trick of dropping his eyes while he talked: his face was
always pale and his hands were always clammy. Other young men who had
been at school with him spoke of him with disrespect and even hatred,
but I know not why. In a word, Matthew had no friends among those of his
own age. On the other hand, the older people thought highly of him. My
father spoke with praise of his capacity for business and of his
industry, and of the grasp of detail which he had already begun to show.
As for me, I could never like my cousin, and what happened when I was
about eighteen years of age gave me no reason to like him any better.

I had been in the counting-house for two years, each day feeling like a
week for duration. But the question of rebellion had so far never
occurred to me. I could no longer practise in the garret while my father
was in the counting-house. But I could get away, on pretence of business
to the ships, and snatch an hour below with the fiddler. And in the
evening sometimes, when my father was feasting with a City Company or
engaged in other business out of the house, I could take boat across the
river and run over to St. George's Fields, there to have half an hour of
play with a musician, of whom you shall learn more, called Tom Shirley.
After the manner of youths I never asked myself how long this would go
on without discovery: or what would be the result when it was
discovered. Yet I knew very well that no Quaker could be more decided
as to the sinfulness of music than my father and my uncle. Had not the
great and Reverend Samuel Halliday, D. D., preached before the Protector
on the subject of the snares spread by the devil to catch souls by means
of music?

Now, one afternoon in the month of June, when the counting-house is more
than commonly terrible, a message came to me that my father wished to
speak with me.

I found him in his own room, his brother Paul sitting with him. His face
showed astonishment and anger; that of his brother presented some
appearance of sorrow--real or not, I cannot say. My uncle Paul was, as
often happens in a family, a reduced copy of his elder brother. He was
not so tall: not so portly: not so red in the face: not so swollen in
the neck: yet he was tall and portly and red and swollen. He was shaking
his head as I entered saying, 'Dear! dear! dear! And in our family
too--in our family!'

'Son William,' said my father, 'I have heard a serious thing.'

'What is that, Sir, if I may ask?'

'I learn from my brother, who had it from Matthew----'

'From Matthew,' my uncle interposed solemnly.

'That you lose no opportunity of getting away from your desk to go on
board our ships in the Pool, there to play the fiddle with the common
sailors--to play the fiddle--the common fiddle--like a fellow with a
bear--with the common sailors. I hear that our Captains and officers are
all acquainted with this unworthy pastime of yours! I hear, further,
that you have formed an acquaintance with a certain fellow named
Shirley, now a prisoner in the Rules of the King's Bench, one who makes
a sinful living by playing wanton music for lewd and wicked persons at
what are called Pleasure Gardens, whither resort such company as no
godly youth should meet. And I hear that you spend such time as you can
spare under the tuition of this person.'

He stopped. My uncle took up the word.

'All these things I am assured by my son Matthew to be the case. I have
informed Matthew that in my opinion it was right and even necessary that
they should be brought before the notice of my brother.'

'I wait thy reply, Will,' said my father.

'It is all quite true, Sir.'

'Quite true.' I felt a little sinking of the heart because of the
disappointment and sadness in his voice. 'But,' he went on, 'what is the
meaning of it? For my own part I see no good purpose to be gained by
music. On the other hand my grandfather, the Rev. Dr. Samuel Halliday,
hath clearly shown in his book of godly discourses, that music,
especially music with dancing, is the surest bait by which the devil
draws souls to destruction. People, I am aware, will have music. At our
Company's feasts music attends: at the Lord Mayor's banquets there is
music: at the Lord Mayor's Show there is music: at many churches there
is an organ: but what hast thou to do with music, Will? It is thy part
to become a merchant, bent on serious work: and outside the
counting-house to become a magistrate. What hast thou to do with music?'

He spoke, being much moved, kindly--because--alas! he loved his son.

'Sir,' I said, 'it is all most true. There is nothing that I love so
much as music.'

'Consider,' he went on. 'There is no place for music in the life before
thee. All day long learning thy work in the counting-house: some time to
succeed me in this room. How is it possible for a young man who stoops
to make music on catgut with a bow to become a serious merchant,
respected in the City?'

'Indeed, Sir, I do not know,'

'How will it be possible for you to advance the interests of the
House--nay, to maintain the interests of the House, when it is known
that you are a common scraper in a crowd like a one-legged man with a
Jack in the Green?'

Now I might even then have submitted and promised and given up my fiddle
and so pleased my father and remained in his favour. But this was one of
those moments which are turning-points in a man's life. Besides I was
young; I was inexperienced. And an overwhelming disgust fell upon my
soul as I thought of the counting-house and the ledgers and the long
hours in the dingy place driving the quill all day long. So without
understanding what the words meant, I broke out impatiently:

'Sir,' I said, 'with submission, I would ask your leave to give up my
place in this office.'

'Give up? Give up?' he cried, growing purple in the face. 'Does the boy
know what he means?'

[Illustration: "'GIVE UP!' HE CRIED, GROWING PURPLE IN THE FACE."]

'Give up?' cried my uncle. 'Is the boy mad? Give up his prospects in
this House--this--the soundest House in the whole City? Nephew Will,
wouldst starve?'

'I will make a living by music.'

'Make a living--a living--make a living--by music? What? To play the
fiddle in a tavern? To play in the gallery while your father is feasting
below?'

'Nay, sir; but there are other ways.'

'Hark ye, Will; let this stop. Back to thy desk lest something happen.'
My father spoke with sudden sternness.

'Nay, sir; but I am serious.'

'Ay--ay? Serious? Then I am serious, too. Understand, then, that I own
no son who disgraces the City family to which he belongs by becoming a
common musician. Choose. Take thy fiddle and give up me--this
office--thine inheritance--thine inheritance, mind, or lay down the
fiddle and go back to thy desk. There, sir, I am, I hope, serious
enough.'

He was. My father was a masterful man at all times; he was perfectly
serious. Now the sons of masterful men are themselves often masterful. I
walked out of the counting-house without a word.

I am conscious that there is no excuse for a disobedient son. I ought to
have accepted any orders that my father might choose to lay upon me. But
to part with my fiddle, to give up music: to abandon that sweet
refreshment of the soul: oh! it was too much.

Moreover, no one knew better than myself the inveterate hatred with
which my father and the whole of my family regarded what they called the
tinkling cymbal which they thought leads souls to destruction. Had I
seen any gleam of hope that there would be a relenting, I would have
waited. But there was none. Therefore I cast obedience to the winds, and
left the room without a word.

Had I known what awaited me: the misfortunes which were to drag me down
almost unto a shameful death, in consequence of this act of
disobedience, I might have given way.

But perhaps not: for in all my troubles there were two things which
cheered and sustained me, I enjoyed at all times, so you shall learn,
the support of love and the refreshment of music.

Had my father known of these misfortunes would he have given way? I
doubt it. Misfortune does not destroy the soul, but music does. So he
would say and so think, and conduct his relations with his own
accordingly.

I walked out of the counting-house. At the door I met, face to face, the
informer, my cousin Matthew, who had caused all this trouble.

He was attired as becomes a responsible merchant, though as yet only a
clerk or factor with the other clerks. He wore a brown coat with silver
buttons: white silk stockings: silver buckles in his shoes: silver braid
upon his hat: a silver chain with seals hanging from his fob: with white
lace ruffles and neckerchief as fine as those of his father, or of any
merchant on Change.

He met me, I say, face to face, and for the first time within my
knowledge, he grinned when he met me. For he knew what had been said to
me. He grinned with a look of such devilish glee that I understood for
the first time how much he hated me. Why? I had never crossed him.
Because I was the son of the senior partner whose place I was to take
and of the richer man of the two Partners. His would be the subordinate
position with a third only of the profits. Therefore my cousin hated me.
He, I say, noted my discomfiture. Now, at that moment, I was in no mood
for mockery.

Something in my face stopped his grinning. He became suddenly grave: he
dropped his eyes: he made as if he would pass by me and so into the
house.

'Villain and maker of mischief!' I cried. Then I fell upon him. I had
but fists: he had a stick: I was eighteen: he was five-and-twenty: he
was heavier and taller: well; there is little credit, because he was a
poor fighter: in two minutes I had his stick from him, and in three more
I had broken it over his head and his shoulders. However, had his wind
and his strength equalled his hatred and desire that the stick should be
broken over my shoulders instead of his, the result would have been
different.

'You shall pay--you shall pay--you shall pay for this,' he gasped, lying
prostrate.

I kicked him out of my way as if he had been a dog and strode off, my
cheek aflame, my hand trembling and my limbs stiffened with the joy of
the fight and the victory. Come what might, I had whipped my cousin,
like the cur he was. A thing to remember.

I have never repented that act of justice. The memory of it brought many
woes upon me, but I have never repented or regretted it. And certain I
am that to the day of his miserable death Matthew never forgot it. Nor
did I.




CHAPTER II

A CITY OF REFUGE


My last recollection of the counting-house is that of Matthew lying in a
heap and shaking his fist, at me, while, behind, my uncle's face looks
out amazed upon the spectacle from one door, and the clerks in a crowd
contemplate the discomfiture of Mr. Matthew from another door. Then I
strode off, I say, like a gamecock after a victory, head erect, cheek
flushed, legs straight. Ha! I am always glad that I drubbed my cousin,
just once. A righteous drubbing it was, too, if ever there was one. It
hanselled the new life. After it, there was no return possible.

And so home--though the house in College Street could no longer be
called a home--I now had no home--I was turned into the street. However,
I went upstairs to my own room--mine no longer. I looked about. In the
cupboard I found a black box in which I placed everything I could call
my own: my music; my linen and my clothes. On the wall hung the
miniature of my mother. Happily she had not lived to see the banishment
of her son: this I put in my pocket. The fiddle I laid in its case. Then
with my cudgel under my arm and carrying the fiddle in one hand and the
box on my shoulder I descended the stairs--now, I must confess, with a
sinking heart--and found myself in the street.

I had in my purse five guineas--the son of a most solid and substantial
merchant, and I had no more than five guineas in the world. What could I
do to earn a living? Since I had been for two years in my father's
counting house I might be supposed to know something of affairs. Alas! I
knew nothing. One art or accomplishment I possessed: and one alone. I
could play the fiddle. Now that I had to depend upon my playing for a
livelihood, I began to ask whether I could play well enough. At all
events, I could play vigorously. But the die was cast. I had made my
choice, and must make the best of it. Besides, had I not drubbed my
cousin Matthew and that, as they say, with authority?

You have heard how my father accused me of intimacy with a person named
Shirley, a resident in the Rules of the King's Bench. That charge I
could not deny. Indeed, the person named Shirley, by all his friends
called Tom, had been of late my master. Every spare hour that I had was
spent with him, practising with him and learning from him. He taught a
finer style than I could learn from the sailors. When I went into the
counting-house I had no longer any spare hours, except in the evening,
and then my master was engaged earning his bread in an orchestra. Still
I could manage to visit him sometimes on Sunday evenings when my father
was generally occupied with friends who loved likewise to limit and make
as narrow as they could the mercies of the Almighty.

At this moment I could think of no one except Tom Shirley who could help
me or advise me.

I therefore lugged my box and my violin to the Three Cranes, and took
boat across to Moldstrand Stairs, from which it is an easy half mile by
pleasant lanes, Love Lane and Gravel Lane, past Looman's Pond to St.
George's Fields where Tom Shirley lived.

It was a little after noon when I arrived at the house. It was one of
three or four cottages standing in a row, every cottage consisting of
four or five rooms. They are pleasing retreats, each having a small
front garden where lilacs, laburnums, hollyhock, sunflowers, tulips, and
other flowers and bushes grow. In front of the garden flows languidly
one of the many little streams which cross the fields and meadows of
Southwark: a rustic bridge with a single hand-rail crosses the stream.

The region of St. George's Fields, as is very well known, has a
reputation which, in fact, is well deserved. The fact that it is covered
with shallow ponds, some of which are little better than mere laystalls,
causes it to be frequented on Sundays and on summer evenings by the rude
and barbarous people who come here to hunt ducks with dogs--a horrid
sport: some of them even throw cats into the water and set their dogs at
them. The same people come here for prize fights, but they say that the
combatants have an understanding beforehand how long the fight is to
last: some come for quarter-staff practice: some come for hockey or for
football. Outside the Fields there are many taverns and places of
entertainment: on the Fields there is at least one, the notorious Dog
and Duck. Every evening except in winter these places are full of people
who come to dance and drink and sing. Every kind of wickedness is openly
practised here: if a man would gamble, here are the companions for him
and here are rooms where he can play: if he would meet women as deboshed
as himself here they may be found.

It is unfortunate for Southwark and its environs that everything seems
to have conspired to give it a bad name. First of all, it was formerly
outside the jurisdiction of the City, so that all the villains and
criminals of the City got across the water and found refuge here. Next,
the government of the place was not single, but divided by the manors,
so that a rogue might pass from one manor into another and so escape:
thirdly, the Sanctuary of Southwark tolerated after the Reformation at
St. Mary Overies, grew to accommodate as great a number as that in
Westminster where they only lately pulled down the gray old Tower which
looked like a donjon keep rather than the walls enclosing two chapels. I
know not whether there was such a tower at Montagu Close, but within my
recollection no officer of the law dared to arrest any sanctuary man in
Mint Street--their latest refuge: nor did any person with property to
lose venture into that street. For first his hat would be snatched off:
then his wig: then his silk handkerchief: then he would be hustled,
thrown, and kicked: when he was permitted to get up it was without
watch, chain, buckles, shoes, lace cravat, ruffles. Fortunate if he was
allowed to escape with no more injury. The presence of these villains
was alone enough to give the place a bad name. But there was more.
Prisons there must be, but in Southwark there were too many. The King's
Bench Prison: the Marshal-sea: the Borough Compter: the Clink: the White
Lyon. So many prisons in a place so thinly populated produced a
saddening effect. And, besides, there are those who live in the Rules,
which are themselves a kind of prison but without walls. In another
part, along the Embankment, the Show Folk used to live: those who act:
those who write plays and songs: those who dance and tumble: mimes,
musicians, buffoons: and those who live by the bear-baiting,
badger-baiting, bull-baiting, and cock-throwing, which are the favourite
sports of Southwark.

These considerations are quite sufficient to account for the evil
reputation which clings to the Borough. They do not, however, prevent it
from being a place of great resort for those who come up from Kent and
Surrey on business, and they do not for obvious reasons prevent the
place from being inhabited by the prisoners of the Rules.

When I arrived, Tom Shirley was playing on the harpsichord, his head in
a white nightcap, his wig hanging on a nail. As he played, not looking
at notes or keys, his face was turned upwards and his eyes were rapt. As
one watched him his face changed in expression with the various emotions
of the music: no man, certainly, was more moved by music than Tom
Shirley. No man, also, could more certainly bring out the very soul of
the music, the inner thought of the composer. He played as if he loved
playing, which indeed he did whether it was a country dance, or a minuet
or an oratorio or a Roman Catholic Mass. It was a fine face, delicate in
outline; full of expression: the face of a musician: it lacked the
firmness which belongs to one who fights: he was no gladiator in the
arena: a face full of sweetness. Everyone loved Tom Shirley. As for age,
he was then about five-and-twenty.

I stood at the open door and looked in, listening, for at such moments
he heard nothing. There was another door opposite leading to the
kitchen, where his wife was engaged in some domestic work. Presently,
she lifted her head and saw me. 'Father,' she cried. 'Here is Will!'

He heard that: brought his fingers down with a splendid chord and sprang
to his feet. 'Will? In the morning? What is the meaning--why this box?'

'I have come away, Tom. I have left the counting-house for good.'

'What? You have deserted the money bags? You have run away for the sake
of music?'

'My father has turned me out.'

'And you have chosen music. Good--good--what could you have done better?
Wife, hear this. Will has run away. He will play the fiddle in the
orchestra rather than become an Alderman and Lord Mayor.'

'I want to live as you live, Tom.'

'If you can, boy, you shall.' Now it was the humour of Tom to speak of
his own cottage and his manner of life as if both were stately and
sumptuous. 'Very few,' he added proudly, 'can live as we live.' He
looked proudly round. The room was about ten feet square: low, painted
drab, without ornament, without curtains: there were a few shelves: a
cupboard: a small table: two brass candlesticks, a brass pair of
snuffers: four rush-bottomed chairs, and nothing more.

Tom was dressed in an old brown coat with patches on the elbows, the
wrists frayed and the buttons gone. To be sure he had a finer coat for
the orchestra. His stockings were of worsted, darned in many places: a
woollen wrapper was round his neck. Everything proclaimed poverty: of
course people who are not poor do not live in the Rules. 'Few,' he
repeated, 'are privileged to live as I live.' I have never known whether
this was a craze or his humour to pretend that he fared sumptuously: was
lodged like a prince: and received the wages of an ambassador. Perhaps
it was mere habit; a way of presenting his own life to himself by
exaggeration and pretence which he had somehow grown to believe.

'You ask, Will, a thing difficult of achievement.'

'But gradually--little by little. One would never expect it all at
once.'

'Ay, there we talk sense. But first, why hath Sir Peter behaved with
this (apparent) harshness? I would not judge him hastily. Therefore I
say, apparent.'

'Because he found out at last--my cousin Matthew told him--that I came
here to play the fiddle. So he gave me the choice--either to give up the
counting-house or to give up the music. And I gave up the
counting-house, Tom. I don't care what happens so that I get out of the
counting-house.'

'Good--lad--good.'

'And I drubbed my cousin--I paid him with his own stick. And here I am.'

He took my hand, his honest face beaming with satisfaction. At that
moment, his sister Alice came back from making some purchases in the
Borough High Street. 'Alice my dear,' he said, 'Will has been turned out
of house and home by his father--sent out into the streets without a
penny.'

Alice burst into tears.

When I think of Alice at that moment, my heart swells, my eyes grow
humid. She was then fifteen, an age when the child and the woman meet,
and one knows not whether to expect the one or the other. When Alice
burst into tears it was the child who wept: she had always loved me with
a childish unconsciousness: she was only beginning to understand that I
was not her brother.

You know how sweet a flower will sometimes spring up in the most
unlovely spot. Well: in this place, close to the Dog and Duck, with
prodigals and rakes and painted Jezebels always before her eyes, this
child grew up sweet and tender and white as the snow. I have never known
any girl upon whom the continual sight--not to be concealed--of gross
vice produced so little effect: it was as if the eyes of her soul
involuntarily closed to the meaning of such things. Such sweetness, such
purity, was stamped upon her face then as afterwards. Never, surely, was
there a face that showed so plain and clear to read that the thoughts
behind it were not earthly or common.

'It is the soul of music that possesses her,' said her brother once.
'She has imbibed that soul day by day. Will, 'tis a saintly child.
Sometimes I fear that she may be carried away like Elijah.'

Well, when I saw those tears, I was seized with a kind of joyful
compassion and, so to speak, happy shame, to think that those tears were
for me. I drew her gently and kissed her.

'Why, nothing better could have happened to him. Thou little simpleton,'
said her brother. Warming up with his subject, he became eloquent. 'He
shall do much better--far better--than if he had stayed in the
counting-house. He shall not be weighed down with a load of riches: he
shall have to work in order to live--believe me, Will, Art must be
forced by necessity: where there is no necessity there is no Art: when
riches creep in, Art becomes a toy. Because he must work, therefore he
will be stimulated to do great things. He shall never set his mind upon
growing rich: he shall remain poor.'

'Not too poor,' said his wife gently. Indeed her poor shabby dress
showed what she meant.

'Peace, woman. He shall be poor, I say. Happy lad! He shall be poor. He
shall never have money in a stocking, and he shall never want any. He
shall live like the sparrows, from day to day, fed by the bounty of the
Lord.'

'Who loveth the Dog and Duck,' said his wife.

The husband frowned. 'To sum up, Will, thy lot shall be the happiest
that the world can give. What?' He lifted his hand and his eyes grew
brighter. 'For the musician the curse of labour is remitted: for him
there is no longing after riches: for him there is no flattery of great
men: for him there is no meanness; for him there are no base arts: for
him there is no wriggling: for him there are no back stairs: for him
there is no patron.--In a word, Will, the musician is the only free man
in the world.'

'In the Rules, you mean, my dear.' This was his wife's correction.

'Will,' said Alice, 'shall you really become like Tom?'

'Truly, Alice, if I can.'

'Wife,' said Tom. 'Will shall stay with us. He can sleep in the garret.
We must find a mattress somewhere.'

'Nay, but I must pay my footing. See, Tom. I have five guineas.' I
showed this mine of wealth. He took one and gave it to his wife.

'Aha!' he laughed. 'Buy him a mattress and a blanket, wife. And this
evening we will have a bowl of punch. Will, we shall fare like Kings and
like the Great ones of the Earth.'




CHAPTER III

A WAY TO LIVE


I think that Tom Shirley was the most good-natured man in the whole
world: the most ready to do anything he could for anybody: always
cheerful: always happy: partly, I suppose, because he looked at
everything through spectacles of imagination. He joined, however, to his
passion for music another which belonged to a lower world: namely, for
punch. Yet he was not an intemperate man: he showed neither purple
cheeks, nor a double chin, nor a swollen neck, nor a rubicund nose--all
of which were common sights on Change and in the streets of London. The
reason why he displayed no signs of drink was that he could seldom
gratify his passion for punch by reason of his poverty, and that in
eating, which, I believe, also contributes its share to the puffing out
of the neck and the painting of the nose, such as may be seen on Change,
he was always as moderate, although he thought every meal a feast, as
became his slender means.

I do not know how he got into the King's Bench, but the thing is so easy
that one marvels that so many are able to keep out. They put him in and
kept him there for a time, when he was enabled to obtain the privilege
of the Rules. He was, as he boasted, always rich, because he thought he
was rich. His wife took from him, every week, the whole of his wages,
otherwise he would have given them away.

At one o'clock Alice laid the cloth and we had dinner. Tom lifted the
knife and fork and held it over the cold boiled beef as if fearing to
mar that delicate dish by a false or clumsy cut. 'Is there anything,' he
said, 'more delicious to the palate than cold boiled beef? It must be
cut delicately and with judgment--with judgment, Will.' He proceeded to
exercise judgment. There was a cabbage on the table. 'This delicacy,' he
said, 'is actually grown for us--for us--in the gardens of Lambeth
Marsh. Remark the crispness of it: there is a solid heart for you: there
is colour: there is flavour.' All this was, I remember, the grossest
flattery. 'Oat cake,' he said, breaking a piece. 'Some, I believe,
prefer wheaten bread. They do wrong. Viands must not be judged by their
cost but by their fitness to others on the table, and by the season.
Remember, Will, that with cold boiled beef, oat cake is your only
eating.' He poured out some beer into a glass and held it up to the
light. 'Watch the sparkles: hear the humming: strong October this'--it
was the most common small beer--'have a care, Will, have a care.' And so
on, turning the simple meal into a banquet.

His wife and sister received these extravagances without a smile. They
were used to them. The latter, at least, believed that they were the
simple truth. The poor girl was innocently proud of her humble home,
this cottage on St. George's Fields, within the Rules.

After dinner, we talked. As the subject was Music Tom was somewhat
carried away; yet there was method in his madness.

'I said, lad, that there would be no Art if there were no necessity.
'Tis Poverty alone makes men became musicians and painters and poets.
Where can you find a rich man who was ever a great artist? I am no
scholar, but I have asked scholars this question, and they agree with me
that riches destroy Art. Hardly may Dives become even a Connoisseur. He
may become a general or a statesman: we do not take all from him: we
leave him something--but not the best--that we keep for ourselves--we
keep Art for ourselves. As for a rich merchant becoming a musician or a
painter--it is impossible: one laughs at the very thought.'

'Well, that danger is gone, Tom, so far as I am concerned.'

'Ay. The reason I take it, is that Art demands the whole man--not a bit
of him--the whole man--all his soul, all his mind, all his thoughts, all
his strength. You must give all that to music, Will.'

'I ask nothing better.'

'Another reason is that Art raises a man's thoughts to a higher level
than is wanted for Trade. It is impossible for a man's mind to soar or
to sink according as he thinks of art or trade. You will remember, Will,
for your comfort, that your mind is raised above the City.'

'I will remember.'

'Well, then, let us think about what is best to be done.'

He pondered a little. Then he smiled.

'Put pride in pocket, Will. Now what would you like?'

'To write great music.'

'A worthy ambition. It has been my own. It is not for me to say whether
my songs, which are nightly sung at the Dog and Duck, are great music or
not. Posterity may judge. Lad, it is one thing to love music--and
another thing to compose it. The latter is given to few: the former to
many. It may be that it is thy gift. But I know not. Meantime, we must
live.'

'I will do anything.'

'Again--put pride in pocket. Now there is a riverside tavern at
Bermondsey. It is a place for sailors and their Dolls. A rough and
coarse place it is, at best. They want a fiddler from six o'clock till
ten every night, and later on Saturdays.'

I heard with a shiver. To play in a sailors' tavern! It was my father's
prophecy.

'Everybody must begin, Will. What? A sailors' tavern is no place for the
son of a City merchant, is it? But that is gone. Thou art now nobody's
son--a child of the gutter--the world is thine oyster--free of all
ties--with neither brother nor cousin to say thee nay. Lucky dog! What?
We must make a beginning--I say--in the gutter.'

His eyes twinkled and smiled, and I perceived without being told that he
meant to try my courage. So, with a rueful countenance and a foolish
sense of shame, I consented to sit in the corner of a sanded room in a
common riverside tavern and to make music for common sailors and their
sweethearts.

'Why,' said Tom, 'that is well. And now, my lad, remember. There are no
better judges of a fiddle than sailors. They love their music as they
love their lobscouse, hot and strong and plenty. Give it elbow, Will.
They are not for fine fingering or for cunning strokes and effects--they
like the tune to come out full and sweet. They will be thy masters. As
for dancing, they like the time to be marked as well as the tune. Find
out how they like to take it. There is one time for a hornpipe and
another for a jig. As for pay----'

I will not complete the sentence. For such as myself there must be a Day
of Small Things. But one need not confess how very small these things
have been.

Thus it was that I found an Asylum--a City of Refuge--in the Rules of
the King's Bench, when I was turned out by my own people. And in this
way I became that despised and contemptible object, a Common Fiddler. I
played, not without glory, every night, to a company as low as could be
found. At least, I thought so at the time. Later on, it is true, I found
a lower company still. And I dare say there are assemblies of men and
women even lower. My fellows, at least, were honest, and their
companions were, at least, what the men had made them.

We settled the business that very afternoon, walking over to Bermondsey.
The landlord said I was very young, but if I could fiddle he did not
mind that, only it must be remembered in the pay. So I was engaged to
begin the next day. In the evening I went with Tom to the Dog and Duck
where he played first fiddle in the Orchestra, and sat in the
musicians' gallery. About this place more anon. At twelve o'clock the
music ceased and I walked home with Tom. I remember, it was then a fine
clear night in September: the wind blew chill across the marshes: it had
come up with the flow of the river: the moon was riding high: a strange
elation possessed my soul: for my independence was beginning: four
guineas in my pocket: and a place with so many shillings a week to live
upon: nothing to do but to work at music: and to live with the
best-hearted man in the whole world.

We got home. Alice had gone to bed. Tom's wife was sitting up for us,
the bowl of punch was ready for us, not too big a bowl, because Tom's
weakness where punch was concerned was well known. He drank my success
in one glass: my future operas and oratorios in the second: my joyful
independence in the third: and my happy release in the fourth. That
finished the bowl and we went to bed.




CHAPTER IV

LOVE AND MUSIC


You need not be told how I lived for the next three or four years. I
took what came. Pride remained in pocket. I fiddled a wedding-party to
church and home again. I fiddled the Company of Fellowship Porters
through the streets when they held their yearly feast. I fiddled for
sailors; I fiddled at beanfeasts; I fiddled for Free Masons; I fiddled
in taverns; I fiddled here and there and everywhere, quite unconcerned,
even though I was playing in the gallery of a City company's hall, and
actually saw my cousin sitting in state among the guests at the feast
below, and knew that he saw me and rejoiced at the sight, in his
ignorance of the consolations of music.

Nothing in those days came amiss to me. One who makes music for his
livelihood has no cause to be ashamed of playing for anyone. It does not
seem an occupation such as one would choose, to spend the evening in a
chair, stuck in a corner out of the way, in a stinking room, for rough
fellows to dance hornpipes: the work does not lift up the soul to the
level which Tom Shirley claimed for the musician. But this was only the
pot-boiling work. I had the mornings to myself, when I could practise
and attempt composition. Besides, at eighteen, the present, if one
belongs to a calling which has a career, is of very little importance:
the real life lies before: the boy lives for the future. I was going, in
those days, to be a great composer like Handel. I was going to write
oratorios such as his: majestic, where majesty was wanted: tender, where
love and pity must be depicted: devout, where piety was called for. I
would write, besides, in my ambition, such things as were written by
Purcell and Arne: anthems for the church: songs and madrigals and rounds
and catches such as those with which my patron Tom Shirley delighted his
world.

The profession of music is one which can only be followed by those who
have the gift of music. That is the definition of any Art: it can only
be followed by those who have the gift of that Art. In any other calling
a man may serve after a fashion, who hath not been called thereto. Many
men, for example, are divines who have neither learning nor eloquence
nor--the Lord help them!--religion. Many lawyers have no love for the
law. Many merchants hate the counting-house. But in music no one can
serve at all unless he is a musician born. He who, without the gift,
would try to enter the profession breaks down at the outset, seeing that
he cannot even learn to play an instrument with feeling, ease, or
judgment. Nay, there are distinct ranks of music, to each of which one
is raised by Nature, as much as by study. Thus, you have at the bottom,
the rank and file, namely, those who can play a single instrument: next,
those who can compose and make simple music for songs, in which all that
is wanted is a tuneful and spirited air with an ordinary accompaniment:
next those who understand harmony and can make music of a higher
character, such as anthems, part-songs, and so forth. Lastly, you have
the composer in whose brains lies the knowledge of every instrument in
the orchestra. He is the King of musicians: from him come the noble
oratorios which delight our age and lift our souls to Heaven: from him
come the masses which are sung--I have the scores of several--in
Cathedrals of Roman Catholic countries. It is not for an Englishman to
admire aught that belongs to Rome: but we must at least concede to the
Roman Catholic the possession of noble music.

This, then, was my ambition. For four years I continued to live with my
friend Tom Shirley. I held no communication with my father or any of my
own people. None of them made any attempt at reconciliation. I believe
they were honestly ashamed of me. The new friends I made were good and
faithful: musical people have ever kindly hearts, and are loyal to each
other: they do not backbite: there is no room for envy where one man
plays the fiddle and another the cornet: we are all a company of
brothers.

The time came when it was no longer necessary for me to play at taverns
for the sailors: when I was no longer compelled to attend weddings. I
obtained, one after the other, two posts, neither of which was a very
great thing, but both together made it possible for me to live in some
comfort. The first was that of organist at St. George's in the Borough.
I had to attend the service and to play the organ twice on Sunday: the
week day services and the Gift Lectures were conducted without any
singing. The Church contains, I believe, the most fashionable
congregation of South London, and therefore the most critical. I do not
think, however, that, while I sat in the organ-loft, they had any reason
to complain either of music or of choir. There sat with me in the
organ-loft, Alice, who possessed a sweet, clear, and strong voice: her
brother Tom, who brought into the choir an excellent tenor: Mr. Ramage,
one of my father's clerks, who lodged behind the Marshal-sea, gave us a
bass of indifferent quality, though he was now past fifty. Half a dozen
boys and girls from the Charity School, of no great account for voices,
made up our choir. I believe it was better than the average, and I think
that people came on Sunday morning on purpose to hear the organ and the
singing.

Mr. Ramage, or Ramage, as he was called in the Counting-house, where no
title is allowed to any below the rank of partner or partner's son, kept
me acquainted with events in College Street and on the wharf. My father,
it was understood, never mentioned my name: the business of the Firm was
never more flourishing: Mr. Matthew was constantly called in for
consultations. 'And oh! Master Will,' my old friend always concluded,
'be reconciled. What is it--to give up playing the organ at Church?
Why--it is nothing. Someone else will play while you sit in state in
your red velvet pew below. Give way to your father. He is a hard man,
but he is just.'

It also appeared from Mr. Ramage's information that it was perfectly
well known by the clerks and by Mr. Matthew, who doubtless told my
father, the ways by which I had been making a living: I had been seen by
one marching ahead of a sailor's wedding-party: by another fiddling in
the Bermondsey Tavern: by a third in the Gallery of a City Company Hall.
The Counting-house down to the messengers was humiliated: there was but
one feeling among the clerks: I had brought disgrace upon the House.

'They are sorry, Master Will, for your father's sake. It is hard for
him: so proud a man--with so much to be proud of--a quarter of a
million, some say. Think how hard it is for him.'

'It is harder for me Ramage,' I replied, 'to be driven to fiddle for
sailors, when all I ask is to be allowed to follow music in peace.
However, tell the clerks that I am sorry to have disgraced them.'

Disgraced the clerks! What did I say? Why, theirs is the lowest kind of
work that the world can find for men. They were disgraced because their
Master's son played the fiddle for a living. But I could not afford to
consider their opinions.

Ramage knew nothing about my other place, or his entreaties would have
been more fervent. I had but one answer, however. I could not give up
the only work that I cared for, even to be reconciled to my father. Why,
I was born for music. Shall a man fly in the face of Providence, and
scorn the gifts with which he is endowed?

My other place was none other than second fiddle, Tom Shirley being the
first fiddle, of the _Dog and Duck_.

I have mentioned the Pleasure Gardens south of the River. There are, as
Londoners know very well, a great many such gardens, all alike in most
respects. That is to say, there is in every one of them an avenue or
walk, lined by trees which at night are festooned by thousands of lights
in coloured glass lamps hanging from tree to tree. There is also in most
a piece of water with swans or ducks upon it, and all round it arbours
where the company take tea or punch or wine. There is a tavern where
drink may be had: suppers are served in the evening: there is a floor
for dancing in the open air with a place for the band; and there is a
Long Room with an organ at one end where the company promenade and
listen, and where on hot nights the band and the singers perform. In
many gardens there is also a bowling-green: there is sometimes a
swimming bath, and in most there is a chalybeate spring the water of
which is warranted to cure anything, but especially rheumatism, gout,
and the King's evil.

Every one of these gardens employs an orchestra, and engages the
services of singers. The number of musicians employed is therefore
considerable. There are certainly in the south of London alone more than
a dozen Gardens large enough to have a band. Beside the _Dog and Duck_,
there are the _Temple of Flora_: the Lambeth Wells: the Cumberland
Gardens: Vauxhall Gardens: Bermondsey Spa: St. Helena Gardens: Finch's
Grotto: Cupid's Gardens: Restoration Spring Gardens--is not that twelve?
And there are more. So that it is not difficult for a young man who can
play any instrument tolerably to get a place in the orchestra of some
Garden.

One would not choose such a position if Fortune gave one a choice. At
the Dog and Duck there are visitors to whose pleasure we should be
ashamed of ministering: people whose proper place is the House of
Correction or Bridewell: they are allowed to attend these gardens with
friends who should also be denied entrance: they make the company noisy
and disorderly. We gave them music that was a great deal better than
they deserved: it was thrown away upon the majority: we gave them songs
that were innocent and tender--Tom Shirley wrote and composed them
himself: we also had to give them other songs more suited to their gross
and grovelling tastes.

It was part of Tom's humour to speak of the audience at the Dog and Duck
as the most polite, fashionable, and aristocratic assembly in the world.
He declared that their taste in music was excellent: their attention
that of a connoisseur: and their appreciation of his own songs all that
he could desire. I asked him once how he reconciled these things with
their delight in the comic songs which were also provided for them. 'The
aristocracy,' he said, 'must from time to time, unbend: they must from
time to time, laugh: they laugh and they unbend when we give them a song
to which in their more polite moments they would refuse to listen.' I
knew very well that the company was chiefly composed of deboshed
profligates: prentices who daily robbed their masters in order to come
to the gardens: young gentlemen from the country; prodigal sons from the
Temple and Lincoln's Inn; and tradesmen who were dissipating their
capital. If good music was played they talked and laughed: at the
singing of good songs they walked about or left the open platform for
the dark lanes of the garden. 'You are lucky, Will,' said Tom. 'To play
for such an audience brings good luck, with name and fame and riches.'

It brought me fifteen shillings a week. And as for name and fame I never
heard of either.

I did not propose to write my own history, but that of a woman to whom
you have already seen me conversing. Yet my own history must be
understood before hers can be related. You have been told how for my
obstinate adherence to music I was turned out of my father's house: how
I found a refuge: how I earned my livelihood by playing the fiddle. Now,
before I come to the events which connected my fortunes with those of
the lady whom I call my mistress--and that with my wife's consent--I
must tell one or two events which befell me. The first of them was my
courtship and my marriage. In the courtship there was no obstacle: the
course of true love ran smoothly: in my marriage there were no regrets:
no discords: always a full deep current of affection on both sides. A
simple, plain story, in which nothing happened, so far: would to Heaven
that nothing had happened, afterwards.

When a young man and girl live under the same roof: when they share the
same interests: when they have the same affections--Alice herself could
not love her brother more than I did: when the home is happy in spite of
poverty and its restrictions: when the hearts of the two go out to each
other spontaneously, then the time must come when they will resolve upon
becoming brother and sister or declared and open lovers.

When I think of this time, this truly happy time, I sometimes feel as if
we were too hurried over it. I sat beside Alice every morning at
breakfast and at dinner: I played to her: I composed songs for her: I
even wrote verses for the music--I have some of them still, and really,
though I do not pretend to be a poet, there are things in them which I
admire. Poets always speak of the warblers in the grove: so did I.
Love, which rhymes to grove, always burns and flames--did so in my
verses. As to the rhymes, I abolished the first and third, which was a
great relief. Without the necessity of rhyming one could easily become a
poet.

I say that the situation being so pleasant and so happy, I might have
prolonged it: but there comes a time when a man must take the last step.
The uncertainty is sweet. Can she love me? Will she perhaps say nay? Yet
the pleasing pain, the charming smart, the raptured flames--I quote from
my own verses which were really like many that I have seen used in
songs--become in time too much: one must perforce go on to secure the
happiness beyond.

In the morning, when the weather was fine, we would walk abroad among
the fields and gardens that lie stretched out behind the river bank:
some of them are pretty gardens, each with its hedge and bushes filled
with flowers in the summer: garden houses stand about here and there:
windmills vary the landskip: the lanes are shaded by trees: at the end
of one is a great stone barn, formerly part of King Richard's Palace, of
which not another stone is left. Beside the river are Lambeth Palace and
Lambeth Church with a few fishermen's cottages. Over this rural place we
strayed at our will, now among the lanes; picking wild flowers;
recalling scraps of songs; listening to the skylark, while the fresh
breeze coming up the river with the tide fanned Alice's cheek and
heightened the soft colour which was one of her charms. Sometimes we
left the fields and walked along the high Embankment watching the laden
barges slowly going up or down and the sailing tilt-boats bound for
Richmond: or the fishermen in mid-stream with their nets: or the
wherries plying with their fares and the swans: admiring, in a word, the
life and animation of the river at Westminster and above it. Chiefly,
however, Alice loved the fields, where in the morning we were always
alone save for a gardener here and there at work. Since the life that
she saw around her was such as she saw--made up of debtors' prisons,
noisy duck-hunters, prize-fighters and drunken profligates, what wonder
if she loved to linger where she was apart from the vileness of men and
women? To meditate: to muse: to sing all alone, for my companionship
counted nothing: was her greatest joy. So it has continued: even now she
loves to wander alone beneath the trees--they are other trees under
another sky--and lift up her voice to Heaven, which answers by giving
her thoughts, always new and always holy.

It was in the middle of May, the poet's month, when we were thus roaming
in the fields. Alice carried a handful of hawthorn. She sang as she
went. Dear Heart! how she sang! Yet I know not what. It was Prayer: it
was Praise: it was Adoration: it was Worship: I know not what she sang.
The larks were dumb because they could not sing with her.

It was the time of which I have spoken--the time of uncertainty. Never
had Alice looked so heavenly sweet: she carried her hat by the strings:
her hair fell about her shoulders--fair, soft hair, like silk, with a
touch of gold in it: her eyes gazed upwards when the light clouds flew
across the blue, as if they were things of this world trying to turn her
eyes and thoughts away from the things of Heaven. I could endure the
doubt no longer. I laid my arm about her waist: the song was troubled:
her eyes dropped. 'Oh!' she said. 'What wilt thou?' I drew her closer.
The song broke off. I kissed her head, her brow, her lips. We said
nothing. She sang no more. But the larks began their hymns of joy: the
clouds passed: the sun came out in splendour: the hedges seemed all to
burst together into blossom.

Thus it was--so easily--so sweetly--did we pass into the condition of
lovers. Yet we had been lovers all the time.




CHAPTER V

WEDDING BELLS AND THE BOOK OF THE PLAY


We were married without delay. Why should we wait? I should be no richer
for waiting and time would be passing. We were married, therefore. It
was impossible from time to time we should not be reminded of the lowly
station in which we lived. When one of my cousins was married, what
preparations! what feasts arranged and provided! What troops of guests!
What a noble company in the Church! What crowds afterwards--the street
filled with beggars come for the broken victuals: the butchers with
their din unmusical of marrow-bones and cleavers: the band of music
playing outside: the acclamation of the crowd when the bride was brought
back from church: the rooms full of guests all with wedding favours: the
loving-cup passing from hand to hand: the kissing of the bridesmaids:
the merriment and coquetry over the bride-cake and the wedding-ring! All
this I remembered and it made me sad for a moment. Not for long, for
beside me stood a bride sweeter far than was any cousin of mine: and I
was a musician; and I was independent.

We walked over the Fields to St. George's Church and were there married
at ten o'clock in the morning. Tom gave away his sister: Alice had no
bridesmaids: I had no groomsmen: there was no crowd of witnesses: there
was no loving-cup. We were married in an empty church, and after
marriage we walked home again to Tom's cottage.

He sat down and played a wedding march, of his own composition, made for
the occasion. 'There!' he said, 'that is better than a wedding
feast--yet there shall be a wedding feast and of the best.'

It was served at noon: there was a duck pie: a pair of soles: a cowslip
tart--a very dainty dish: and fried sweetbreads. After dinner there was
a bottle of port.

'Will,' said my brother-in-law, taking the last glass in the bottle,
'who would be one of those unhappy creatures who cannot be married
without crowds and noise and a great company? Here are we, contented
with ourselves: we have been married: we have had a royal banquet--your
sweetbreads, wife, were a morsel for a king. You are contented, Will?'

'Quite.' For I was holding Alice by the hand.

'You never regret the flesh-pots?'

'Never--I have forgotten them.' This was not quite true, but it passed.

'I have sometimes thought'--he looked from me to Alice and from Alice to
me again--'that there might have been regrets.'

'There can be none, now.'

'Good. Hands upon it, brother. We shall miss Alice, shall we not, wife?
But she will not be far off. So.' A tear stood in his eye while he
kissed his sister. 'Now,' he said, 'enough of sentiment. The day is
before us. I have got a man to take my place to-night and another to
take yours. On such an occasion, Will, we must not spare and grudge. We
will see the sights of London and then--then--none of your Pleasure
Gardens--we will--but I have a surprise for you.'

We sallied forth. Never was a wedding-day kept in so strange a fashion.
We took oars at the Falcon Stairs to the Tower. Now Alice had spent all
her life in or about the Rules of the King's Bench, but she had never
seen London City or the Sights of London. To her everything was new. We
showed her the Tower and the wild beasts and the arms and armour and the
Royal Crown and Sceptre. After the Tower, we walked along Thames Street
where are the Custom House and Billingsgate Market and the Steelyard and
the Monument. We climbed up the Monument for the sake of the view: it
was a clear day, and we could discern in the distance Lambeth Palace and
the Church and perhaps even, one was not sure, the cottage which we had
taken on the Bank. After this we went to see the Guildhall and the
famous Giants: then the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange: we
looked at the shops in Cheapside: they are the richest shops in the
world, but the mercers and haberdashers do not put out in the window
their costly stuffs to tempt the shoplifter. 'You must imagine, Alice,'
I told her, 'the treasures that lie within: some time if we ever become
rich you shall come here and buy to your heart's content.' Then we
entered St. Paul's, that solemn and magnificent pile: here we heard part
of the afternoon service, the boys in their white surplices singing like
angels, so that the tears rolled down my girl's face--they were tears of
praise and prayer, not of repentance. From St. Paul's we walked up the
narrow street called the Old Bailey and saw the outside of Newgate. Now
had we known what things we were to do and to suffer in that awful
place, I think we should have prayed for death. But Heaven mercifully
withholds the future.

[Illustration: "WE TOOK OARS AT THE FALCON STAIRS TO THE TOWER."]

It was then about five o'clock. We went to a coffee-house and took some
coffee and ratafia. The animation of the place; the brisk conversation;
the running about of the boys: the fragrant odour of the coffee: pleased
us. There were coffee-houses in the High Street, but they lacked the
vivacity of this on Ludgate Hill, where Templars, Doctors of Divinity,
and the mercers and goldsmiths of Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street were
assembled together to talk and drink the fragrant beverage which has
done so much to soften the manners of the better sort.

'And now,' said Tom, 'for my surprise.'

He called a coach and we drove not knowing whither; he was taking us to
Drury Lane.

We were to celebrate our wedding-day by going to the Play.

For my own part I had never--for reasons which you will understand--been
allowed to go to the Play. To sober-minded merchants the Play was a
thing abhorrent: a hot-bed of temptation: the amusements of Prodigals
and Profligates. Therefore I had never seen the Play. Nor had Alice or
her sister-in-law, while Tom, who had once played in the orchestra, had
never seen the Play since his debts carried him off to the King's Bench.

We found good places in the Boxes: the House was not yet half full and
the candles were not all lighted: many of the seats were occupied by
footmen waiting for their mistresses to take them: in the Pit the
gentlemen, who seemed to know each other, were standing about in little
knots conversing with the utmost gravity. One would have thought that
affairs of state were being discussed: on the contrary, we were assured,
they were arguing as to the merits or the blemishes of the piece, now in
its third night.

Presently the musicians came in and the cheerful sound of tuning up
began: then the House began to fill up rapidly; and the orange girls
made their way about the Pit with their baskets, and walked about the
back of the boxes calling out their 'fine Chaney orange--fine Chaney
orange.' Why do I note these familiar things? Because they were not
familiar to me: because they are always connected in my mind with what
followed.

The play was 'The Country Girl.' The story is about an innocent Country
Girl, an heiress, who knows nothing of London, or of the world. Her
guardian wants to marry her himself for the sake of her money, though he
is fifty and she is twenty: as he cannot do so without certain papers
being drawn up, he makes her believe that they are married by breaking a
sixpence, and brings her to London with him. How she deceives him,
pretends this and that, makes appointments and writes love-letters under
his very nose, wrings his consent to a subterfuge and marries the man
she loves--these things compose the whole play.

The first Act, I confess, touched me little. The young fellow, the
lover, talks about the girl he loves: her guardian is introduced: there
is no action: and there were no women. I felt no interest in the talk of
the men: there was an old rake and a young rake; the soured and gloomy
guardian, and the lover. They did not belong to my world, either of the
City or of St. George's Fields.

But in the second Act the Country Girl herself appeared and with her as
a foil and for companion the town woman. Now the Country Girl, Peggy by
name, instantly, on her very first appearance, ravished all hearts. For
she was so lovely, with her light hair hardly dressed at all, hanging in
curls over her neck and shoulders, her bright eyes, her quick movements,
that no one could resist her. She brought with her on the stage the air
of the country; one seemed to breathe the perfumes of roses and
jessamine. And she was so curious and so ignorant and so innocent. She
had been taken, the evening before, to the Play: she found the actors
'the goodliest, properest men': she liked them 'hugeously': she wants to
go out and see the streets and the people. Her curmudgeon of a guardian
comes in and treats her with the barbarity of a natural bad temper
irritated by jealousy. There was a charming scene in which the Country
Girl is dressed as a boy so that she may walk in the Park without being
recognised by her lover--but she is recognised and is kissed by the very
man whom her guardian dreads. There is another in which she is made to
write a letter forbidding her lover ever to see her again: this is
dictated by the guardian: when he goes to fetch sealing-wax she writes
another exactly the opposite and substitutes it. Now all this was done
with so much apparent artlessness and so much real feminine cunning that
the play was charming whenever the Country Girl was on the stage.

It was over too soon.

'Oh!' cried Alice. 'She is an angel, sure. How fortunate was the
exchange of letters! And how lucky that he was made, without knowing it,
to grant his consent. I hope that her lover will treat her well. She
will be a fond wife, Will, do you not think?'

And so she went on as if the play was real and the Country Girl came
really from the country and the thing really happened. The name of the
actress, I saw on the Play Bill, was Miss Jenny Wilmot. I am not
surprised looking back on that evening. The wit and sparkle of her
words seemed, by the way she spoke them, invented by herself on the
spot. She held the House in a spell: when she left the stage the place
became instantly dull and stupid: when she returned the stage became
once more bright.

We went back by water: it was a fine evening: a thousand stars were
gleaming in the sky and in the water: we were all silent, as happens
when people have passed a day of emotions. At my brother-in-law's
cottage we made a supper out of the remains of the dinner, and after
supper Alice and I went away to the house we had taken at Lambeth,
beside the church. And so our wedded life began.

There was another incident connected with my wedding which turned out to
be the innocent cause of a great deal that happened afterwards.

Among my former friends in the City was a certain Mr. David Camlet who
had a shop in Bucklersbury for the sale of musical instruments. He
allowed me the run of the place and to try different instruments; it was
he who first taught me to play the harpsicord and suffered me to
practise in his back parlour overlooking the little churchyard of St.
Pancras. The good old man would also converse with me--say, rather,
instruct me in the history of composers and their works. Of the latter
he had a fine collection. In brief he was a musician born and, as we
say, to the finger tips; a bachelor who wanted no wife or mistress; one
who lived a simple happy life among his instruments and with his music.
Whether he was rich or not, I do not know.

He knew the difficulties which surrounded me: I used to tell him all: my
father's prejudice against music: my own dislike of figures and
accounts: my refuge in the highest garret when I wished to
practice--only at such times when my father was out of the house: my
beloved teacher in the King's Bench Rules: he encouraged me and warned
me: he took the most kindly interest in my position, counselling always
obedience and submission even if by so doing I was forbidden to practise
at all for a time: offering his own parlour as a place of retreat where
I could without fear of discovery practise as much as I pleased.

When I was turned out of the house, I made haste to inform him what had
happened. He lifted up his hands in consternation. 'What?' he cried.
'You, the only son of Sir Peter Halliday, Knight, Alderman, ex-Lord
Mayor, the greatest merchant in the City: the heir to a plum--what do I
say? Three or four plums at the least: the future partner of so great a
business: the future owner of a fleet, and the finest and best appointed
fleet on the seas--and you throw all this away----'

'But,' I said, 'I will be nothing but a musician.'

'Thou shalt be a musician, lad. Wait--thou shalt have music for a hobby.
It is good and useful to be a patron of music: to encourage musicians.'

'But I would be a musician by profession.'

'It is a poor profession, Will. Believe me, it is a beggarly profession.
If you think of making money by it--give up that hope.'

That day I had ringing in my ears certain glowing words of Tom Shirley
upon the profession and I laughed.

'What do I care about poverty, if I can only be a musician? Mr. Camlet,
you have been so kind to me always, do not dissuade me. I have chosen my
path,' I added with the grandeur that belongs to ignorance, 'and I abide
by my lot.'

He sighed. 'Nay, lad, I will not dissuade thee. Poverty is easy to face,
when one is young: it is hard to bear when one is old.'

'Then we shall be friends still, and I may come to see you sometimes
when I am a great composer.'

He took my hand. 'Will,' he said, with humid eyes, 'Music is a
capricious goddess. It is not her most pious votary whom she most often
rewards. Be a musician if she permits. If not, be a player only. Many
are called but few are chosen. Of great composers, there are but one or
two in a generation. 'Tis an eager heart, and an eager face. The Lord be
good to thee, Will Halliday!'

From time to time I visited this kind old man, telling him all that I
did and hiding nothing. At the thought of my playing at the riverside
tavern for the sailors to dance he laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks. 'Why,' he said, 'it was but yesterday that I looked in at
Change, because it does one good sometimes to gaze upon those who, like
the pillars of St. Paul's bear up and sustain this great edifice of
London. Among the merchants, Will, I saw thy respected father. Truly
there was so much dignity upon his brow: so much authority in his walk:
so much mastery in his voice: so much consideration in his reception:
that I marvelled how a stripling like thyself should dare to rebel. And
to think that his son plays the fiddle in a sanded tavern for ragged
Jack tars to dance with their Polls and Molls. I cannot choose but
laugh. Pray Heaven, he never learn!'

But he did learn. My good cousin kept himself informed of my doings
somehow, and was careful to let my father know.

'Sir Peter looks well,' Mr. Camlet went on. 'He is perhaps stouter than
is good for him: his cheeks are red, but that is common: and his neck is
swollen more than I should like my own to be. Yet he walks sturdily and
will wear yet, no doubt many a long year. London is a healthy place.'

Presently I was able to tell him that I was about to be married, being
in a position which seemed to promise a sufficiency. He wished me hearty
congratulations, and begged to know the happy day and the place of our
abode.

On the morning after our wedding, before we had had time to look around
us in our three-roomed cottage--it was designed for one of the Thames
fisherman: hardly had I found time to talk over the disposition of the
furniture, I perceived, from the casement window, marching valiantly
down the lane from St. George's Fields, my old friend Mr. David Camlet.
The day was warm and he carried his wig and hat in one hand, mopping his
head with a handkerchief.

'He comes to visit us, my dear,' I said. 'It is Mr. Camlet. What is he
bringing with him?'

For beside him a man dragged a hand-cart in which lay something large
and square, covered with matting.

'He is the maker of musical instruments,' I explained. 'Alice, what
if--in the cart----'

'Oh, Will--if it were----'

Know that my great desire was to possess a harpsichord, which for
purposes of composition is almost a necessity. But such an instrument
was altogether beyond my hopes. I might as well have yearned for an
organ.

He stopped where the houses began and looked about him. He made straight
for our door which was open and knocked gently with his knuckles.

Alice went out to meet him. By this time he had put on his wig and stood
with his hat under his arm.

'The newly married lady of my young friend, Master Will Halliday?' he
asked. 'I knew it. In such a matter I am never wrong. Virtue, Madam,
sits on thy brow, Love upon thy lips. Permit an old man--yet a friend of
thy worthy husband'--so saying he kissed her with great ceremony. Then
at length, the room being rather dark after the bright sunshine, he
perceived me, and shaking hands wished me every kind of happiness.

'I am old,' he said, 'and it is too late for me to become acquainted
with Love. Yet I am assured that if two people truly love one another,
to the bearing of each other's burdens: to working for each other: then
may life be stripped of half its terrors. I say nothing of the blessing
of children, the support and prop of old age. My children, love each
other always,' Alice took my hand. 'For better for worse; in poverty and
in riches: love each other always.'

I drew my girl closer and kissed her. The old man coughed huskily. 'Twas
a tender heart, even at seventy.

Alice gave him a chair: she also brought out the wedding cake (which she
made herself--a better cake was never made) and she opened the bottle of
cherry brandy we had laid in for occasions. He took a glass of the
cordial to the health of the bride, and ate a piece of bride cake to our
good luck.

'This fellow ought to be fortunate,' he said, nodding at me. 'He has
given up all for the sake of music. He ought to be rewarded. He might
have been the richest merchant on Change. But he preferred to be a
musician, and to begin at the lowest part of the ladder. It is wonderful
devotion.'

'Sir, I have never regretted my decision.'

'That is still more wonderful. No--no--I am wrong'--he laughed--'quite
wrong. If you were to regret it, now, you would be the most
thankless dog in the world. Aha! The recompense begins--in full
measure--overflowing--with such a bride.'

'Oh! Sir,' murmured Alice blushing.

He took a second glass of cherry brandy and began a speech of some
length of which I only remember the conclusion.

'Wherefore, my friends, since life is short, resolve to enjoy all that
it has to give--together: and to suffer all that it has to
inflict--together. There is much to enjoy that is lawful and innocent.
The Lord is mindful of His own--Love is lawful, and innocent: there is
abiding comfort in love: trust in each other raises the soul of him who
trusts and of him who is trusted: sweet music is lawful and innocent: if
there is ever any doubt: if there is any trouble: if any fail in love:
if the world becomes like a threatening sea: you shall find in music new
strength and comfort. But why do I speak of the solace of music to Will
Halliday and the sister of Tom Shirley? Therefore, I say no more.'

He stopped and rose. Alice poured out another glass of cherry brandy for
him.

'I nearly forgot what I came for. Such is the effect of contemplating
happiness. Will, I have thought for a long time that you wanted a
harpsichord.'

'Sir, it has been ever beyond my dreams.'

'Then I am glad--because I can now supply that want. I have brought with
me, dear lad--and dear blooming bride, as good an instrument as I have
in my shop: no better in all the world.' He went out and called his man.
We lifted the instrument--it was most beautiful not only in touch but
also with its rosewood case. We set it up and I tried it.

'Oh!' Alice caught his hand and kissed it. 'Now Will is happy indeed.
How can we thank you sufficiently?'

'Play upon it,' he said. 'Play daily upon it: play the finest music only
upon it. So shall your souls be raised--even to the gates of Heaven.'

Once more he drew my wife towards him and kissed her on the forehead.
Then he seized my hand and shook it and before I had time or could find
words to speak or to thank him, he was gone, marching down the hot lane
with the firm step of thirty, instead of seventy.

A noble gift, dictated by the most friendly feeling. Yet it led to the
first misfortune of my life--one that might well have proved a
misfortune impossible to be overcome.

Then began our wedded life. For two years we continued to live in that
little cottage. There our first child was born, a lovely boy. Every
evening I repaired to the Dog and Duck, and took my place in the
orchestra. Familiarity makes one callous: I had long since ceased to
regard the character of the company. They might be, as Tom pretended,
the most aristocratic assembly in the world: they might be the reverse.
The coloured lamps in the garden pleased me no more: nor did the sight
of those who danced or the pulling of corks and the singing of songs
after supper in the bowers: the ladies were no longer beautiful in my
eyes: I enquired not about the entertainment except for my own part: I
never looked at the fireworks. All these things to one who has to attend
night after night becomes part of the work and not of the entertainment
and amusement of life.

The musician is a being apart. He takes no part in the conduct of State
or City: he is not a philosopher: or a theologian: he is not a preacher
or teacher: he writes nothing either for instruction or for amusement:
in the pleasures of mankind he assists but having no share or part in
them. His place is in the gallery: they cannot do without him: he cannot
live without them: but he is a creature apart.

My mornings were my own. Sometimes I walked with Alice on the terrace of
Lambeth Palace: or went down into the Marsh and walked about the
meadows: we made no friends except among the humble fishermen to whose
wives Alice taught cleanliness. Sometimes, after the child came, I would
leave Alice for the morning and walk into the City. Perhaps I had a hope
that I might meet my father. I never did, however. I looked for him on
Change: I walked in Great College Street: but I never met him. I knew
beforehand that my reception would be of the coldest--but I wanted to
see him and to speak with him. I went down to Billingsgate Stairs and
took boat and was rowed about the ships in the Pool. There I recognised
our own ships: they might have been my own, but would never be mine,
now. All these things I had thrown away--ships, wharf, trade, fortune.
It made me proud to think so. Yet I would have spoken to my father had I
met him.

Once I met Matthew in the street and passed him touching shoulders. He
looked me full in the face with the pretence of not knowing me. I
commanded my temper and let him go without expostulation which would
have led to a second fight, for which I had no desire.

On two other occasions I saw him though he did not see me. The first was
on a certain afternoon in October when it grows dark about five. I was
strolling down Garlickhithe near Queenhithe. As I passed the Church of
St. James's which stands a little back with steps I saw two figures
conversing: one was a man whom I knew at once for my cousin by his
shoulders and by the shape of his head. The other was a woman with a
veil over her face. I knew the man next by his voice. Our Matthew had
such a voice--oily and yet harsh. 'If you loved me,' he said, 'you
would do this simple thing.'

'I will never do it,' she declared, passionately. 'You have deceived
me.'

I would not be an eavesdropper, and I passed on. Matthew, therefore, had
'deceived'--the word may mean many things--a woman. Matthew, of all men!
However, it was no concern of mine.

A third time I saw him--or heard him, because I did not see him. It was
in one of those taverns where small square pews are provided with high
walls so that one cannot be heard. I sat in one with Tom Shirley, taking
a pint of wine. All round were the voices of people carrying on business
in whispers and in murmurs. Suddenly I distinguished the voice of
Matthew.

'The security is good,' he said. 'There is no finer security in the
City. I want the money.'

'You can have some to-morrow night.' I was destined to hear a great deal
more of that grating voice. 'And the rest next week, if I can get the
papers signed. It is a confidential business, I suppose.

'Nothing is to be said. Our House does not like to borrow money, but the
occasion is pressing.'

'Let us go,' I said to Tom. 'We shall learn presently all Matthew's
secrets.'

'Matthew? Your cousin Matthew?'

'He is in one of the boxes. I have heard his voice. Come, Tom.'




CHAPTER VI

A CITY FUNERAL


Thus we lived--humble folk if you please--far from the world of wealth
or of fashion.

This happiness was too great to last. We were to be stricken down, yet
not unto death.

The troubles began with the death of my father.

One morning, when he ought to have been at his desk, my old friend
Ramage came to see me.

'Master Will,' he said, the tears running down his cheeks, 'Master
Will--'tis now too late. You will never be reconciled now.'

'What has happened?' I asked. But his troubled face told me.

'My master fell down in a fit last night, coming home from the Company's
feast. They carried him home and put him to bed. But in the night he
died.'

In such a case as mine one always hopes vaguely for reconciliation, so
long as there is life: without taking any steps, one thinks that a
reconciliation will come of its own accord. I now believe that if I had
gone to my father and put the case plainly: my manifest vocation: my
incapacity for business; if I had asked his permission to continue in
the musical profession: if I had, further, humbled myself so far as to
admit that I deserved at his hands nothing less than to be cut off
without a shilling: he might have given way. It is a terrible thing to
know that your father has died with bitterness in his heart against his
only son. Or, I might have sent Alice, with the child. Surely the sight
of that sweet girl, the sight of the helpless child, would have moved
him. I reproached myself, in a word, when it was too late.

'Sir,' said the clerk, 'I do not believe that Mr. Matthew, or his
father, will send you word of this event, or of the funeral.'

'They do not know where I live.'

'Excuse me, Sir, Mr. Matthew knows where you live and everything that
you have done since you left your home. Believe me, Mr. Will, you have
no greater enemy than your cousin. He has constantly inflamed your
father's mind against you. It was he who told my master that you were
playing for sailors at a common tavern with a red blind and a sanded
floor. He told him that you were playing in the orchestra at the Dog and
Duck for all the 'prentices and the demireps of town: he told him that
you had married--a----'

'Stop, Ramage, lest I do my cousin a mischief. How do you know all
this?'

'I listen,' he replied. 'From my desk, I can hear plainly what is said
in the counting-house. I listen. I can do no good. But sometimes it is
well to know what goes on.'

'It may be useful--but to listen--well--Ramage, is there more to tell?'

'This. They do not intend to invite you to the funeral. Mr. Matthew will
assume the place of the heir, and his father will be chief mourner.'

'Oh! Do you tell me, old friend, when it is to take place, and I will be
there.'

So he promised, though it was worth his situation if he were found out
to have held any intercourse with me. In the end it proved useful to
have a friend in the enemy's camp. At the time, I laughed at danger.
What had I to fear from Matthew's enmity?

The manner of my father's death is common among Merchants of the City of
London. Their very success makes them liable to it: the City customs
favour feasting and the drinking of wine: the richer sort ride in a
coach when they should be walking for health: it is seldom, indeed, that
one may meet a citizen of Quality walking in the fields of which there
are so many and of such a wholesome air round London, whether we go East
to the fields of Mile End and Bow: or North where, not to speak of
Moorfields, there are the fields this side of Islington: or on the West
where are the fields of Westminster and Chelsea: or South where the
whole country is a verdant meadow with orchards. I say that among the
crowds who flock out on a summer evening to take the air (and other
refreshments) in these fields, one may look in vain for the substantial
merchant. He takes the air lolling in his coach: he feasts every day,
drinking quantities of rich and strong wine such as Port or Lisbon: he
stays too much indoors: the counting-house is too often but a step from
the parlour.

The consequence is natural: at thirty-five the successful merchant
begins to swell and to expand: his figure becomes arched or rounded:
perhaps his nose grows red: at forty-five his circumference is great:
his neck is swollen; his cheek is red: perhaps his nose has become what
is called a Bottle. Soon after fifty, he is seized with an apoplexy. It
is whispered on Change that such an one fell down stepping out of his
Company's Hall, after a Feast, into the road: that he never recovered
consciousness: and that he is dead. The age of fifty, I take it, is the
grand Climacteric of the London Merchant.

On the day of the funeral, then, I presented myself, with Alice,
properly habited, to take my place as chief Mourner. The house, within,
was all hung with black cloth. The hall and the stairs were thus
covered: it was evening at eight o'clock: candles placed in sconces
feebly lit up the place: at the door and on the stairs stood the
undertaker's men, mutes, bearing black staves with black plumes: within,
the undertaker himself was busy serving out black cloaks, tying the
weepers on the hats, distributing the gloves and the rosemary, and
getting ready the torches.

Upstairs, the room in which my father's body lay had been prepared for
the ceremony. All the furniture--bed, chairs, everything--had been taken
out: there was nothing at all in the room but the coffin on trestles:
the wainscotted walls had been hung with black velvet, which looked
indeed funereal as it absorbed the light of fifty or sixty wax tapers
and reflected none. The tapers stood in silver sconces on the walls:
they showed up the coffin, the lid of which, not yet screwed down, was
laid so as to expose the white face of the deceased, grave, set, serious
and full of dignity. I remembered how it looked, fiery and passionate,
when my father drove me from his presence. The candles also lit up the
faces of the mourners: in the midst of so much blackness their faces
were white and deathlike. On the breast of the dead man lay branches of
rosemary: on the lid of the coffin were branches of rosemary, of which
every person present carried a sprig. On the lid of the coffin was also
a large and capacious silver cup with two handles.

Only one thing relieved the blackness of the walls. It was a hatchment
with the family shield. Everyone would believe, so splendid is this coat
of arms, that our family must rank among the noblest in the land. But
the time has passed when the City Fathers were closely connected by
blood with the gentry and the aristocracy of the country: of our family
one could only point to the shield: where we came from, I know not: nor
how we obtained so fine a shield: nor to what station of life my
ancestors originally belonged. Family pride, however, is a harmless
superstition: not one of us, I am sure, would surrender that coat of
arms, or acknowledge that we were anything but a very ancient and
honourable House.

When I entered the house, accompanied by Alice, I found the hall and the
steps, and even the street itself, which is but narrow, crowded with the
humbler class of mourners. There was a whisper of surprise, and more
than one honest hand furtively grasped mine. Well: there would be few
such hands to welcome Matthew.

I did not need to be told where the coffin lay. I led my wife up the
stairs and so into my father's room, which was the best bedroom, on the
first floor. I found the various members of the family already
assembled, my Uncle Paul as I expected, with Matthew, usurping my place
at the head of the coffin. My cousins, of whom there were
five-and-twenty at least, including my Uncle Paul's wife and two
daughters, showed signs of profound astonishment at the sight of the
banished son. The Alderman, for his part, held up his hands in
amazement, and looked up to Heaven as if to protest against this
assertion of filial rights. The girls, who were as amiable as their
brother Matthew, stared with more rudeness than one would expect even
from a Wappineer, at Alice. They knew not, perhaps, that I had taken a
wife: to a natural curiosity on such a subject they affected a contempt
which they took no pains to disguise.

There was a man standing behind my cousin whom I knew not: nor did I
understand by what right he stood among us at all: a tall thin figure
somewhat bowed with years: a lean and wrinkled face: his appearance
filled me with distrust at the outset--let no one deny that first
thoughts are best thoughts. He stooped and whispered something to my
cousin--whose face seemed to show trouble of some kind, but not grief.
Matthew started, and looked at me with astonishment.

I stepped forward, drawing Alice with me. 'Uncle Paul,' I said, 'I take
my place as my father's chief mourner.'

My cousin glared at me, as if threatening to dispute the point, but he
gave way and retired to my left hand. Thus, Alice beside me, my Uncle
Paul at my right, and Matthew at my left, I waited the arrival of the
funeral guests.

Meantime, the ladies moaned and wailed. Outside, the women-servants on
the stairs lifted up their lamentation. The crying of the women at a
funeral hath in it little reality of grief: yet it penetrates to the
soul of those who hear it. As each new guest arrived, the wail was
raised anew: the louder in proportion to the rank of the arrival, in so
much that when the Lord Mayor himself walked up the stairs the lament
became a shriek.

The undertaker whispered in my ear that all were present.

I looked about me. 'Twas not in human nature to avoid a sense of honour
and glory in looking upon so honourable a company. They proclaimed by
their presence the respect with which they regarded my father. Here,
beside our cousins, were the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, the Sheriffs, the
Town Clerk, the Recorder, the Common Sergeant, the Remembrancer, the
Dean of St. Paul's, the Master and Wardens of his Company and many of
the greatest merchants on Change. They were there to do honour to my
father's memory, and I was there to receive them, as my father's son,
despite the respect in which I had failed.

It was not a time, however, for regrets.

I lifted the great cup, I say, and looked around. The wailing ceased.
All eyes were turned to me as I drank from the cup--it was hypocras, a
drink much loved at City feasts. Then I handed it to Alice, who drank
and gave it back to me. Then to my uncle the Alderman, after whom it
went round. Down below, in the hall, there was the solemn drinking of
wine. We drank thus to the memory of the dead: in old times, I am
assured, the mourners drank to the repose of the soul just gone out of
the body. For memory or for repose, it is an old custom which one would
not willingly neglect.

After the ceremony the ladies began once more their wailing and
groaning. They make too much of this custom. It is not in reason that
girls like my cousins Amelia and Sophia should be so torn and lacerated
by grief as their wails betokened. Indeed, I saw them after the funeral
talking and laughing as they went away.

We then descended the stairs and waited below while the men went up to
finish their work and to shut out the face of the dead man for ever from
the world.

They brought out the coffin. The housekeeper with one last wail of
grief--one hopes there was some sincerity in it--locked the door of the
death chamber: she locked it noisily, so that all might hear: she turned
the handle loudly so that all might be sure that the door was shut: she
had before put out the wax candles: out of respect for the late occupant
the room would not be opened or used again for years: it would remain as
it was with the black velvet hangings and the silver sconces. This is
one of the privileges accorded to wealth--an empty honour, but one that
is envied by those who cannot afford to spare a room. What can the dead
man know or feel or care while the black velvet grows brown and shabby,
and the silver sconces become yellow, and the sunbeams through the
shutters slowly steal round the room, and except for the dancing of the
motes in the sunlight there is no motion or sound or touch of life or
light in the solitude and silence of the chamber? It is giving Death to
Death--not the Life for which we pray, for which we hope and trust.

The pall was of velvet with a gold fringe and gold embroidery. I knew it
for the parish pall bequeathed by some pious person for the use of
parishioners. When all was ready the undertaker marshalled the
procession. First marched two conductors with staves and plumes: then
followed six men in long black coats, two and two; then one bearing the
Standard, with black plumes: then, eighteen men in long black cloaks as
before, all being servants to the Deceased: then the Minister of the
Parish: after him an officer of Arms carrying a knight's sword and
target, helm and crest: with him another officer of Arms carrying the
shield, both in their tabards or embroidered coats: then the Body, the
pall being borne by six Merchants between men carrying the Shields of
the City: of the Company: and of Bridewell, Christ's Hospital, St.
Bartholomew's and St. Thomas's, of which the Deceased was a Governor.
Then I followed as chief mourner with my wife: after me the Alderman my
uncle and his lady. Then came Matthew. With him should have walked one
of his sisters: but there stepped out of the crowd a woman in black
holding a handkerchief to her face. Who she was I knew not. After them
came the rest of the cousins. Then followed the Lord Mayor and the City
Fathers; and, lastly, the clerks, porters, stevedores, bargemen, and
others in the service of the House. In our hands we carried, as we went,
lighted torches: a considerable number of people came out to see the
funeral: they lined the street which by the flames of the torches was
lit up as if by daylight. The faces at the windows: the crowds in the
street: the length of the procession filled my soul with pride, though
well I knew that I was but a castaway from the affections of the dead
man whom these people honoured.

The procession had not far to go: the parish church, that of St. Michael
Paternoster Royal, is but a short distance down the street: it is the
church in which Whittington was buried, his tomb and his ashes being
destroyed in the Great Fire a hundred years ago. The Church, like the
house, was hung with black and lit by wax candles and our torches. The
Rector read the service with a solemnity which, I believe, affected all
hearts. After the reading of that part which belongs to the Church we
carried the body to the churchyard at the back--a very small churchyard:
there we lowered the coffin into the grave--I observed that the mould
seemed to consist entirely of skulls and bones--and when dust was given
to dust and ashes to ashes, we dashed our torches upon the ground and
extinguished the flames. Then in darkness we separated and went each his
own way. I observed that the lady who walked with Matthew left him when
the ceremony was over. The weeping of the women ceased and the whispers
of the men: everybody talked aloud and cheerfully. No more mourning for
my father: pity and regret were buried in the grave with him: they
became the dust and ashes which were strewed upon the coffin. He had
gone hence to be no more seen: to be no more wept over. But, as you
shall shortly hear, the dead man still retained in his hands the power
of doing good or evil.

Matthew spoke to me as we left the Churchyard.

'Cousin,' he said, with more civility than I expected, 'if you can come
to the counting-house to-morrow morning you will learn your father's
testamentary dispositions. The will is to be opened and read at ten
o'clock.'




CHAPTER VII

THE READING OF THE WILL


'We will make him sell his Reversionary interest'--the voice was
curiously harsh and grating--'and you will then be able to take the
whole.'

You know how, sometimes, one hears things in a mysterious way which one
could not hear under ordinary circumstances. I was standing in the outer
counting-house in the room assigned to the accountants. In the inner
counting-house, I knew, my cousin was sitting. Without being told any
thing more, I guessed that the voice belonged to the tall lean man who
was present at the funeral, and that he was addressing Matthew, and
that he was talking about me. And, without any reason, I assumed a
mental attitude of caution. They were going to make me sell something,
were they?

When I was called into the room I found that I was so far right,
inasmuch as the only two persons in the room were my cousin and the lean
man who by his black dress I perceived to be an attorney.

Now, I daresay that there are attorneys in the City of London whose
lives are as holy as that of any Bishop or Divine. At the same time it
is a matter of common notoriety that the City contains a swarm of
vermin--if I may speak plainly--who are versed in every kind of
chicanery: who know how to catch hold of every possible objection: and
who spend the whole of their creeping lives in wresting, twisting, and
turning the letter of the law to their own advantage, under the pretense
of advantage to their clients. These are the attorneys who suggest and
encourage disputes and lawsuits between persons who would otherwise
remain friends: there are those who keep cases running on for years,
eating up the estates: when they fasten upon a man, it is the spider
fastening on a big fat fly: they never leave him until they land him in
a debtor's prison, naked and destitute. I have observed that a course of
life, such as that indicated above, presently stamps the face with a
look which cannot be mistaken: the eyes draw together: the mouth grows
straight and hard: the lips become thin: the nose insensibly, even if it
be originally a snub, becomes like the beak of a crow--the creature
which devours the offal in the street: the cheeks are no longer flesh
and skin, but wrinkled parchment: the aspect of the man becomes, in a
word, such as that of the man who sat at the table, a bundle of papers
before him.

I knew, I say, that Mr. Probus--which was his name--was an attorney at
the outset. His black coat: his wig: his general aspect: left no doubt
upon my mind. And from the outset I disliked and distrusted the man.

The last time I had entered this room was to make my choice between my
father and my music. The memory of the dignified figure in the great
chair behind the table: his voice of austerity: his expectation of
immediate obedience made my eyes dim for a moment. Not for long, because
one would not show any tenderness before Matthew.

With some merchants the counting-house is furnished with no more than
what is wanted: in this wharf it was a substantial house of brick in
which certain persons slept every night for the better security of the
strong-room in the cellars below. The principal room, that which had
been my father's, had two windows looking out upon the river: the room
was carpeted: family portraits hung upon the walls: the furniture was
solid mahogany: no one who worked in such a room could be anything but a
substantial merchant.

My cousin looked up and sulkily pointed to a chair.

At this time Matthew Halliday presented the appearance of a responsible
City Merchant. His dress was sober yet of the best: nobody had whiter
ruffles at his wrist or at his shirt-front: nobody wore a neck-cloth of
more costly lace: his gold buttons, gold buckles, and gold laced hat
proclaimed him an independent person: he carried a large gold watch and
a gold snuff-box: he wore a large signet-ring on his right thumb, his
face was grave beyond his years: this morning it presented an appearance
which in lesser men is called sulky. I knew the look well, from old
experience. It meant that something had gone wrong. All my life long I
had experienced at the hands of this cousin an animosity which I can
only explain by supposing a resentment against one who stood between
himself and a rich man's estate. As a boy--I was four or five years
younger than himself--he would take from me, and destroy, things I
cherished: he invented lies and brought false accusations against me; he
teased, pinched, bullied me when no one was looking. When I grew big
enough I fought him. At first I got beaten: but I went on growing and
presently I beat him. Then, if he attempted any more false accusations
he knew that he would have to fight me again; a consideration which made
him virtuous.

'Cousin,' he said coldly, 'this gentleman is Mr. Probus, the new
attorney of the House. Mr. Littleton, his late attorney, is dead. Mr.
Probus will henceforth conduct our affairs.'

'Unworthily,' said Mr. Probus.

'That is my concern,' Matthew replied with great dignity. 'I hope I know
how to choose and to appoint my agents.'

'Sir'--Mr. Probus turned to me--'it has ever been the business of my
life to study the good of my fellow man. My motto is one taken from an
ancient source--you will allow one of the learned profession to have
some tincture of Latin. The words are--ahem!--_Integer vitæ scelerisque
Probus_. That is to say: Probus--Probus, Attorney-at-Law; _vitæ_, lived;
_integer_, respected; _scelerisque_, and trusted. Such, Sir, should your
affairs ever require the nice conduct of one who is both guide and
friend to his clients, you will ever find me. Now, Mr. Matthew, Sir, my
honoured patron, I await your commands.'

'We are waiting, cousin,' said Matthew, 'for my father. As soon as he
arrives Mr. Probus will read the Will. The contents are known to me--in
general terms--such was the confidence reposed in me by my honoured
uncle--in general terms. I believe you will find that any expectations
you may have formed--'

'Pardon me, Sir,' interrupted the attorney. 'Not before the reading of
the Will--'

'Will be frustrated. That is all I intended to say. Of course there may
be a trifle. Indeed I hope there may prove to be some trifling legacy.

'Perhaps a shilling. Ha, ha!' The attorney looked more forbidding when
he became mirthful than when he was serious.

Then some of my cousins arrived and sat down. We waited a few minutes in
silence, until the arrival of my uncle the Alderman with his wife and
daughters.

The ladies stared at me without any kind of salutation. The Alderman
shook his head.

'Nephew,' he said, 'I am sorry to see you here. I fear you will go away
with a sorrowful heart--'

'I am sorrowful already, because my father was not reconciled to me. I
shall not be any the more sorrowful to find that I have nothing. It is
what I expect. Now, sir, you may read my father's will as soon as you
please.'

In spite of my brave words I confess that, for Alice's sake, I did hope
that something would be left me.

Then all took chairs and sat down with a cough of expectation. There was
no more wailing from the ladies.

Mr. Probus took up from the table a parchment tied with red tape and
sealed. He solemnly opened it.

'This,' he said, 'is the last will and testament of Peter Halliday,
Knight, and Alderman, late Lord Mayor, Citizen and Lorimer.'

My uncle interposed. 'One moment, sir.' Then he turned to me.
'Repentance, nephew, though too late to change a parent's testamentary
dispositions, may be quickened by the consequences of a parent's
resentment. It may therefore be the means of leading to the
forgiveness--ahem--and the remission--ahem--of more painful
consequences--ahem--at the hands of Providence.'

I inclined my head. 'Now, sir, once more.'

'This will was made four years ago when the late Mr. Littleton was the
deceased gentleman's attorney. It was opened three months ago in order
to add a trifling codicil, which was entrusted to my care. I will now
read the will.'

There is no such cumbrous and verbose document in the world as the will
of a wealthy man. It was read by Mr. Probus in a harsh voice without
stops in a sing-song, monotonous delivery, which composed the senses and
made one feel as if all the words in the Dictionary were being read
aloud.

At last he finished.

'Perhaps,' I said, 'someone will tell me in plain English what it
means?'

'Plain English, Sir? Let me tell you,' Mr. Probus replied, 'that there
is no plainer English in the world than that employed by lawyers.'

I turned to my uncle. 'Will you, Sir, have the goodness to explain to
me?'

'I cannot recite the whole. As for the main points--Mr. Probus will
correct me if I am wrong--my lamented brother leaves bequests to found
an almshouse for eight poor men and eight poor widows, to bear his name;
he also founds at his Parish Church an annual Lecture, to bear his name:
he establishes a New Year's dole, to bear his name, of coals and bread,
for twenty widows of the Parish. He has founded a school, for twelve
poor boys, to bear his name. He has ordered his executors to effect the
release of thirty poor prisoners for debt, in his name. Is there more,
Mr. Probus?'

'He also founds a scholarship for a poor and deserving lad, to assist
him at Cambridge. The same scholarship to bear his name and to be in the
gift of his Company.'

'What does he say about me?'

'I am coming to that,' Mr. Probus replied. 'He devises many bequests to
his nephews and nieces, his cousins and his personal friends, with
mourning rings to all: there are, I believe, two hundred thus honoured:
two hundred--I think, Mr. Paul, that it is a long time since the City
lost one so rich and so richly provided with friends.'

'But what does he say about me?' I insisted.

'Patience. He then devises the whole of his remaining estate: all his
houses, investments, shares, stocks: all his furniture and plate: to his
nephew Matthew.'

'I expected it. And nothing said about me at all.'

'It is estimated that the remainder, after deducting the monies already
disposed of, will not amount to more than £100,000, because there is a
reservation----'

'Oh!'

'It is provided that the sum of £100,000 be set aside: that it be placed
in the hands of trustees whom he names--the Master of his Company and
the Clerk of the Company. This money is to accumulate at compound
interest until one of two events shall happen--either the death of his
son, in which case Mr. Matthew will have it all: or the death of Mr.
Matthew, in which case the son is to have it all. In other words, this
vast sum of money with accumulations will go to the survivor of the
two.'

I received this intelligence in silence. At first I could not understand
what it meant.

'I think, Sir,' Mr. Probus addressed the Alderman, 'we have now set
forth the terms of this most important document in plain language. We
ought perhaps to warn Mr. William against building any hopes upon the
very slender chance of succeeding to this money. We have here'--he
indicated Matthew--'health, strength, an abstemious life: on the other
hand we have'--he indicated me--'what we see.'

I laughed. At all events I was a more healthy subject, to look at, than
my cousin, who this morning looked yellow instead of pale.

'The span of life,' the attorney went on, 'accorded to my justly
esteemed client, will probably be that usually assigned to those who
honour their parents--say eighty, or even ninety. You, sir, will
probably be cut off at forty. I believe that it is the common lot in
your class. Above all things, do not build upon the chances of this
reversion.'

Suddenly the words I had heard came back to me. What were they? 'We
will make him sell his reversion.' 'Sell his reversion.' Then the
reversion must not be sold.

Mr. Probus went on too long. You may destroy the effect of your words by
too much repetition.

'A shadowy chance,' he said, 'a shadowy chance.'

'I don't know. Why should not my cousin die before me? Besides, it means
that my father in cutting me off would leave a door for restitution.'

'Only an imaginary door, sir--not a real door.'

'A very real door. I shall live as long as I can. My cousin will do as
he pleases. Mr. Probus, the "shadowy chance," as you call it, is a
chance that is worth a large sum of money if I would sell my reversion.'
Mr. Probus started and looked suspicious. 'But I shall not sell it. I
shall wait. Matthew might die to-morrow--to-day, even--'

'Fie, Sir--oh, fie!--to desire the death of your cousin! This indeed
betokens a bad heart--a bad heart. How dreadful is the passion of envy!
How soul-destroying is the thirst for gold!'

I rose. I knew the worst.

'Do not,' Mr. Probus went on, 'give, I entreat you, one thought to the
thing. Before your cousin's life lies stretched what I may call a
charming landskip with daisies in the grass, and--and--the pretty
warblers of the grove. It is a life, I see very plainly, full of
goodness, which is Heavenly Wealth, stored up for future use; and of
success on Change, which is worldly wealth. Happy is the City which owns
the possessor of both!'

The moralist ceased and began to tie up his papers. When his strident
voice dropped, the air became musical again, so to speak. However, the
harsh voice suited the sham piety.

'Cousin Matthew,' I rose, since there was nothing to keep me longer.
'Could I remember, in your seven-and-twenty years of life, one single
generous act or one single worthy sentiment, then I could believe this
fustian about the length of days and the Heavenly Wealth. Live as long
as you can. I desire never to see you again, and never to hear from you
again. Go your own way, and leave me to go mine.'

The whole company rose: they parted right and left to let me pass: as
the saying is, they gave me the cold shoulder with a wonderful
unanimity. There was a common consent among them that the man who had
become a fiddler had disgraced the family. As for Matthew, he made no
reply even with looks. He did not, however, present the appearance of
joy at this great accession to wealth. Something was on his mind that
troubled him.

My uncle the Alderman spoke for the family.

'Nephew,' he said, 'believe me, it is with great sorrow that we see thee
thus cast out: yet we cannot but believe the acts of my brother to be
righteous. I rejoice not that my son has taken thine inheritance. I
lament that thou hast justly been deprived. The will cuts thee off from
the family.' He looked round. A murmur of approval greeted him. A
disinherited son who is also a fiddler by profession cannot be said to
belong to a respectable City family. 'We wish thee well--in thy lower
sphere--among thy humble companions. Farewell.' I passed through them
all with as much dignity as I could assume. 'Alas!' I heard him saying
as I stepped out. 'Alas! that cousins should so differ from each other
in grain--in grain!'

[Illustration: "I PASSED THROUGH THEM ALL."]

His daughters, my dear cousins, turned up their noses, coughed and
flattened themselves against the wall so that I should not touch so much
as a hoop--and I saw these affectionate creatures no more, until--many
things had happened.




CHAPTER VIII

THE TEMPTATION


One morning, about six weeks after the funeral, I was sitting at the
harpsichord, picking out an anthem of my own composition. The theme was
one of thanksgiving and praise, and my heart was lifted to the level of
the words. All around was peace and tranquillity: on the river bank
outside Alice walked up and down carrying our child, now nearly a year
and a half old: the boy crowed and laughed: the mother would have been
singing, but she would not disturb me at work. Can mortal man desire
greater happiness than to have the work of his own choice; the wife who
is to him the only woman in the world: a strong and lovely child: and a
sufficiency earned by his own work? As for my chance of ever getting
that huge fortune by my cousin's death, I can safely aver that I never
so much as thought of it. We never spoke of it: we put it out of our
minds altogether.

I heard steps outside: steps which disturbed me: I turned my head. It
was Mr. Probus the attorney. He stood hat in hand before Alice.

'Mr. William's wife I believe,' he was saying. 'And his child? A lovely
boy indeed, Madam. I bring you news--nothing less in short than a
fortune--a fortune--for this lovely boy.'

'Indeed, Sir? Are you a friend of my husband?'

'A better friend, I warrant, Madam, than many who call him friend.'

'He is within, Sir. Will you honour our poor cottage?' He stood in the
open door.

'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have your permission to enter?'

At sight of him the whole of the anthem vanished: harmony, melody, solo,
chorus. It was as if someone was singing false: as if all were singing
false. I put down my pen. 'Sir,' I said, 'I know not if there is any
business of mine which can concern you.'

'Dear Sir,' he tried to make his grating voice mellifluous: he tried to
smile pleasantly. 'Do not, pray, treat me as if I was an adviser of the
will by which your father deprived you of your inheritance.'

'I do not say that you were. Nevertheless, I cannot understand what
business you have with me.'

'I come from your cousin. You have never, I fear, regarded your cousin
with kindly feelings'--this was indeed reversing the position--'but of
that we will not speak. I come at the present moment as a messenger of
peace--a messenger of peace. There is Scripture in praise of the
messenger of peace. I forget it at the moment: but you will know it.
Your good lady will certainly know it.' Alice, who had followed him,
placed a chair for him and stood beside him. 'I bear the olive-branch
like the turtle-dove,' he continued, smiling. 'I bring you good tidings
of peace and wealth. They should go together, wealth and peace.'

'Pray, Sir, proceed with your good tidings.'

Alice laid her hand on my shoulder. 'Husband,' she said, 'it would be no
good tidings which would deprive us of the happiness which we now enjoy.
Think well before you agree to anything that this gentleman, or your
cousin, may offer.' So she left us, and carried the boy out again into
the fresh air.

'Now, Sir, we are alone.'

He looked about him curiously. 'A pretty room,' he said, 'but small. One
would take it for the cottage of a fisherman. I believe there are some
of these people in the neighbourhood. The prospect either over the river
or over the marsh is agreeable: the trees are pleasant in the summer.
The Dog and Duck, which is, I believe, easily accessible, is a cheerful
place, and the company is polite and refined, especially that of the
ladies. No one, however, would think that a son of the great Sir Peter
Halliday, ex-Lord Mayor and Alderman, West India Merchant, was living in
this humble place.'

'Your good tidings, Sir?'

'At the same time the position has its drawbacks. You are almost within
the Rules. And though not yourself a prisoner, you are in the company of
prisoners.'

'Again, Sir, your good tidings?'

'I come to them. Scelerisque Probus is my motto. Probus, attorney at
law, trusted by all. Now, Sir, you shall hear what your cousin proposes.
Listen to me for a moment. You can hardly get on, I imagine, even in so
small a way as this appears to be, under fifty pounds a year.'

'It would be difficult.'

'And in your profession, improperly hard and unjustly despised, it is
difficult, I believe, to make much more.'

'It is difficult to make much more.'

'Ha! As your cousin said: "They must be pinched--this unfortunate
couple--pinched at times."'

'Did my cousin say that?'

'Assuredly. He was thinking especially of your good lady, whom he
remarked at the funeral. Well, your cousin will change all that. A heart
of gold, Mr. William, all pure gold'--I coughed, doubtfully--'concealed,
I admit, by a reserved nature which often goes with our best and most
truly pious men, especially in the City of London. I do assure you, a
heart of gold.'

He played his part badly. His cunning eyes, his harsh voice, the words
of praise so out of keeping with his appearance and manner--as if such a
man with such a face could be in sympathy with hearts of gold--struck a
note of warning. Besides, Matthew with a heart of gold?

'Well, Sir,' I interrupted him, 'what have you come to say?'

'In plain words, then, this. Mr. Matthew has discovered a way of serving
you. Now, my dear Sir, I pray your attention.' He leaned back and
crossed his legs. 'Your father showed a certain relenting--a disposition
to consider you as still a member of the family by that provision as to
survival which you doubtless remember.'

'So I interpret that clause in the will.'

'And with this view has put you in as the possible heir to the money
which is now accumulating in the hands of trustees. Mr. Matthew, now a
partner in the business, will, it is assumed, provide for his heirs out
of the business. On his death your father's fortune will come to you if
you are living. If you die first it will go to your cousin. In the
latter event there will be no question of your son getting aught.'

'So I understand.'

'Your cousin, therefore, argues in this way. First, he is only a year or
two older than yourself: next, he is in full possession of his health
and strength. There is nothing to prevent his living to eighty: I
believe a great-grandmother of his, not yours, lived to ninety-six. It
is very likely that he may reach as great an age. You will allow that.'

'Perhaps.'

'Why then, we are agreed. As for you, musicians, I am told, seldom get
past forty: they gradually waste away and--and wither like the blasted
sprig in July. Oh! you will certainly leave this world at
forty--enviable person!--would that I could have done so!--you will
exchange your fiddle for a harp--the superior instrument--and your
three-cornered hat for a crown--the external sign of promotion--long
before your cousin has been passed the Chair.'

'All this is very likely, Mr. Probus. Yet----'

'I am coming to my proposal. What Mr. Matthew says is this. "My cousin
is cut out of the will. It is not for me to dispute my uncle's decision.
Still, what he wants just now is ready money--a supplement--a
supplement--to what he earns."'

'Well?' For he stopped here and looked about the room with an air of
contempt.

'A pleasant room,' he said, going back, 'but is it the room which your
father's son should have for a lodging? Rush-bottomed chairs: no
carpet ... dear me, Mr. William, it is well to be a philosopher.
However, we shall change all that.'

I waited for him to go on without further interruption.

'In a word, Sir, I am the happy ambassador--privileged if ever there was
one--charged to bring about reconciliation and cousinly friendship.'
Again he overdid it. 'Your cousin sent me, in a word, to propose that
you should sell him your chances of inheritance. That is why I am here.
I say, Mr. William, that you may if you please sell him your chance of
the inheritance. He proposes to offer you £3,000 down--£3,000, I
say--the enormous sum of three--thousand--pounds--for your bare chance
of succeeding. Well, Sir? What do you say to this amazing, this
astounding piece of generosity?'

I said nothing. Only suddenly there returned to my mind the words I had
overheard in the outer counting-house.

'We will make him sell his reversion.'

What connection had these words with me? There was no proof of any
connection: no proof except that jumping of the wits which wants no
proof.

'With £3,000,' Mr. Probus continued, 'you can take a more convenient
residence of your own--here, or elsewhere: near the Dog and Duck, or
further removed: you can live where you please: with the interest, which
would amount to £150 a year at least, and what you make by your honest
labour, you will be, for one of your profession, rich. It will be a
noble inheritance for your children. Why, Sir, you are a made man!'

He threw himself back in his chair and puffed his cheeks with the
satisfaction that naturally follows on the making of a man.

I was tempted: I saw before me a life of comparative ease: with £150 a
year there would be little or no anxiety for the future.

Mr. Probus perceived that I was wavering. He pulled a paper out of his
pocket--he slapped it on the table and unrolled it: he looked about for
ink and pen.

'You agree?' he asked with an unholy joy lighting up his eyes.
'Why--there--I knew you would! I told Mr. Matthew that you would. Happy
man! Three thousand pounds! And all your own! And all for nothing! Where
is the ink? Because, Sir--I can be your witness--that cousin of yours,
I may now tell you, is stronger than any bull--sign here, then,
Sir--here--he will live for ever.'

His eagerness, which he could not conceal, to obtain my signature
startled me. Again I remembered the words:

'We will make him sell his reversion.'

'Stop, Mr. Probus,' I said. 'Not so quick, if you please.'

'Not so quick! Why, dear Sir, you have acceded. You have acceded. Where
is the ink?'

'Not at all.'

'If you would like better terms I might raise it another fifty pounds.'

'Not even another fifty will persuade me.' At that moment I heard Alice
singing,

    'The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
    And lead me with a shepherd's care.'

The Lord--not Mr. Probus. I took the words for a warning.

'We shall not want any ink,' I said, 'nor any witness. Because I shall
not sign.'

'Not sign? Not sign? But Mr. William--Sir--surely--have a care--such an
offer is not made every day. You will never again receive such an
offer.'

'Hark ye, Mr. Probus. By that clause in his will my father signified his
desire, although he would punish me for giving up the City--to show that
he was not implacable and that if it be Heaven's will that I should
survive my cousin I should then receive his forgiveness and once more be
considered as one of the family. Sir, I will not, for any offer that you
may make, act against my father's wish. I am to wait, God knows I desire
not the death of my cousin--I wait: it is my father's sentence upon me.
I shall obey my father. He forgives me after a term of years--long or
short--I know not. He forgives me by that clause. I am not cursed with
my father's resentment.'

'Oh! He talks like a madman. With £3,000 waiting for him to pick up!'

'I repeat, Sir. In this matter I shall leave the event to Providence, in
obedience to my father's wishes. Inform my cousin, if you please, of my
resolution.'

More he said, because he was one of those tenacious and obstinate
persons who will not take 'No,' for an answer. Besides, as I learned
afterwards, he was most deeply concerned in the success of his mission.
He passed from the stage of entreaty to that of remonstrance and finally
to that of wrath.

'Sir,' he said, 'I perceive that you are one of those crack-brained and
conceited persons who will not allow anyone to do them good: you throw
away every chance that offers, you stand in your own light, you bring
ruin upon your family.'

'Very well,' I said, 'very well indeed.'

'I waste my words upon you.'

'Why then waste more?'

'You are unworthy of the name you bear. You are only fit for the
beggarly trade you follow. Well, Sir, when misery and starvation fall
upon you and yours, remember what you have thrown away.'

I laughed. His cunning face became twisted with passion.

'Sir,' he said, 'all this talk is beside the mark. There are ways. Do
not think that we are without ways and means.' Then he swore a great
round oath. 'We shall find a way, somehow, to bring you to reason.'

'Well Mr. _Integer Vitæ scelerisque Probus_,' I said. 'If you
contemplate rascality you will have to change your motto.'

He smoothed out his face instantly, and repressed the outward signs of
wrath. 'Mr. Will,' he said, 'forgive this burst of honest indignation.
You will do, of course, what you think fit. Sir, I wish you a return to
better sense. I think I may promise you'--he paused and clapped his
forefinger to his nose, 'I am sure that I can so far trespass on the
forbearance of your cousin as to promise that this offer shall be kept
open for three weeks. Any day within the next three weeks you shall find
at my office the paper ready for your signature. After that time the
chance will be gone--gone--gone for ever,' he threw the chance across
the river with a theatrical gesture and walked away.

What did it mean? Why did Matthew want to buy my share? We might both
live for forty years or even more. Neither could touch that money till
the other's death. He might desire my early death in which case all
would be his. But to buy my share--it meant that if I died first he
would have paid a needless sum of money for it: and that if he died
first it would not be in his power to enjoy that wealth. I asked Ramage
on the Sunday why Matthew wanted it. He said that merchants sometimes
desire credit and that perhaps it would strengthen Matthew if it were
known that this great sum of money would be added to his estate whenever
either his cousin or he himself should die. And with this explanation I
must be content. There was another possibility but that I learned
afterwards.

'We will make him sell his reversion.' What was the meaning of those
words? Perhaps they did not apply to me. But I was sure that they did.
Like a woman I was certain that they did: and for a woman's
reason--which is none.




CHAPTER IX

THE CLAIM AND THE ARREST


You have heard how my old friend David Camlet, musical instrument maker,
of Dowgate Street, presented me--or my wife--on our marriage, with a
handsome harpsichord. Shortly after my father's death, this good old
gentleman also went the way of all flesh: a melancholy event which I
only learned by receiving a letter from Mr. Probus. Imagine, if you can,
my amazement when I read the following:

     'Sir,

     'I have to call your immediate attention to your debt of fifty-five
     pounds for a harpsichord supplied to you by David Camlet of Dowgate
     Street, deceased. I shall be obliged if you will without delay
     discharge this liability to me as attorney for the executors--

     'And Remain Sir,

     'Your obedient humble Servant,

     'EZEKIEL PROBUS'

'Why,' said Alice. 'Mr. Camlet gave us the instrument. It was a free
gift.'

'It was. If Mr. Probus will acknowledge the fact.'

'Mr. Probus? Is it that man with the harsh voice who talked lies to
you?'

'The same. And much I fear, wife, that he means no good by this
letter.'

'But Mr. Camlet gave us the harpsichord.'

Had the letter been received from any other person I should have
considered it as of no importance; but the thought that it came from Mr.
Probus filled me with uneasiness. What had that worthy attorney said?
'There are ways--we shall find a way to bring you to reason.'

'My dear,' said Alice, 'since we have had the instrument for two years
without any demand for payment, we ought to be safe. Better go and see
the man.'

It was with very little hope that I sallied forth. Not only was this man
a personal enemy but he was an attorney. What must be the true nature of
that profession which so fills the world with shuddering and loathing?
Is it, one asks, impossible to be an honest attorney? This one, at all
events, was as great a villain as ever walked. They are a race without
pity, without scruple, without turning either to the right or to the
left when they are in pursuit of their prey. They are like the weasel
who singles out his rabbit and runs it down, being turned neither to one
side nor the other. Their prey is always money: they run down the man
who has money: when they have stripped him naked they leave him, whether
it is in a debtor's prison or in the street: when he is once stripped
they regard him no longer. Other men take revenge for human motives, for
wrongs done and endured: these men know neither revenge nor wrath: they
do not complain of wrongs: you may kick them: you may cuff them: it is
nothing: they want your money: and that they will have by one way or
another.

I took boat from St. Mary Overies stairs. As I crossed the river a
dreadful foreboding of evil seized me. For I perceived suddenly that,
somehow or other, Mr. Probus was personally interested in getting me to
sell my reversion. How could he be interested? I could not understand.
But he was. I remembered the persuasion of his manner: his anxiety to
get my signature: his sudden manifestation of disappointment when I
refused. Why? Matthew was now a partner with a large income and the
fortune which my father left him. Matthew had no expensive tastes. Why
should Mr. Probus be interested in his affairs?

Next, asked the silent reasoner in my brain, what will happen when you
declare that you cannot pay this debt? This man will show no mercy. You
will be arrested--you will be taken to Prison. At this thought I
shivered, and a cold trembling seized all my limbs. 'And you will stay
in the Prison till you consent to sell your reversion.' At which I
resumed my firmness. Never--never--would I yield whatever an accursed
attorney might say or do to me.

Mr. Probus wrote from a house in White Hart Street. It is a small
street, mostly inhabited by poulterers, which leads from Warwick Lane to
Newgate market: a confined place at best: with the rows of birds
dangling on the hooks, not always of the sweetest, and the smell of the
meat market close by and the proximity of the shambles, it is a dark and
noisome place. The house, which had a silver Pen for its sign, was
narrow, and of three stories: none of the windows had been cleaned for a
long time, and the door and doorposts wanted paint.

As I stood on the doorstep the words again came back to me, 'We will
make him sell his reversionary interest.'

The door was opened by an old man much bent and bowed with years: his
thin legs, his thin arms, his body--all were bent: on his head he wore a
small scratch wig: he covered his eyes with his hand on account of the
blinding light, yet the court was darkened by the height of the houses
above and the dangling birds below.

He received my name and opened the door of the front room. I observed
that he opened it a very little way and entered sliding, as if afraid
that I should see something. He returned immediately and beckoned me to
follow him. He led the way into a small room at the back, not much
bigger than a cupboard, which had for furniture a high desk and a high
stool placed at a window so begrimed with dirt that nothing could be
seen through it.

There was no other furniture. The old man climbed upon his stool with
some difficulty and took up his pen. He looked very old and shrivelled:
his brown coat was frayed: his worsted stockings were in holes: his
shoes were tied with leather instead of buckles: there was no show of
shirt either at the wrist or the throat. He looked, in fact, what he
was, a decayed clerk of the kind with which, as a boy, I had been quite
familiar. It is a miserable calling, only redeemed from despair--because
the wages are never much above starvation-point--by the chance and the
hope of winning a prize in the lottery. No clerk is ever so poor that he
cannot afford at least a sixteenth share in this annual bid for fortune.
I never heard that any clerk within my knowledge had ever won a prize:
but the chance was theirs: once a year the chance returns--a chance of
fortune without work or desert.

Presently the old man turned round and whispered, 'I know your face. I
have seen you before--but I forget where. Are you in trade? Have you got
a shop?'

'No. I have no shop,'

'You come from the country? No? A bankrupt, perhaps? No? Going to make
him your attorney?' He shook his head with some vehemence and pointed to
the door with his pen. 'Fly,' he said. 'There is still time.'

'I am not going to make him or anyone else my attorney,'

'You come to borrow money? If so'--again he pointed to the door with the
feathery end of the quill. 'Fly! There is still time.'

'Then you owe him money. Young man--there is still time. Buy a stone at
the pavior's--spend your last penny upon it; then tie it round your neck
and drop into the river. Ah! It is too late--too late--' For just then
Mr. Probus rang a bell. 'Follow me, Sir. Follow me. Ah! That paving
stone!'

Mr. Probus sat at a table covered with papers. He did not rise when I
appeared, but pointed to a chair.

'You wish to see me, Mr. William,' he began. 'May I ask with what
object?'

'I come in reply to your letter, Mr. Probus,'

'My letter? My letter?' He pretended to have forgotten the letter. 'I
write so many, and sometimes--ay--ay--surely. The letter about the
trifling debt due to the estate of David Camlet Deceased. Yes--yes, I am
administering the worthy man's estate. One of many--very many--who have
honoured me with their confidence.'

'That letter, Mr. Probus, is the reason why I have called.'

'You are come to discharge your obligation. It is what I expected. You
are not looking well, Mr. William. I am sorry to observe marks--are they
of privation?--on your face. Our worthy cousin, on the other hand, has a
frame of iron. He will live, I verily believe, to ninety.'

'Never mind my cousin, Mr. Probus. He will live as long as the Lord
permits.'

'When last I saw you Sir, you foolishly rejected a most liberal offer.
Well: youth is ignorant. We live and learn. Some day, too late, you
will be sorry. Now, Sir, for this debt. Fifty-five pounds. Ay.
Fifty-five pounds. And my costs, which are trifling.'

'I have come to tell you, Mr. Probus, that your letter was written under
a misapprehension.'

'Truly? Under a misapprehension? Of what kind, pray?'

The harpsichord was a gift made by Mr. David Camlet. I did not buy it.'

Mr. Probus lifted his eyebrows. 'A gift? Really? You have proof, no
doubt, of this assertion?'

'Certainly.'

'Well, produce your proofs. If you have proofs, as you say, I shall be
the first to withdraw my client's claim. But makers of musical
instruments do not usually give away their wares. What are your proofs,
Sir?'

'My word, first.'

'Ta--ta--ta. Your word. By such proof every debtor would clear himself.
What next?'

'The word of my wife who with me received the instrument from Mr.
Camlet.'

'Receiving the instrument does not clear you of liability--what else?'

'The fact that Mr. Camlet never asked me for the money.'

'An oversight. Had he, in a word, intended the instrument for a gift, he
would have said so. Now, Sir, what other proofs have you?'

I was silent. I had no other proof.

He turned again to the book he had before consulted. It was the ledger,
and there, in Mr. Camlet's own handwriting, firm and square, was an
entry:

'To Will Halliday--a Harpsichord, £55.

In another book was an entry to the office that the instrument had been
delivered.

Of course, I understand now what the old man meant by the entry. He
wanted to note the gift and the value: and unfortunately he entered it
as if it was a business transaction.

'Well, Sir?' asked Mr. Probus.

I said nothing. My heart felt as heavy as lead. I was indeed in the
power of this man.

'There are such things as conspiracy,' he went on, severely. 'You have
told me, for instance, that you and your wife are prepared to swear that
the instrument was a gift. I might have indicted you both for a
conspiracy, in which case Tyburn would have been your lot. For the sake
of your excellent cousin and the worthy Mr. Peter, your uncle, Sir, I
refrain from the indictment, though I fear I might be charged with
compounding a felony. But mercy before all things: charity, mercy, and
long suffering. These are the things that chiefly nourish the human
soul, not guineas.'

I remained still silent, not knowing what to do or to say, and seeing
this abyss yawning before me.

'Come Sir,' he said with changed voice, 'you owe fifty pounds and costs.
If it were to myself I would give you time: I would treat you tenderly:
but an Attorney must protect his clients. Therefore I must have that
money at once.'

'Give me time to consult my friends.' Alas! All my friends could not
raise fifty pounds between them.

'You have none. You have lost your friends. Pay me fifty pounds and
costs.'

'Let me see the executors. Perhaps they will hear reason.'

'For what purpose? They must have their own. The long and the short of
it, Mr. William Halliday, is that you must pay me this money.'

'Man! I have not got so much money in the world.'

He smiled--he could not disguise his satisfaction.

'Then, Mr. William Halliday'--he shut the ledger with a slam--'I fear
that my clients must adopt--most unwillingly, I am sure--the measures
sanctioned by the law.' His eyes gleamed with a malicious satisfaction.
'I only trust that the steps we shall have to take will not disturb the
mind of my much-respected client, your cousin. You will have to choose
your prison, and you will remain in the--the Paradise of your choice
until this money, with costs, is paid. As for your choice, the situation
of the Fleet is more central: that of the Bench is more rural: beyond
the new Prison there are green fields. The smell of the hay perhaps
comes over the wall. Should you find a lengthened residence necessary, I
believe that the rooms, though small, are comfortable. Ah! how useful
would have been that three thousand pounds which you refused--at such a
juncture as this.'

'If there is nothing more to be said----' I got up, not knowing what I
said, and bewildered with the prospect before me.

'Heaven forbid, Sir,' he continued sweetly, 'that I should press you
unduly. I will even, considering the tender heart of your cousin, extend
to you the term. I will grant you twenty-four hours in which to find the
money.'

'You may as well give me five minutes. I have no means of raising the
sum.'

'I am sorry to hear that for the sake of my clients. However, I can only
hope'--he pushed back the papers and rose with a horrible grin of malice
on his face--'that you will find the air of the Prison salubrious. There
have been cases of infectious fever--gaol fever, lately: perhaps the
King's Bench and the Fleet are equal in this respect. Small-pox, also,
is prevalent in one: but I forget which. Many persons live for years in
a Prison. I hope, I am sure, that you will pass--many--many--happy years
in that seclusion.'

I listened to none of this ill-omened croaking, but hastened to leave
him. At the door I passed the old clerk.

'Go to the King's Bench,' he whispered. 'Not to the Fleet where he'll
call every day to learn whether you are dead. There is still time,' he
pointed to his throat while he noisily opened the door. 'Round the neck.
At the bottom of the River: the lying is more comfortable than in the
King's Bench.'

I had entered the house with very little hope. I left it with despair. I
walked home as one in a dream, running against people, seeing nothing,
hearing nothing. When I reached home I sat down in a kind of stupor.

'My dear,' I said, presently recovering, 'we are lost--we are ruined. I
shall starve in a Prison. Thou wilt beg thy bread. The boy will be a
gutter brat.'

'Tell me,' Alice took my hand. 'Oh! tell me all--my dear. Can we be lost
if we are together?'

'We shall not be together. To-morrow I shall be in the Prison. For how
long God only knows.'

'Since _He_ knows, my dear, keep up your heart. When was the righteous
man forsaken? Come, let us talk. There may be some means found. If we
were to pay--though we owe nothing--so much a week.'

'Alice, it is not the debt. There is no debt. It is revenge, and the
hope----'

I did not finish--what I would have added was, 'The hope that I may die
of gaol fever or something.' 'My dear, be brave and let us arrange.
First, I lose my situation in the Church and at the Gardens. Next, we
must provide for the child and for thyself outside the prison. No, my
dear, if the Lord permits us to live any other way the child shall not
be brought up a prison bird.'




CHAPTER X

THE ARREST


In this distress I again consulted Tom, who knew already the whole case.

'In my opinion, Will,' he said, 'the best thing for you is to run away.
Let Alice and the boy come here. Run away.'

'Whither could I run?'

'Go for a few days into hiding. They will come here in search of you.
Cross the river--seek a lodging somewhere about Aldgate, which is on the
other side of the river. They will not look for you there. Meantime I
shall inquire--Oh! I shall hear of something to carry on with for a
time. You might travel with a show. Probus does not go to country fairs.
Or you might go to Dublin or to York, or to Bath, and play in the
orchestra of the theatre. We will settle for you afterwards--what to do.
Meantime pack thy things and take boat down the river.'

This seemed good advice. I promised I would think of it and perhaps act
upon it. Some might think it cowardly to run away: but if an enemy plays
dishonest tricks and underhand practices, there is no better way,
perhaps, than to run away.

Now had I been acquainted with these tricks I should have remained where
I was, in Tom's house, where no sheriff's officer could serve me with a
writ. I should have remained there, I say, until midnight, when I could
safely attempt the flight. Unfortunately I thought there was plenty of
time: I would go home and discuss the matter with Alice. I left the
house, therefore, and proceeded across the fields without any fear or
suspicion. As I approached the Bank, I saw two fellows waiting about.
Still I had no suspicion, and without the least attempt to escape or to
avoid them I fell into the clutches of my enemy.

'Mr. William Halliday?' said one stepping forward and tapping my
shoulder. 'You are my prisoner, Sir, at the suit of Mr. Ezekiel Probus,
for the debt of fifty-five pounds and costs.'

As I made no resistance, the fellows were fairly civil. I was to be
taken, it appeared, first to the Borough Compter. They advised me to
leave all my necessaries behind and to have them sent on to the King's
Bench as soon as I should be removed there.

And so I took leave of my poor Alice and was marched off to the prison
where they take debtors first before they are removed to the larger
prison.

The Borough Compter is surely the most loathsome, fetid, narrow place
that was ever used for a prison. Criminals and Debtors are confined
together: rogues and innocent girls: the most depraved and the most
virtuous: there is a yard for exercise which is only about twenty feet
square for fifty prisoners: at night the men are turned into a room
where they have to lie edgeways for want of space: there is no
ventilation, and the air in the morning is more horrible than I can
describe. My heart aches when I think of the cruelty of that place: it
is a cruel place, because no one ever visits it, no righteous Justice of
the Peace, no godly clergyman: there is no one to restrain the warder:
and he goes on in the same way, not because he is cruel by nature, but
because he is hardened by daily use and custom.

I stayed in that terrible place for two nights, paying dues and garnish
most exorbitant. At the end of that time I was informed that I could be
removed to King's Bench at once. So I was taken to the Court and my
business was quickly despatched. As a fine for being poor, I had to pay
dues which ought not to be demanded of any prisoner for debt--at least
we ought to assume that a debtor wants all the money he has for his
maintenance. Thus, the Marshal demanded four shillings and sixpence on
admission: the turnkey eighteen-pence: the Deputy Marshal a shilling:
the Clerk of the Papers, a shilling: four tipstaffs ten shillings
between them: and the tipstaff for bringing the prisoner from the Court,
six shillings.

These dues paid, I was assigned a room, on the ground-floor of the Great
Building (it was shared with another), and my imprisonment began. It was
Matthew's revenge and Mr. Probus's first plan of reduction to
submission. But I did not submit.

Thus I was trapped by the cunning of a man whom I believe to have been
veritably possessed of a Devil. That there are such men we know very
well from Holy Writ: their signs are a wickedness which shrinks from
nothing: a pitiless nature: a constant desire for things of this world:
and lastly, as happens always to such men, the transformation of what
they desire, when they do get it, into dust and ashes; or its vanishing
quite away never to be seen, touched, or enjoyed any more. These signs
were all visible in the history of Mr. Probus, as you shall hear.
Possessed, beyond a doubt, by a foul fiend, was this man whom then I had
every reason to hate and fear. Now, I cannot but feel a mingled terror
and pity when exemplary punishment overtakes and overwhelms one who
commits crimes which make even the convicts in the condemned cell to
shake and shudder. His end was horrible and terrible, but it was a
fitting end to such a life.

Tom Shirley came, with Alice, to visit me in my new lodging.

He looked about him cheerfully. 'The new place,' he said, 'is more airy
and spacious than the old prison on the other side of the road, where I
spent a year or two. This is quite a handsome court: the Building is a
Palace: the Recreation ground is a Park, but without trees or grass: the
three passages painted green remind me somehow of Spring Gardens: the
numbers of people make me think of Cheapside or Ludgate Hill: the shops,
no doubt contain every luxury: the society, if mixed, is harmonious....'

'In a word, Tom, I am very lucky to get here.'

'There might be worse places. And hark ye, lad, if there is not another
fiddler in the Bench, you will make in a week twice as much in the
Prison as you can make out of it. Nothing cheers a prisoner more than
the strains of a fiddle.

This gave me hope. I began to see that I might live, even in this place.

'There are one or two objections to the place,' this optimist
philosopher went on. 'I have observed, for instance, a certain languor
which steals over mind and body in a Prison. Some have compared it with
the growth they call mildew. Have a care, Will. Practise daily. I have
known a musician leave this place fit for nothing but to play for Jack
in the Green. Look at the people as they pass. Yonder pretty fellow is
too lazy to get his stockings darned: that fellow slouching after him
cannot stoop to pull up his stockings: that other thrusts his feet into
his slippers without pulling up the heels: there goes one who has worn,
I warrant you, his morning gown all day for years: he cannot even get
the elbows darned: keep up thy heart, lad. Before long we will get thee
into the Rules.'

He visited my room. 'Ha!' he said, 'neat, clean, commodious. With a fine
view of the Parade; with life and activity before one's eyes.' He forgot
that he had just remarked on the languor and the mildew of the Prison.
'Observe the racquet players: there are finer players here than anywhere
else, I believe. And those who do not play at racquets may find
recreation at fives: and those who are not active enough for fives may
choose to play at Bumble puppy. Well, Will, Alice will come back to me,
with the boy. She can come here every morning if you wish. Patience,
lad, patience. We will get thee, before long, within the Rules.'

It is possible, by the Warder's permission, to go into the Rules. But
the prisoner must pay down £10 for the first £100 of his debts, and £5
for every subsequent £100. Now I had not ten shillings in the world.
When I look back upon the memory of that time: when I think of the
treatment of prisoners: and of the conduct of the prison: and when I
reflect that nothing is altered at the present day I am amazed at the
wonderful apathy of people as regards the sufferings of others--it may
become at any time their own case: at their carelessness as concerns
injustice and oppression--yet subject every one to the same oppression
and cruelty.

What, for instance, is more monstrous than the fact that a man who has
been arrested by writ, has to pay fees to the prison for every separate
writ? If he has no money he is still held liable, so that even if his
friends are willing to pay his debts with the exorbitant costs of the
attorney, there are still the fees to be paid. And even if the
prisoner's friends are willing to release him there is still the warden
who must be satisfied before he suffers his prisoner to go.

Again what can be more iniquitous than the license allowed to attorneys
in the matter of their costs? Many a prisoner, originally arrested for a
debt of four or five pounds or even less, finds after a while that the
attorney's costs amount to twenty or thirty pounds more. He might be
able to discharge the debt alone: the costs make it impossible: the
creditor might let him go: the attorney will never let him go: the
friends might club together to pay the debt: they cannot pay the costs:
the attorney abates nothing, hoping that compassion will induce the
man's friends to release him. In some cases they do: in others, the
attorney finds that he has overreached himself and that the prisoner
dies of that incurable disease which we call captivity.

At first sight the Parade and the open court of the Prison present an
appearance of animation. The men playing racquets have a little crowd
gathered round them, there are others playing skittles: children run
about shouting: there are the shrill voices of women quarrelling or
arguing: the crowd is always moving about: there are men at tables
smoking and drinking: the tapsters run about with bottles of wine and
jugs of beer. There are women admitted to see their friends, husbands
and brothers, and to bring them gifts. Alas! when I remember--the sight
comes back to me in dreams--the sadness and the earnestness in their
faces and the compassion and the love--the woman's love which endures
all and survives all and conquers all--I wish that I had the purse of
Croesus to set these captives free, even though it would enrich the
attorney, whose wiles have brought them to this place.

One has not to look long before the misery of it is too plainly apparent
above the show of cheerful carelessness. One sees the wives of the
prisoners: their husbands play racquets and drink about and of an
evening sit in the tavern bawling songs; the poor women, ragged and
draggled, come forth carrying their babes to get a little air: their
faces are stamped with the traces of days and weeks and years of
privation. The Prison has destroyed the husband's sense of duty to his
wife: he will not, if he can, work for his family; he lives upon such
doles as he can extract from his family or hers. Worse still, men lose
their sense of shame: they say what they please and care not who hears:
they introduce companions and care not what is said or thought about
them: things are said openly that no Christian should hear: things are
done openly that no Christian should witness or should know. There are
many hundreds of children within these accursed walls. God help them, if
they understand what they hear and what they see!

In the prison there are many kinds of debtors: there is the debtor who
is always angry at the undeserved misery of his lot: sometimes his
wrongs drive him mad in earnest: then the poor wretch is removed to
Bedlam where he remains until his death. There is, next, the despairing
debtor who sits as one in a dream and will never be comforted. There is
the philosophical debtor who accepts his fate and makes the best of it:
there is the meek and miserable debtor--generally some small tradesman
who has been taught that the greatest disgrace possible is that which
has actually fallen upon him; there is the debtor who affects the Beau
and carries his snuff-box with an air. There is the debtor who was a
gentleman and can tell of balls at St. James's; there is the ruffler who
swaggers on the Parade, looking out for newcomers and inviting those who
have money to play with him. As for the women they are like the men:
there are the wives of the prisoners who fall, for the most part, into a
draggled condition like their husbands; there are ladies who put on
sumptuous array and flaunt it daily on the Parade: stories are whispered
about them; there are others about whom it is unnecessary to tell
stories; in a word it is a place where the same wickedness goes on as
one may find outside.

There is a chapel in the middle of the great Building. Service is held
once a week but the attendance is thin; there is a taproom which is
crowded all day long: here men sit over their cups from morning till
evening; there is a coffee-room where tea and coffee can be procured and
where the newspapers are read; this is a great place for the politicians
of whom there are many in the Prison. Indeed, I know not where politics
are so eagerly debated as in the King's Bench.

The King's Bench Prison is a wonderful place for the observation of
Fortune and her caprices. There was a society--call it not a
club--consisting entirely of gentlemen who had been born to good estates
and had suffered ruin through no fault of their own. These gentlemen
admitted me to their company. We dined together at the Ordinary and
conversed after dinner. One of them, born to an easy fortune, was ruined
by the discovery of a parchment entitling him to another estate. There
was a lawsuit lasting for twenty years. He then lost it and found that
the whole of his own estate had gone too. Another, a gentleman of large
estate, married an heiress. Her extravagancies ran through both her own
fortune and her husband's. She lived with him in the Prison and daily,
being now a shrew as well as a slattern, reproached him with the ruin
she herself had caused. There was a young fellow who had fallen among
lawyers and been ruined by them. He now studied law intending as soon as
he got out to commence attorney and to practise the tricks and rogueries
he had learned from his former friends. Another had bought a seat in the
House of Commons and a place with it. But at the next election he lost
his seat and his place, too. And another was a great scholar in Arabic.
His captivity affected him not one whit because he had his books and
could work in the Prison as well as out.

With such companions, I endeavoured to keep aloof from the drinking and
roystering crew which made the Prison disorderly and noisy. Yet, as I
will show you directly, I was the nightly servant of the roysterers.

You have heard of Tom Shirley's judgment that in every debtors' prison
the collegians, if they do not, as many do, go about in filthy rags and
tatters, are all slatterns: some can afford to dress with decency and
cleanliness, not to speak of fashion, which would be, indeed, out of
place in the King's Bench; even those care not to observe the customs of
the outside world; the ruffles are no longer white or no longer visible;
the waistcoat is unbuttoned; the coat is powdered; the wig is uncurled;
those who wear their own hair leave it hanging over the ears instead of
tying it neatly with a black ribbon behind. This general neglect of
dress corresponds with the universal neglect of morals which prevails
throughout the Prison. Everything conspires to drag down and to degrade
the unfortunate prisoner: the hopelessness of his lot; the persecution
of his enemies; the uncertainty about the daily bread; the freedom with
which drink is offered about by those who 'coll it,' _i.e._, in the
language of the place who have money; the temptation to do as others do
and forget his sorrows over a bowl of punch; speedily contaminate the
prisoner and make him in all respects like unto those around him. I have
said already that if it is bad for men it is worse for women. Let me
draw a veil over this side of the King's Bench. Suffice it to say that
one who has written on the Prisons has declared that if Diana herself
and her nymphs were to be imprisoned for twelve months in the King's
Bench, at the end of that time they would all be fit companions for
Messalina.

It is not only from their rags that the poverty of the prisoners is
betrayed; one may learn from their hollow cheeks, their eager eyes,
their feeble gait, that many--too many--are suffering from want of food.
It is true that the law of the land gives to every prisoner a
groat--four-pence a day--to be paid by the detaining creditor: yet the
groat is not always paid, and can only be obtained if the creditor
refuses it by legal steps, which a man destitute of money cannot take.
What attorney will take up the case of a man without a farthing? If the
debtor wins his case how is he to pay the attorney and costs out of
four-pence a day? If he wishes to plead in _formâ pauperis_, the law
allows the warder to charge six shillings and eight-pence for leave to
go to the Court and half a crown for the turnkey to take him there--what
prisoner on the poor side can pay these fees? So that when a prisoner is
really poor he cannot get his groats at all, for the creditor will not
pay them unless he is obliged. Again there are other ways of evading the
law. If a debtor surrenders in June there is no Court till November and
the creditor need not pay anything till the order of the Court is
issued. There are a few doles and charities; but these amount to no more
than about £100 a year, say, two pounds a week or six shillings a day.
Now there are 600 prisoners as a rule. How many of these are on the poor
side? And how far will six shillings a day go among these starving
wretches? There are also the boxes into which a few shillings a day are
dropped. But how far will these go among so many? It is within my
certain knowledge that many would die of sheer starvation every week
were it not for the kindness of those but one step above them.

If, for instance, one would understand what poverty may mean he must
visit the Common side of the King's Bench Prison. Those who have visited
the courts and narrow lanes of Wapping report terrible stories of rags
and filth, but the people, by hook or by crook, get food. In the Prison
there is neither hook nor crook: the prisoner unless he knows a trade
which may be useful in that place: unless he can repair shoes and
clothes: unless he can shave and dress the hair, cannot earn a penny.
Look at these poor wretches, slinking about the courts, hoping to
attract the compassion of some visitor; see them uncombed, unwashed,
unshaven; their long hair hanging over their ears; a horrid bristling
beard upon their chin; their faces wan with insufficient food, their
eyes eagerly glancing here and there to catch a look of pity, a dole or
a loan. If you follow them to the misery of the Common side where they
are thrust at night you will see creatures more wretched still. These
can go abroad even though skewers take the place of buttons; these have
shoes--which once had toes; these have beds, of a kind; there are others
who have no beds, but lie on the floor; who have no blankets and never
take off their rags; who go bare-footed and bare-headed. Remember that
their life-long imprisonment was imposed upon them because they could
not pay a debt of a pound or two. Their pound or two, by reason of the
attorney's costs and the warden's fees, has grown and swelled till it
has reached the amount of £20 or £40 or anything you will. No one can
release them; the only thing to be hoped is that cold and starvation may
speedily bring them to the end--the long sleep in the graveyard of St.
George's Church.

I speedily found that I could manage to live pretty well by means of my
fiddle. Almost every evening there was some drinking party which engaged
my services. I played for them the old tunes to which they sang their
songs about wine and women--bawling them at the top of their voices;
they paid me as much as I could expect. By good luck there was no other
fiddler in the place; a harpist there was; and a flute-player; we
sometimes agreed together to give a concert in the coffee-room.

I continued this life for about six months, making enough money every
week to pay my way at the Ordinary. Perhaps--I know not--the prison was
already beginning to work its way with me and to reduce me, as Tom
Shirley said, to the condition of a fiddler to Jack in the Green.

I had a visit, after some three months, from Mr. Probus. He came one day
into the prison. I saw him standing on the pavement looking round him.
Some of the collegians knew him: they whispered and looked at him with
the face that means death if that were possible. One man stepped forward
and cursed him. 'Dog!' he said, 'if I had you outside this accursed
place, I would make an end of you.'

'Sir,' said Mr. Probus, at whose heels marched a turnkey, 'you do me an
injustice for which you will one day be sorry. Am I your detaining
creditor?'

The man cursed him again, I know not why, and turned on his heel.

Then I stepped forward. 'Did you come here to gloat over your work, Mr.
Probus?'

'Mr. William? I hope you are well, Sir. The prison air, I find, is fresh
from the fields. You look better than I expected. To be sure it is early
days. You are only just beginning.'

'You will be sorry to hear that I am very well.'

'I would have speech in a retired place, Mr. William.'

'You want once more to dangle your bribe before me. I understand, sir,
very well, what you would say.'

'Then let me say it here. Your cousin, I may say, deplores deeply this
new disgrace to the family. He earnestly desires to remove it. I am
again empowered to purchase an imaginary reversion. Mr. William, he will
now make it £4,000. Will that content you?'

'Nothing will content me. There is some secret reason for this
persecution. You want--you--not my cousin--to get access to this great
sum of money. Well, Mr. Probus, my opinion is that my cousin will die
before me. And since I am firmly persuaded upon that point, and since I
believe that you think so too, my answer is the same as before.'

'Then,' he said, 'stay here and rot.' He looked round the prison. 'It is
a pleasant place for a young man to spend his days, is it not? All his
days--till an attack of gaol fever or small-pox visits the place. Eh?
Eh? Eh? Then you will be sorry.'

'I shall never be sorry, Mr. Probus, to have frustrated any plots and
designs of yours. Be assured of that--and for the rest, do your worst.'

He slowly walked away without a word. But all the devil in his soul
flared in his eyes as he turned.

'You do wrong,' said the turnkey who had accompanied him. 'Tis the
keenest of his kind. Not another attorney in all London has brought us,
not to speak of the Fleet and Newgate, more prisoners than Mr. Probus.
For hunting up detainers and running up the costs he has no equal.'

'He is my detaining creditor,' I said.

The turnkey shrugged his shoulders.

'Young gentleman,' he said, 'I see that you are a gentleman, although
you are a fiddler--take advice. Agree with his terms quickly, whatever
they are. He made you an offer--take it, before he lands you in another
court with new writs and more costs.'

In fact, the very next day, I heard that there was another writ in the
name of one John Merridew, Sheriff's officer, for fifty pounds alleged
to have been lent to me by him. As for Mr. John Merridew, I knew not
even the name of the man, and I had never borrowed sixpence of anyone.

I showed the writ to my friend the turnkey. He read it with admiration.

'I told you so,' he said, 'what a man he is! And Merridew,
too--Merridew! And you never borrowed the money, and never saw the man!
What a man! What a man! Merridew, too, under his thumb! There's ability
for you! There's resource!'

I murmured something not complimentary. Indeed, I knew nothing, at that
time, of Merridew.

'Ah! He means to keep you here until you accept his offer. Better take
it now, then he'll let you go for his costs. He won't give up the costs.
What a man it is! And you've never set eyes on John Merridew, have you?
What a man! He knows John Merridew, you see. Why, between them--'He
looked at me meaningly, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. 'Take my
advice, Sir. Take my advice, and accept that offer of his. Else--I don't
say, mind, but Merridew--Merridew----'He placed his thumb upon the left
side of my neck, and pressed it. 'Many--many--have gone that
way--through Merridew. And Probus rules Merridew.'


END OF BOOK I




PART II

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN INTO THE FIRE




CHAPTER I

RELEASE


You have read how a certain lady came to the Prison: how she spoke with
two prisoners of the baser sort in a manner familiar and yet scornful:
and how she addressed me and appeared moved and astonished on hearing my
name. I thought little more about her, save as an agreeable vision in
the midst of the rags and sordidness of the Prison, now growing
daily--alas!--more familiar and less repulsive. For this is the way in
the King's Bench.

She came, however, a second time, and this time she came to visit me. It
was in the morning. Alice was in my room; with her the boy, now in his
second year, so strong that he could not be kept from pulling himself up
by the help of a chair. She was showing me his ways and his tricks,
rejoicing in the wilfulness and strength of the child. I was watching
and listening, my pride and happiness in the boy dashed by the thought
that he must grow up to be ashamed of his father as a prison bird.
Prison has no greater sting than the thought of your children's shame.
For the time went on and day after day only made release appear more
impossible. How could I get out who had no friends and could save no
money? I had now been in prison for nearly a year: I began to look for
nothing more than to remain there for all my life.

While I was looking at the boy and sadly thinking of these things, I
heard a quick, light step outside, followed by a gentle tap at the door.
And lo! there entered the lady who had spoken with those two sons of
Belial and with me.

'I said I would come again.' She smiled, and it was as if the sunshine
poured into the room. She gave me her hand and it was like a hand
dragging me out of the Slough of Despond. 'Your room,' she said, 'is not
so bad, considering the place. This lady is your wife? Madam, your most
respectful.'

So she curtseyed low and Alice did the like. Then she saw the child.

'Oh!' she cried. 'The pretty boy! The lovely boy!' She snatched him and
tossed him crowing and laughing, and covered him with kisses. 'Oh! The
light, soft, silky hair!' she cried. 'Oh! the sweet blue eyes! Oh! the
pretty face. Master Will Halliday, you are to be envied even in this
place. Your cousin Matthew hath no such blessing as this.'

'Matthew is not even married.'

'Indeed? Perhaps, if he is, this, as well as other blessings, has been
denied him,' she replied, with a little change in her face as if a cloud
had suddenly fallen. But it quickly passed.

I could observe that Alice regarded her visitor with admiration and
curiosity. This was a kind of woman unknown to my girl, who knew nothing
of the world or of fine ladies: they were outside her own experience.
The two women wore a strange contrast to each other. Alice with her
serious air of meditation, and her grave eyes, might have sat to a
painter for the Spirit of Music, or for St. Cecilia herself: or indeed
for any saint, or muse, or heathen goddess who must show in her face a
heavenly sweetness of thought, with holy meditation. All the purity and
tenderness of religion lay always in the face of Alice. Our visitor, on
the other hand, would have sat more fitly for the Queen of Love, or the
Spirit of Earthly Love. Truly she was more beautiful than any other
woman whom I had ever seen, or imagined. I thought her beautiful on the
stage, but then her face was covered with the crimson paint by which
actresses have to spoil their cheeks. Off the stage, it was the beauty
of Venus herself: a beauty which invited love: a beauty altogether soft:
in every point soft and sweet and caressing: eyes that were limpid and
soft: a blooming cheek which needed no paint, which was as soft as
velvet and as delicately coloured as a peach: lips smiling, rosy red and
soft: her hands: her voice: her laugh: everything about this heavenly
creature, I say, invited and compelled and created love.

You think that as one already sworn to love and comfort another woman, I
speak with reprehensible praise. Well, I have already confessed--it is
not a confession of shame--that I loved her from the very first: from
the time when she spoke to me first. I am not ashamed of loving her:
Alice knows that I have always loved her: you shall hear, presently, why
I need not be ashamed and why I loved her, if I may say so, as a sister.
It is possible to love a woman without thoughts of earthly love: to
admire her loveliness: to respect her: to worship her: yet not as an
earthly lover. Such love as Petrarch felt for Laura I felt for this
sweet and lovely woman.

She gave back the child to his mother. 'Mr. Will Halliday,' she said.
'It is not only for the child that thou art blessed above other
men'--looking so intently upon Alice that the poor girl blushed and was
confused. 'Sure,' she said, 'it is a face which I have seen in a
picture.'

She was a witch: she drew all hearts to her: yet not, like Circe, to
their ruin and undoing. And if she was soft and kind of speech, she was
also generous of heart. She was always, as I was afterwards to find out,
helping others. How she helped me you shall hear. Meantime I must not
forget that her face showed a most remarkable virginal innocence. It
seemed natural to her face: a part of it, that it should proclaim a
perfect maidenly innocence of soul. I know that many things have been
said about her; for my own part I care to know nothing more about her
than she herself has been pleased to tell me. I choose to believe that
the innocence in her face proclaimed the innocence of her life. And,
with this innocence, a face which was always changing with every mood
that crossed her mind: moved by every touch of passion: sensitive as an
Aeolian harp to every breath of wind.

She sat down on the bed. 'I told you that I would come again,' she said.
'Do not take me for a curious and meddlesome person. Madam,' she turned
to Alice, 'I come because I know something about your husband's cousin,
Matthew. If you will favour me, I should like to know the meaning of
this imprisonment, and what Matthew has to do with it.'

So I told the whole story: the clause in my father's will: the attempt
made to persuade me to sell my chance of the succession: the threats
used by Mr. Probus: the alleged debt for his harpsichord: and the
alleged debt to one John Merridew.

She heard the whole patiently. Then she nodded her head.

'Probus I know, though he does not, happily, know me. Of the man
Merridew also I know something. He is a sheriff's officer by trade; but
he has more trades than one. Probus is an attorney; but he, too, has
more trades than one. My friends, this is the work of Probus. I see
Probus in it from the beginning. I conjecture that Merridew, for some
consideration, has borrowed money from Probus more than he can repay.
Therefore, he has to do whatever Probus orders.'

'Mr. Probus is Matthew's attorney.'

'Yes. An attorney does not commit crimes for his client, unless he is
well paid for it. I do not know what it means except that Matthew wants
money, which does not surprise me----'

'Matthew is a partner in the House of Halliday Brothers. He has beside a
large fortune which should have been mine.'

'Yet Matthew may want money. I am not a lawyer, but I suppose that if
you sell your chance to him, he can raise money on the succession.'

'I suppose so.'

'Probus must want money too. Else he would not have committed the crime
of imprisoning you on a false charge of debt. Well, we need not waste
time in asking why. The question is, first of all, how to get you out.'

Alice clutched her little one to her heart and her colour vanished, by
which I understood the longing that was in her.

'To get me out? Madam; I have no friends in the world who could raise
ten pounds.'

'Nevertheless, Mr. Will, a body may ask how much is wanted to get you
out.'

'There is the alleged debt for the harpsichord of fifty-five pounds:
there is also the alleged debt due to Mr. John Merridew of fifty pounds:
there are the costs: and there are the fines or garnish without which
one cannot leave the place.'

'Say, perhaps in all, a hundred and fifty pounds. It is not much. I
think I can find a man'--she laughed--'who, out of his singular love to
you, will give the money to take you out.'

'You know a man? Madame, I protest--there is no one, in the whole
world--who would do such a thing.'

'Yet if I assure you----'

'Oh! Madame! Will!' Alice fell on her knees and clasped her hand. 'See!
It is herself! herself!'

[Illustration: "ALICE FELL ON HER KNEES AND CLASPED HER HAND."]

'But why?--why?' I asked incredulous.

'Because she is all goodness,' Alice cried, the tears rolling down her
face.

'All goodness!' Madame laughed. 'Yes, I am indeed all goodness. Get up
dear woman. And go on thinking that, if you can. All goodness!' And she
laughed scornfully. 'A hundred and fifty pounds,' she repeated. 'Yes, I
think I know where to get this money.'

'Are we dreaming?' I asked.

'But, Will,' she became very serious, 'I must be plain with you. It is
certain to me that the man Probus has got some hold over your cousin.
Otherwise he would not be so impatient for you to sell your reversion.
Some day I will show you why I think this. Learn, moreover, that the man
Probus is a man of one passion only. He wants money: he wants nothing
else: it is his only desire to get money. If anybody interferes with his
money getting, he will grind that man to powder. You have interfered
with him: he has thrust you into prison. Do not believe that when you
are out he will cease to persecute you.'

'What am I to do, then?'

'If you come to terms with him he will at once cease his persecution.'

'Come to terms with him?'

'His terms must mean a great sum of money for himself, not for you--or
for your cousin. Else he would not be so eager.'

'I can never accept his terms,' I said.

'He will go on, then. If it is a very large sum of money he will stick
at nothing.'

'Then what am I to do?'

'Keep out of his way. For, believe me, there is nothing that he will not
attempt to get you once more in his power. Consider: he put you in here,
knowing that you are penniless. He calculates that the time will come
when you will be so broken by imprisonment that you will be ready to
make any terms. Nay--he thinks that the prison air will kill you.'

'The Lord will protect us,' said Alice.

Madame looked up with surprise. 'They say that on the stage,' she said.
'What does it mean?'

'It means that we are all in the hands of the Lord. Without His will not
even a sparrow falleth to the ground.'

Madame shook her head. 'At least,' she said, 'we must do what we can to
protect ourselves.' She rose. 'I am going now to get that money. You
shall hear from me in a day or two. Perhaps it may take a week before
you are finally released. But keep up your hearts.'

She took the child again and kissed him. Then she gave him back to his
mother.

'You are a good woman,' she said. 'Your face is good: your voice is
good: what you say is good. But, remember. Add to what you call the
protection of the Lord a few precautions. To stand between such an one
as Probus and the money that he is hunting is like standing between a
tigress and her prey. He will have no mercy: there is no wickedness that
he will hesitate to devise: what he will do next, I know not, but it
will be something that belongs to his master, the Devil.'

'The Lord will protect us,' Alice repeated, laying her hand on the
flaxen hair of her child.

We stared at each other, when she was gone. 'Will,' asked Alice, with
suffused eyes and dropping voice. 'Is she an angel from Heaven?'

'An angel, doubtless--but not from Heaven--yet. My dear, it is the
actress who charmed us when we went to the Play--on our wedding-day. It
is Miss Jenny Wilmot herself.'

'Oh! If all actresses are like her! Yet they say----Will, she shall
have, at least, our prayers----'

       *       *       *       *       *

Three or four days later--the time seemed many years--an attorney came
to see me. Not such an attorney as Mr. Probus: a gentleman of open
countenance and pleasant manners. He came to tell me that my business
was done, and that after certain dues were paid--which were provided
for--I could walk out of the prison.

'Sir,' I said, I beg you to convey to Miss Jenny Wilmot, my
benefactress, my heartfelt gratitude.'

'I will, Mr. Halliday. I perceive that you know her name. Let me beg you
not to wait upon her in person. To be sure, she has left Drury Lane and
you do not know her present address. It is enough that she has been able
to benefit you, and that you have sent her a becoming message of
gratitude. But, Sir, one word of caution. She bids you remember that you
have an implacable enemy. Take care, therefore, take care.'




CHAPTER II

How I got a new place


So I was free. For twenty-four hours I was like a boy on the first day
of his holidays. I exulted in my liberty: I ran about the meadows and
along the Embankment: I got into a boat and rowed up and down the river.
But when the first rapture of freedom was spent I remembered that free
or within stone walls, I had still to earn a living. I had but one way:
I must find a place in an Orchestra. At the Dog and Duck, where my
brother-in-law still led, there was no place for me.

There are, however, a great many taverns with gardens and dancing and
singing places and bands of music. I set off to find one where they
wanted a fiddle. I went, I believe, the whole round of them--from the
Temple of Flora to the White Conduit House, and from Bermondsey Spa to
the Assembly Rooms at Hampstead. Had all the world turned fiddler?
Everywhere the same reply--'No vacancy.' Meantime we were living on the
bounty of my brother-in-law whose earnings were scanty for his own
modest house.

Then I thought of the organ. Of course my place at St. George's Borough
was filled up. There are about a hundred churches in London, however:
most of them have organs. I tried every one: and always with the same
result: the place was filled. I thought of my old trade of fiddling to
the sailors. Would you believe it? There was not even a tavern parlour
where they wanted a fiddle to make the sailors dance and drink. Had Mr.
Probus been able to keep me out of everything?

Alice did her best to sustain my courage. She preserved a cheerful
countenance: she brushed my coat and hat in the morning with a word of
encouragement: she welcomed me home when I returned footsore and with an
aching heart. Why, even in the far darker time that presently followed
she preserved the outward form of cheerfulness and the inner heart of
faith.

The weeks passed on: my bad luck remained: I could hear of no work, not
even temporary work: I began to think that even the Prison where I could
at least earn my two or three shillings a day was better than freedom: I
began also to think that Mr. Probus must have all the orchestras and
music-galleries in his own power, together with all the churches that
had organs. My shoes wore out and could not be replaced: my appearance
was such as might be expected when for most of the time I had nothing
between bread and cheese and beer for breakfast, and bread and cheese
and beer for supper. And I think that the miserable figure I presented
was often the cause of rejection.

Chance--say Providence--helped me. I was walking, sadly enough, by
Charing Cross, one afternoon, being weary, hungry, and dejected, when I
heard a voice cry out, 'Will Halliday! Will Halliday! Are you deaf?'

I turned round. It was Madame, my benefactress, my patroness. She was in
a hackney coach.

[Illustration: "I TURNED AROUND; IT WAS MADAM."]

'Come in,' she cried, stopping her driver. 'Come in with me.'

I obeyed, nothing loth.

'Why,' she said looking at me. 'What is the matter? Your cheeks are
hollow: your face is pale: your limbs are shaking: worse still--you are
shabby. What has happened?'

I could make no reply.

'Your sweet wife--and the lovely boy. They are well?'

When a man has been living for many weeks on insufficient food: when he
has been turned away at every application, he may be forgiven if he
loses, on small provocation, his self-control. I am not ashamed to say
that her kind words and her kind looks were too much for me in my weak
condition. I burst into tears.

She laid her hand on my arm, 'Will,' she said, as if she were a
sister, 'you shall tell me all--but you shall go home with me and we
will talk.'

I observed that the coachman drove up St. Martin's Lane and through a
collection of streets which I had never seen before. It was the part
called St. Giles's; a place which is a kind of laystall into which are
shot every day quantities of the scum, dirt, and refuse of this huge and
overgrown city. I looked out of the window upon a crowd of faces more
villainous than one could conceive possible, stamped with the brand of
Cain. They were lying about in the doorways, at the open windows, for it
was the month of September and a warm day and on the doorsteps and in
the unpaved, unlit, squalid streets. Never did I see so many ragged and
naked brats; never did I see so many cripples, so many hunchbacks, so
many deformed people: they were of all kinds--bandy-legged, knock-kneed,
those whose shins curve outward like a bow, round-backed, one-eyed,
blind, lame.

'They are the beggars,' said my companion. 'Their deformities mean
drink: they mean the mothers who drink and drop the babies about.
Beggars and thieves--they are the people of St. Giles's.'

'I wonder you come this way. Are you not afraid?'

'They will not hurt me. I wish they would,' she added with a sigh.

A strange wish. I was soon, however, to understand what she meant.

Certainly, no one molested us, or stopped the coach: we passed through
these streets into High Street, Holborn, and to St. Giles's Church where
the criminal on his way to Tyburn receives his last drink. Then, by
another turn, into a noble square with a garden surrounded by great
houses, of which the greatest was built for the unfortunate Duke of
Monmouth. The coachman stopped before one of these houses on the East
side of the Square. It was a very fine and noble mansion indeed.

I threw open the door of the coach and handed Madame down the steps.

'This is my house,' she said. 'Will you come in with me?'

I followed marvelling how an actress could be so great a lady: but still
I remembered how she spoke familiarly to those two villains in the
King's Bench Prison. The doors flew open. Within, a row of a dozen tall
hulking fellows in livery stood up to receive Madame. She walked
through them with an air that belonged to a Duchess. Then she turned
into a small room on the left hand and threw herself into a chair. 'So,'
she said, 'with these varlets I am a great lady. Here, and in your
company, Will, I am nothing but....' She paused and sighed. 'I will tell
you another time.'

I think I was more surprised at the familiarity with which she addressed
me than with the splendour of the place. This room, for instance, though
but little, was lofty and its walls were painted with flowers and birds:
silver candlesticks each with two branches, stood on the mantelshelf
which was a marvel of fine carving: a rich carpet covered the floor:
there were two or three chairs and a table in white and gold. A portrait
of Madame hung over the fireplace.

'Forgive me, my friend,' She sprang from the chair and pulled the bell
rope. 'Before we talk you must take some dinner.'

She gave her orders in a quick peremptory tone as one accustomed to be
obeyed. In a few minutes the table was spread with a white cloth and
laid out with a cold chicken, a noble ham, a loaf of bread, and a bottle
of Madeira. You may imagine that I made very little delay in sitting
down to these good things. Heavens! How good they were after the
prolonged diet of bread and cheese!

Madame looked on and waited, her chin in her hand. When I desisted at
length, she poured out another glass of Madeira. 'Tell me,' she said.
'Your sweet wife and the lovely boy--are they as hungry as you?'

I shook my head sadly.

'We shall see, presently, what we can do. Meantime, tell me the whole
story.'

I told her, briefly, that my story was nothing at all but the story of a
man out of employment who could not find any and was slowly dropping
into shabbiness of appearance and weakness of body.

'No work? Why, I supposed you would go back to--to--to something in the
City.'

'Though my father was a Knight and a Lord Mayor, I am a simple musician
by trade. I am not a gentleman.'

'I like you all the better,' she replied, smiling. 'I am not a
gentlewoman either. The actress is a rogue and a vagabond. So is the
musician I suppose.'

I stared. Was she, then, still an actress--and living in this stately
Palace?

'You are a musician. Do you, then, want to find work as a fiddler?'

'That is what I am looking for.'

'Let us consider. Do you play like a--a--gentleman or like one of the
calling?'

'I am one of the calling. When I tell you that I used to live by
fiddling for sailors to dance----'

'Say no more--say no more. They are the finest critics in the world. If
you please them it is enough. Why should I not engage you, myself?'

'You--engage--me? You--Madame?'

'Friend Will,' she laid her hand on mine, 'there are reasons why I wish
you well and would stand by you if I could. I will tell you, another
day, what those reasons are. Let me treat you as a friend. When we are
alone, I am not Madame: I am Jenny.'

There are some women who if they said such a thing as this, would be
taken as declaring the passion of love. No one could look at Jenny's
face which was all simplicity and candour and entertain the least
suspicion of such a thing.

'Nay, I can only marvel,' I said. For I still thought that I was talking
to some great lady. 'I think that I must be dreaming.'

'Since you know not where you are, this is the Soho Assembly and I am
Madame Vallance.'

I seemed to have heard of Madame Vallance.

'You know nothing. That is because you have been in the King's Bench. I
will now tell you, what nobody else knows, that Madame Vallance is Jenny
Wilmot. I have left the stage, for a time, to avoid a certain person.
Here, if I go among the company, I can wear a domino and remain unknown.
Do you know nothing about us? We have masquerades, galas,
routs--everything. Come with me. I will show you my Ball Room.'

She led me up the grand staircase from the Hall into a most noble room.
On the walls were hung many mirrors: between the mirrors were painted
Cupids and flowers: rout seats were placed all round the room: the
hanging candelabra contained hundreds of candles: at one end stood a
music gallery.

'Will,' she said, 'go upstairs and play me something.'

I obeyed.

I found an instrument, which I tuned. Then I stood up in the gallery and
played.

She stood below listening. 'Well played!' she cried. 'Now play me a
dance tune. See if you can make me dance.'

I played a tune which I had often played to the jolly sailors. I know
not what it is called. It is one of those tunes which run in at the ears
and down to the heels which it makes as light as a feather and as quick
silver for nimbleness. In a minute she was dancing--with such grace,
such spirit, such quickness of motion, as if every limb was without
weight. And her fair face smiling and her blue eyes dancing!--never was
there such a figure of grace: as for the step, it was as if invented on
the spot, but I believe that she had learned it. Afraid of tiring her, I
laid down the violin and descended into the hall.

She gave me both her hands. 'Will,' she said. 'You will make my fortune
if you consent to join my orchestra. There never was such playing. Those
sailors! How could they let you go? Now listen. I can pay you thirty
shillings. Will you come? The Treasury pays every Saturday morning. You
shall have, besides, four weeks in advance. Spend it in generous food
after your long Lent. Say--Will you accept?'

'It is too much, Jenny.' I took her hand and kissed it. 'First you take
me out of prison: then you give me the means of living. How can I thank
you sufficiently? How repay----'

'There is nothing to repay. I will tell you another time why I take an
interest in you.'

'When the most beautiful woman in the world----'

'Stop, Will. I warn you. There must be no love-making.' I suppose she
saw the irresistible admiration in my eyes. 'Oh! I am not angry. But
compliments of that kind generally lead to love-making. They all try it,
but it is quite useless--now,' she added with a sigh. 'And you, of all
men, must not.'

I made no reply, not knowing what to say.

'There is another face in your home, Will, that is far more beautiful
than mine. Think of that face. Enough said.'

'I protest----' I began.

She laid her hand upon my lips. 'There must be no compliments,' she
said. Her voice was severe but her smiling eyes forgave.

I left her and hastened home with dancing feet.

I was returning with an engagement of thirty shillings a week: I had
four weeks' pay in my pocket: Fortune once more smiled upon me: I ran in
and kissed my wife with an alacrity and a cheerfulness which rejoiced
her as much as it astonished her. I threw down the money. 'Take it, my
dear,' I said. 'There is more to come. We are saved again. Oh! Alice--we
are saved--and by the same hand as before.'

'I have heard of Madame Vallance,' said Tom, presently. 'She comes from
no one knows where: she keeps herself secluded: at the Assemblies she
always wears a mask: the people say she is generous: some think she is
rich: others that the expense of the place must break her.'

'I hope she is another Croesus,' I said. 'I hope that the River of
Pactolus will flow into her lap. I hope she will inherit the mines of
Golgonda. I hope she will live a thousand years and marry a Prince. And
we will drink her health in a bowl of punch this very night.'




CHAPTER III

THE MASQUERADE


I commenced my duties in the music gallery on one of the nights devoted
to the amusement called the Masquerade. It was an amusement new to me
and to all except those who can afford to spend five guineas, besides
the purchase of a dress, on the pleasure of a single night. I understand
the Masquerade has taken a great hold upon the fashionable world and
upon those who have money to spend and are eager for the excitement of a
new pleasure. 'Give--give' is the cry of those who live, day by day, for
the pleasure of the moment.

Truly in a Masquerade there is everything; the novelty or the beauty of
the disguise: the music: the dancing: the revelry after supper: the
gambling: the pursuit of beauty in disguise--it is wonderful to reflect,
in the quiet corner of the earth in which I write, that, across the
Atlantic, in London City, there are thousands who are never happy save
when they are crowded together, seeking such excitement as is afforded
by the masquerade, the assembly, the promenade and the pleasure garden.
Here we have no such excitements and we want none: life for us flows in
a tranquil stream: for them it flows away in waterfalls and cataracts,
leaping to the sea.

Madame managed her masquerades as she did everything, with the greatest
care: she arranged everything: the selection of the music: the
decorations: the supper: even the chalking of the floor. The doors were
thrown open at eleven. Long before that hour the Square was filled with
people, some were come to see the fashionable throng arrive--the fine
dresses of the ladies and the masquerading of the men. Some were come to
pick the pockets of the others. There was no confusion: the hackney
coaches and the chairs were directed by Madame's servants, who stood
outside, to arrive by one road and to depart by another. Thus, one after
the other, without quarrelling or fighting, drove to the doors,
deposited their company and departed. The same order was observed in the
departure.

For my own part, as there was nothing to do before eleven, I amused
myself by going round and seeing the rooms all lit up with candles in
sconces or by candelabra and painted with flowers and fruit and Cupids
even to the ceiling, and hung with costly curtains. It is a large and
spacious house, of commanding appearance, built by an Earl of Carlisle.
There is a grand staircase, broad and stately: when a well-dressed
Company are going up and down it looks like the staircase of a Palace:
on the landing I found flowers in pots and bushes in tubs which gave the
place a rural appearance and so might lead the thoughts of the visitor
insensibly into the country. There are a great many rooms in the
original House which has been very handsomely increased by the addition
of two large chambers, one above the other, built out at the back, over
part of the garden. One of these new rooms was the Ball Room which I
have already mentioned. The other room below it, equally large but not
so high, was used as the supper-room. It had its walls painted with
dancing Satyrs and Fauns: gilded pilasters, raised an inch or so,
relieved the flatness of the wall. This was the supper-room: for the
moment it had nothing in it but long narrow tables arranged down the
room in rows: the servants were already beginning to spread upon them
the napery and lay the knives and forks for supper.

On the ground-floor on the right hand of the entrance hall was a large
room used as a card room. Here stood a long table covered with a green
cloth for the players of those games which require a Bank or a large
company. They are Hazard, Lansquenet, Loo, Faro, and I know not how many
more. But, whatever their names, they all mean the same thing and only
one thing, viz., gambling. Along the wall on either side were small
tables for parties of two or four, who came to play Quadrille, Whist,
Piquet, Ecarté, and the like--games more dangerous to the young and the
beginner than the more noisy gambling of the crowd. Candles stood on all
the small tables and down the middle of the great table: there were also
candles in sconces on the wall. As yet none of them were lit.

While I was looking round the empty room, Madame herself came in dressed
in white satin, and carrying her domino in her hand.

'I look into every room,' she said, 'before the doors are open: but into
this room I look two or three times every evening.'

'You come to look at the players?'

'I have a particular reason for coming here. I will tell you some time
or other--perhaps to-night, Will. If so, it will be the greatest
surprise of your life--the very greatest surprise. Yes--I watch the
players. Their faces amuse me. When I see a man losing time after time,
and remaining calm and unmoved, I say to myself, "There is a gentleman."
Play is the finest test of good breeding. When a man curses his luck;
curses his neighbour for bringing him bad luck; bangs the table with his
fist; and calls upon all the Gods to smite him dead, I say to myself,
"That is a city spark."'

'I fear I am a city spark.'

'When I see two sitting together at a table quiet and alone I ask myself
which is the sharper and which is the flat. By watching them for a few
minutes I can always find out--one of them always is the sharper, you
see, and the other always the flat. And if you watch them for a few
minutes you can always find out. Beware of this room, Will. Be neither
sharper nor flat.'

She turned and went off to see some other room.

Looking out at the back I saw that the garden had been hung with
coloured lamps, and looked gay and bright. It was a warm fine evening:
there would be many who would choose the garden for a promenade. Other
rooms there were: the Blue Room: the Star Room: the Red Room: the
Chinese Room: I know not what, nor for what they were all used.

But the time approached. I climbed up the steep stairs and took my place
in the music gallery, where already most of the orchestra were
assembled: like them I tuned my violin, and then waited the arrival of
the Company.

They came by tickets which included supper. Each ticket cost five
guineas, and admitted one gentleman or two ladies including supper. It
seems a monstrous price for a single evening; but the cost of the
entertainment was enormous. The ticket itself was a beautiful thing
representing Venus with Cupids. They were gazing with interest upon a
Nymph lying beside a fountain. She had, as yet, nothing upon her, and
she was apparently engaged in thinking what she would wear for the
evening. A pretty thing, prettily drawn. But five guineas for a single
evening!

As soon as the doors were thrown open, a line of footmen received the
company, took their tickets and showed them into the tea-room where that
refreshment was offered before the ball commenced. When this room was
full, the doors leading to the ball-rooms and the other rooms were also
thrown open, and the company streamed along the great gallery which was
lined with flowering shrubs. Here was stationed a small string band
playing soft and pleasing music. Then they crowded up the Grand
staircase. When most of the masqueraders were within the Ball-room, and
before they had done looking about them and crying out for astonishment
at the mirrors and the candelabra and the lights, we struck up the music
in the gallery, and as soon as order was a little restored, the minuets
began.

For my own part I love to look upon dancing. The country-dance expresses
the happiness of youth and the gladness of life. The hey and jig are
rustic joys which cannot keep still, but must needs jump about to show
their pleasure. But the minuet expresses the refinement, the courtesies,
the politeness of life. It is artificial, but the politeness of Fashion
in the Civilized world must be acknowledged to be an improvement on
mere Nature, which is too often barbarous in its expression and coarse
in its treatment. I know not any of our music which could be played to
such a dance of savages as the Guinea Traders report from the West Coast
and the Bight of Benin.

The company flowed in fast. All, except a few who kept about the doors
and did not venture in the crowd, were in masquerade dress, and even
those who were not carried dominoes in their hands. One would have
thought the whole world had sent representatives to the ball. There were
pig-tailed Chinese; Dervishes in turbans; American Indians with
tomahawks; Arabs in long silken robes; negroes and negresses; proud
Castilians; Scots in plaid; Monks and Romish Priests; Nuns and Sisters;
milkmaids in dowlass; ploughboys in smocks; lawyers; soldiers and
sailors: there were gods and goddesses; Venus came clad much like her
figure in the books; Diana carried her bow; the Graces endeavoured to
appear as they are commonly represented: Apollo came with his lyre; Mars
with his shield and spear: Vulcan with his lame leg: Hercules with his
club. There were dozens of Cupids: there were dozens of Queens;
Cleopatra; Dido; Mary, Queen of Scots: and Queen Elizabeth. There were
famous kings as Henry the Fifth; Henry the Eighth: Charles the First;
and Charles the Second. There were potentates, as the Pope, the Sultan,
the Grand Cham, Prester John, and the Emperor of China: there were
famous women, mostly kings' favourites, as the Fair-Haired Editha: Fair
Rosamund: Jane Shore, the most beautiful of London maidens: and merry
Nell Gwynne, once an Orange Girl: there were half a dozen ladies
representing Joan of Arc in armour: there was a bear-ward leading a man
dressed as a bear who made as if he would hug the women (at which they
screamed in pretended affright) and danced to the music of a crowd:
there were gipsies and fortune-tellers: there were two girls--nobody
knew who they were--one of whom danced on a tight-rope, while the other
turned somersaults. There were Harlequin, Columbine, Pantaloon and
clown, as if straight from Drury Lane: there was the showman who put his
show in a corner and loudly proclaimed the wonders that were within:
there was the Cheap Jack in another corner, who pretended to sell
everything: there was the itinerant Quack who bawled his nostrums for
prolonging life and restoring youth and arresting beauty: there was the
orange girl, of Drury Lane, impudent and ready with an answer and a joke
to anything: there were dancing-girls who ran in and out, cleared a
space; danced: then ran to another place and danced again. I learned,
afterwards, that the dancers and tumblers, with many of the masks, were
actors, actresses, and dancing-girls, hired from the Theatre by Madame
herself, in order to ensure vivacity and activity and movement in the
evening. If these things were neglected or left to the masquers
themselves, the assembly would fall quite flat, very few persons having
the least power to play any part or keep up any character. Punchinello,
for instance, trod the floor with a face like a physician for solemnity:
the clown could not dance or laugh or make other people laugh: and so
with the women: they thought their part was played as soon as they were
dressed.

Meantime, the music played on without stopping. After the minuets, we
proceeded to the country dance. But you must not think that at the
Masquerade we conducted our dancing with the same order and form as an
ordinary assembly. I looked down upon a scene which was quite unlike the
ordinary assembly, and yet was the most beautiful, the most animated,
the most entrancing that I had ever witnessed. The room was like a
flower-bed in July filled with flowers of every colour. It was enough,
at first, to look at the whole company, as one might look upon a garden
filled with flowers. Presently I began to detach couples or small
groups. First, I observed the fair domino who lured on the amorous
youth--dressed, perhaps, as a monk--by running away and yet looking
back--a Parthian Amazon of Love. She must be young, he thought, with
such a sprightly air and so easy a step: she must be beautiful, with
such a figure, to match her face: she must be rich, with such a
habit--with those gold chains and bracelets and pearls. Presently the
young fellow caught his goddess: he spoke to her and he led her to a
seat among the plants where they could sit a little retired and apart.
But from the gallery I could see them. He took her hand: he pressed her,
saying I know not what: presently she took off her domino: and disclosed
loveliness: the youth fell into raptures: she held him off: she put on
her domino again: she rose: he begged for a little more discourse--it
was a pretty pantomime--she refused: she went back to the general
company: they remained together all the night: when they went away in
the morning he led her out whispering, and one hopes that this was the
beginning of a happy match. The removal of the domino to let the
gentleman see the masked face was, I observed, very common, yet it was
not always that the little comedy ended, as they say, happily. Sometimes
the lady, after showing her face, would run away and exchange a
kerchief, or a mantle, with a friend so as to mystify and bewilder her
pursuer who could not tell what had become of his lovely partner.

Such were the little comedies performed before the eyes of the
spectators from the music gallery. As for the rest, the mountebanks
pranced, and the dancing-girls and the tumbling-girls capered, and they
all laughed and sang and gave themselves wholly to the mirth and
merriment of the moment.

Some of the men I observed were drunk when they arrived: others
pretended to be drunk in order that they might roll about and catch hold
of the girls. It has always been to me a marvel that women do not mark
their displeasure, at the intrusion upon their pleasures, of men who are
drunk. They mar all the enjoyment of society whether at the theatre, or
at such assemblies as this, or in the drawing-room. Ladies of fashion
have it in their power to put an end to the habit at a stroke of the
pen, so to speak: namely, by forbidding the presence at their assemblies
of gentlemen in liquor: they should be refused admission however great
their position, even if their breast is ablaze with stars.

There were many stars present, and with them ladies whose head-dresses
were covered with diamonds. It was rumoured that Madame retained in her
service for these occasions, a body of stout fellows on the watch for
any attempt upon the jewels. It was also rumoured that there were R--l
P--s present at the Masquerade: the young D-- of Y--k, for instance, it
was said positively, was among the company, but so disguised that none
could recognise him. Some of the ladies wore no dominoes; but these
persons, I observed, did not leave their partners and took no share in
the merriment. Indeed, they seemed, for the most part, not to laugh at
the fun: I suppose they found it somewhat low and vulgar. In our gallery
they were well known. 'That is the Duchess of Q-- with the rubies: the
lady with the diamond spray in her hair is Lady H--: the lady with the
strings of pearls round her neck and arms is the Lady Florence D--,' and
so forth--with scandalous stories and gossip which belonged, I thought,
more to the footmen in the hall than to the music gallery. We had no
such talk at the Dog and Duck. Perhaps, however, the reason for our
reticence in that favourite retreat and rendezvous of the aristocracy
was that there were no women at the Dog and Duck whose lives were not
scandalous. The stories, therefore, would become monotonous.

At one, a procession was formed for supper. There was no order or rank
observed because there were plenty of persons who masqueraded as
noblemen, and it would take too long to examine into their claims. The
small band of stringed instruments, of which I have spoken, headed the
procession, played the company into the supper-room, and played while
they were taking supper. There was not room for more than half in the
supper-room: the rest waited their turn.

'It is a rest for us,' said the First violin, 'we shall get some supper
downstairs. Eat and drink plenty, for what we have done already is a
flea-bite compared with what we have to do.'

It was, indeed. They came back, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright
with wine. Some of them too tipsy to stand, rolled upon the rout seats,
and so fell fast asleep.

I observed that the great ladies and the gentlemen with them did not
return after supper: their absence removed some restraint: and the
gentlemen who had arrived without a masquerade dress did not come back
after supper. The company was thinner, but it was much louder: there was
no longer any pretence of keeping up a character: the Quack left off
bawling his wares: the showman deserted his show: the fortune-tellers
left their tents: the Hermit left his cell: the dancing and tumbling
girls joined in the general throng: there were many sets formed but
little regular dancing: all were broken up by rushes of young men more
than half drunk: they caught the girls and kissed them--nothing loth,
though they shrieked: it was a proof that the gentlewomen had all gone,
that no one resented this rudeness--either a partner or the girl
herself: the scene became an orgy: all together were romping, touzling,
laughing, shrieking, and quarrelling.

Still the music kept up: still we played with unflinching arm and all
the spirit which can be put into them, the most stirring dance tunes. At
last they left off trying to dance: some of the women lay back on the
rout seats partly with liquor overcome and partly with fatigue: men were
sprawling unable to get up: bottles of wine were brought up from the
supper-room and handed round. The men grew every minute noisier: the
women shrieked louder and more shrilly--perhaps with cause. And every
minute some slipped away and the crowd grew thinner, till there were
left little more than a heap of drunken men and weary women.

At last word came up that it was five o'clock, the time for closing.

The conductor laid down his violin: the night's work was over: we would
go.

The people below clamoured for more music, but in vain. Then they, too,
began to stream out noisily.

As I passed the supper-room I saw that half a dozen young fellows had
got in and were noisily clamouring for champagne. The waiters who were
clearing the supper took no notice. Then one of them with a bludgeon set
to work and began to smash plates, glasses, dishes, bottles, windows, in
a kind of a frenzy of madness or mischief. Half a dozen stout fellows
rushed at him: carried him out of the supper-room and so into the Square
outside. It was a fitting end for the Masquerade.

While I was looking on, I was touched on the arm by a mask. I knew her
by her white satin dress for Madame.

I had seen her from time to time flitting about the room, sometimes with
a partner, sometimes alone. She was conversing one moment with a
gentleman whose star betokened his rank, and the next with one of her
paid actors or actresses, directing the sports. I had seen her dancing
two minuets in succession each with a grace and dignity which no other
woman in the room could equal.

'A noisy end, Will, is it not? We always finish this way. The young
fellow who smashed the glass is Lord St. Osyth. To-morrow morning he
will have to pay the bill. 'Tis a good-natured fool. See: they are
carrying out the last of the drunken hogs. Faugh! How drunk they are!'

'I have watched you all the evening, Madame. Believe me, there were none
of the ladies who approached you in the minuet.'

'Naturally, Will. For I have danced it on the stage, where we can at
least surpass the minuet of the Assembly. What do they understand of
action and carriage, and how to bear the body and how to use the arms
and how to handle the fan? But it was not to talk about my
dancing--Will--I said that perhaps I should be able to show you
something or to tell you something--that might astonish you. Come with
me: but first--I would not have you recognised, put on this
domino'--there were a good many lying about--'So--Now follow me and
prepare for the greatest surprise of your whole life.'

In the hall there were still many waiting for their carriages and
chairs. Outside, there was a crowd now closing in upon the carriages,
and now beaten back by Madame's men who were armed with clubs and kept
the pickpockets and thieves at bay. And there was a good deal of
bawling, cursing, and noise.

Madame led the way into the card-room. Play had apparently been going on
all night: the candles on the table were burning low: the players had
nearly all gone: the servants were taking the shillings from under the
candlesticks: at the long table, two or three were still left: they were
not playing: they were settling up their accounts.

A young fellow got up as we came in. 'What's the good of crying, Harry?'
he said, to his companion. 'I've dropped five hundred. Well--better luck
to-morrow.'

'Poor lad!' said Madame. 'That morrow will never come. 'Tis a pretty
lad: I am sorry for him. He will end in a Debtors' Prison or he will
carry a musket in the ranks.'

They were settling, one by one, with the player who had held the Bank
for the evening. There were no disputes: they had some system by means
of which their loses or gains were represented by counters. The business
of the conclusion was the paying or receiving of money as shown by their
counters which were accepted as money. For instance, if a person took so
many counters he incurred so much liability. But, I do not understand
what were the rules. The man who held the Bank was, I heard afterwards,
one of those who live by keeping the Bank against all comers. He was an
elderly man of fine manners, extremely courtly in his behaviour and his
dress. One by one he received the players, of whom there were a dozen or
so, and examined their liabilities or their claims. There was left but
one of the players, a man whose back was turned to me.

'Sir,' he said politely, 'I am grieved indeed to keep a gentleman
waiting so long. Let me now release you. I hope, Sir, that the balance
will prove in your favour. It pleases me, believe me, that a gentleman
should leave my table the winner. So, Sir, thank you. I perceive, Sir,
that your good fortune has deserted you for this evening. I trust it is
but a temporary cloud. After all it is a trifle--a bagatelle--a mere
matter of one hundred and fifty-five guineas--one hundred and
fifty-five. Your Honour is not, perhaps, good at figures, but, should
you choose to verify----'

The other man whose back and shoulders were still the only part of him
presented to my view, snatched the paper and looked at it and threw it
on the table.

'It is right, Sir?'

'I suppose it is right. The luck was against me, as usual; the luck
never is for me.'

I knew the voice and started.

Madame whispered in my ear softly. 'The greatest surprise of your life.'

'One hundred and fifty-five guineas,' said the gentleman who kept the
Bank. 'If you are not able to discharge the liability to-night, Sir, I
shall be pleased to wait upon you to-morrow.'

'No! No! I can pay my way still--pay my way,' He pulled out a long purse
filled with guineas.

'Your luck will certainly turn, Sir, before long. Why I have seen
instances----'

'Damn it, Sir, leave me and my affairs alone. My luck never will turn.
Don't I know my own affairs?'

The voice could be none other than my cousin Matthew's. I was startled.
My head which had been filled with the noise of the music and the
excitement of the revelry became clear at once and attentive and
serious. My cousin Matthew. Impossible not to know that voice!

He poured out the guineas on the table and began to count them, dividing
them into heaps of ten. Then he counted them over again, very slowly,
and, at last, with greatest reluctance passed them over to the other
player, who in his turn counted them over, taking up the pieces and
biting them in order to see if they were good.

'I thank you, Sir,' he said, gravely. 'I trust that on a future
occasion----'

Matthew waved his hand impatiently. The other turned and walked down
the room. The candles were mostly out by this time; only two or three
were left on the point of expiring: the room was in a kind of twilight.
Matthew turned his head--it _was_ my cousin: he seemed not to see us: he
sank into a chair and laid his head in his hands groaning.

No one was left in the room except Madame, Matthew and myself.

Madame stepped forward: the table was between her and my cousin. As for
me I kept in the background watching and listening. What might this
thing mean? Matthew, the sober, upright, religious London citizen!
Matthew the worthy descendant of the great Puritan preacher! Matthew the
denouncer of wicked musicians! Matthew the scourge of frivolity and
vice! Matthew, my supplanter! Matthew in a gaming room! Matthew playing
all night long and losing a hundred and fifty-five guineas in a single
night! What was one to believe next?

Jenny bent over the table: she still kept on her domino.

'Mr. Matthew Halliday,' she said.

He lifted his head, stupidly.

'I congratulate you, Mr. Matthew Halliday,' she went on. 'You have
passed a most pleasant and profitable evening. A hundred and fifty-five
guineas! It is nothing, of course, to a rich merchant like yourself.'

'Who are you?' he asked. 'What concern is it of yours?'

'I am one who knows you. One who knows you already, and too well.'

He stood up. 'I am going, Mistress,' he said--'unless you have something
else to say.'

'Mr. Halliday--you lost two hundred guineas last night, and on Sunday
you lost four hundred.'

'Zounds, Miss or Mistress, how do you know?'

'I know because I am told. You are a very rich man, Mr. Halliday, are
you not? You must be to lose so much every night. You must be very rich
indeed. You have whole fleets of your own, and Quays and Warehouses
filled with goods--and you inherited a great fortune only two years
ago.'

He sank back in a chair and gazed stupidly upon her. 'How speeds your
noble trade? How fares it with your fleets? How much is left of your
great fortune?' He growled, but made no reply. Curiosity and wonder
seized him and held him. Besides, what reply could he make?

'Who are you?' he asked.

'I will tell you, perhaps. How do you stand with Mr. Probus?'

He sprang to his feet again. 'This is too much. How dare you speak of my
private affairs? What do you know about Mr. Probus?'

'How long is it, Mr. Halliday, since you agreed with Mr. Probus that
your cousin should be locked up in a Debtors' Prison there to remain
till he died, or sold his birthright?'

He answered with a kind of roar, as if he had no words left. He stood
before her--the table between--half in terror--half in rage. Who was
this woman? Besides, he was already very nearly beside himself over the
long continuance of his bad luck.

'Who are you?' he asked again. 'What do you know about my cousin?'

'I will tell you, directly, who I am. About your cousin, Matthew, I warn
you solemnly. The next attempt you make upon his life and liberty will
bring upon your head--yours--not to speak of the others--the greatest
disaster that you can imagine, or can dread. The greatest disaster,' she
repeated solemnly, 'that you can imagine or can dread.' She looked like
a Prophetess, standing before him with hand raised and with solemn
voice.

'This is fooling. What do you know? Who are you?'

'I cannot tell what kind of disaster it will be--the greatest--the worst
possible--it will be. Be warned. Keep Mr. Probus at arm's length or he
will ruin you--he will ruin you, unless he has ruined you already.'

'You cannot frighten me with bugaboo stories. If you will not tell me
who you are. I shall go.'

She tore off her glove. 'Does this hand,' she said, 'remind you of
nothing?'

On the third finger of the white hand was a wedding-ring which I had
never seen there before.

He stared at the hand. Perhaps he suspected. I think he did. No one who
had once seen that hand could possibly forget it.

She tore off her domino. 'You have doubtless forgotten, Matthew, by this
time, the face--of your wife.'

He cursed her. He stood up and cursed her in round terms. I don't know
why. He accused her of nothing. But he cursed her. She was the origin
and cause of his bad luck.

I would have interfered. 'Let be--let be,' she said. 'The time will
surely come when the ruin which I have foretold will fall upon him. Let
us wait till then. That will be sufficient punishment for him. I see it
coming--I know not when. I see it coming. Let him curse.'

He desisted. He ran out of the room without another word.

She looked after him with a deep sigh.

'I told you, Will, that I had a surprise for you--the greatest surprise
of your life. I will tell you more to-morrow if you will come in the
afternoon. You shall hear more about Matthew, my husband Matthew. Get
you gone now and home to bed with all the speed you may. Good-night,
cousin Will--cousin Will.'

I left her as I was bidden. I walked home through the deserted streets
of early morning. My brain was burning. Matthew the gambler! Matthew the
husband of Jenny! Matthew the gambler. Why--everything shouted the word
as I passed: the narrow streets of Soho: the water lapping the arches of
Westminster Bridge: the keen air blowing over the Bank; all shouted the
words--'Matthew the gambler! Matthew the husband of Jenny! Matthew the
gambler!' And when I lay down to sleep the words that rang in my ear
were 'Matthew my husband--Cousin Will!--Cousin Will!'




CHAPTER IV

WHO SHE WAS


'You now know, Will,' said Jenny, when I called next day, 'why I have
been interested in you, since I first saw you. Not on account of your
good looks, Sir, though I confess you are a very pretty fellow: nor on
account of your playing, which is spirited and true; but because you are
my first cousin by marriage.'

She received me, sitting in the small room on the left of the Hall. The
great house was quite empty, save for the servants, who were always
clearing away the remains of one fête and arranging for another. Their
footsteps resounded in the vacant corridors and their voices echoed in
the vacant chambers.

'Jenny, I have been able to think of nothing else. I could not sleep for
thinking of it. I am more and more amazed.'

'I knew you would be. Well, Will, I wanted to have a long talk with you.
I have a great deal to say. First, I shall give you some tea--believe
me, it is far better for clearing the head after a night such as last
night, than Madeira. I have a great deal to tell you--I fear you will
despise me--but I will hide nothing. I am resolved to hide nothing from
you.'

Meantime the words kept ringing in my ears. 'Matthew a gambler! The
religious Matthew! To whom music was a snare of the Devil and the
musician a servant of the Devil! The steady Matthew! The irreproachable
Matthew!'

Yet, since I had always known him to be a violator of truth; a slanderer
and a backbiter, why not, also, a gambler? Why not also a murderer--a
forger--anything? I was to find out before long that he was quite ready
to become the former of these also, upon temptation. Yet the thing was
wonderful, even after I had actually seen it and proved it. And again,
Matthew married! Not to a sober and godly citizen's daughter, but to an
actress of Drury Lane Theatre! Matthew, to whom the theatre was as the
mouth of the Bottomless Pit! Who could believe such a thing?

As for what follows, Jenny did not tell me the whole in this one
afternoon. I have put together, as if it was all one conversation, what
took several days or perhaps several weeks.

'You think it so wonderful, Will,' Jenny said, reading my thoughts in my
face. 'For my own part it is never wonderful that a man should gamble,
or drink, or throw himself away upon an unworthy mistress. Every man may
go mad: it is part of man's nature: women, never, save for love and
jealousy and the like. Men are so made: madness seizes them: down they
go to ruin and the grave. It is strong drink with some: and avarice with
some: and gaming with some. Your cousin Matthew is as mad as an Abram
man.'

She was silent for a while. Then she went on again. I have written it
down much as if all that follows was a single speech. It was broken up
by my interruptions and by her pauses and movements. For she was too
quick and restless to sit down while she was speaking. She would spring
from her chair and walk about the room; she would stand at the window,
and drum at the panes of glass: she would stand over the fireplace; she
would look in the round mirror hanging on the wall. She had a thousand
restless ways. Sometimes she stood behind me and laid a hand on my
shoulder as if she was ashamed for me to look upon her.

It was a wonderful tale she told me: more wonderful that a woman who had
gone through that companionship should come out of it, filled through
and through, like a sponge, with the knowledge of wickedness and found
in childhood with those who practise wickedness, yet should be herself
so free from all apparent stain or taint of it. Surely, unless the face,
the eyes, the voice, the language, the thoughts, can all lie together,
this woman was one of the purest and most innocent of Heaven's
creatures.

It is not always the knowledge of evil that makes a woman wicked. Else,
if you think of it, there would be no good woman at all among us.
Consider: it is only a question of degree. A child born in the Mint; or
in Fullwood's Rents; or in St. Giles's: or in Turnmill Street learns,
one would think, everything that is vile. But children do not always
inquire into the meaning of what they hear: most things that they see or
hear may pass off them like water from a duck's back. Their best
safe-guard is their want of curiosity. Besides, it is not only in St.
Giles's that children hear things that are kept from them: in the
respectable part of the city, in Cheapside itself, they can hear the low
language and the vile sayings and the blasphemous oaths of the common
sort. Children are absorbed by their own pursuits and thoughts. The
grown-up world: the working world, does not belong to them; they see and
see not; they hear and hear not; they cannot choose, but see and hear:
yet they inquire not into the meaning.

'Will,' she said, 'I would I had never heard your name. It has been an
unlucky name to me--and perhaps it will be more unlucky still.' I know
not if she was here foretelling what certainly happened, afterwards.
'Your cousin, Matthew, is no common player, who carries a few guineas in
his pocket and watches them depart with a certain interest and even
anxiety and then goes away. This man is a fierce, thirsty, insatiable
gambler. There is a play called 'The Gamester' in which the hero is such
an one. He plays like this hero with a thirst that cannot be assuaged.
He plays every night: he has, I believe, already ruined himself: yet he
cannot stop: he would play away the whole world and then would stake his
soul, unless he had first sold his soul for money to play with. Soul? If
he has any soul--but I know not.'

'You amaze me, Jenny. Indeed, I am overwhelmed with amazement. I cannot
get the words out of my head, "Matthew a gambler! Matthew a gambler!"'

'Yes--Matthew a gambler. He has been a gambler in a small way for many
years. When he got possession of your father's money and the management
of that House, he became a gambler in a large way. I say that I believe
he is already well-nigh ruined. You have seen him on one night, Will; he
is at the same game every night. I have had him watched--I know. His
luck is such as the luck of men like that always is--against him
continually. He never wins: or if ever, then only small sums as will
serve to encourage him. There is no evening in the week, not even
Sunday, when he does not play. I have reason to know--I will tell you
why, presently--that he has already lost a great fortune.'

'The fortune that my father left to him. It should have been mine.'

'Then, my poor Will, it never will be yours. For it is gone. I learned,
six months ago, that his business is impaired: the credit of the House
is shaken. Worse than this, Will'--she laid her hand on my arm--'he had
then, already, borrowed large sums of Mr. Probus, and as he could not
pay he was borrowing more. There is the danger for you!'

'What danger?'

'You musicians live in the clouds. Why does Matthew continue to borrow
money? He pretends that he wants to put it into the business. Really, he
gambles with it. Why does Probus continue to lend him money? Probus does
not suspect the truth. In the hope that he will presently have such a
hold over Matthew that he will get possession of the business, become a
partner and turn out Matthew and your uncle. It looks splendid. All
these ships: the wharf covered with goods: but the ships are mortgaged
and their cargoes are mortgaged: and the interest on Probus's loans can
only be paid by borrowing more. In a very short time, Will, the bubble
will burst. The situation is already dangerous; it will then become full
of peril.'

'Why dangerous to me? I have borrowed no money.'

'You are a very simple person, Will. They put you into the King's Bench.
Yet you don't understand. I do. Matthew wanted to borrow money on the
security of that succession. Probus would have lent him money on that
security. Probus would have had another finger in the pie. He did not
know, then, what he will very soon find out, that all the money he has
already advanced to his rich client is lost. Then it was a mere
temptation to Matthew to put you under pressure: now it will become a
necessity to make you submit: a necessity for both, and they are a pair
of equal villains.'

'Last night you warned Matthew. Jenny, your words seemed to be no common
warning. You know something or you would not have pronounced that solemn
warning.'

'Every woman is a prophetess,' she replied, gravely. 'Oh! I can
sometimes foretell things. Not always: not when I wish: not as I wish.
The prophecy comes to me. I know not how it comes: and I cannot expect
it or wait for it. Last night, suddenly, I saw a vision of villainy, I
know not what. It was directed against you and Alice--and the
villains--among them was Matthew--were driven back with whips. They fled
howling. Will, this Vision makes me speak.'

This kind of talk was new to me: I confess it made me uneasy.

'Well, you now know the truth. Your cousin has defamed and slandered
you: without relenting and without ceasing. So long as it was possible
to do you a mischief with your father he did it: he has robbed you of
your inheritance: well: you can now, if you please, revenge yourself.'

'Revenge myself? How?'

'You will not only revenge yourself: you may make it impossible for your
cousin to do you any further injury.'

'Does he wish to do me any further injury?'

'Will, I suppose that you are a fool because you are a musician. Wish? A
man like that who has injured you as much as he could and as often as
he could will go on: it is the nature of such a man to injure others:
his delight and his nature: he craves for mischief almost as he craves
for gambling.'

'You are bitter against--your husband, Jenny.'

'I am very bitter against him. I have reason.'

'But about the revenge. Of what kind is it?'

'You may do this. His father, the Alderman, has withdrawn from any
active partnership in the business, which is conducted entirely by
Matthew. He passes now an idle life beside Clapham Common, with his
gardens and his greenhouses. Go to this poor gentleman: tell him the
truth. Let him learn that his son is a gambler: that he is wasting all
that is left to waste: that his losses have been very heavy already: and
that the end is certain bankruptcy. You can tell your uncle that you saw
yourself with your own eyes Matthew losing a hundred and fifty-five
guineas in the card-room of a Masquerade: this will terrify him, though
at first he will not believe it: then he will cause the affairs of the
House to be examined, and he will find out, if accountants are any use,
how much has been already wasted. Mind, Will, I invent nothing. All this
I know. The House is well-nigh ruined.'

'How do you know all this, Jenny?'

'Not by visions, certainly. I know it from information. It is, I assure
you, the bare truth. The House is already well-nigh ruined.'

'I fear I cannot tell my uncle these things.'

'It would be a kindness to him in the end, Will. Let him learn the truth
before the worst happens.'

I shook my head. Revenge is not a pleasing task. To go to my uncle with
such a tale seemed a mean way of returning Matthew's injuries.

'I do not counsel revenge, then,' she went on, again divining my
thoughts. 'Call it your safety. When you have alarmed your uncle into
calling for an explanation, go and see the man Probus.'

'See Probus? Why?'

'I would separate Probus from his client. Go and tell the man--go and
tell him without reference to his past villainies that his client
Matthew is an incurable gambler, and that all the money Probus has lent
to him has been lost over the gaming table.'

'Tell Probus?' The thought of speaking to Probus except as to a viper
was not pleasant.

'I have made inquiries about Probus,' She knew everything, this woman!
'He is of the tribe they call blood-suckers: they fasten upon their
victim, and they never let go till such time as there is no more blood
to suck. There is some blood left. Probus will never think of you while
he is saving what he can of his own. Tell the money-lender this, I say,
and what with Probus on the one hand, maddened by his loss, and his own
father on the other, well-nigh terrified to death, Matthew will have
enough to do.'

'Would you like me to do this, Jenny?'

'I should like it done,' she replied, turning away her face.

'Would you like to do it yourself, Jenny?'

'I am a woman. Women must not do violent things.'

'Jenny, there is more revenge than precaution in this.'

'There may be some revenge, but there is also a good deal of prudence.'

'I cannot do it, Jenny.'

'Are you afraid, Will? To be sure, a musician is not a
sold--so--no--Will, forgive me. You are not afraid. Forgive me.'

'I shall leave them to work out their destruction in their own way,
whatever way that may be.'

'But that way may be hurtful to you, my poor Will--even fatal to you,'

'I shall leave them alone: their punishment will surely fall upon them,
they will dig a trap to their own undoing.'

'Will, I have heard that kind of talk before. I have used those words
myself upon the stage.' She threw herself into an attitude and declaimed
with fire.

    'Think not, Allora, that I dread their hate:
    Nor hate, nor vile conspiracy shall turn me--
    Still on their own presumptuous heads shall fall
    The lightning they invoke for mine; for lower
    Hangs yon black thunder cloud; and even louder
    I hear the rumbling of the angry earth.
    Wait but a moment: then the flash shall shoot;
    Then shall the thunder roar; the earth shall gape;
    And where they stood there shall be nothingness.'

'That is your position, Will. For my own part, if I were you, I should
prefer safety, and I should not object to revenge.'

'It is true, Jenny.'

'Perhaps. For my own part, I have known a monstrous number of wicked
people on whom no lightnings fell, and for whom the earth did never
gape. Nothing has happened to them so long as they were gentlemen. With
the baser sort, of course, there is Tyburn, and I dare say that feels at
the end like the gaping of the earth and the flash of lightning and the
roar of the thunder, all together. Even with them some escape.'

I would have quoted the Psalmist, but refrained, because by this time I
had made the singular discovery that Jenny seemed to have no knowledge
of religion at all. If one spoke in the common way of man's dependence
she looked as if she understood nothing: or she said she had heard words
to that effect on the stage: if one spoke indirectly of the Christian
scheme she showed no response: had I mentioned the Psalmist she would
have asked perhaps who the Psalmist was, or where his pieces were
played. She never went to church: she never read any books except her
own parts. She was sharp and clever in the conduct of affairs: she was
not to be taken in by rogues: how could such a woman, considering our
mode of education and the general acknowledgment of Christianity, even
in an atheistical age, that prevails in our books, escape some
knowledge, or tincture, of religion?

'Do not call it revenge,' she insisted. 'In your own safety you should
strike: and without delay. I repeat it: I cannot put it too strongly
before you. There is a great danger threatening. When Probus finds that
the money is really gone, he will become desperate: he will stick at
nothing.'

'Since he knows, now, that nothing will persuade me to sell that chance
of succession, he will perhaps desist.'

'He will never desist. If you were dead! The thought lies in both their
minds. If you were dead! Then that money would be Matthew's.'

'Do you think Mr. Probus will murder me?'

'Not with his own hands. Still--do you think, Will, that when two
villains are continually brooding over the same thought, villainy will
not follow? If I were you I would take this tale to the Alderman first,
and to Probus next, and I should then keep out of the way for six months
at least.'

'No.' I said. 'They shall be left to themselves.'

Perhaps I was wrong. Had I told my uncle all, the bankruptcy would have
been precipitated and Probus's claim would have been treated with all
the others, and even if that large sum had fallen it would have been
added to the general estate and divided accordingly.

It was in the afternoon: the sun was sinking westward: it shone through
the window upon Jenny as she restlessly moved about the room--disquieted
by all she had to tell me. I remember how she was dressed: in a frock of
light blue silk, with a petticoat to match: her hair hung in its natural
curls, covered with a kerchief--the soft evening sunlight wrapped her in
a blaze of light and colour. And oh! the pity of it! To think that this
divine creature was thrown away upon my wretched cousin! The pity of it!

'Tell me, Jenny,' I said, 'how you became his wife?'

'Yes, Will, I will tell you,' she replied humbly. 'Don't think that I
ever loved him--nor could I endure his caresses--but he never offered
any--the only man who never wanted to caress me was my husband--to be
sure he did not love me--or anyone else--he is incapable of love. He is
a worm. His hand is slimy and cold: his face is slimy: his voice is
slimy. But I thought I could live with him, perhaps. If not, I could
always leave him.'

She paused a little as if to collect herself.

'Every actress,' she went on, 'has troops of lovers. There are the
gentlemen first who would fain make her their mistress for a month:
those who would make her their mistress for a year: and those who desire
only the honour and glory of pretending that she is their mistress: and
then there are the men who would like nothing better than to marry the
actress and to live upon her salary--believe me, of all these there are
plenty. Lastly, there is the gentleman who would really marry the
actress, all for love of her, and for no other consideration. I thought,
at first, that your cousin Matthew was one of these.'

'How did you know him?'

'He was brought into the Green Room one night by some gambling
acquaintance. I remarked his long serious face, I thought he was a man
who might be trusted. He asked permission to wait upon me----'

'Well?' For she stopped.

'I thought, I say, that he was a man to be trusted. He did not look like
one who drank: he did not follow other actresses about with his eyes: I
say, Will, that I thought I could trust him. He came to my lodging. He
told me that he was a rich City merchant: he asked me what I should like
if I would marry him and he promised to give it to me--that--and
anything else----'

'If you did not love him--Jenny----'

'I did not love him. I will tell you. I wanted to get away from the man
I did love; and so I wanted, above all, to be taken away from London and
the Theatre into the country, never to hear anything more about the
stage. Had he done what he promised, Will, I would have made a good wife
to him, although he is a slimy worm. But he did not. He broke his word
on the very morning when we came out of church----'

'How?'

'He began by saying that he had a little explanation to offer. He said
that when he told me he was a rich merchant--that, indeed, was his
reputation: but his position was embarrassed: he wanted money: he wished
not to borrow any: he therefore thought that if he married an
actress--that class of persons being notorious for having no honour--his
very words to me, actually, his very words an hour after leaving the
church--he intended to open a gaming-house at which I was to be the
decoy. Now you understand why I call him a villain, and a wretch, and a
slimy worm.'

'Jenny!'

'I left him on the spot after telling him what he was--I left him--I
left the Theatre as well. I had a friend who found me the money to take
this place under another name. I have seen the man many times here--last
night--and once I called upon him and I made him give me the money to
get you out of the Prison, Will.'

'Matthew found that money?'

'Of course, he did. I had none--I went to him and reminded him that he
had contributed nothing to the maintenance of his wife, and that he must
give me whatever the sum was. He was obliged to give it, otherwise I
should have informed the clerks of the Counting-house who I was.'

I laughed. 'Well, but Jenny, there was another man----'

'You are persistent, Sir. Why should I tell you? Well, I will confess.
This man protested a great deal less than the others. He was a noble
Lord, if that matters. He was quite different from all the rest: he
never came to the Green Room drunk: he never cursed and swore: he never
shook his cane in the face of footman or chairman: he was a gentle
creature--and he loved me and would have married me: well--I told him
who and what I was--I will tell you presently--that mattered nothing. He
would carry me away from them all. I would have married him, Will: and
we should have been happy: but his sister came to see me and she went on
her knees crying and imploring me to refuse him because in the history
of their family there had never been any such alliance as that with an
actress of no family. Would I bring disgrace into a noble family? If I
refused, he would forget me, and she would do all in her power for me,
if ever I wanted a friend. It was for his sake--if I loved him I would
not injure him. And so she went on: and she persuaded me, Will--because,
you see, when people pride themselves about their families it is a pity
to bring the gutter into it--with Newgate and Tyburn, isn't it?'

'Jenny, what has Newgate got to do with it?'

'Wait and I will tell you. I gave way. It cost me a great deal,
Will--more than you would believe--because I had never loved anyone
before--and when a woman does love a man----' The tears rose in her
eyes,--'and then it was that your cousin came to the Theatre.'

Poor Jenny! And she always seemed so cheerful, so lively, so happy! Her
face might have been drawn to illustrate Milton's 'L'Allegra.' How could
she look so happy when she had this unhappy love story and this unhappy
marriage to think upon?'

'Will,' she cried passionately, 'I am the most unhappy woman in the
world.'

I made no reply. Indeed I knew not what there was to say. Matthew was a
villain: there can be few worse villains: Jenny was in truth a most
injured and a most unhappy woman.

It was growing twilight. What followed was told, or most of it, because
I have set down the result of two or three conversations in one, by the
light of the fire, in a low voice, a low musical voice--that seemed to
rob the naked truth of much of its horrors.

'I told my Lord, Will,' she said, 'what I am going to tell you
because I would not have him ignorant of anything, or find out
anything--afterwards--but there was no afterwards--which he might think
I should have told him before. He has a pretty gift of drawing: he
makes pictures of things and people with a pencil and a box of
water-colours. I made him take certain sketches for me. He did so,
wondering what they might mean.' Here she rose, opened a drawer in a
cabinet and took out a little packet tied up with a ribbon. 'First I
begged him to sketch me one of the little girls who run about the
streets in Soho. There are hundreds of them: they are bare-footed:
bare-headed: dressed in a sack, in a flannel petticoat: in anything:
they have no schooling: they are not taught anything at all: their
parents and their brothers and sisters and their cousins and their
grandparents are all thieves and rogues together: what can they become?
What hope is there for them? See,' she took one of the pictures out and
gave it to me. By the firelight I made out a little girl standing in the
street. In her carriage there was something of the freedom of a gipsy in
the woods: her hair blew loose in the wind, her scanty petticoat clung
to her little figure: she was bare-legged, bare-footed, bare-headed.
'Can you see it, Will? Well--when I had got all the pictures together, I
asked the artist to sit down, as I have asked you to-day. And when he
was sat down, I had the bundle of pictures in my hand, and I said to
him, "My Lord, this is a very pretty sketch--I like it all the better
because it shows what I was like at that age." "You, Jenny?" "Yes, my
Lord, I myself. That little girl is myself." "Well!" he cried out on the
impossibility of the thing. But I assured him of the truth of what I
said. Then I took up the next picture. It represented the entrance of a
court in Soho. Round this entrance were gathered a collection of men and
women with the most evil faces possible. "These, my Lord," I said, "are
the people who were once my companions when they and I were young
together." "But not now?" he asked. "Not now," I told him, "save that
they all remember me and consider me as one of themselves and come to
the Theatre in order to applaud me: the highwaymen going to the pit; the
petty thieves and pickpockets and footpads to the gallery." Well, at
first he looked serious. Then he cleared up and kissed my hand: he loved
me for myself, he said, and as regards the highwaymen and such fellows,
he would very soon take me out of their way.'

'But, Jenny----'

'Will, I am telling you what I told his Lordship. Believe me, it does
not cost me to tell you half as much as it did to tell that noble
heart. For he loved me, Will, and I loved him.' Again her eyes glistened
by the red light of the fire.

She took up a third picture. It represented a public-house. Over the
door swung the sign of a Black Jack: the first story projected over the
ground-floor, and the second story over the first: beside the
public-house stood a tall church.

'This,' I told my Lord, 'is the Black Jack tavern. It is the House of
Call for most of the rogues and thieves of Soho. The church is St.
Giles's Church. As for my own interest in the house, I was born there:
my mother and sister still keep the place between them: it is in good
repute among the gentry who frequent it for its kitchen, where there is
always a fire for those who cook their own suppers, and for the drinks,
which are excellent, if not cheap. What is the use of keeping cheap
things for thieves? Lightly got, lightly spent. There is nothing cheap
at that House. My mother enjoys a reputation for being a Receiver of
Stolen Goods--a reputation well deserved, as I have reason to believe.
The Goods are all stowed away in a stone vault or cellar once belonging
to some kind of house--I know not what.'

I groaned.

'That is how my Lord behaved. Then he kissed my hand again. "Jenny," he
said, "it is not the landlady of the Black Jack that I am marrying, but
Jenny Wilmot." He asked me to tell him more. Will you hear more?'

'I will hear all you desire to tell me, Jenny.'

'Once I had a father. He was a gipsy, but since he had fair hair and
blue eyes, he was not a proper gipsy. I do not know how he got into the
caravan with the gipsies. Perhaps he was stolen in infancy: or picked up
on a doorstep. However, I do not remember him. My mother speaks of him
with pride, but I do not know why. By profession he was a footpad
and--and'--she faltered for a moment--'he met the fate that belongs to
that calling. See!' She showed me a drawing representing the Triumphal
March to Tyburn. 'My mother speaks of it as if it was the fitting end of
a noble career. I have never been quite able to think so too, and Will,
if I must confess, I would rather that my father had not been----'

'Not formed the leading figure in that procession,' I interposed. 'But
go on, Jenny.'

She took up another picture and handed it to me. It was a spirited
sketch representing a small crowd; a pump; and a boy held under the
pump.

'I had two brothers. This was one. He was a pickpocket. What could be
expected? He was caught in the act and held under a pump. But they kept
him so long that it brought on a chill and he died. The other brother is
now in the Plantations of Jamaica.'

She produced another picture. It represented an Orange Girl at Drury
Lane. She carried her basket of oranges on her arm: she had a white
kerchief over her neck and shoulders and another over her head: her face
was full of impudence, cleverness and wit.

'That, Will, is the first step upwards of your cousin's wife. From the
gutter to the pit of Drury Lane as an Orange girl. There was a step for
me! Yes. I looked like that: I behaved like that: I was as shameless as
that: I used to talk to the men in the Pit as they talk--you know the
kind of talk. And now, Will, confess: you are heartily ashamed of me.'

'Jenny!' Like the noble Lord, I kissed her fingers. 'Believe me, I am
not in the least ashamed of you.'

'The next step was to the stage. That, Will, was pure luck. The Manager
heard me imitating the actors and actresses--and himself. He saw me
dancing to please the other girls--I used to dance to please the people
in the Black Jack. He took a fancy in his head that I was clever. He
took me from among the other girls: he gave me instruction: and
presently a speaking part. That is the whole history. I have told you
all--I never told these things to Matthew--why should I? But to my Lord,
I told all----'

'Yes--and he was not ashamed.'

'No--but he did not like the applause of the rogues, and the orange
girls. While the highwaymen applauded in the pit and the pickpockets in
the Gallery, the Orange Girls were telling all the people that once I
was one of them with my basket of oranges like the rest--and so it was
agreed that I was to leave the stage and go away into the country out of
the way of all the old set.'

'And then.'

'Then I could no longer oblige my Lord. I left it to oblige myself and
to marry Matthew.'

She sat down and buried her face in her hands. 'But I loved my Lord,'
she said. 'I loved my Lord.'




CHAPTER V

THE BLACK JACK


Jenny finished her story, much as you have heard it, though some has
been forgotten.

'And now,' she said, 'I will take you to the very place where I was
born. You shall see for yourself the house, and my mother and my sister
and the company among whom I was brought up. Wait for a moment while I
change my dress. I cannot go like this. And I do not want all of them to
learn where I now live.'

She returned in a few minutes dressed in the garb of an orange girl of
Drury. Everybody knows how these girls are attired; a frock of the
commonest linsey-woolsey; a kerchief over her head tied under her chin:
another kerchief round her neck and bosom; her sleeves coming down to
her elbows; on her arm a round deep basket filled with oranges. But no
orange girl ever had so sweet a face; so fine a carriage; hands and arms
so white. Nor could any disguise deprive this lovely creature of her
beauty or rob her face of its pure and virginal expression. That such a
being should come out of the Black Jack! But then we find the white lily
growing beside a haystack or a pigsty and none the less white and
delicate and fragrant.

The tavern called the Black Jack stands over against the west front of
St. Giles's Church, at the corner of Denmark Street, with a double
entrance which has proved useful, I believe, on the appearance of
constables or Bow Street runners. The Church which is large and
handsome, worthy of better parishioners, stands in the midst of a
quarter famous for harbouring, producing and encouraging the most
audacious rogues and the most impudent drabs that can be found in the
whole of London. As for the Church, of course they never enter it: as
for religion, they have never learned any: as for morals, they know of
none; as for the laws, they defy them; as for hanging, whipping and
imprisonment, they heed them no more than other folk heed the necessity
of death or the chances of pain and suffering, before death releases
them.

Every man must die, they say. Few people among them live naturally more
than forty years or so. Fever, small-pox, ague, carry off most of their
class before forty. If, therefore, one takes part in the march to Tyburn
at five-and-thirty one does but lose two or three years of life. Then,
again, there is the punishment of the lash--that seems very terrible.
But every man, rich or poor, has to endure pain; very often pain worse
than that of the lash. Certainly, the agony of the whip is not worse
than that of rheumatism or gout: it is sooner over: it makes no man any
the older: it does not unfit him for his work: after a day or two, he is
none the worse for it. As for imprisonment; a prison, if your friends
look after you, may be made, with the help of a few companions, as
cheerful a place as the kitchen of the Black Jack with drinking and
singing and tobacco. This kind of talk is the religion of Roguedom, and
since it is so, we may cease to wonder why these people are not deterred
by the severity of their punishments. For no punishment can deter when
it is not feared: that is beyond question: and since after punishment,
the rogue is still regarded as a rogue, whom no one will employ,
punishment does not convert. Nor does the prison chaplain effect any
miracles in conversion, because no one listens to his exhortations.

Over against the church of St. Giles's, the tavern of the Black Jack
lifts its shameless head: the projecting upper windows bend threatening
brows against the west end of the Church with its pillars of white
stone: the house has villainy written large over all the front: it is
covered with yellow places breaking away in lumps and showing the black
timbers behind: the roof, of red tiles, is sunken in parts: many of the
windows are broken and stuffed with rags.

The ground floor consists of a long low room: at one end is a bar with a
counter, behind it casks of beer and rum and shelves with bottles
containing cordials: there is a door behind the bar opening to a cellar
staircase: and is said to communicate with a subterranean passage
leading one knows not whither. It is also rumoured that the cellar, into
which no one but the landlady of the Black Jack and her daughter has
ever penetrated, is a large stone vault with pillars and arches, the
remains of some Roman Catholic building. The kitchen, or public room, is
on the ground floor about twelve inches below the level of the street:
it is entered by two steps: the window is garnished with red curtains,
which on wintry evenings give the place a warm and cheerful look: the
bright colour promises a roaring fire and lights and drink. Both in the
summer and winter the place is always cheerful because it is always
filled with company.

Three or four candles in sconces light up the room, and, in addition, a
generous fire always burning every night, adds to the light of the
place. The fire is kept up partly for warmth: partly for the convenience
of those who bring their suppers with them and cook them on the fire.
Also, for their convenience, frying-pans and gridirons are lying ready
beside the fireplace: and for the convenience of the punch-drinkers a
huge kettle bubbles on the hob. Two tables stand for those who take
their supper here. As the food principally in favour consists of
bloaters, red herrings, sprats, mackerel, pig's fry, pork, fat bacon,
beefsteak and onions, liver and lights and other coarse but savoury
dishes, the mingled fragrance makes the air delightful and refreshing.
As the windows are never open the air is never free from this fragrance,
added to which is the reek, or stench of old beer, rum, gin, and rank
tobacco taken in the horrid manner of the lower classes, by means of a
clay pipe, not in the more courtly fashion of snuff. Nor must one forget
the--pah!--the company--the people themselves, the men and women, the
boys and girls who frequent this tavern nightly. Taking all into
account, I think it would be difficult, outside Newgate, to find a more
noisome den than the kitchen or bar-room of the Black Jack.

All round the room ran a bench: the company sat on the bench, every man
with a pipe of tobacco and a mug of drink: the walls were streaming: one
felt inclined to run away--out into the fresh air for breath. The space
in the middle was mostly kept open for a fight, perhaps: for a dance,
perhaps, if a fiddler could be found. Every evening, I believe, there
was a fight either between two men, or between two women: or between two
boys. What would an Englishman of the baser sort become if he were
forbidden to fight?

I describe what I saw after we entered. When Jenny pushed open the door
and the breath of that tavern ascended to my nostrils I trembled and
hesitated.

'Strong, at first, isn't it?' said Jenny. 'Cousin Will, to stand here
and breathe the air that comes up carries me back to my childhood. You
are ready to face it? After a little one grows accustomed. They like it,
the people inside.' She stood with the handle of the half opened door in
her hand. 'Now,' she said. 'You shall visit the Rogues' Delight: the
Thieves' Kitchen: the Black Jack: the favourite House of Call for the
gallows bird. You shall see what manner of woman is the old lady my
mother: and what sort of woman is the young lady my sister.'

'I am ready, Jenny,' I replied, with an effort. One would join a forlorn
hope almost as readily.

'Don't mind me. Take no notice whatever I say or do,' she whispered. 'I
must humour the wretches. It is more than twelve months since I have
been among them. They may resent my absence. However, you keep quiet,
and say nothing. Call for drink if you like, and pretend to be an old
hand in the place.'

Jenny threw up her head: opened her lips: laughed loudly and impudently:
looked round her with an impudent stare: became, in a word, once more,
one of the brazen young queans who sell oranges and exchange rude jokes
with the gentlemen in the Pit of Drury Lane Theatre. It was a wonderful
change. I saw a girl who would perhaps be beautiful if she had preserved
any rags or the least appearance of feminine modesty: as for Jenny's
sweet and attractive look of innocence, that had vanished. She had, in
fact, resumed her former self, and more than her former self. I saw her
as she had been. Was there ever before known such a thing that a girl
who had never been taught what was meant by feminine modesty should be
able to assume, at will, the look of one brought up in a convent--all
innocence and ignorance--and, at will, be able to put it off and go back
to her former self? No--it is impossible: the innocence of Jenny's face
proclaimed the innocence of Jenny's soul.

'Follow me,' she said. 'Keep close, or expect a pewter plate or a pot
hurled at your head. They love not strangers.'

She pushed open the door: she descended the steps: I followed. The room
was quite full, and the reek of it made me sick and faint for a moment.
But to the worst of stinks one quickly grows hardened.

'By----!' cried a voice from out of the smoke. 'It's Madame.'

'Lawks, Mother'--this was a girl's voice-''tis Jenny. Why, Jenny, we
all thought you was grown too proud for the Black Jack.'

'Good-evening all,' she cried with a loud coarse laugh; she added, as a
finishing stroke of art, a certain click or choking in the middle of the
laugh such as one may hear among the lowest sort of women as they walk
along the street. 'How are you, mother? You did not expect me to come in
to-night, did you? How's business? How are you, Doll? Adding up the
figures on the slate as usual? How are you, boys? I haven't seen any of
you at the Theatre for a spell. That's because I've been resting.
Actresses must rest sometimes. Where have I been? That's my business.
Who with? That's my business, too. Now'--she brandished her basket, and
walked about among them shaking her petticoats in the way of the
impudent orange girls--'choose a fine Chaney orange! Choose a fine
Chaney orange! One for your sweetheart, my curly boy? Here is a fine
one: pay me when I come again. Doll, chalk up to the gentleman an orange
for his girl. One for this pretty country girl? Take it, my beauty. I
will tell your fortune presently--a lover and a pile of gold and babies
as sweet as this orange.' So she got rid of her oranges, offering and
presenting them here and there with the impudence of the craft she
assumed, yet with something of her own inimitable grace which she could
not quite put off. Then she turned to me. 'Sit down here,' she ordered.
'Lads,' she said, 'I've brought you a friend of mine. He's a fiddler by
trade. If you like he will fiddle for you till he puts fire into your
toes and springs into your heels.'

'Who is he?' cried a voice. Through the smoke I now recognised the
Bishop, formerly of the King's Bench Prison. The reverend gentleman's
face was redder and his cheek fuller than when last I saw him. He
seemed, however, in better case: he had gotten a new cassock: his bands
and his cuffs were of whiter hue: his wig was better shaped and better
dressed: it came, I make no doubt, from some place where are deposited
the wigs snatched from the passengers in hackney coaches or even in the
streets. His looks, however, were certainly more prosperous than when I
had seen him last. He did not recognise me, which was as well. Beside
him sat the Captain, also more prosperous to all appearance. He wore a
purple coat and a fawn-coloured waistcoat: he had rings on his fingers,
and his hat was laced with gold: he wore gold buckles: buttons silver
gilt and white silk stockings. He looked what he was--a ruffian, a
robber, and a swashbuckler. He had a girl on his knee, and one arm round
her waist: she was a handsome, red-faced wench dressed up in all kinds
of finery, somewhat decayed and second hand. A pipe was between the
gallant Captain's lips and a glass of punch was in his right hand. 'Twas
a picture of Rogues' Paradise: warmth, light, fire, clothes, drink,
tobacco, good company, and a fine girl. What more can a man want?

'Who's your man?' repeated the Bishop. 'We are not going to have
strangers here spying on us for what we do. Who is he?'

'Who is he? What's that to you? I shall bring anybody I like to the
Black Jack. If you don't like your Company, Bishop, get up and go.' He
growled, but made no attempt to rise. 'If'--she appealed to the Company
generally--'I choose to bring my fancy man here, am I to ask the
Bishop's leave?' Then before there was time for a reply: 'Mother, bustle
about. Let every man call for what he wants. Score it to me. This
evening I pay for all.'

Her mother, a fat old woman of fifty, red faced, with the look of
callous indifference that belongs to such a woman, sat behind the Bar, a
piece of knitting in her hand. She got up grumbling.

'Oh! ay,' she said. 'When Jenny comes you must all get drunk at her
expense. She'd better give me the money to keep for her. Well--what
shall it be? Doll, stir about: stir about--you leave it all to me. Ask
the gentlemen what they will take. And the ladies too. Whatever they
like. Jenny pays to-night. Whatever they like--that's Jenny's
way--whatever they like so that it ruins my poor girl.'

Doll, the other daughter, made no response. She was continually occupied
with the slate, and I suppose she was slow at calculation for she kept
adding up over and over again, wiping out with her wet finger and adding
up again. The Black Jack refused credit as a rule: most of the company
had to pay for what they called for on the spot; but there were a few to
whom limited credit was granted, as a privilege.

The girl called Doll, I remarked, was not in the least like her sister.
She had black hair and a somewhat swarthy complexion and appeared to
belong, as indeed she did, to the people called gipsies. The mother had
also the same black hair and dark skin. Strange, that a girl of Jenny's
complexion with her fair hair, blue eyes, and peach-like skin, should
come of the same stock. I sought in vain for any likeness between Jenny
and this girl. I thought that she might present the same features with a
difference: debased: but I could find none. She wore a red kerchief tied
round her head, a red ribbon tied round her neck: a red scarf tied round
her waist. In her way she was a handsome girl: in her manners she showed
no inclination to oblige the company or to be civil to them. She paid no
heed when her mother bade her stir about. On the contrary, she went on
with her sums on the slate.

It was Jenny who ran round laughing and joking with the men, ordering
punch for one and gin for another. Most of the company regarded her with
bewilderment. It was long since she had been among them: they knew
something about her: she was the daughter of the house: she had been an
orange girl at Drury: she had been an actress at the same theatre: some
of them had seen her there: then she disappeared, and no one knew where
she was.

One young fellow there was who sat on the bench with hanging head. He
had apparently no friends among the company. 'Here,' cried Jenny, 'is a
lad half awake. What art doing here, friend?' The lad shook his head
mournfully. 'Hast any money?' He shook his head again. Jenny pulled out
a piece of silver. 'Go,' she said. 'Get food, and'--she whispered--'come
back here no more. Go--get thee home again.' And so, let me believe, she
saved one lad that night from the gallows. For he got up slowly and
walked out.

There was another lad also from the country whose fresh cheek and
country dress betokened the fact. He sat sheepishly, as a new comer.

Jenny stopped before him. 'And pray what do they call thee, Sirrah?
Jack? 'Twill serve. What lay is it, Jack? Oh! Shop-lifting?' He nodded.
'For Mr. Merridew?' she whispered. He nodded again. 'Drink punch, Jack,
and forget thyself awhile.'

Some of the men were dressed like the Captain, but not so fine: the
buttons had been cut off their coats and their shoes had lost the
buckles. There were boys among them: boys who had none of the innocence
of childhood; their faces betrayed a life of hunting and being hunted:
they were always on the prowl for prey or were running away and hiding.
They had all been whipped, held under the pump, thrown into ponds,
clapped in prison. They were all doomed to be hanged. In their habits of
drink as in their crimes, they were grown up. In truth there were no
faces in the whole room which looked more hopeless than those of the
boys.

The women, of whom there were nearly as many as there were men, were
either bedizened in tawdry finery or they were in rags: some wearing no
more than a frock stiffened by the accumulation of years, black leather
stays, and a kerchief for the neck with another for the head: their hair
hung about their shoulders loose; and undressed: it was not unbecoming
in the young, but in the older women it became what is called rats'
tails. With most of the men, their dress was simple and scanty. Shirts
were scarce: stockings without holes in them were rare: buttons had
mostly vanished.

Most of them, I observed further, had an anxious, hungry look: not the
look of a creature of prey which has always in it something that is
noble: but the look of one insufficiently fed. I believe that the
ordinary lot of the rogue is, even on this earth, miserable beyond
expression: uncertain as to food: cruelly hard in cold weather in the
matter of raiment.

In a little while they were all happy: happier, I am sure, than they had
been for a long time. While they drank and while they talked, I observed
among them a veritable brotherhood. The most successful rogue--he in
gold lace--was hail fellow with the most ragged. And although the
successful rogue stood the nearest to the gallows, and he knew it and
the other rogue knew it, yet the beginner envied the success of his
brother as a soldier envies the successful general. They drank and
laughed: they drank more and they laughed more. Then the Captain called
silence for a song.

'Now, you fiddler!' he cried with a curse. 'Sit up, man, and show us how
you can play.'

The tune, the Captain told me, was 'The Warbling of the Lark.' I struck
up that air which every frequenter of Vauxhall, or even the Dog and
Duck, knows very well, and the Captain began his song.

Now in such a company I expected a song in praise of Roguery and
Robbery; or at least something of the kind introduced in Gay's Opera. On
the contrary, the song which the Captain gave us was a sentimental
ditty which you may hear at any Pleasure Garden on a summer evening: it
was all about the flames of love which could only be extinguished by
Chloe: and a broken heart: and darts and groves, and, in fact, a song
such as would be sung in a concert before a party of ladies. The fellow
had a good voice, and rolled out his lovesick strains to the admiration
of the women, some of whom even shed tears. This is the kind of song
they like: not the song in praise of a Highwayman's life, because in
matters of imagination these women are but poorly provided, and they
always see the reality beyond the words, and if they love the man his
certain end makes them unhappy. But hearts, and flames and love! That,
if you please, which is unreal, seems real.

When he finished, Jenny sprang to her feet. I will dance for you, lads.'
She turned to me. 'Play up--the Hey.'

She ran into the middle of the room, bowed to the people as if she had
been on the stage, and danced with such grace and freedom and simplicity
that it ravished my heart. Her sister, I observed, went on adding up
figures on the slate without paying the least attention to the
performance.

'Ah!' said her mother growing confidential. 'Thus would she dance when
she was quite a little thing on the stones in front of the church, when
the fiddler played in the house. A clever girl, she was, even then, a
clever girl! You are her friend. I hope, Sir, that you are going to
behave handsome by my girl. You look like one of the right sort. Make
over, while there is time. I will keep the swag for you--you may trust
the poor girl's mother. Many a brave fellow she might have had: many a
brave fellow: they come and go----I wish you a long rope young man, if
so be you're kind to my girl. Life is short--what odds, so long as 'tis
merry? Where do you work, if I may ask?'

'Jenny will tell you, perhaps,' I replied.

'I don't know, I don't know. Since she left off the orange line, Jenny
hasn't been the same to her old mother: not to tell her things, I mean,
and to take her advice. I should have made her rich by this time if she
had taken my advice.'

'Many people like to have their own way, don't they?'

'They do, Sir--they do--to their loss.' She took another pull at the
punch and began to get maudlin and to shed tears--while she enlarged
upon what she would have done had Jenny only listened to her. I gathered
from her discourse that the old gipsy woman, like the whole of her
tribe, was without a gleam or a spark of virtue or goodness. Her nature
was sordid and depraved through and through. With such a mother--poor
Jenny!

Suddenly the old woman stopped short and sat upright with a look of
terror.

'Good Lord!' she murmured. 'It's Mr. Merridew!'

At sight of the new-comer standing on the steps a dead silence fell upon
the whole Company. All knew him by name: those who knew his face
whispered to each other: all quailed before him; down to the meanest
little pickpocket, they knew him and feared him. Every face became
white; even the faces of the women who shook with terror on account of
the men. I observed the girl on the Captain's knee catch him by the hand
and place herself in front of him, as if to save him. Then his arm left
her waist and she slipped down and sat humbly on the bench beside her
man. Thus there was some human affection among these poor things. But
the Captain's face blanched with terror and the glass that he was
lifting to his lips remained halfway on its journey. The Bishop's face
could not turn white, in any extremity of fear, but it became
yellow--while his eyes rolled about and he grasped the table beside him
in his agitation. Doll, I observed, after a glance to learn the cause of
the sudden silence went on sucking her fingers, rubbing out the figures
on the slate and adding them up again.

'Who is it?' I whispered to Jenny.

'Hush! It's the thief-taker: they are all afraid that their time has
come. If he wants one of them he will have to get up and go.'

'Won't they fight, then? Do they sit still to be taken?'

'Fight Mr. Merridew? As well walk straight to Tyburn.'

The man was a large and heavy creature, having something of the look of
a prosperous farmer. His face, however, was coarse and brutal. And he
looked round the terrified room as if he was selecting a pig from a
herd, with as much pity and no more! This was the man whose perjuries
had added a new detainer to my imprisonment. I could have fallen upon
him with the first weapon handy, but refrained.

He came into the room. 'Your place stinks, Mother,' he said, 'and it's
so thick with tobacco and the steam of the punch that a body can't see
across.'

'To be sure, Mr. Merridew,' the old woman apologised. 'If we'd known you
were coming----'

'There would have been a large company, would there not?'

'Well, Sir, you see us here, as we are, as orderly and peaceful a house
as your Worship would desire.'

The fellow grinned. 'Orderly, truly, mother. It is a quiet and a
well-conducted company, isn't it? These are quiet and well-conducted
girls are they not?' He chucked one of the girls under the chin.

'As much as you like--there,' said the girl, impudently, 'so long as you
keep your fingers off my neck.'

At this playful allusion to his profession, that of sending people to
the gallows, Mr. Merridew laughed and patted the girl on the cheek. 'My
dear,' he said, 'if you were on my list you should get rich and you
should have the longest rope of any one.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'The man,' Jenny told me afterwards, 'is the greatest villain in the
whole world. He is a thief-taker by profession.'

'You mean, he informs and takes the reward.'

'Yes: but he makes the thing which he sells. He lays traps for
pickpockets and such small fry and while he has them in his power he
encourages them to become bigger rogues who will be worth more to him.
Do you understand? A highwayman is worth about eighty pounds' reward to
him: a man returned from transportation before his time is worth no more
than forty. He does not therefore give up the returned convict until he
has returned to his highway robberies. All those fellows you saw last
night are in his power. The Captain is a returned convict whose time
must before long be up, for Merridew only allows a certain amount of
rope. He says he cannot afford more. As for the Bishop, he will go on
longer: he is useful in many other ways: he can write letters and forge
things and invent villainies: he persuades the young fellows to take to
the road. I think he will be suffered to go on as long as his powers
last.'

'Why was your mother so terrified?'

Jenny hesitated. 'Because--I told you, but you do not
understand--because she, too, is in his power for receiving stolen
goods. My mother is what they call a fence. Oh!' she shook herself
impatiently: 'they are all rogues together. I wonder I can ever hold up
my head. To think of the Black Jack and the Company there!'

       *       *       *       *       *

The Captain sprang to his feet with an effort at ease and politeness.
'What will your Honour think of us?' he cried. 'Gentlemen, Mr. Merridew
is thirsty and no one offers him a drink. Call for it, sir--call for the
best this house affords.'

'Punch, mother,' the great man replied. 'Thank you, Captain.'

Then the Bishop, not to be outdone, got up too. 'Gentlemen,' he said,
'let us all drink to the health of Mr. Merridew. He is our truest
friend. Now, gentlemen. Together. After me.' He held up his hand. They
watched the sign and all together drank and shouted--hollow shouts they
were--to the health of the man who was going to sell them all to the
hangman. I wondered that they had not run upon him with their knives and
despatched him as he stood before them, unarmed. But this they dared not
do.

Mr. Merridew acknowledged the compliment. 'Boys and gallant riders,' he
said, 'I thank you. There was a friend of ours whom I expected to find
here, but I do not see him.' He looked round the room curiously. I think
he enjoyed the general terror. 'No matter, I shall find him at the
Spotted Dog.'

Every one breathed relief. No one, then, of that company was wanted. The
Captain sat down and drank off a whole glass of punch: the rest of the
men looked at each other as sailors might look whose ship has just
scraped the rock.

'I like to look in, friendly, as it might be,' Mr. Merridew went on,
'especially when I don't want anybody--just to see you enjoying
yourselves, happy and comfortable together, as you should be. There's no
profession more happy and comfortable, is there? That's what I always
say, even to the ungrateful. Plenty to eat: no work to do: no masters
over you: girls, and drink, and music, and dancing, every night. Find me
another trade half so prosperous. Mother, I'll take a second glass of
punch. I drink your healths--all of you--Bless you!' The fellow looked
so brutal, and so cunning that I longed to kill him as one would kill a
noxious beast.

'A long rope and a merry life,' he went on. 'It is not my fault,
gentlemen, that the rope is not longer. The expenses are great and the
profits are small. Meantime, go on and prosper. You are all safe under
my care. Without me, who knows what would happen to all this goodly
company? A long rope, I say, and a merry life.'

He tossed off his glass and went out.

When he was gone, the talk began again, but it was flat. The mirth had
gone out of the party. It was as if the Angel of Death himself had
passed through the room.

I played to them, but only the boys would dance: Jenny asked them to
sing, but only the girls would sing, and, truth to say, the poor
creatures' efforts were not musical. They drank, but moodily. The
Captain took glass after glass, but his arm had left the girl's waist:
she now sat neglected on the bench beside him. The Bishop, sobered by
the fright, said nothing, but sat with his eyes fixed upon the sanded
floor, shuddering. He thought his time had come, and the shock made him
for the moment reflect. Yet what was the good of reflecting? They were
in the hands of a relentless monster: he would sell them when it was
worth his while to put younger men in their place. They tried to forget
this, but from time to time, his presence, or the absence of one of
their Company, reminded them and then they were subdued for a time. It
filled me with pity: it made me think a little better of them that they
should be capable of being thus affected.

Jenny touched my arm. 'Come,' she said. 'Let us be gone.' So without any
farewells she led the way out. The old woman, by this time, was sound
asleep beside her half finished glass: and Doll was still adding up the
figures on her slate, putting her finger in her mouth, rubbing out and
adding up again.

Outside, the tall white spire of St. Giles's looked down upon us. In the
churchyard the white tombs stood in peace, and overhead the moon sailed
in splendour.

Jenny drew a long breath: she caught one of the rails of the churchyard
and looked in curiously.

'Will,' she said shuddering, 'I am ashamed of myself because the manners
and the talk come back to me so easily. Once I am with them, I become
one of them again. I tremble when the man Merridew appears. It is as if
he will do me, too, a mischief some day. I cannot forget the old times
and the old talk. Yet I know how dreadful it is. Look at the graves,
Will. Under them they sleep so quiet; they never move: they don't hear
anything: and beside them every night collects this company of
gaol-birds and Tyburn birds. Why, they don't shiver and shake when Mr.
Merridew looks in.'

'Let us get back, Jenny.' I shuddered, like all the rest.

'Will, I have seen that man--that monster--that wretch--for whom no
punishment is enough--three times. Each time I have felt that, like the
rest of those poor rogues, my own life was in his hands. Do you think he
can do me a mischief? Why do I ask? I know that he will. I am never
wrong.'

'What mischief, Jenny, could he do?'

'I don't know. It is a prophetic feeling. But who knows what such a
villain may be concocting? Good-night, you happy people in the graves.
Good-night.'

I drew her away, and walked with her to her own door in the Square.

'Will?' she asked, 'what do you think of me now?'

'Whatever I think, Jenny, I am all wonder and admiration that you
are--what you are--when I see--what you might have been.'

She burst into tears. She flung her empty basket out into the road.
'Oh,' she cried, 'if I could escape from them! If I could only escape
from them for ever! I should think nothing too terrible if only I could
escape from them!'

A month or two later I remembered those words. Nothing too terrible if
only she could escape from them!




CHAPTER VI

A WARNING AND ANOTHER OFFER


As soon as we had once more found the means of keeping ourselves we went
back to our former abode under the shadow of Lambeth Church on the Bank
looking over the river on one side and over the meadows and orchards of
Lambeth Marsh on the other. The air which sweeps up the river with every
tide is fresh and strong and pure; good for the child, not to speak of
the child's mother, while the people, few in number, are generally
honest though humble: for the most part they are fishermen.

Here I should have been happy but for the thought, suggested by Jenny,
that my cousin and his attorney Probus were perhaps devising some new
means of persecution, and that the man Merridew, who had perjured
himself concerning me already, whose sinister face I had gazed upon with
terror, so visibly was the mark of Cain stamped upon it, was but a tool
of the attorney.

Yet what could they devise? If they swore between them another debt, my
patron Jenny promised to provide me with the help of a lawyer. What else
could they do? It is a most miserable feeling that someone in the world
is plotting your destruction, you know not how.

However, on Sunday afternoon--it was in November, when the days are
already short, we had a visit from my father's old clerk, Ramage.

He was restless in his manner: he was evidently in some anxiety of mind.
After a few words he began:

'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have much to say. I have come, I fear, to tell
you something that will make you uneasy.'

'I will leave you alone,' said Alice, taking up the child.

'No, Madam, no, I would rather that you heard. You may advise. Oh!
Madam, I never thought the day would come that I should reveal my
master's secrets. I eat his bread; I take his wages: and I am come here
to betray his most private affairs.'

'Then do not betray them, Mr. Ramage,' said Alice. 'Follow your own
conscience.'

'It ought to be your bread and your wages, Mr. Will, and would have been
but for tales and inventions. Sir, in a word, there is villainy
afloat----'

'What kind of villainy?'

'I know all they do. Sir, there is that sum of one hundred thousand
pounds in the hands of trustees, payable to the survivor of you two.
That is the bottom of the whole villainy. Well, they are mad to make you
sell your chance.'

'I know that.'

'Mr. Matthew, more than a year ago, offered Mr. Probus a thousand pounds
if he could persuade you to sell it for three thousand.'

'That is why he was so eager.' This was exactly how Jenny read the
business.

'Yes, he reported that you would not sell, he said that if it was made
worth his while, he would find a way to make you.'

'That is why he put me in the King's Bench, I suppose?'

'That was agreed upon between them. Sir, if ever there was an infamous
conspiracy, this was one. Probus invented it. He said that he would keep
you there till you rotted; he said that when you had been there four or
five months you would be glad to get out on any terms. You were there
for a year or more. Probus sent people to report how you were looking.
He told Mr. Matthew with sorrow that you were looking strong and hearty.
Then you were taken out. They were furious. They knew not who was the
friend. An attorney named Dewberry had done it. That was all they could
find out. I know not what this Mr. Dewberry said to Mr. Probus, but
certain I am that they will not try that plan any more.'

'I am glad to hear so much.'

'Mr. Will, there is more behind. I know very well what goes on, I say. A
little while after the death of your father, when the Alderman retired
and Mr. Matthew was left sole active partner, he began to borrow money
of Mr. Probus, who came often to see him. I could hear all they said
from my desk in the corner of the outer counting-house.'

'Ay! Ay! I remember your desk.'

'Sitting there I heard every word. And I am glad, Mr. Will--I ought to
be ashamed, but I am glad that I listened. Well. He began to borrow
money of Mr. Probus at 15 per cent, on the security of the business.
Anyone would lend money to such a house at 10 per cent. He said he
wanted to put the money into the business; to buy new ships and to
develop it. This made me suspicious. Why? Because our House, in your
father's time, Sir, wanted no fresh capital; it developed and grew on
its own capital. This I knew. The business wanted no new capital. What
did he borrow the money for then?'

'I know not, indeed.'

'He bought no new ships: he never meant to buy any. Mr. Will, to my
certain knowledge'--here his voice deepened to a whisper, 'he wanted for
some reason or other more ready money. I am certain that he has got
through all the money that your father left him: I know that he has sold
some of the ships: he has mortgaged the rest; the business of the House
decays and sinks daily; he has got rid of all the money that Mr. Probus
advanced him. It was £25,000, for which he is to pay 15 per cent. on
£40,000. 'Tis a harpy--a shark--a common rogue!'

'How has he lost this money?' I pretended not to know: but, as you have
heard, I knew, perfectly well.

'That, Sir, I cannot tell you. I have no knowledge how a man can, in
three years, get through such an amazing amount of money and do so much
mischief to an old established business. But the case is as I tell you.'

'This is very serious, Ramage. Does my uncle know?'

'He does not, Sir. That poor man will be a bankrupt in his old age. It
will kill him. It will kill him. And I must not tell him. Remember that
most of what I tell you is what I overheard.'

'I think that my uncle ought to know.' I remembered Jenny's advice. Here
was another opportunity. I should have told him. But I neglected this
chance as well.

'I cannot tell him, Sir. There is, however, more. This concerns you, Mr.
Will. Yesterday in the afternoon Mr. Probus came to the counting-house.
He came for the interest on his money. Mr. Matthew told him, shortly,
that it was not convenient to pay him. Mr. Probus humbly explained that
he had need of the money for his own occasions. Now Mr. Matthew had been
drinking; he often goes to the tavern of a forenoon and returns with a
red face and heavy shoulders. Perhaps yesterday he had been drinking
more than was usual with him. Otherwise, he might not have been so
plain-spoken with his creditor. "Mr. Probus," he said, "it is time to
speak the truth with you. I cannot pay you the interest of your
money--either to-day or at any other time."

'"Cannot ... cannot ... pay? Mr. Halliday, what do you mean?"

'"I say, Sir, that I cannot pay your interest ... and that your
principal, the money you lent me--yes--your £25,000--is gone. You'll
never get a penny of it," and then he laughed scornfully. I heard Mr.
Probus's step as he sprang to his feet, I heard him strike the table
with his open hand. His face I could not see.

'"Sir," he cried, "explain. Where is my money?"

'"Gone, I say. Everything is gone. Your money; my money; all that I
could raise--my ships are sold; the business is gone: the creditors are
gathering. Probus, I shall be a bankrupt in less than three months. I
have worked it out; I can play one against the other, but only for three
months. Then the House must be bankrupt."

'"The House--bankrupt?--this House--Halliday Brothers? You had a hundred
thousand of your own when you succeeded. You had credit: you had a noble
fleet: and a great business. And there's your father's money in the
business as well. It _can't_ be gone."

'"It is gone--I tell you--all gone--my money, Probus--_integer
vitae_--that's gone: and your money, old Scelerisque Probus. That's gone
too. All gone--all gone." To be sure he was three parts drunk. I heard
Mr. Probus groan and sink back into his chair. Then he got up again.
"Tell me," he said again, "tell me, you poor drivelling drunken
devil--I'll kill you if you laugh. Tell me, where is the money gone?"

'"I don't know," his voice was thick with drink, "I don't know. It's all
gone. Everything's gone."

'"I lent you the money to put into the business--it must be in the
business still."

'"It never was in the business. I tell you, Probus--it's all gone."

'There was silence for a few minutes. Then Mr. Probus said softly, "Mr.
Halliday, we are old friends--tell me that you have only been playing
off a joke upon me. You are a little disguised in liquor. I can pass
over this accident. The money is in the business, you know; in this fine
old business, where you put it when you borrowed it."

'"It's all gone--all gone," he repeated. "Man, why won't you believe? I
tell you that everything is gone. Make me a bankrupt at once, and you
will share with the creditors: oh! yes, you will be very lucky: you will
divide between you the furniture of the counting-house and the empty
casks on the Quay."

'Then Mr. Probus began to curse and to swear, and to threaten. He would
throw Mr. Matthew into prison and keep him there all his life: he would
prosecute him at the Old Bailey: he called him thief, scoundrel,
villain: Mr. Matthew laughed in his drunken mood. He would not explain
how the money was lost: he only repeated that it was gone--all gone.

'Mr. Will--I know that he was speaking the truth. I had seen things
done--you cannot hide things from an old accountant who keeps the books:
cargoes sold at a sacrifice for ready money: ships sold: our splendid
fleet thrown away: there were six tall vessels in the West India trade:
one was cast away: the underwriters paid for her. Where is that money?
Where are the other five ships? Sold. Where is that money? Our coffers
are empty: there is no running cash at the Bank: the wharf is deserted:
clerks are dismissed: creditors are put off. I know that what Mr.
Matthew said was true: but for the life of me I cannot tell what he has
done with the money unless he has thrown it into the river.

'Then I think that Mr. Matthew took more drink, for he made no more
reply, and Mr. Probus, after calling him hog and beast and other names
of like significance, left him.

'When he came out of the counting-house he was like one possessed of a
devil: his face distorted: his eyes blood-shot: his lips moving: his
hands trembling. Sir, although he is a villain I felt sorry for him. He
has lost all that he cared for: all that he valued: and since he is now
old, and can make no more money, he has lost perhaps his means of
livelihood.'

Ramage paused. Alice brought him a glass of beer, her own home-brewed.
Thus refreshed, he presently went on again.

'After two days Probus came again to the counting-house. Mr. Matthew was
sober.

'"Probus," he said, "I told you the other day when I was drunk what I
should have kept from you if I was sober. However, now you know what I
told you was the truth."

'"Is it all true?"

'"It is all true. Everything is gone."

'"But how--how--how?" I heard his lamentable cry and I could imagine his
arm waving about.

'"This way and that way. Enough that it is all gone."

'"Mr. Matthew," I think he sat down because he groaned--which a man
cannot do properly--that is to say movingly, unless he is sitting--"I
have been thinking--Good God! of what else could I think? You can keep
yourself afloat for three months more, you say--Heavens! Halliday
Brothers to go in three months! And my money! Where--where--where has it
gone?"

'"In about three months--or may be sooner, the end must come."

'"Mr. Matthew," he lowered his voice, "there is one chance left--one
chance--I may get back my money--by that one chance."

'"What chance? The money is all gone."

'"If we can make your cousin part with his chance of the succession, we
can raise money on it before the bankruptcy--we can divide it between
us."

'"Put it out of your thoughts. My cousin is the most obstinate
self-willed brute that ever lived. You couldn't bend him with the King's
Bench Prison. You cannot bend him now."

'"I will try again. He is still poor. He plays the fiddle at some
wretched gardens I believe. He lives where he did before--I know where
to find him. I will try again. If I succeed we could raise say £50,000
upon the succession, it should be more but you are both young. Let me
see, that will be £40,000 for me; £6,000 interest due to me: that makes
£46,000 for me and £4,000 for you."

'"No, friend Probus. You have lent me £25,000. That you shall take and
no more. If you are not content with that you shall have none. Remember
that the money must be raised by me for my own use, not by you. Get him
to sign if you can--and you shall have back all your money, but without
any interest. If you think you are going to get all this money for
yourself, let me tell you that you are mistaken."

'Mr. Matthew can be as hard as--as your father, sometimes. He was hard
now. Well, the pair wrangled over these terms for a long time. At last
it was arranged that if Mr. Probus can persuade you to sign the paper
which he is to bring you he is to take £25,000 and interest on that and
not on the alleged £40,000, at 15 per cent. And Mr. Matthew is to pay
you the sum required to buy out. When they had completed this
arrangement Mr. Probus started another line of discourse. Now listen to
this, Mr. Will, because it concerns you very closely.

'"If," he said, "your cousin were to die--actually to die----"

'"He won't die. I wish he would."

'"I said--If he were to die--you would then immediately take over
£100,000 together with the interest at 5 per cent. already accumulated
for three years, namely, about £115,000. That would put all square
again. You could get back some of your ships and your credit."

'"What's the use? Man, I have told you--my cousin is a selfish,
unfeeling, obstinate Brute. He won't die."

'"I said. If he were to die. That is what I said. If he were to die."

'Then there was silence for a space.

'"Probus," said Mr. Matthew, "I believe you are a devil. Tell me what
you mean. We can't make him die by wishing."

'"I was only supposing: If he were to die--strange things have
happened--would you be disposed to let me take the half of that
money--say £55,000?"

'"If he were to die," Mr. Matthew repeated. "Have you heard, by
accident, that he is ill? Has he taken small-pox, or gaol fever? I did
hear that was gaol fever in Newgate some time ago."

'"No: on the contrary, I believe that he is in perfect health at
present. Still, he might die. Anybody may die, you know."

'"Why do you say that he may die?"

'"I only put the case. Anybody may die. What do you say about my
proposal?"

'"You call it a proposal--Man--you look like a murderer--are you going
to murder him?"

'"Certainly not. Well--what do you say?"

'"Well--if you are not going to murder him, what do you mean?"

'"Men die of many complaints, besides murder. Some men get themselves
into the clutches of the law----"'

When Ramage said this, I became suddenly aware of a great gulf opening
at my feet with a prospect of danger such as I had never before
contemplated. I thought that the man might swear upon me some crime of
which I was innocent and so bring it home to me by a diabolical artifice
that I should be accused, found guilty, and executed. I reeled and
turned pale.

Alice caught my hand. 'Have faith, my dear,' she said.

Yet the thought was like a knife piercing me through and through. I
could not afterwards shake it off. And I made up my mind--I know not
why--that the charge would take the form of an accusation of forgery.

'"Probus," said Mr. Matthew, "I will have nothing to do with this----"

'"Sir, you need not. Give me your word only, your simple word that if
your cousin refuses to sign the paper I shall lay before him, so that
you cannot raise money on that succession--and if within two months of
this day your cousin dies, so that you will succeed before you are
bankrupt, I am to take half that money in full discharge of all my
claims. That is all. I will leave you now, to think the matter over."

'He went away. The next day he returned, bringing with him a man whom I
had never seen before.

'"Mr. Matthew," he said, "I have brought you a gentleman whose
acquaintance with our criminal law is vast--probably unequaled. His
name, Sir, is Merridew."

'"His honour says no more than what is true," said Mr. Merridew. "I know
more than most. I understand you want me to advise you on a little
matter of prosecution. Well, Sir, I can only say that if you want a
friend put out of the way, so to speak, nothing is easier, for them that
knows how to work the job and can command the instruments. It is only a
question of pay." Then they talked in whispers and I heard no more. When
they were gone Mr. Matthew began to drink again.

'That is all, Mr. Will. But have a care. You now know what to expect,
sir; there will be no pity from any of them. Have a care. Go away. Go to
some place where they cannot find you. Sir, the man Probus is mad. He is
mad with the misery of losing his money. There is nothing that he will
not do. He is a money-lender: his money is all in all to him: his
profession and his pride and everything. And he has lost his money. Go
out of his way.'

'Is that all, Ramage?'

'Yes, Sir. That is all I had to say.'

'Then, my old friend, you have come just in time, for if I mistake not
there is Mr. Probus himself walking across the meadow with the intention
of calling here. You could not have chosen a better time.' Indeed, that
was the case. The man was actually walking quickly across the Marsh.
'Now, Ramage,' I said, 'it would be well for you to hear what he has to
say. Go into the kitchen and wait with the door ajar--go. Alice, my
dear, stay here with me.'

'Remember, Will,' she said, 'it was your father's last command. To sell
it would be to sell your father's forgiveness--a dreadful thing.'

The man stood at the open door. Ramage was right. He looked truly
dreadful. Anxiety was proclaimed in his face, with eagerness and
courage: he reminded me of a weasel, which for murderous resolution is
said to surpass the whole of the animal creation. He came in blinking
after the light and offered me his hand, but I refused it.

'Fie!' he said. 'Fie, Mr. Will! This is ill done. You confuse the
attorney's zeal for his clients with an act of hostility to yourself.
Put that out of your thoughts, I pray.'

'Why do you come here, Mr. Probus?'

'I said to myself: It is not easy to catch a man of Mr. William's
reputation at home, his society being eagerly sought after. I will
therefore visit him on Sunday. Not in the morning, when he will be
lifting the hymn in Church: but in the afternoon. I came here straight
from St. George's, Borough, where I sometimes repair for morning
service. A holy discourse, Mr. William, moving and convincing.' His eyes
kept shifting to and fro as he spoke.

'Very likely. But we will not talk about sermons. Look ye, Mr. Probus,
your presence here is not desired. Say what you have to say, and
begone.'

'Hot youth! Ah! I envy that fine heat of the blood. Once I was just the
same myself.'

He must have been a good deal changed, then, since that time.

He went on. 'I will not stay long. I am once more a peacemaker. It is a
happy office. It is an office that can be discharged on the Sabbath.
Sweetly the river flows beneath your feet. Ah! A peacemaker. I come from
your cousin again.'

'To make another offer?'

'Yes, that is my object. I am again prepared to offer you terms which, I
believe, no one else in the world would propose to you. Mr. William, I
will give you the sum of four thousand pounds down--equivalent to an
annual income of two hundred pounds a year if you will sell your
reversion.'

'No.'

'Mr. Matthew can use the money to advantage: while it lies locked up it
is of no use to anyone.'

'No.'

'Such obstinacy was never known before, I believe. Why, Sir, I offer you
an annual income of two hundred pounds a year--two hundred pounds a
year. You can leave this wretched little cottage overhanging a marsh:
you can move into a fashionable quarter, and live like a person of
Quality: you can abandon your present mode of life, which I take to be
repellent to every person of virtue--that of musician to the Dog and
Duck or some other resort of the profligate. Oh, we know where you are
and what you do! Instead of servant you will be master. You, Madam, will
no longer be a household drudge: you will have your cook, your maids,
your page to carry your Prayer-Book to church.'

'No.'

He hesitated a little, the sham benevolence dying out of his face, and
the angry look of baffled cunning taking its place. Mr. Probus was a bad
actor.

He took out a parchment. 'Sign it, Mr. William--here.' He unrolled it
and indicated the place. 'Let us have no more shilly shally, willy nilly
talk. It is for your good and for my client's.'

'And yours, too, Mr. Probus.'

'My dear,' said Alice, 'do not exchange words any longer. You have said
No already. It is my husband's last word, Sir.'

There I should have stopped. It is always foolish to reveal to an enemy
what one has discovered. I think that up to that moment Mr. Probus was
only anxious: that is to say, he was crazy with anxiety, but he could
not believe that his money was all gone, because he had no knowledge or
suspicion in what way it had gone. Things that appear impossible cannot
be believed. I think that he would have assured himself of the fact in
some other way before proceeding to the wickedness which he actually had
in his mind. He would have waited: and I could have eluded him some way
or other. As it was, the mere statement of Matthew drunk drove him half
mad with fear: but there was still the chance that Matthew sober would
have spoken differently.

'No,' according to Alice, was my last word.

'Not quite the last word,' I said. 'Hark ye, Mr. Probus. The sum waiting
for me when Matthew dies, is one hundred thousand pounds with
accumulations of interest, is it not? If he were to die to-morrow--to
be sure it is not likely--but he may be murdered, or he may put himself
within the power of the Law and so be executed----' Mr. Probus turned
ghastly white and shook all over. 'Then I should come in for the whole
of that money, which is much better than four thousand pounds, whereas
if I were to die to-morrow--either by the operation of the law or by
some other manner, Matthew would have the whole and you would get back
the twenty-five thousand pounds you have lent my cousin with a noble
addition. If you do get it, that is--Mr. Probus, I think that you will
not get it. I think you will never get any more of your money back at
all.'

'I don't know, Sir, what you mean: or what you know,' he stammered.

'I know more than you think. I know where your money has gone.'

'He jumped up. 'Where? Where? Where? Tell me.'

'It has gone into the bottomless gulf that they call the gaming table,
Mr. Probus. It has been gambled away: the ships of my father's fleet:
the cargoes: the accumulated treasures: the credit of the business: the
private fortune of my cousin: your own money lent to Matthew: it has all
gone: irrecoverably gone----'

'The gaming table!' he groaned. 'The gaming table! I never thought of
that. Sir, do you know what you mean--the gaming table?'

No one but a money-lender knows all that may be meant by the gaming
table.

'I know what I say. Matthew told you the truth. Everything has gone:
ruin stares him in the face----Your money is gone with the rest.'

'The gaming table. And I never suspected it.... The gaming table!' He
fell into a kind of trance or fit, with open mouth, white cheeks, and
fixed eyes. This lasted only for a few moments.

'Mr. Probus,' I went on, 'I cannot say that I am sorry for your
misfortunes; but I hope we shall never meet again.'

He got up, slowly. His face was full of despair. I confess that I pitied
him. For he gave way altogether to a madness of grief.

'Gone?' he cried. 'No--no--no--not gone--it can't be gone.' He threw
himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He sobbed: he
moaned: when he lifted his head again his features were distorted. 'It
is my all,' he cried. 'Oh! you don't know what it is to lose your all. I
can never get any more--I am old: I have few clients left--I get no new
ones: the old cannot get new clients: my character is not what it was:
they cry out after me in the street: they say I lend money at cent. per
cent.--why not? They call me old cent. per cent. If I lose this money I
am indeed lost.'

'We cannot help you, Mr. Probus.'

'Oh! yes, do what I ask you. Sell your chance. You will never outlive
your cousin. You will save my life. Think of saving a man's life. As for
your cousin, let him go his own way. I hate him. It is you, you, Mr.
William, I have always loved.'

'No.'

He turned to Alice and fell on his knees.

'Persuade him, Madam. You are all goodness. Oh! persuade him--think of
your child. You can make him rich with a stroke of a pen--think of that.
Oh! think of that!' The tears ran down his cheeks.

'Sir, I think only of my husband's father. And of his wishes, which are
commands.'

'Enough said'--there was too much said already--'your money is gone, Mr.
Probus.'

'Gone?' he repeated, but no longer in terms of entreaty. He was now
fallen into the other extreme; he was blind and mad with rage and
despair. 'No--no--it's not gone. I will get it out of you. Those who
threw you into prison can do worse--worse. You have brought it on
yourself. It is your ruin or mine. Once more----' With trembling fingers
he held out the paper for me to sign.

'No.'

He stayed no longer: he threw out his arms again: it was as if his
breath refused to come: and he turned away. He looked like a broken-down
man, crawling, bent, with hanging head, along the road.

As soon as he was gone, Ramage opened the door and came out cautiously.

'Mr. Will,' he cried. 'For Heaven's sake, sir. For your dear lady's
sake: for the child's sake: get out of the way. Nothing else will serve.
He is desperate; and he is as cunning as the Devil himself. To get back
his money he will shrink from nothing.'

'Indeed, Ramage,' I said, 'I think you are right. I will take a holiday
for awhile.'

'When the bankruptcy comes,' he said, 'there will be no more danger,
because all the money would be divided among the creditors. Better to
run away than to be ruined.'

I promised to think of flight. Indeed, my mind was shaken. I was not
afraid of open villainy, but of that which might be concealed and
designed in secret. It would perhaps be best to go where the man could
not find me.

So Ramage departed. When he saw me again, it was in a very different
place.

       *       *       *       *       *

The bell of Lambeth Church began to toll. It seemed to me like a funeral
knell, though it was the bell for the afternoon service. The wind came
up from the river chilled with the November air. My heart sank.

'My dear,' said Alice, 'let us go to Church. Oh! the mark of the Evil
Spirit is stamped upon the unhappy man's forehead. Let us pray not for
ourselves, but for God's mercy upon a wandering soul.'

I followed her as she led the way, carrying the child. Alas! How long
before I could sit with her again to hear the prayers of the church
among godly folk!




CHAPTER VII

JENNY'S ADVICE


After this plain warning: after knowing the nature of the design against
me: after the savage threats of the man Probus: I ought to have
hesitated no longer: I should have taken Alice and the child to her
brother Tom, and should then have retired somewhere until the inevitable
bankruptcy relieved me from fear of conspiracy. Once before, I had
suffered from delay: yet had I not learned the perils of
procrastination. I had formed in my mind an idea that they would try in
some way to fix upon me the crime of forgery, and I thought that this
would take time: so that I was not hurried: I confess that I was
disquieted: but I was not hurried.

On Monday morning I repaired to Soho Square and laid the whole business
before Jenny.

'Will,' she said, after hearing all and asking a few questions, 'this
seems a very serious affair. You have to deal with a man driven frantic
by the loss of all his money: the money that he has spent his life in
scraping together. He throws out hints about your possible death in the
counting-house, and makes a bargain in case you die: he threatens you
with some mysterious revenge.'

'I believe he will trump up some charge of forgery.'

'He is quite unscrupulous. Now, I will tell you something. The man
Merridew's perjury about your alleged debt put me on the scent. Probus
works through Merridew. First of all Merridew owes him money--more than
he can pay. This debt goes on rolling up. This puts Merridew in his
power. What Probus orders Merridew must do.'

'Is there always behind every villain a greater villain?'

'I suppose so. The greater the rogue the safer he is. Merridew goes to
the shopkeepers and offers to return them stolen goods--at a price. It
is one of his ways of making money. Then he finds out their necessities.
Most shopkeepers are always in want of money. Then Merridew takes them
to Probus who lends them money. Oh! at first there was never such a kind
friend--on the easiest terms: they can pay when they please: then they
want a little more: and so they go on. When their debt has risen to half
the value of their stock, Probus wants to be paid. Then he sells them
up. The father of the family becomes bankrupt and goes into a prison for
the rest of his days: what becomes of the children I know not--no one
knows. I dare say some of them go to St. Giles's.'

This is what Jenny told me. I know not if it is true, but I think it
must be.

'Well, you see, that Probus pulls the strings and sets Merridew's arms
and legs at work, and Merridew has all the rogues under his thumb. Now
you understand why the position is serious.'

She considered for a few minutes. 'Will,' she said, 'for sure they will
talk it over at the Black Jack. When anything is arranged it is
generally done in the kitchen and in the morning.' She looked at the
clock. 'It is now nearly one. If I were to go round!' She considered
again. 'Doll will be there. They may be there too. But this time they
must not recognise me. Wait a bit, Will.'

She left me and presently came back dressed, not as an Orange Girl, but
as a common person, such as one may see anywhere in St. Giles's. She had
on a linsey woolsey frock: a dirty white apron all in holes: a kerchief
round her neck: another over her head tied under her chin: a straw hat
also tied under her chin: and woollen mittens on her hands. One cheek
was smudged as by a coal, and her left eye was blackened: no one would
have recognised her. On her arm she carried a basket carefully covered
up.

'Now,' she said, 'I'm a woman with a basket full of stolen goods for
Mother Wilmot.'

I let her out by the garden-door which opened on to Hog's Lane.
Presently she returned: from what she told me, this was what passed.

She found her mother nodding over knitting, and her sister Doll busy
with the slate. The kitchen was well-nigh empty because most of the
frequenters were abroad picking up their living. Like the sparrows they
pick it up as they can from pockets and doorways and from shop bulks.

'Doll,' she whispered. 'Pretend not to know me. Turn over the things in
the basket.'

'What is it, Jenny?'

She looked round the room. There were only two or three sitting by the
fire. 'No one who knows me,' she said. 'Tell me, Doll. Has Mr. Merridew
been here--and when?'

'Why, he's only just gone. Him and the Bishop--and the Captain--and
another one--a gentleman he looked like. All in black.'

'All in black? Was he tall and thin and stooping? So?'

'Yes. They've been talking over it all the morning.'

'What is it, Doll? You've got ears like gimlets. I sometimes think it
must be pleasant to be able to hear so much that goes on.'

'I can hear a thing if I like. The Bishop don't like it, Jenny.' She
dropped her voice. 'It's business for getting a man out of the way.
They'll have to give evidence at the Old Bailey, and he's afraid.'

'How is the man to be put out of the way?'

'I don't know. There's money on it. But they're afraid.'

'Why are they afraid?'

'Because they're going to make a man swing. If he doesn't swing, they
will.'

'I suppose it's an innocent man, Doll.'

'How should I know? It isn't one of themselves. If the case breaks down
they'll have to swing. Mr. Merridew promised them so much, for I heard
him. He means it, too--and they know it. I heard him. "If you do break
down," he says, "after all, you will be no worse off than you are at
present. For your time's up and you know it, both of you. So, if you
break down, you will be arrested for conspiracy and detained on my
information on a capital charge." After which--he made so----' with her
finger on her neck.

'Well, what did they say, Doll?'

'The Bishop said it would be easier and quicker to knock him on the head
at once. Mr. Merridew wouldn't hear of it. He said if they obeyed him
they should have two years' more rope. If not, they knew what to expect.
So they went away with him, looking mighty uneasy.'

'When is it to be, Doll?'

'Lord, sister, you are mighty curious. 'Tis no affair of yours. Best
know nothing, I say. Only a body must hear things. And it makes the time
pass knowing what to expect.'

'Can you find out when it is to be?'

'If I learn, I will tell you. It's all settled, I know that. We shall
have the pair of them giving evidence in the Old Bailey.' Doll laughed
at the thought. 'All St. Giles's will go to the Court to hear--all them
that dare.'

'So they went away with Mr. Merridew,' Jenny repeated, thoughtfully.

'Yes, after a mug of purl, but the Bishop went away shaking. Not on
account of the crime, I suppose, but with the thought of being
cross-examined in the Old Bailey, and the terror that he might be
recognised. But the only London Prison that knew him was the King's
Bench.'

Jenny took up her basket and went away. Just outside the door she met a
young country fellow: he had come up from some village in consequence of
trouble concerned with a girl: Jenny had had speech with him already, as
you have heard, at the Black Jack.

'Jack,' she said, 'you don't remember me: I was at the Black Jack some
time ago in the evening. They called me Madam. Now you remember.'

'Ay----' he said, looking at her curiously. 'But I shouldn't know you
again. You are dressed different.'

'Jack, why don't you go home?'

'A man must live,' he replied.

'You'll be hanged. For sure and certain, one of these days, you'll be
hanged. Now, Jack, I'll give you a chance. Let us sit here by the rails,
and talk--then people won't suspect. You've seen Mr. Merridew to-day. I
thought so. He told you that he might want you on some serious job. I
thought so. Your looks are still innocent, Jack. Now tell me all about
it--and I'll give you money to take you home again out of the way and
safe.'

Jack had very little to tell. He had been in the kitchen that morning.
Mr. Merridew called him--bade him not to go away: said that he should
want him perhaps for a good job: so he waited. Then a gentleman came in:
he was in black--a long, and lean figure. Jack would know him again; and
they all four--but not Jack--talked very earnestly together. Then the
gentleman went away and presently Mr. Merridew also went away, with the
Bishop and the Captain.

'Very good, Jack. I will see you to-morrow morning again--just in the
same place. Don't forget. If anything else occurs you will tell me. Poor
Jack! I should be sorry to see so proper a fellow hanged,' so she nodded
and laughed and pressed his hand and left him.

She came home: she joined me again. There was something hatching; that
was certain.

'Perhaps,' she said, 'the plot is not directed against you. Merridew is
always finding out where a house can be broken or a bale of stuff
stolen.'

'Then what did Probus want there?'

'The long, lean man in black was not Probus, perhaps.'

She considered again.

'After all, Will, I think the best thing is for you to disappear. They
are desperate villains. Get out of their way. Your friend Ramage gave
you the best advice possible. If all he says is true, Matthew cannot
hold out much longer. Once he is bankrupt, your death will no longer
help Probus. Where could you go?'

I told her that I thought of Dublin, where I might get into the
orchestra of the theatre. So after a little discussion, it was settled.
Jenny, always generous, undertook to provide for Alice in my absence,
and gave me a sum of money for present necessities.

I stayed there all day. In the evening I played at a concert in the
Assembly Room. After the concert I took supper with Jenny.

During supper Jenny entertained me with a fuller description of the
wretches from whose hands she was trying to rescue me. There was no turn
or trick of villainy that Jenny did not know. She made no excuses for
knowing so much--it was part of her education to hear continually talk
of these things. They make up disguises in which it is impossible to
recognise them: they arrange that respectable people shall swear to
their having been miles away at the time of the crime: they practise on
the ignorance of some: on the cunning of others. They prey upon mankind.
And all the time, behind every villain stands a greater villain. Behind
the humble footpad stands the Captain: behind the Captain stands the
thief-taker: behind the thief-taker stands the money-lender himself
unseen. It would surely be to the advantage of the Law could it tackle
the greater villains first. A cart-load of gentlemen like Mr. Probus on
its way to Tyburn would perhaps be more useful than many cartloads of
poor pickpockets and hedge-lifters. Sometimes, however, as this history
will relate, Justice with tardy step overtakes a Probus, and that with
punishment so dreadful that he is left incapable of any further
wickedness.

'Now,' she said, 'when Probus wants money, he squeezes Merridew. Then he
lays information against some poor wretch who expected a longer rope. In
order to get at these wretches he has to encourage them to break the
law. So you see, if he has to make a payment to Probus, he must
manufacture criminals. As I said, there cannot be many things worse than
the making of criminals for the satisfaction of the money-lender.'

I hardly understood, at the time, the full villainy of this system. In
fact, I was wholly absorbed in my own particular case. What was going to
be done?

About midnight I bade this kindest of women farewell.

'Remember, Will,' she said, 'trust nothing to chance. Take boat down the
river before daybreak. There is sure to be a Holyhead coach somewhere
in the morning. In a month or two you can come back again in safety.'

Yes--I was to come back in safety in that time, but not as Jenny meant.
I shouldered my trusty club and marched off.




CHAPTER VIII

A SUCCESSFUL CONSPIRACY


My way home lay through Dean Street as far as St. Ann's Church: then I
passed across Leicester Fields: and through Green Street at the
south-east angle of the Fields into St. Martin's Lane. All this part of
the way is greatly infested at night by lurking footpads from the choice
purlieus of Seven Dials and Soho. Of footpads, however, I had very
little fear: they are at best a cowardly crew, even two or three
together, and a man with a stout cudgel and some skill at a
quarter-staff or single-stick need not be afraid of them: generally, two
or three passengers will join together in order to get across the Fields
which are especially the dangerous part: on many nights it was so late
when I left the Square that even footpads, highwaymen, pickpockets and
all were fairly home and in bed before I walked through the streets.

This evening by bad luck, I was alone. I found no other passengers going
my way. But I had no fear. I poised my cudgel and set out, expecting
perhaps an encounter with a footpad, but nothing worse. And it was not
yet late, as hours go, in London: there were still people in the
streets.

What had happened was this. As soon as Probus learned the truth about
the gaming-table--a fatal thing it was to disclose my knowledge--he
understood two things: first, that his money was irrevocably gone: and
second, that if I revealed the truth to the Alderman in his suburban
retreat, he must needs investigate the position of things in which case
Bankruptcy would be precipitated. After that, whether I died or signed
the agreement, or refused to sign it would matter nothing to him.
Whereas, on the other hand, if my signature could be obtained before the
bankruptcy, then money could be raised upon the succession: and if I
were to die, then the whole of the money would be paid on the day of my
death to Matthew. Whatever was done must therefore be done as soon as
possible.

Therefore, he resolved that the plot should be carried into execution on
the very Monday evening. He caused the cottage to be watched by one of
the girls who frequented the Black Jack: she followed me all the way
from Lambeth to Soho Square: and she carried intelligence where to find
me to the tavern, where Probus himself with Merridew, the Bishop, and
the Captain, was now waiting.

They understood that I was playing at a concert: they therefore sallied
out about the time when the concert would be finishing and waited for me
in the Square: at eleven o'clock I sallied forth: I walked down Dean
Street: they ran down Greek Street to meet me at the other end, where
there are fewer people: but (I heard this afterwards) changed their
minds and got over the Fields into Green Street behind the Mews, where
they resolved to wait for me. The Bishop posted himself on one side: the
Captain on the other: Mr. Probus and Mr. Merridew waited a little
further down the street. It was a dangerous plot that they were going to
attempt: I am not surprised that neither the Bishop nor the Captain had
much stomach for the play. At this place, which has as bad a reputation
as any part of London, there are seldom any passengers after night-fall;
after midnight, none. It is dark: the houses are inhabited by criminal
and disorderly people--but all this is well known to everybody.

I walked briskly along, anticipating no danger of this kind. Suddenly, I
heard footsteps in front of me and behind me: there was a movement in
the quiet street; by such light as the stars gave, I saw before me the
rascally face of the Bishop: I lifted my cudgel: I half
turned:--crash!--I remember nothing more.

When I came to my senses, or to some part of my senses, I found myself
lying on a sanded floor: my head was filled with a dull and heavy pain:
my eyes were dazed: to open them brought on an agony of pain. For awhile
the voices I heard were like the buzzing of bees.

I grew better: I was able to distinguish a little: but I could not yet
open my eyes.

The first voice that I recognized was that of Mr. Probus--the rasping,
harsh, terrifying voice--who could mistake it?

'A bad case, gentlemen,' he was saying, 'a very bad case: it was
fortunate that I was passing on my way, if only to identify the
prisoner. Dear me! I knew his honoured father, gentlemen; I was his
father's unworthy attorney. His father was none other than Sir Peter
Halliday. The young man was turned out of the house for misconduct. A
bad case----Who would have thought that Sir Peter's son would die at
Tyburn?'

Then there was another voice: rich and rolling, like a low stop of the
organ--I knew that too. It was the voice of the Bishop.

'My name, Mr. Constable, is Carstairs; Samuel Carstairs; the Rev. Samuel
Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity, Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor, sometime of
Trinity College, Dublin. I am an Irish clergyman, at present without
cure of souls. I was walking home after certain godly exercises'--in the
Black Jack--I suppose--'when this fellow ran out in front of me, crying
"Your money or your life." I am not a fighting man, Sir, but a servant
of the Lord. I gave him my purse, entreating him to spare my life. As he
took it, some other gentleman, unknown to me, ran to my assistance, and
knocked the villain down. Perhaps, Mr. Constable, you would direct his
pockets to be searched. The purse contained seventeen guineas.'

I felt hands in my pocket. Something was taken out.

'Ha!' cried the Doctor. 'Let the money be counted.'

I heard the click of coin and another voice cried 'Seventeen guineas.'

'Well,' said Mr. Probus, 'there cannot be much doubt after that.'

'I rejoice,' said the Doctor, 'not so much that the money is
found--though I assure you, worthy Sir, I could ill afford the loss--as
because it clearly proves the truth of my evidence--if, that is to say,
there could be any question as to its truth, or anyone with the
hardihood to doubt it.'

At this point, I was able to open my eyes. The place I knew for a Round
House. The Constable in charge sat at a table, a book before him,
entering the case: Mr. Probus stood beside him, shaking his virtuous
head with sorrow. The Doctor was holding up his hands to express a good
clergyman's horror of the crime: Mr. Merridew was standing on the other
side of the Constable, and beside him the Captain, who now stepped
forward briskly.

'My name,' he said, 'is Ferdinando Fenwick. I am a country man from
Cumberland. I was walking with this gentleman'--he indicated Mr.
Merridew. 'We were walking together for purposes of mutual protection,
for I have been warned against this part of London, when I saw the
action described by this pious clergyman. The man ran forward raising
his cudgel. I have brought it with me--You can see, Sir, that it is a
murderous weapon. I saw the gentleman here, whose name I did not
catch----'

'Carstairs--By your leave, Sir--Samuel Carstairs--The Rev. Samuel
Carstairs--Doctor of Divinity--Sanctæ Theologiæ Professor.'

'Thank you, Sir. I saw him hand over his purse. The villain raised his
cudgel again. I verily believe he intended to murder as well as to rob
his victim. I therefore ran to the rescue and with a blow of my stick
felled the ruffian.'

The Constable looked doubtfully at Mr. Merridew, whom he knew by sight,
as everybody connected with the criminal part of the law certainly did:
he knew him as Sheriff's officer, nominally: thief-taker by secret
profession: thief-maker, as matter of notoriety at the Courts. From him
he looked at Mr. Probus, but more doubtfully, because he knew nothing
about him except that he was an attorney, which means to such people as
the Constable, devil incarnate. He also looked doubtfully at the
Captain, whose face, perhaps, he knew. Considering that the Captain had
been living for eight years at least in and about St. Giles's, and
robbing about all the roads that run out of London, perhaps the
Constable did know him by sight.

'Well,' he said, 'I suppose Sir John will look into it to-morrow. As for
this gentleman who says he is----I remember----'

Here Mr. Probus slipped something into his hand.

'It is not for me,' the worthy Constable added, 'to remember anything.
Besides, I may be wrong. Well, gentlemen, you will all attend to-morrow
morning at Bow Street and give your evidence before Sir John Fielding.'

So they went away and I lay on the floor still wondering stupidly what
would happen next.

Just then two watchmen came in. One was leading, or dragging, or
carrying a young gentleman richly dressed but so drunk that he could
neither stand nor speak: the other brought with him a poor creature--a
woman--young--only a girl still--dressed in rags and tatters;
shivering: unwashed; uncombed; weak and emaciated: a deplorable object.

The Constable turned to the first case.

'Give the gentleman a chair,' he said. 'Put him before the fire. Reach
me his watch and his purse. Search his pockets, watchman.'

'Please your honour,' said the watchman, 'I have searched his pockets.
We came too late, Sir. Nothing in them.'

'The town is full of villains--full of villains,' said the officer, with
honest indignation. 'Well, put him in the chair. A gentleman can send
for guineas if he hasn't got any guineas. Did he assault you, watchman?
I thought so--Well--Let him sleep it off. Who's this woman?'

The watchman deposed to finding her walking about the deserted streets
because she had nowhere to go.

'Has she got any money? Then just put her in the strong room--and carry
this poor devil in after her. If that story holds--well--lay him on the
bench--and take care of his head.'

They pushed the girl into the strong-room: carried me after her: laid me
down on a wide stone bench without any kind of pillow or covering. Then
they went out locking the door behind them.

I suppose that I should have suffered more than I did had it not been
for the stupefying effect of the blow upon my head. I have only a dim
recollection of the night. The place was filled with poor wretches, men
and women, who could not afford to bribe the Constable. In this land of
freedom to be a poor rogue is hanging matter: to be a rogue with money
in pocket and purse is quite another thing: that rogue goes free. The
rogue runs the gauntlet: first, he may get off by bribing the watchman:
if he fails to do that, he may bribe the constable: or if the worst
happens, he may then bribe the magistrate. I understand, however, that
this has been changed, and that there are now no Justices who take
bribes. Now, if the watchman brings few cases to the constable, and
those all poor rogues, he may lose his place: and if the constable
pockets all the bribes and brings the magistrate none, he may lose his
place. So that it is mutually agreed between the three that each is to
have his share. All mankind are for ever seeking and praying for
Justice, and behold, this is all we have got in the boasted eighteenth
century. I suppose, however, that in such a case as mine, a charge of
highway robbery, in which the prisoner was taken red-handed, no
constable would dare to take a bribe.

From time to time in the night we were disturbed by the grating of the
key in the lock as the door was opened for the admission of another poor
wretch. Then these interruptions ceased, and we were left in quiet.

When the day broke through the bars of the only window, I could look
round upon the people, my companions in misfortune. There were three or
four women in tawdry finery--very poor and miserable creatures who would
be happier in the worst prison than in the way they lived: two or three
pickpockets and footpads: one or two prentices, who would be sent to
Bridewell and flogged for being found drunk. There was very little talk.
Mostly, the wretches sat in gloomy silence. They had not even the
curiosity to ask each other as to the offenses with which they were
charged.

As the light increased the women began to whisper. They exhorted each
other to courage. Before them all, in imagination, stood the dreadful
whipping-post of Bridewell. Some of them have had an experience of that
punishment.

'It takes but two or three minutes,' they said. 'Then it soon passes
off. Mind you screech as if they were murdering you. That frightens the
Alderman, and brings down the knocker. Don't begin to fret about it.'
They were talking about their whippings in Bridewell. 'Perhaps Sir John
will let you go. Sometimes he does.' My head pained, and I closed my
eyes again.

At about eight o'clock the doors were flung wide open. Everyone started,
shuddered, and stood up. 'Now, then,' cried a harsh voice, 'out with
you! Out, I say.'

I was still giddy with last night's blow: my hair was stiff with blood:
my head ached, but I was able to walk out with the others. The
constables arranged us in a kind of procession, and put the handcuffs on
every one. Then we were marched through the streets two by two, guarded
by constables, to Bow Street Office, the Magistrate of which was then
Sir John Fielding.

There was some slight comfort in the thought that he was blind: he could
not be prejudiced against me by my appearance, for my face was smeared
with blood: my hair was stiff with blood. There was blood on my coat,
and where there was not blood there was the mud of the street in which I
had lain senseless.

The business of the Court was proceeding. The Magistrate sat at a table:
his eyes were bandaged. The eyes of Justice should be always bandaged.
Over his head on the wall hung the Lion and the Unicorn: the prisoners
were placed in a railed space: the witnesses in another, those in my
case, I observed, were in readiness and waiting: three or four Bow
Street runners were standing in the Court: there was a dock for the
prisoner facing the magistrate.

The cases took little time. There is a dreadful sameness about the
charges. The women were despatched summarily and sent off to Bridewell:
they received their sentences with cries and lamentations, which stopped
quickly enough when they found that they could not move the magistrate:
the pickpockets were ordered to be whipped: the other rogues were
committed to prison. They were destined, for the most part, to
transportation beyond the seas. It is useful for the country to get rid
of its rogues: it seems also humane to send them to a country where they
may lead an honest life. Alas! the humanity of the law is marred by the
execution of the sentence, for though the voyage does not last more than
six or eight weeks, the gaol fever taken on board the ship; the sea
sickness; the stench; the dirt; the foul air of the ship, commonly kill
at least a third of the poor creatures thus sent out. As for those who
are left, many of them run away from their masters: make their way to a
port, get on board a ship, and are carried back to London, where they
are fain to go back to their old companions and resume their old habits,
and get known to Mr. Merridew and his friends, and so at last find
themselves in the condemned cells.

My case came on, at last. I was placed in the dock facing the
magistrate. The clerk read to him the notes of the case provided by the
chief constable.

'Your name, prisoner?' he asked.

'I am William Halliday,' I said, 'only son of the late Sir Peter
Halliday, formerly Lord Mayor of London. I am a musician now in the
employment of Madam Vallance, Proprietor of the Assembly Rooms in Soho
Square.'

The Magistrate whispered to his clerk.

Then the evidence was given. One after the other they manfully stood
up: kissed the book: and committed perjury. Sir John Fielding asked the
Doctor several questions. He was evidently doubtful: his clerk whispered
again: he pressed the doctor as to alleged profession and position.
However, the man stuck to his tale. The fact that the purse was found in
my pocket was very strong. Then the Captain told his story.

Mr. Merridew did not attempt any disguise: he was too well known
in Court: he stated that he was a Sheriff's officer--named
Merridew--everybody in the court gazed upon him with the greatest
curiosity, the women whispering and looking from him to me. 'Who is he?'
they asked each other. 'What has he done? Do you know him--do you?' The
surprise at the appearance of a stranger in the dock charged on the
evidence of the worthy sheriff's officer caused general surprise.
However, Mr. Merridew took no notice of the whispering. He was
apparently callous: he took it perhaps as proof of popularity and
admiration: he gave his evidence in the manner of one accustomed to bear
witness, as indeed he was, having perhaps given evidence oftener than
any other living man. He stated that he had joined a stranger to walk
from the Tottenham Court Road to Charing Cross, each carrying a cudgel
for self-defence: that he observed the action described by the worthy
and learned Doctor of Divinity from Ireland: that his companion, this
gallant young gentleman, rushed out to the rescue of the clergyman, and
so forth. So he retired with a front of iron.

Mr. Probus added to the evidence which you have already heard the
statement that he came accidentally upon the party and after the
business was over: that he happened to have been attorney to the late
Sir Peter Halliday: that he recognized the robber as the unnatural son
of that good man, turned out of his father's home for his many crimes
and vices: and that in the interest of justice and respect for the laws
of his country he went out of his way, and was at great personal loss
and inconvenience in order to give this evidence.

The Magistrate put no questions to him. He turned to me and asked if I
had anything to say or any evidence to offer.

I had none, except--that I was no highwayman, but a respectable
musician, and that this was a conspiracy.

'You will have the opportunity,' said Sir John, 'of proving the fact.
Meantime, in the face of this evidence, conspiracy or not, I have no
choice but to commit you to Newgate, there to remain until your trial.'

They set me aside and the next case was called.

So you understand, there are other ways of compassing a man's death
besides simple murder. It is sufficient to enter into a conspiracy and
to charge him with an offence which, by the laws of the country, is
punishable by death.




CHAPTER IX

NEWGATE


A man must be made of brass or wrought-iron who can enter the gloomy
portals of Newgate as a prisoner without a trembling of the limbs and a
sinking of the heart. Not even consciousness of innocence is sufficient
to sustain a prisoner, for alas! even the innocent are sometimes found
guilty. Once within the first doors I was fain to lay hold upon the
nearest turnkey or I should have fallen into a swoon; a thing which,
they tell me, happens with many, for the first entrance into prison is
worse to the imagination even than the standing up in the dock to take
one's trial in open court. There is, in the external aspect of the
prison: in the gloom which hangs over the prison: in the mixture of
despair and misery and drunkenness and madness and remorse which fills
the prison, an air which strikes terror to the very soul. They took me
into a large vaulted ante-room, lit by windows high up, with the
turnkey's private room opening out of it, and doors leading into the
interior parts of the Prison. The room was filled with people waiting
their turn to visit the prisoners; they carried baskets and packages and
bottles; their provisions, in a word, for the Prison allows the
prisoners no more than one small loaf of bread every day. Some of the
visitors were quiet, sober people: some were women on whose cheeks lay
tears: some were noisy, reckless young men, who laughed over the coming
fate of their friends; spoke of Tyburn Fair; of kicking off the shoes at
the gallows; of dying game; of Newgate music--meaning the clatter of the
irons; of whining and snivelling; and so forth. They took in wine, or
perhaps rum under the name of wine. There were also girls whose
appearance and manner certainly did not seem as if sorrow and sympathy
with the unfortunate had alone brought them to this place. Some of the
girls also carried bottles of wine with them in baskets.

I was then brought before the Governor who, I thought, would perhaps
hear me if I declared the truth. But I was wrong. He barely looked at
me; he entered my name and occupation, and the nature of the crime with
which I was charged. Then he coldly ordered me to be taken in and
ironed.

The turnkey led me into a room hung with irons. 'What side?' he asked.

I told him I knew nothing about any sides.

'Why,' he said, 'I thought all the world knew so much. There's the State
side. If you go there you will pay for admission three guineas; for
garnish and a pair of light irons, one guinea; for rent of a bed half a
guinea a week; and for another guinea you can have coals and candles,
plates and a knife. Will that suit you?' He looked disdainfully at the
dirt and blood with which I was covered, as if he thought the State side
was not for the likes of me.

'Alas!' I replied, 'I cannot go to the State side.'

'I thought not, by the look of you. Well, there's the master's side
next; the fee for admission is only thirteen and sixpence: irons, half a
guinea: the rent of a bed or part of a bed half a crown, and as for your
food, what you like to order and pay for. No credit at this tavern,
which is the sign of the Clinking Iron. Will that suit you?'

'No, I can pay nothing.'

'Then why waste time asking questions? There's the common side; you've
got to go into that, and very grateful you ought to be that there is a
common side at all for such a filthy Beast as you.'

My choice must needs be the last because I had no money at all: not a
single solitary shilling--my obliging friends when they put their purse
into my pocket as a proof of the alleged robbery, abstracted my
own--which no doubt the worthy Professor of Sacred Theology had in his
pocket while he was explaining the nature of the attack to the
Constable.

The turnkey while he grumbled about waste of time--a prisoner ought to
say at once if he had no money: officers of the Prison were not paid to
tell stories to every ragged, filthy footpad; the common side was as
good as any other on the way to Tyburn: what could a ragamuffin covered
with blood and filth expect?--picked out a pair of irons: they were the
rustiest and the heaviest that he could find: as he hammered them on he
said that for half a crown he would drive the rivet into my heel only
that he would rob his friend Jack Ketch of the pleasure of turning off a
poor whining devil who came into Newgate without a copper. 'Damme!' he
cried, as he finished his work, 'if I believe you ever tried to rob
anyone!'

'I did not,' I replied. At which he laughed, recovering his good temper,
and opening a door shoved me through and shut it behind me.

The common side of Newgate is a place which, though I was in it no more
than two hours or so, remains fixed in my memory and will stay there as
long as life remains. The yard was filled to overflowing with a company
of the vilest, the filthiest, and the most shameless that it is possible
to imagine. They were pickpockets, footpads, shoplifters, robbers of
every kind; they were in rags; they were unwashed and unshaven; some of
them were drunk; some of them were emaciated by insufficient food--a
penny loaf a day was doled out to those who had no money and no friends:
that was actually all that the poor wretches had to keep body and soul
together: the place was crowded not only with the prisoners, but with
their friends and relations of both sexes; the noise, the cursings, the
ribald laugh; the drunken song; the fighting and quarrelling can never
be imagined. And, in the narrow space of the yard which is like the
bottom of a deep well, there is no air moving, so that the stench is
enough, at first, to make a horse sick.

I can liken it to nothing but a sty too narrow for the swine that
crowded it; so full of unclean beasts was it, so full of noise and
pushing and quarrelling: so full of passions, jealousies, and suspicions
ungoverned, was it. Or I would liken it to a chamber in hell when the
sharp agony of physical suffering is for a while changed for the equal
pains of such companionship and such discourse as those of the common
side. I stood near the door as the turnkey had pushed me in, staring
stupidly about. Some sat on the stone bench with tobacco-pipes and pots
of beer: some played cards on the bench: some walked about: there were
women visitors, but not one whose face showed shame or sorrow. To such
people as these Newgate is like an occasional attack of sickness; a
whipping is but one symptom of the disease: imprisonment is the natural
cure of the disease; hanging is only the natural common and inevitable
end when the disease is incurable, just as death in his bed happens to a
man with fever.

While I looked about me, a man stepped out of the crowd. 'Garnish!' he
cried, holding out his hand. Then they all crowded round, crying
'Garnish! garnish!' I held up my hands: I assured them that I was
penniless. The man who had first spoken waved back the others with his
hand. 'Friend,' he said, 'if you have no money, off with your coat.'

Then, I know not what happened, because I think I must have fallen into
a kind of fit. When I recovered I was lying along the stone bench: my
coat was gone: my waistcoat was gone; my shirt was in rags; my shoes--on
which were silver buckles, were gone; and my stockings, which were of
black silk. My head was in a woman's lap.

'Well done,' she said, 'I thought you'd come round. 'Twas the touching
of the wound on your head. Brutes and beasts you are, all of you! all of
you! One comfort is you'll all be hanged, and that very soon. It'll be a
happy world without you.'

'Come, Nan,' one of the men said, 'you know it's the rule. If a
gentleman won't pay his garnish he must give up his coat.'

'Give up his coat! You've stripped him to the skin. And him with an open
wound in his head bleeding again like a pig!'

The people melted away: they offered no further apology; but the coat
and the rest of the things were not returned.

My good Samaritan, to judge by her dress and appearance, was one of the
commonest of common women--the wife or the mistress of a Gaol-bird; the
companion of thieves; the accomplice of villains. Yet there was left on
her still, whatever the habit of her life, this touch of human kindness
that made her come to the assistance of a helpless stranger. No
Christian could have done more. 'Forasmuch,' said Christ, 'as you did it
unto one of these you did it unto Me.' When I read these words I think
of this poor woman, and I pray for her.

'Lie still a minute,' she said, 'I will stanch the bleeding with a
little gin,' she pulled out a flat bottle. 'It is good gin. I will pour
a little on the wound. That can't hurt--so.' But it did hurt. 'Now, my
pretty gentleman, for you are a gentleman, though maybe only a gentleman
rider and woundily in want of a wash. Take a sip for yourself, don't be
afraid. Take a long sip. I brought it here for my man, but he's dead. He
died in the night after a fight in the yard here. He got a knife between
his ribs,' she spoke of this occurrence as if such a conclusion to a
fight was quite in the common way. 'Look here, sir, you've no business
in this place. Haven't you got any friends to pay for the Master's side?
Now you're easier, and the bleeding has stopped. Can you stand, do you
think?'

I made a shift to get to my feet, shivering in the cold damp November
air. She had a bundle laying on the bench. ''Tis my man's clothes,' she
said. 'Take his coat and shoes. You must. Else with nothing but the
boards to sleep upon you'll be starved to death. Now I must go and tell
his friends that my man is dead. Well--he won't be hanged. I never did
like to think that I should be the widow of a Tyburn bird.'

She put on me the warm thick coat that had been her husband's; she put
on his shoes. I was still stupid and dull of understanding. But I tried
to thank her.

Some weeks afterwards, when I was at length released, I ventured back
into the prison in hopes of finding the name and the residence of the
woman--Samaritan, if ever there was one. The turnkeys could tell me
nothing. The gaol was full of women, they said. My friend was named Nan.
They were all Nans. She was the wife of a prisoner who died in the
place. They were always dying on the common side. That was nothing. They
all know each other by name; but it was six weeks ago; prisoners change
every day; they are brought in; they are sent out to be hanged,
pilloried, whipped or transported. In a word they knew nothing and would
not take the trouble to inquire. What did it matter to these men made
callous by intimacy with suffering, that a woman of the lower kind had
done a kind and charitable action? Nevertheless, we have Christ's own
assurance--His words--His promise. The woman's action will be remembered
on the day when her sins shall be passed before a merciful Judge. Her
sins! Alas! she was what she was brought up to be; her sins lie upon the
head of those who suffer her, and those like to her, to grow up without
religion, or virtue, or example, or admonition.

By this time I was growing faint with hunger as well as with loss of
blood and fatigue. I had taken nothing for fourteen hours; namely, since
supper the evening before the attack. The first effect of hunger is to
stop the power of thought. There fell upon me a feeling of carelessness
as if nothing mattered: the night in the watch-house: the appearance
before the magistrate: my reception on the common side: all passed
across my brain as if they belonged to someone else. I rose with
difficulty, but staggered and fell back upon the bench. My head was
light: I seemed strangely happy. This lightness of head was quickly
followed by a drowsiness which became stupor. How long I lay there I
know not. I remember nothing until a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder.
'Come,' it was the voice of a turnkey. 'This is not the kind of place
for an afternoon nap in November. Come this way. A lady wants to see
you.'

He led me to the door of the common side: and threw it open: in the
waiting-room was none other than Jenny herself. How had she learned what
had happened?

'Oh! my poor Will!' she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. 'This
is even worse than I expected. But first you must be made comfortable.
Here, you fellow,' she called the turnkey. 'Take him away. I will pay
for everything. Let him be washed and get his wound dressed; give him a
clean shirt and get him at once new clothes.'

'If your ladyship pleases--'

'Change these rusty irons for the lightest you have. Put him into the
best cell that you have on the State side. Get a dinner for him:
anything that is quickest--cold beef--ham--bread--a bottle of Madeira.
Go--quick.' She stamped her foot with authority; she put into the man's
hand enough money to pay for half a dozen prisoners on the State side.
'Now, fly--don't crawl--fly!--one would think you were all asleep. A
pretty place this is to sleep in!'

The man knocked off my heavy irons and substituted a pair of lighter
ones, highly polished and even ornamental. He took me away and washed
me; it was in the turnkeys' room on the right hand of the entrance; he
also with some dexterity dressed my wound, dressed and cleaned my
hair--it was filled with clotted blood; he fitted me with new clothes,
and in less time than one would think possible, I was taken back
looking once more like a respectable person, even a gentleman if I chose
to consider myself entitled to claim that empty rank. I found Jenny
waiting for me in the best cell that Newgate could offer on the State
side: a meal was spread for me, with a bottle of wine.

'Before we say a word, Will, sit down and eat. Heavens! You have had
nothing since our supper last night.'

I checked an impulse to thank her: I drove back the swelling in my
heart. Reader--I was too hungry for these emotions: I had first to
satisfy starving nature. While I ate and drank Jenny talked.

'You shall tell me the whole story presently, Will. Meantime, go on with
your dinner. You must want it, my poor friend. Now let me tell you why I
am here. You know I was uneasy about the conspiracy that was hatching. I
feared it might be meant for you. So great was my uneasiness that I bade
my sister to keep watching and listening: this morning about one o'clock
I went to the Black Jack myself to learn if she had discovered anything.

'Well, she had discovered everything. She said that at eleven o'clock
this morning the two fellows called the Bishop and the Captain, whom I
had taken out of the King's Bench, came to the Black Jack, laughing and
very merry: they called for a mug of purl and a pack of cards: that
while they played they talked out loud because there was no one in the
house except themselves. Doll they disregarded as they always do,
because Doll is generally occupied with her slate and her scores, which
she adds up as wrong as she can. They said that it was as good as a play
to see the Attorney playing the indignant friend of the family, and how
their own evidence could not possibly be set aside, and the case was as
good as finished and done with; that the fellow went off to Newgate as
dumb as an ox to the shambles; and the poor devil had no money and no
friends, and must needs swing, and the whole job was as clean and
creditable piece of work as had ever been turned out. It must be
hanging: nobody could get him off. Then they fell to wondering as well,
what Mr. Probus had done it for; and what he would get by it; and
whether (a speculation which pleased them most) he had not put himself
into Mr. Merridew's power, in which case they might have the holy joy of
seeing the attorney himself, when his rope was out, sitting in the cart.
And they congratulated each other on their own share in the job; ten
guineas apiece, down, and a promise of more when the man was out of the
way: with a long extension of time.' I condense Jenny's narrative which
was long, and I alter the language which was wandering.

'When Doll told me all this,' she concluded, 'I had no longer any doubt
that the man whom they had succeeded in placing in Newgate was none
other than yourself, my poor Will--so I took a coach and drove here.'

I then told her exactly how everything had happened.

'I hope,' she said, 'that Matthew, if he is in the conspiracy, does not
know what has been done. Besides, the chief gainer will be Probus, not
Matthew. Remember, Will, it is just a race; if he can compass your death
before Matthew becomes bankrupt, then he will get back all his
money--all his money. Think of that: if not, he will lose the whole.
Well, Will, he thinks nobody knows except himself. He is mistaken. We
shall see--we shall see.' So she fell to considering again.

'If there is a loophole of escape,' she went on, 'he will wriggle out.
Let us think. What do we know?'

'We only know through Ramage,' I replied. 'Is that enough to prove the
conspiracy? I know what those two men are who are the leading
witnesses--how can I prove it? I know that they were suborned by Probus
and that they are in the power of Merridew. How can I prove it? I know
that Probus has talked to my cousin about my possible death, but what
does that prove? I know that he will benefit by my death to the amount
of many thousands, but how can I prove it? My mouth will be closed.
Where are my witnesses?'

'You can't prove anything, Will. And therefore you had better not try.'

'Jenny.' The tears came to my unmanly eyes. 'Leave me. Go, break the
news to Alice, and prepare her mind to see me die.'

'I will break the news to Alice, but I will not prepare her mind to see
you die. For, my dear cousin, you shall not die.' She spoke with
assurance. She was standing up and she brought her hand down upon the
table with a slap which with her flashing eyes and coloured cheek
inspired confidence for the moment. 'You shall not die by the conspiracy
of these villains.'

'How to prevent them?'

'It would be easy if their friends would bear evidence against them.
But they will not. They will sit in the Court and admire the tragic
perjuries of the witnesses. There is one rule among my people which is
never broken; no one must peach on his brother. Shall dog bite dog? If
that rule is broken it is never forgiven--never--so long as the offender
lives.'

'Then, what can we do?'

'The short way would be to buy them. But in this respect they cannot be
bought. They will rob or murder or perjure themselves with cheerfulness,
but they will not peach on their brother. Money will not tempt them.
Jealousy might, but there are no women in this case. Revenge might, but
there is here no private quarrel. Besides, they are all in the hands of
the man Merridew. To thwart him would bring certain destruction on their
heads. And if there was any other reason, they are naturally anxious to
avoid a Court of Justice. They would rather see their own children
hanged than go into a court to give evidence, true or false.'

'Then I must suffer, Jenny.'

'Nay, Will, I said not so much--I was only putting the case before
myself. I see many difficulties but there is always a way out--always an
end.'

'Always an end.' I repeated. 'Oh! Jenny. What an end!'

A Newgate fit was on me; that is, a fit of despondency which is almost
despair. All the inmates of Newgate know what it means; the rattling of
the irons; the recollection of the trial to come; a word that jars; and
the Newgate shuddering seizes a man and shakes him up and down till it
is spent. Jenny made me drink a glass of wine. The fit passed away.

'I feel,' I said at last, 'as if the rope was already round my neck. My
poor Alice! My poor child! Thou wilt be the son of a highwayman and a
Tyburn bird. To the third and fourth generation ...'

'I know nothing about generations,' Jenny interrupted. 'All I know is
that you are going to be saved. Why, man, consider. Probus knows nothing
about me; these conspirators know nothing about Madame Vallance; none of
them have the least suspicion; and must not have: that you know Jenny of
the Black Jack. Now I shall try to get a case as to the conspiracy clear
without attacking the loyalty of the gang to each other. I have thought
of such a plan. And I know an attorney. You have seen him. He is
tolerably honest. He shall advise us--I will send him here. Be of good
cheer, Will. I go to fetch Alice. Put on a smiling countenance to greet
her. Come, you are a man. Lift the drooping spirit of the woman who
loves you. Keep up her heart if not your own.'

She came back at about five: the day was already over; the yards and
courts of the Prison were already dark. My cell was lit with a pair of
candles when Jenny brought Alice and her brother Tom to see me.

Alice, poor child! fell into my arms and so lay for a long time, unable
to speak for the sobs that tore her almost in pieces, yet unwilling to
let me see her weakness.

Tom--the good fellow--assumed the same air of cheerfulness which he had
learned to show in the King's Bench. He sniffed the air approvingly. He
looked round with pretended satisfaction. 'Ha!' he said, 'this place
hath been misrepresented. The room is convenient, if small; the
furniture solid: the air is not so close as one might expect. For a
brief residence--a temporary residence--a man might ... might--I say--'
He cleared his throat; the tears came into his eyes: he sank into a
chair. 'Oh! Will ... Will,' he cried, breaking down, and unable to
pretend any longer.

Then no one spoke. Indeed all our hearts were full.

'It is not so much on your account, Will,' said Jenny--I observed that
she wore a domino, and indeed, she never came to the prison after the
first visit without a domino, a precaution by no means unusual, because
ladies might not like to be seen in Newgate, and in any case it might
arouse suspicions if Jenny were recognised. 'I say it is not on your
account, so much as for the sake of this dear creature. Madam--Alice--I
implore you--take courage; we have the proofs of the conspiracy in our
hands. It is a black and hellish plot. The only difficulty is as to the
best means of using our knowledge, and here, I confess, for the moment,
I am not certain--'

Alice recovered herself and stood up, holding my hand. 'I cannot
believe,' she said, 'that such wickedness as this will be permitted to
succeed. It would bring shame and sorrow on children and grandchildren
to the third and fourth generations.'

'You all talk about generations,' said Jenny. 'For my part I think of
you that are alive, not those who are to come. Well, so far it has not
succeeded. For the conspirators are known to me and I am Will's
cousin--and this they know not.'

They stayed talking till nine o'clock when visitors had to leave the
Prison. Jenny cheered all our hearts. She would hear of no difficulties:
all was clear: all was easy: she had the conspirators in her power.
To-morrow she would return with her honest and clever attorney. So Alice
went away with a lighter heart, and I was left for the night alone in my
cell with a gleam of hope. In the morning that gleam left me, and the
day broke upon the place of gloom and brought with it only misery and
despair.

In the forenoon Jenny returned with her attorney. He was the man who had
already acted for me. His name was Dewberry; he was possessed of a
manner easy and assured, which inspired confidence: in face and figure
he was attractive, and he betrayed no eagerness to possess himself of
his client's money. I observed also, at the outset, that, like all the
rest he was the servant (who would, if he could, become the lover) of
Jenny.

'Now, Mr. Halliday,' he said, 'I have heard some part of your story from
Madame Vallance. I want, next, to hear your own version.' So I told it,
while he listened gravely, making notes.

'It is certainly,' he said, 'a very strong point that your death would
give Probus the chance of recovering his money. Your cousin could then
pay him off, if he wished, in full. Whether he would do so is another
question. If bankruptcy arrives and finds you still living, all the
creditors would be considered together. Madame,' he turned to Jenny,
'you who have so fine a head for management, let us hear your opinion.'

'I think of nothing else,' she said. 'Yet I cannot satisfy myself. I
have thought that my sister Doll might warn the Captain that both he and
the Bishop would be exposed in Court. But what would happen? They would
instantly go off with the news to Merridew. And then? An information
against Doll and my mother for receiving stolen goods. And what would
happen then? You know very well, Mr. Dewberry. They would have to buy
their release by forbidding the exposure! Why, they are the most
notorious receivers living. Or, suppose Doll plainly told them that her
sister Jenny knew the whole case--they don't know at present--at least,
I think not--where I am--but they can easily find out--that I knew the
whole case and meant to expose them. What would happen next? Murder, my
masters. I should be found on my bed with my throat cut, and a letter to
show that it was done by one of my maids.'

'Jenny, for Heaven's sake, do not run these risks.'

'Not if I can help it, Will. Do you know what I think of--besides? It is
a doubt whether Matthew would be more rejoiced to see the conspiracy
succeed and you put out of the way, or to witness the conviction of
Probus for conspiracy.'

'Softly--softly, Madam,' said the attorney; 'we are a long way yet from
the trial, even, of Mr. Probus.'

'Jenny,' I said, 'your words bring me confidence.'

'If you feel all the confidence that there is in Newgate it will not be
enough, Will, for the confidence that you ought to have. But we must
work in silence. If our friends only knew what we are talking here, why
then--the Lord help the landlady of the Black Jack and her two
daughters, Jenny and Doll!'

'You must be aware, Sir,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'that it is absolutely
necessary for us to preserve silence upon everything connected with your
defence. You must not communicate any details upon the subject to your
most intimate friends and relations.'

'He means Alice,' said Jenny.

'We must have secrecy.'

'You may trust a man whose life is at stake.'

'Yes. Now the principal witnesses are the pretended Divine and the
pretended country gentleman. They rest in the assurance that none of
their friends will betray them. We must see what can be done. If we
prove that your Irish Divine is a common rogue we make his evidence
suspected, but we do not prove the conspiracy. The fellow might brave it
out, and still swear to the attempted robbery. Then as to the other
worthy, we may prove that he is a notorious rogue. Still he may swear
stoutly to his evidence. We must prove, in addition, that these two
rogues are known to each other--'

'That can be proved by any who were in the King's Bench Prison with
them--'

'And we must connect them with Probus and Merridew.'

'I can prove that as well,' said Jenny. 'That is, if--'

She paused.

'If your witnesses will give evidence. Madam, I would not pour cold
water on your confidence--but--will your witnesses go into the box?'

Jenny smiled. 'I believe,' she said, 'that I can fill the Court with
witnesses.'

'I want more than belief--I want certainty.'

'There is another way,' said Jenny. 'If we could let Mr. Probus
understand that the sudden and unexpected appearance of a new set of
creditors would force on Bankruptcy immediately--'

Mr. Dewberry interposed hastily. 'Madam, I implore you. There is no
necessity at all. Sir, this lady would actually sacrifice her own
fortune and her future prospects in your cause.'

'For his safety and for his life--everything.'

'I assure you, dear Madam, there is no need. Your affairs want only
patience, and they will adjust themselves. To throw them also upon your
husband's other liabilities would not help this gentleman. For this
reason. There are a thousand tricks and subtleties which a man of Mr.
Probus's knowledge may employ for the postponement of bankruptcy until
after the trial of our friend here. You know not the resources of the
law in a trained hand. I mean that, supposing Mr. Probus to reckon on
the success of this conspiracy--in which I grieve to find a brother in
the profession involved; he may cause these delays to extend until his
end is accomplished or defeated. A man of the Law, Madam, has great
powers.'

I groaned.

'Another point is that, unless I am much mistaken, this conspiracy is
intended to intimidate and not to be carried out. Mr. Probus will offer
you, I take it, your liberty on condition of your yielding in the matter
of that money.'

'Never!' I declared. 'I will die first!'

'Then it remains to be seen if he will carry the thing through.'

So they went on arguing on this side and on that side: which line of
action was best: which was dangerous: in the end, as you shall see,
Jenny took the management of the case into her own hands with results
which astonished Mr. Dewberry as well as the Court, myself, and the four
heroes of the conspiracy.

Five weeks, I learned, would elapse before my case would be tried in
Court. It was a long and a tedious time to contemplate in advance.
Meantime, I was kept in ignorance, for the most part, of what was being
done. Afterwards I learned that Jenny carried on the work in secrecy, so
that not only the conspirators might not have the least suspicion but
that even Mr. Dewberry did not know what was doing until she placed the
case complete, in his hands a few days before the trial. Jenny contrived
all: Jenny paid for all: what the case cost her in money I never
learned. She spared nothing, neither labour, nor travel, nor money.
Meantime I lived on now in hope, now in despondency: to go outside among
my fellow prisoners was to increase the wretchedness of prison. Every
morning Alice brought provisions for the day. Tom brought me my violin
and music so that I was not without some consolations.

As I remember this gloomy period, I remember with thankfulness how I was
stayed and comforted by two women, of whom one was a Saint: and the
other was--well, Heaven forbid that I should call her a Sinner, in whom
I never found the least blemish: but not, at least, a Christian. The
first offered up prayers for me day and night, wrestling in prayer like
Jacob, for the open manifestation of my innocence. Alice was filled with
a sublime faith. The Lord whom she worshipped was very near to her. He
would destroy His enemies; He would preserve the innocent; the wicked
would be cast down and put to perpetual shame. Never have I witnessed a
faith so simple and so strong. Yet to all seeming; to the conspirators
themselves; I had not a single witness whom I could call in my defence:
that a man was poor favoured the chance of his becoming a robber; that a
brother-in-law, also a prisoner in the Rules, should be ready to say
that I was incapable of such an action could not help. What could we
allege against the clear and strong evidence that the four perjured
villains would offer when they should stand up, and swear away my life?
'Have courage,' said Alice, 'Help cometh from the Lord. He will have
mercy upon the child and--oh! Will--Will--He will have mercy upon the
father of the child.'

Mr. Dewberry came often. He had little to tell me. Jenny had gone away.
Jenny had not told him what she was doing. 'Sir,' he said, 'but for the
confidence I have in that incomparable woman and in her assurances I
should feel anxious. For as yet, and we are within a fortnight of the
trial, I have not a single witness who can prove the real character of
the pretended Divine and the pretended country gentleman. But since
Madam assures us--' He produced his snuff-box and offered it--
'Why--then, Sir--in that case--I believe in the success of your
defence.'




CHAPTER X

THE SAME OFFER


Thus I passed that weary and anxious imprisonment. The way of getting
through the day was always the same. Soon after daylight, I went out and
walked in the yards for half an hour. The early morning, indeed, was the
only time of the day when a man of decent manners could venture abroad
even on the State side. At that time the visitors had not yet begun to
arrive; the men were still sleeping off their carouse of the evening
before; only a few wretches to whom a dismal foreboding of the future, a
guilty conscience, an aching heart, would not allow sleep, crept
dolefully about the empty yards; restlessly sitting or standing: if they
spoke to each other, it was with distracted words showing that they knew
not what they said. Alas! The drunken orgies of the others caused them
at least some relief from the terrible sufferings of remorse and looking
forward. It is not often that one can find an excuse for drunkenness.

After this melancholy walk I returned to my cell where I played for an
hour or two, afterwards reading or meditating. But always my thoughts
turned to the impending trial. I represented myself called upon to make
my own defence: I read it aloud: I failed to impress the Jury: the Judge
summed up: the Jury retired: cold beads stood upon my forehead: I
trembled: I shook: the verdict was Guilty: the Judge assumed the black
cap--Verily I suffered, every day, despite the assurance of Jenny and
Mr. Dewberry, all the tortures of one convicted and condemned to death.
If my heart were examined after my death sure I am that a black cap
would be found engraven upon it, to show the agonies which I endured.

About one o'clock Alice arrived, sometimes with Tom, sometimes alone.
As for Tom he had quickly rallied and had now completely accepted the
assurance that an acquittal was certain: his confidence would have been
wonderful but for the consideration that it was not his own neck that
was in danger but that of his brother-in-law. The child was not allowed
to be brought into the prison for fear of the fever which always lurks
about the wards and cells and corridors. In the afternoon, while we were
talking, Jenny herself, when she was not on her mysterious journeys,
came wearing a domino. About four o'clock, Tom departed and, a little
after, Alice. Then I was left alone to sleep and reflection for twelve
hours.

This was the daily routine. On Sunday there was service, in the chapel,
made horrid by the condemned prisoners in their pew sitting round the
empty coffin: and by the ribaldry and blasphemous jests of the prisoners
themselves. Not even in the chapel could they refrain.

One afternoon there was a surprise. We were sitting in conversation
together, Alice and Jenny with my brother-in-law Tom, and myself, when
we received a visit from no less a person than Mr. Probus himself. That
Prince of villains had the audacity to call in person upon me. He stood
in the doorway, his long, lean body bent, wearing a smile that had
evidently been borrowed for the occasion. I sprang to my feet with
indignation. My arm was gently touched. Jenny sat beside me, but a
little behind.

'Hush!' she whispered. 'Let him say what he has to say. Sit down. Do not
answer by a single word.'

Mr. Probus looked disconcerted to see me resume my chair and make as if
I neither saw nor heard.

'You did not expect, Mr. Halliday, to see me here?'

I made no reply.

'I am astonished, I confess, to find myself here, after all that has
passed. Respect for the memory of my late employer and client, Sir Peter
Halliday, must be my excuse--my only excuse. Respect, and, if I may be
permitted to add, compassion--compassion, Madam'--he bowed to Alice.

'Compassion, Sir, is a Christian virtue,' she said, with such emphasis
on the adjective as to imply astonishment at finding that quality in Mr.
Probus.

'Assuredly, Madam--assuredly, which is the reason why I cultivate
it--sometimes to my own loss--my own loss.'

'Sir,' Alice went on, 'you cannot but be aware that your presence here
is distasteful. Will you be so good as to tell us what you have to say?'

'Certainly, Madam. I think I have seen you before. You are Mr. William
Halliday's wife. This gentleman I have not seen before.'

'He is my brother.'

'Your brother--And the lady who prefers to wear a domino?' For Jenny had
made haste to replace that disguise. 'No doubt it is proper in
Newgate--but is it necessary among friends?'

'This lady is my cousin,' said Alice. 'She will please herself as to
what she wears.'

'Your cousin. We are therefore, as one may say, a family party. The
defendant; his wife: his brother-in-law: his cousin. This is very good.
This is what I should have desired above all things had I prayed upon my
way hither. A family party.'

'Mr. Probus,' said Alice, 'if this discourse is to continue beware how
you speak of prayers.' Never had I seen her face so set, so full of
righteous wrath, with so much repression. The man quaked under her eyes.

'I come to business,' he said. 'I fear there is a spirit of suspicion,
even of hostility, abroad. Let that pass. I hope, indeed, to remove it.
Now, if you please, give me your attention.'

He was now the lawyer alert and watchful. 'Your trial, Mr. Halliday,
takes place in a short time--a few days. I do not know what defence you
will attempt--I hope you may be successful--I have thought upon the
subject, and, I confess--well--I can only say that I do not know what
kind of defence will be possible in a case so clear and so well
attested.'

'Hush!' Jenny laid her hand again on my arm. 'Hush!' she whispered.

I restrained myself and still sat in silence.

'Let me point out to you--in a moment you will understand why--how you
stand. You know, of course, yet it is always well to be clear in one's
mind--the principal evidence is that given by those two gentlemen from
the country, the young squire of Cumberland--or is it Westmoreland?--and
the clergyman of the Sister Kingdom. I have naturally been in frequent
communication with those two gentlemen. I find that they are both kept
in London to the detriment of their own affairs: that they would
willingly get the business despatched quickly so that they would be
free to go home again: that they bear no malice--none whatever: one
because he is a clergyman, and therefore practises forgiveness as a
Christian duty: the other because he is a gentleman who scorns revenge,
and, besides, was not the attacked, but the attacking party. "So far,"
says the noble-hearted gentleman, "from desiring to hang the poor
wretch, I would willingly suffer him to go at large." This is a
disposition of mind which promises a great deal. I have never found a
more happy disposition in any witness before. No resentment: no revenge:
no desire for a fatal termination to the trial. It is wonderful and
rare. So I came over to tell you what they say and to entreat you to
make use of this friendly temper while it lasts. They might--I do not
say they will--but they might be induced to withdraw altogether from the
trial, in which case the prosecution would fall to the ground. For the
case depends wholly upon their evidence. For myself, as you know, I
arrived by accident upon the scene, and was too late to see anything.
Mr. Merridew tells me that what he saw might have been a fight rather
than a robbery; I ought not to have revealed this weak point in the
evidence, but I am all for mercy--all for mercy. So I say, that if their
evidence is not forthcoming, the prosecution must fall through, and
then, dear Sir, liberty would be once more your happy lot.' He stopped
and folded his arms.

I had not offered him a chair partly because he was Mr. Probus and I
would not suffer him to sit in my presence: partly because there was no
chair to offer him.

'These gentlemen, Sir,' said Tom, 'are willing, we understand, to retire
from the case.'

'I would not say willing. I would rather say, not unwilling.'

'Do they,' Tom asked, 'demand money as a bribe as a price for retiring?'

'No, Sir. These gentlemen are far above any such consideration. I
believe they would be simply contented with such a sum of money as would
meet their personal expenses and their losses by this prolonged stay.'

'And to how much may these losses and expenses, taken together, amount?'

'I hear that his Reverence has lost a valuable Lectureship which has
been given to another in his absence: and that the Squire has sustained
losses among his cattle and his horses also owing to his absence.'

'And the combined figures, Sir, which would cover these losses?'

'I cannot say positively. Probably the clergyman's losses would be
represented by £400 and the Squire's by £600. There would be my own
costs in the case as well--but they are--as usual--a trifle.'

'And suppose we were to pay this money,' Tom continued, 'what should we
have to prove that they would not give their evidence?'

'Sir--There you touch me on the tenderest point--the "pundonor," as the
Spaniards say. You should lodge the money with any person in whom we
could agree as a person of honour--and after the case for the
prosecution had broken down--not before--he should give me that money.
Observe that on the part of these two simple gentlemen there is trust,
even in an attorney--in myself.'

I said nothing, for as the man knew that I could not find a tenth part
of the sum, I knew there was something behind. What it was I guessed
very well. And, in fact, Mr. Probus immediately showed what it was.

'Mr. Halliday,' he said, 'I believe that I know your circumstances. I
have on one or two occasions had to make myself acquainted with them. I
shall not give offence if I suppose that you cannot immediately raise
the sum of £1,000 even to save your life.'

He spoke to me, but he looked at Alice.

'He cannot, certainly,' said Alice, 'either immediately or in any time
proposed.'

'Quite so. Now, this is a case of life or death--life or death, Sir:
life or death, Madam: an honourable life--a long life for your husband:
or a shameful death--a shameful death: shameful to him: shameful to you:
shameful to your child or children.'

'Hush!' whispered Jenny, laying a repressive hand again upon my
shoulder, for again I was boiling over with indignation. What! The
author and contriver of this shameful death was to come and call
attention to the disgrace of which he was the sole cause! Had I been
left to myself without Alice or Jenny, I would have brained the old
villain. But I obeyed and sat in silence, answering nothing.

'Consider, Madam'--he continued to address Alice--'this is not a time
for false pride or for obstinacy, or even for standing out for better
terms. Once more I make the same offer which I made before. Let him sell
his chance of a certain succession of which he knows. Let him do that,
and all his difficulties and troubles will vanish like the smoke of a
bonfire. I tell you plainly, Madam, that I can control the appearance of
this evidence without which the prosecution can do nothing. I will
control it. If he agrees to sell, your husband shall walk out, on the
day of the trial, a free man.' He drew out of his pocket a pocket-book
and from that a document which I remembered well--the deed of sale or
transfer.

Nobody replied. Alice looked at me anxiously. I remained silent and
dogged.

'Two years ago--or somewhere about that time--I made the same proposal
to him. I offered him £3,000 down for his share of an estate which might
never be his--or only after long years--I offered him £3,000 down. It
was a large sum of money. He refused. A day or two afterwards he found
himself in the King's Bench Prison. I would recall that coincidence to
you. Four or five weeks ago I made a similar offer. This time I proposed
£4,000 down. He refused again, blind to his own interest. A few days
afterwards he found himself within these walls on a capital charge. A
third time, and the last time, I make him another offer. This time I
raise the sum to £5,000 in order to cover the losses of those two
witnesses, and in addition to the money, which is a large sum, enough to
carry you on in comfort and in credit, I offer your husband the crowning
gift of life. Life--do you hear, woman! Life: and honour: and
credit--life--life--life--I say.'

His face was troubled: his accents were eager: he was not acting: he
felt that he was offering me far more than anything he had ever offered
me before.

'Hush,' whispered Jenny, keeping me quiet again--for all the time I was
longing to spring to my feet and to let loose a tongue of fiery
eloquence. But to sit quite quiet and to say nothing was galling.

'Take it, Will, take it,' said Tom. 'If the gentleman can do what he
promises, take it. Life and liberty--I say--before all.'

'Sir,' said Alice--her voice was gentle, but it was strong: her face was
sweet, but it was firm. The man saw and listened--and misunderstood. I
know the mind of my husband in this matter. For reasons which you
understand, he will not speak to you. The money that was devised by his
father to the survivor of the two--his cousin or himself--has always
been accepted by him as a proof that at the end his father desired him
to understand that he was not wholly unforgiven: that there was a
loophole of forgiveness, but he did not explain what that was: that
should my husband, who has no desire to see the death of his cousin,
survive Mr. Matthew, he will receive the fortune as a proof that a life
of hard and honest work has been accepted by his father in full
forgiveness. Sir, my husband considers his father's wishes as sacred.
Nothing--no pressure of poverty--no danger such as the present will ever
make him consent to sign the document you have so often submitted to
him.'

'Then'--Mr. Probus put back his paper--'if this is your last
word--remember--you have but a few days left. Nothing can save
you--nothing--nothing--nothing. You have but a few days before you are
condemned--a week or two more of life. Is this your last word?'

'It is our last word, Sir,' said Alice.

'She is right--Will is right,' cried Tom. 'Hark ye--Mr. Attorney. There
is foul play here. We may find it out yet, with the help of God. Shall I
put him out of the door, Alice?'

'He will go of his own accord, Tom. Will you leave us, Sir?'

'Yes, I will leave you.' He shook his long forefinger in my face. 'Ha! I
leave you to be hanged: you shall have your miserable neck twisted like
a chicken, and your last thought shall be that you threw your life
away--no--that by dying you give your cousin all.'

So he flung out of the room and left us looking blankly at each other.

Then Jenny spoke.

'You did well, Will, to preserve silence in the presence of the wretch.
We all do well to preserve silence about your defence. You dear people.
I have counted up the cost. It will be more than at first I thought,
because the case must be made complete, so complete that there can be no
doubt I promise you.' She took off her domino: her face was very pale: I
remember now that there was on it an unaccustomed look of nobility such
as belongs to one who takes a resolution certain to involve her in
great trouble and at the expense of self-sacrifice or martyrdom. 'I
promise you,' she said, 'that, cost what it may, the CASE SHALL BE
COMPLETE.'




CHAPTER XI

THE IMPENDING TRIAL


The time--the awful time--the day of Fate--drew nearer. Despite the
assurances both of Jenny and of her attorney there were moments when
anticipation and doubt caused agonies unspeakable. Sometimes I have
thought that these agonies were cowardly: I should be ashamed of them:
but no one knows, who has not suffered in the same way, the torture of
feeling one's self in the absolute power of a crafty conspiracy directed
by a man as relentless as a weasel after a rabbit, or an eagle after a
heron, not out of hatred or revenge, but after money, the only object of
his life, the real spring of his wickedness. After my experience, I can
briefly say, as David in his old age said, 'Let me fall into the hands
of the Lord, for His mercies are great: but let me not fall into the
hands of man.'

Presently it wanted but a week: then six days, then five.

'You should now,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'prepare and write out your
defence: that is to say, your own speech after the trial is over. Take
no thought about the evidence; your counsel will cross-examine the
witnesses against you; he will also examine those for you. Trust your
counsel for doing the best with both. Heaven help two or three of them
when Mr. Caterham has done with them.' Mr. Caterham, K. C., our senior
counsel, was reported to be the best man at the Old Bailey Bar; with him
was Mr. Stanton, a young man still, quite young, but with a brain of
fire and a front of brass. 'You must not leave your defence to the
eloquence of the moment, which may fail you. Write it down; write it
plainly, fully and without passion. State who you are; what your
occupation; what your salary; what your rent; what your daily habits; we
shall have called witnesses to establish all these points. Then tell the
Court exactly what you have told me. Do not try to be eloquent or
rhetorical. The plain facts, plainly told, will impress the Jury and
will affect the Judge's charge, far more than any flights of eloquence
on your part. What the Judge wants is to get at the truth. Remember
that. Behind his habitual severity of manner Mr. Justice Parker, who
will try your case, is bent always upon discovering, if possible, the
truth. Sit down, therefore, and relate the facts, exactly as they were.
Take care to marshal them in their best and most convincing manner. Many
a good cause has been wasted by a careless and ignorant manner of
presenting them. In your case first relate the facts as to the alleged
assault. Next inform the Court who and what you are. Thirdly relate the
circumstances of your relations with Mr. Probus. Fourthly state the
reasons why he would profit by your death. Next, call attention to the
conversation overheard by Mr. Ramage. Then show that he has on more than
one occasion threatened you, and that he has actually imprisoned you in
the King's Bench in the hope of moving you. I think that you will have a
very moving story to tell, supported, as it will be, by the evidence
which has gone before. But you have no time to lose. Such a statement
must not be put together in a hurry. When it is finished I will read it
over and advise you.'

What was important to me in this advice was the necessity of ordering,
or marshalling the facts. To one not accustomed to English Composition
such a necessity never occurred, and without such advice I might have
presented a confused jumble, a muddled array, of facts not dependent one
upon the other, the importance of which would have been lost. However,
armed with this advice, I sat down, and after drawing up a schedule or
list of divisions, or headings, or chapters, I set to work, trying to
keep out everything but the facts. No one will believe how difficult a
thing it is to stick to the mere facts and to put in nothing more.
Indignation carried me beyond control from time to time. I went out of
my way to point to the villainy of Probus: I called the vengeance of
Heaven upon him and his colleagues: I appealed to the unmerited
sufferings of my innocent wife; to the shameful future of my innocent
offspring--and to other matters of a personal kind all of which were
ruthlessly struck out by the attorney; with the result that I had with
me when I went into court as plain and clear a statement of a case as
ever was presented by any prisoner. This statement I read and re-read
until I knew it by heart: yet I was advised not to trust to memory but
to take the papers into court and to seem to read. All this shows the
care which was taken by our ever-watchful attorney, lest anything should
happen to hinder the development of the case, as he intended and hoped.

Among other things he called upon Mr. Probus, nominally on account of
another matter.

'I believe,' he said, 'that you are the attorney of Mr. Matthew
Halliday?'

'I have that honour.'

'Yes. I observed the fact in reading an affidavit of yours in connection
with a case in which I am engaged for the defence, the case of Mr.
William Halliday, now in Newgate on a charge of highway robbery.'

'Defence? He has, then, a defence?'

'A defence? Certainly he has a defence. And Counsel. We have engaged Mr.
Caterham, K. C., and Mr. Stanton, both of whom you probably know, as
counsel for the defence. My dear Sir, we have a very good defence
indeed. Let me see. You arrived on the spot, I observe, after the
alleged attack was committed.'

'Certainly. My affidavit and my evidence before Sir John, were only as
to the identity of the robber.'

'Quite so. But we need not concern ourselves, here, with the defence of
Mr. William Halliday. I come to speak about the affairs of Mr. Matthew.'

'Well, sir? What about his affairs?'

'I hear that they are in a very bad way. Oh! Sir, indeed I do not wish
to ask any questions. I only repeat what I hear in the City. It is there
freely stated that the Firm is ruined: that their ships are sold: and
that their business is gone.'

'They are injurious and false reports.'

'It is possible. I hope so. Meantime, however, I have come to
communicate to you a matter which perhaps you do not know; but which it
is important that you should know. The person chiefly concerned gives me
permission to speak of it. Perhaps you do know it already. Perhaps your
client has not concealed it from you. Do you, for instance, know that
Mr. Matthew Halliday is a married man?'

Mr. Probus started. 'Married?' he cried. 'Married? No, certainly not.'

'It is evident that you do not know your client's private history. He
has been married two years and more. He does not, however, cohabit with
his wife. They are separated--by consent.'

'Matthew married?'

'They are separated, I say. Such separation, however, does not release
the husband from the liability of his wife's debts.'

'Has his wife--has Mrs. Matthew--contracted debts?' He looked very
uneasy.

'His wife--she is a client of mine--has contracted very large debts. She
may possibly make an arrangement with her creditors. But she may not. In
the latter case, she will send them to your client who will hand them
over to you. They will demand payment without delay. Failing payment
they will take all the steps that the law permits--also without delay.
That is why I thought it best to communicate the facts to you. My client
authorized me to do so.'

Mr. Probus made no answer. He could not understand what this meant.

'If it is your interest to postpone bankruptcy, Mr. Probus, it may be
wiser, for some reason or other, to force it on. I only came to tell you
of this danger which threatens your client--not you, of course. But your
client whose wife is mine.'

Mr. Probus made at first no reply. He was thinking what this might mean.
He was, of course, too wary not to perceive that the threat of forcing
on bankruptcy was part of the defence, though in an indirect manner.

'Have you,' he asked presently, 'any knowledge of the amount of these
debts?'

'I believe they amount to over £40,000.'

Mr. Probus groaned aloud.

'I thought I would prepare your mind for the blow which may happen any
day. Let me see. The trial takes place next Wednesday--next Wednesday. I
dare say the creditors will wait till after that event. Good-morning,
Mr. Probus.'

He was going away when Mr. Probus called him back.

'You are aware, sir, that I made the prisoner a handsome offer?'

'I have been told that you made a certain offer.'

'I offered him the very large sum of £5,000 if he would sell his
succession. If he consents the principal witnesses in the case shall not
appear.'

'Mr. Probus, as the case stands now I would not take £50,000 for the
price of his chance.'

Again he was going away, and again Mr. Probus called him back.

'We were speaking,' he said, 'of the defence of that unhappy young man,
Mr. William Halliday. Of course I am concerned in the matter only as an
accidental bystander--and, of course, an old friend of the family. There
is to be a defence, you say.'

'Assuredly.'

'I have always understood that the young man was quite poor, and that
his wife's friends were also quite poor.'

'That is true. But a man may be quite poor, yet may have friends who
will fight every point rather than see the man condemned to death--and
on a false charge.'

'False?'

'Quite false, I assure you.'

'Sir, you surprise me. To be sure I did not see the assault. Yet the
evidence was most clear. Two gentlemen, unknown to each other--another
unknown to both who witnessed the affair--how can such evidence as that
be got over?'

'Well, Mr. Probus, it is not for me to say how it will be got over. You
are, I believe, giving evidence on what may be called a minor point; you
will therefore be in the Court on the occasion of the Trial. I can say
nothing, of course; but I should advise all persons engaged in the case
to abstain from appearing if possible. I am assured that things quite
unexpected will take place. Meantime, to return to the point for which I
came here--advise your client to prepare himself to meet claims rising
out of his wife's debts to the sum of many thousands.'

'How many thousands, did you say?'

'Forty thousand, I believe.'

'Good Heavens, sir, what can a woman be doing to get through such an
enormous sum?'

'Indeed, I cannot inform you. It is an age in which women call
themselves the equals of men. Your client, Mr. Probus, has got through a
great deal more than that in the same time, including, I believe, the
£25,000 which you lent him and which he cannot repay----'

'What do you know about these affairs, Sir?'

'Nothing--nothing. I shall see you in Court on the day of the Trial, Mr.
Probus.'

He went away leaving, as he intended, his brother in the law in an
anxious condition, and having said nothing that would lead him to
suspect that the conspiracy was entirely discovered, and would be laid
open in court.

Then came the last day before the Trial.

In the afternoon all my friends were gathered together in my cell. The
attorney had read for the last time my statement of defence.

He looked through it once more. 'I do not believe,' he said, 'that the
case will get so far. Whatever happens, Mr. Halliday, you will do well
to remember that you have to thank Madame here, and I do not believe it
will be possible for you to thank her enough, until you find out for
yourself the sacrifices she has made for you and the risks she is
running on your behalf. I can but hope, Madame, that the sacrifices may
be made up to you, and that the risks may prove illusory.'

She smiled, but it was a wan smile. 'Whatever the result,' she said,
'believe me, Sir, I shall never regret either the sacrifices, if you
call them such, or the risks, if by either we can defeat this most
abominable conspiracy.'

'I was in hopes,' said the attorney, 'that Mr. Probus might be
terrified, and so might withdraw at the last moment. It is easy to
withdraw. He has only to order the two principal witnesses not to
attend, when the case falls to the ground. As we are now free from all
anxiety,' I sighed, 'well, from all but the very natural anxiety that
belongs to a prison and to the uncertainty of the law, it is better for
us that he should put in all the witnesses when we can establish our
charge of conspiracy. I marvel, indeed, greatly that a man so astute
should not perceive that defence, where a King's Counsel and a Junior of
great repute are engaged must mean a serious case, and that a serious
case only means denial of the main charge. Else there would be no
defence at all. Well,' he rose--'I drink your health, Mr. Halliday, in
this excellent Madeira, and a speedy release to you.'

'And I, Will,' said Tom, pouring out another glass, 'I, too, drink a
speedy release to you.'

So they went away.

Then Jenny got up. 'Cousin Will,' she said sadly, 'I have done all I
could for you. If the Black Jack knew to-night what would be said in
Court to-morrow, there would be murder. They will all be in Court--every
one--to hear the splendid perjuries of the Bishop and the Captain. Those
two worthies expect a brave day: indeed, it will be a great day for
them, yet not quite in the manner they anticipate. Well 'tis the last
night in prison, Will. To-morrow thou wilt be back again in the Cottage
beside the river. Happy Will! Happy Alice! As for me----' she sighed
wearily.

'Why, Jenny, as for you--what can happen to you?'

'Nothing can happen to me,' she replied, dolorously.

'Then, why so sad?'

'Because, from the outset I have foreseen something dark and dreadful,
but I knew not what. I see myself in a strange place--but I know not
where. I look around at the places which I know--and I cannot see
myself. I am neither at Drury Lane nor the Garden: nor am I at Soho
Square. I look in the grave, but I am not there. I am to live--but I
know not where or how. All is to be changed----'

'Jenny,' Alice caught her hand. 'This reading of the future. It is
wicked since the Lord hath not thought fit to reveal what is to happen.'

She repeated stupidly, as one who understands not, 'Since the Lord--what
Lord?--what do you mean? Alice, how can I help it? I can read the
future. Sometimes it is like a printed book to me. Well--no matter.
Farewell, Will. Sleep sound to-night. To-morrow we shall meet in the
Court. Good-night, dear woman.' She threw her arms round Alice, kissed
her and went away.

And as for what passed between husband and wife--what tender things were
said--what prayers for faith--on the eve of the day of Life or Death: of
Honour or of Shame; shall they, too, be written on a page which is open
to every curious eye and to every mocking eye?




CHAPTER XII

THE TRIAL


It is a most terrible thing for a man of sensibility to stand in the
dock of the Old Bailey before the awful array of Judges, Lord Mayor,
Sheriffs and Aldermen. I know very well that most of the hardened
wretches that stand there have no sense of terror and little of anxiety.
For them the Judge is like that fabled Sister who cuts the thread of
life: they have come to the end of their rope: their time is up: they
are fatalists in a stupid way: the sentence is passed: they bear no
malice against the informer: the game has been played according to the
rules--what more can a man desire? Tyburn awaits them. And afterwards?
They neither know nor do they care.

Early on the morning of the trial, Mr. Dewberry came to see me. He was
cheerful, and rubbed his hands with great satisfaction. 'The case,' he
said, 'is complete. Never was a case more complete or more astonishing
as you shall see.' He would not explain further: he said that walls,
even in Newgate, have ears: that I must rely upon his word. 'Sir,' he
said, 'so much I will explain because it may give you ease. Never has a
man gone forth to be tried for his life, with a greater confidence in
the result than you ought to have. And, with that assurance enter the
Court with a light heart.'

They knocked off my irons before going into Court. Thus relieved, I was
marched along a dismal passage, leading from the prison to the Old
Bailey. The Court was crowded, not so much out of compliment to me, but
because it was bruited abroad among the rogues of St. Giles's that two
of their body were that day about to achieve greatness. They were,
truly: but not in the way that was expected. The crowd, in fact,
consisted chiefly of pickpockets and thieves, with their ladies. And the
heroes of the day were the Bishop and the Captain.

At first, a prisoner entering the court, sees nothing. When the mist
before his eyes clears away he observes the jury being sworn in--one
after the other, they lift the great chained Bible and kiss its leathern
cover, black with ten thousand kisses, and take their seats: he observes
the counsel arranging their papers: the officers of the court standing
about and the crowd in the gallery and about the doors: the box for the
witnesses--my heart sank when I saw sitting together my four enemies,
looking calm and assured, as if there was no doubt possible as to the
results. Nay, the Captain seemed unable to repress or to conceal the
pride he felt in imagination, at thinking of the figure he should cut.
Mr. Ramage, my own witness, I saw modestly sitting in a corner. Tom
Shirley, another witness for me, if he would prove of any use, was also
there. As I entered the dock Mr. Probus turned and his lips moved as if
he was speaking to Tom. I could not hear what he said, but I knew it,
without the necessity of ears. He said, 'Sir, I saw you in Newgate three
weeks ago. Your friend might have saved his life, had he accepted my
offer. It is now too late.' Then he turned his hatchet face to me and
grinned. Well--he grins no longer. Under the Dock stood Alice, and with
her, closely veiled, Jenny herself. They took my hands: Alice held the
right and Jenny the left. 'Courage, my dear,' said Alice. 'It will soon
be over now.' 'It is all over already,' whispered Jenny. 'There is such
evidence as will astonish you--and the whole world.' She kissed my hand
and dropped a tear upon it. I was to learn afterwards what she meant,
and what were her own sacrifices and perils in bringing forward this
evidence.

Then Mr. Dewberry came bustling up. 'That is your lawyer, Mr. Caterham,
King's Counsel, now arranging his papers. I was with him yesterday. He
will make a great case--a very great case--out of this. The attorney
arranges it all and the higher branch gets the credit of it all. Never
mind. That is your Junior, behind, Mr. Stanton. There's a head for you:
there's an eye. I can always tell what they think of the case by the way
they arrange their papers. The Counsel in front of him is Serjeant
Cosins, King's Counsel, an able man--oh, yes--an able man: he conducts
the prosecution. We shall open his eyes presently. He thinks he has got
an ordinary case to conduct. He will see. He will see.'

Then the Judges came in: the Lord Mayor, Mr. Justice Parker, the
Aldermen, the Recorder, and the Sheriffs. The Lord Mayor sat in the
middle under the great sword of Justice: but the case was conducted by
Mr. Justice Parker, who sat on his right hand. I looked along the row of
faces on the Bench. They all seemed white, cold, stern, hard and
unforgiving. Despite assurances, my heart sank low.

I pass over the reading of the indictment, my pleading and the opening
of the case. The Prosecutor said that although it was a most simple
case, which would not occupy the attention of the court very long, it
was at the same time one of the most flagrant and audacious robberies
that had ever been brought before the court of the Old Bailey: that the
facts were few: that he was not aware of any possible line of defence:
'Oh yes,' observed my Counsel, smiling, 'a very possible line of
defence': that he, for one, should be prepared to receive any line of
defence that could be set up. But he thought his learned brother would
not waste the time of the Court.

He then rehearsed the history of the facts and proceeded to call the
witnesses. First he called Samuel Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity (I do
not intend to set down the whole of the evidence given by him or by the
others because you already know it).

The Doctor, with alacrity, stepped into the witness-box: he was clean
shaven, in a new wig, a silken cassock; snow white bands; and a flowing
gown. But that his face was red and his neck swollen and his appearance
fleshy and sensual--things which may sometimes be observed even among
the City Clergy--he presented the appearance of a prosperous
ecclesiastic. For my own part I can never satisfy myself whether he was
in Holy Orders at all. One hopes, for the sake of the Church that he was
not. After kissing the Testament with fervour, he turned an unblushing
front to the Prosecutor. He said that he was a Clergyman, a Doctor of
Divinity, formerly of Trinity College, Dublin, and some time the holder
of certain benefices in the neighbourhood of that city. He deposed that
on the night in question he was making his way through Leicester Fields
to Charing Cross at the time of nine in the evening or thereabouts: that
suddenly a young man rushed out of some dark recess and flourished a
cudgel over him, crying, 'Your money or your life!' That being a man of
peace, as becomes his profession, he instantly complied with the demand
and handed over his purse: that he also cried out either on account of
the extremity of his fear, or for help: that help came in the shape of a
stranger, who felled the ruffian: that they called the watch: carried
the senseless robber to the guard-house, and that the witness's purse
was found in his pocket.

My counsel deferred cross-examining this witness for the present.

Next came the Captain. He, too, stood unabashed while he poured out his
tale of perjury. He assumed the style and title of a Gentleman from the
North, Mr. Ferdinando Fenwick: and he entirely bore out the previous
witness's evidence. My counsel also deferred his cross-examination of
this witness.

Mr. Merridew was the third witness. He followed suit. He deposed that
he was a Sheriff's officer. He had seen the assault and the rescue: he
had also helped to carry the robber to the round house. This witness's
cross-examination was also deferred.

Mr. Probus, attired in black velvet with fine lace ruffles and
neckerchief, so that his respectable appearance could not but impress
the jury, said that he was passing the watch-house, by accident, about
midnight, having been summoned by a client, when he saw an unconscious
figure carried in: that he followed from motives of humanity hoping to
be of use to some fellow Christian: that he then perceived, to his
amazement, that the robber was none other than the son of his old friend
and employer the late Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman and ex-Lord Mayor:
that he saw the worthy clergyman's purse taken from his pocket so that
there could be no doubt of his guilt. He also added that it was four
years and more since Sir Peter had turned his son out of doors, since
when he believed that the young man had earned a precarious living by
playing the fiddle to sailors and such low company.

Then the cross-examination began.

My counsel asked him first, whether he knew any of the three preceding
witnesses. He did not: they were strangers to him. Had he never seen the
man Merridew? He never had. Did not Merridew owe him money? He did not.
He was now attorney to Mr. Matthew Halliday? Had he ever taken the man
Merridew to Mr. Halliday's counting-house? He had not. 'In fact, Mr.
Probus, you know nothing at all about Mr. Merridew?' 'Nothing.' 'And
nothing about the other two men?' 'Nothing.'

'I come now, Mr. Probus, to a question which will astonish the Court.
Will you tell me in what way the prisoner's death will benefit you?'

'In no way.'

'Oh! In no way. Come, Sir, think a little. Collect yourself, I pray you.
You are attorney to Mr. Matthew Halliday. You have lent him money?' No
answer. 'Please answer my question.' No answer. 'Never mind, I shall
find an answer from you before long. Meantime I inform the Jury that you
have lent him £25,000 on the condition that he pays 15 per cent.
interest on £40,000, the sum to be repaid. That is the exact description
of the transaction, I believe?'

He replied unwillingly, 'If you please to say so.'

'Very well. Now your client has spent, or lost, the whole of his money
and yours--do not deny the fact because I am going to prove it
presently. He cannot pay you one farthing. In fact, before long the firm
of Halliday Brothers will become bankrupt.' (There was a movement and a
whisper among the Aldermen and Sheriffs on the Bench.) 'Is this true or
not?' No answer.

'My Lud, I press for an answer. This is a most important question. I can
find an answer from another witness, but I must have an answer from the
witness now in the box.'

'Answer the question immediately, Sir,' said the Judge.

'I do not know.'

'You do not know? Come, Sir, have you been informed, or have you not, by
Mr. Matthew Halliday himself, of his position?'

'I have not.'

'You have not. Mark his answer, gentlemen of the Jury. Do not forget his
statement. He says that he knows nothing and has been told nothing of
his client's present unfortunate condition. Let us go on. The late Sir
Peter Halliday left a large sum of money--£100,000, I believe--to the
survivor of two--either his son or his nephew?'

'That is true.'

If Halliday Brothers becomes bankrupt, your claim would rank with those
of the other creditors?'

'I suppose so.'

'In which case you would get little or nothing of the £40,000. But if
the prisoner could be persuaded to sell his chance of succession before
the declaration of bankruptcy, your client could raise money on that
succession out of which you could be paid in full, if he consented?'

'Yes, if he consented.'

'You have already made three several attempts to make him sell, have you
not?'

'Acting by my client's instructions.'

'The first time, when he refused, you threatened revenge, did you not?'

'I did not.'

'You then clapped him in a debtors' prison on a trumped-up charge of
debt?'

'It was a debt due to an estate placed in my hands.'

'The prisoner denied the debt: said that the instrument was given to him
by the owner, did he not?'

'Perhaps.'

'But you put him in prison and kept him there?'

'I did, acting for my clients, the executors.'

'The next time you called upon him and offered to buy his share was
about six weeks ago?'

'It was, acting on instructions from my client.'

'He refused. You then threatened him again?'

'I did not.'

'Two days afterwards the alleged robbery took place at which you were an
accidental observer?'

'Accidental.'

'I said so--accidental. Now, if this case should prove fatal to the
prisoner, on his death your client, not a bankrupt, would take the whole
of the £100,000?'

'He would.'

'You would then expect to be paid?' No answer. 'I say, you would then
expect to be paid?'

'I should hope to be.'

'In full?'

'I should hope so.'

'Then you would be the better by £40,000 by the execution of the
prisoner?'

'If you put it so, I should.'

'You made a third and last attempt, a few days ago, to obtain his
consent?'

'I did, acting on my client's instructions.'

'When he was in Newgate. There were present two other friends of the
prisoner. You then offered, if he would sign the document, to withdraw
the principal witnesses?'

'I did not.'

'I put it in another way. You promised, if he would sign, that the
principal witnesses should not appear?'

'I did not.'

'You swear that you did not?'

'I swear that I did not.'

'You say that you have no power to withdraw witnesses?'

'I have no power to withdraw witnesses.'

'You have no power over the case at all?'

'None.'

Mr. Caterham sat down. Serjeant Cosins stood up.

'You might be the better by the prisoner's death. You are not however in
any way concerned with the case except as an accidental observer?'

'Not in any way.'

'And you are not in any way acquainted with the witnesses who are
chiefly concerned?'

'Not at all.'

Mr. Probus sat down.

Mr. Caterham called again, the Rev. Dr. Samuel Carstairs.

'My Lud,' he began, 'I must ask that none of the witnesses in this case
be allowed to leave the court without your Ludship's permission.'

The Bishop entered the box, but with much less assurance than he had
previously assumed. And the cross-examination began.

I then understood what Jenny meant when she talked of making the case
complete. He swore again that his name was Carstairs: that he had held
preferment in the county of Dublin: he named, in fact, three places: he
had never used any other name: he was not once called Onslow, at another
time Osborne: at another Oxborough: he knew nothing about these names:
he had never been tried at York for fraud: or at Winchester for
embezzlement: he had never been whipped at the cart-tail at Portsmouth.
As these lies ran out glibly I began to take heart. I looked at Probus:
he was sitting on the bench, his fingers interlaced, cold drops of dew
rising upon his forehead and nose. But the Bishop held out bravely, that
is, with a brazen impudence.

'You know, Doctor, I believe, the Black Jack?'

'A tavern, is it? No, sir, I do not. One of my profession should not be
seen in taverns.'

'Yet surely you know the Black Jack, close to St. Giles's Church?'

'No, sir, I am a stranger in London.'

'Do you know the nickname of the "Bishop"?'

'No.'

'Oh! you never were called the "Bishop"?'

'No.'

'Do you know the gallant gentleman who rescued you?'

'No, I do not.'

'You do not know him? Never met him, I suppose, at the Black Jack?'

'Never.'

'Never? Do you know the other witness, Mr. Merridew?'

'No, I do not.'

'Where were you staying for the night when this romantic incident
happened?'

For the first time the Bishop hesitated. 'I--I--forget,' he said.

'Come, come, you cannot forget so simple a thing, you know. Where were
you staying?'

'It was in a street off the Strand--I forget its name--I am a stranger
to this city.'

'Well--where did you stay last night?'

'In the same street--I forget its name.'

'Not at the Black Jack, St. Giles's?'

He was pressed upon this point, but nothing could be got out of him. He
stuck to the point--he had forgotten the name of the street, and he knew
nothing of the Black Jack.

So he stood down. The Captain was called by the name he gave
himself--Ferdinando Fenwick. He said he had never been known by any
other name, that he had no knowledge of the name of Tom Kestever. He had
never heard that name. Nor did he know of any occasion on which the said
Tom Kestever had been ducked for a pickpocket: flogged for a rogue:
imprisoned and tried on a capital charge for cattle lifting. Oh! Jenny,
the case was well got up, truly. He, too, had never heard of the Black
Jack, and stoutly stood it out that he was a gentleman of Cumberland.
Asked what village or town of Cumberland, he named Whitehaven as the
place in which he was born and had his property--to wit, five farms
contiguous to the town and two or three messuages in the town.

When this evidence was concluded a juryman rose and asked permission of
the Court to put a question to the witness, which was granted him.

'Those farms,' he said, 'are contiguous to Whitehaven? Yes, and you were
born in that town? What was your father by occupation?'

'He was a draper.'

'My lord,' said the Juryman, 'I am myself a native of Whitehaven. I am
the son of the only draper in the town. I am apparently about the same
age as the witness. I have never seen him in the town. There is no
reputable tradesman of that name in the town, or anywhere near it. There
are gentlefolk of the name, but in Northumberland.'

'I wish, Sir,' said the Counsel, 'that I had you in the box.'

'The statement of a Juryman is not evidence,' the Prosecuting Counsel
interposed.

'I fear, my learned brother,' said the Judge, 'that when the Jury
retire, it will become a strong piece of evidence, whatever direction I
may give them.'

The Serjeant declined to re-examine this evidence.

Then my counsel called Mr. Merridew, who very reluctantly got into the
box again.

He denied solemnly that he knew either of the preceding witnesses. He
denied that he knew the Black Jack. He owned, with a pretence at pride,
that he had frequently served his country by informing against rogues
and had taken the reward to which he was entitled. He denied that he
encouraged young fellows to become highwaymen in hopes of securing the
higher reward. He denied that he knew Mr. Probus. He swore that he
should not benefit by the conviction of the prisoner.

You observe that the object of the Counsel was to make everyone plunge
deeper into the mire of perjury. His case was strong indeed, or he would
not have followed this method.

The Counsel then called half a dozen witnesses in succession. They were
turnkeys from York, Winchester, Reading and Portsmouth and other places.
They identified the Rev. Dr. Samuel Carstairs, D.D., as a person
notoriously engaged in frauds for which an educated person was
necessary. He had been imprisoned for two years at Winchester for
embezzlement: for a twelvemonth with a flogging at York for fraud: he
was whipped through the High Street of Portsmouth and down to Point and
back again for similar practices. They also identified the Captain as a
rogue from tender years: hardly a whipping-post anywhere but knew the
sound of his voice: hardly a prison in which he had not passed some of
his time.

And now the case looked brighter. Everyone was interested, from the
Aldermen to the Jury: it was a case of surprises: only Serjeant Cosins
stood with his papers in his hand looking perplexed and annoyed. So far
there was no doubt about the two fellows, the authors of the charge,
being notorious and arrant rogues. A very pitiful figure they cut, as
they sat side by side on the witnesses' bench. Even their own friends in
the gallery were laughing at them, for the admiration of the rogue is
for successful roguery, while for detected roguery he has nothing but
contempt.

Then the Counsel called John Ramage. He said that he was an accountant
in the counting-house of Messrs. Halliday Brothers: that in that
capacity he knew the position of the House: that in two years the
managing partner, Mr. Matthew Halliday, had reduced the business to a
state of insolvency: that they might become bankrupts at any moment:
that creditors were pressing, and the end could not be far off. He went
on to state that he revealed the secrets of his office because he was
informed that the knowledge was necessary for the defence of Mr. William
Halliday, and that the safety and innocence of his late master's only
son were of far more importance to him than the credit of the House. And
here the tears came into his eyes. This, however, was the least
important part of the case. For he went on to depose that the position
of his desk near the door of Mr. Matthew's office enabled him to hear
all that went on: that Mr. Probus was constantly engaged with Mr.
Matthew: that every day there were complaints and quarrels between them:
that Mr. Probus wanted his money back, and that Mr. Matthew could not
pay him: that every day they ended with the regret that they could not
touch this sum of money waiting for the survivor: that every day they
sighed to think what a happy event it would be for them both if Mr.
William Halliday were dead. That, one day, Mr. Probus said that there
were many ways for even a young man to die: he might, for instance, fall
into the hands of the law: to this Mr. Matthew gave no reply, but when
he was alone began to drink. That Mr. Probus returned the next day with
Mr. Merridew, who said that the job was easy and should be done, but he
should expect to stand in: he said that the thing would cost a good
deal, but that, for a thousand pounds, he thought that Mr. Will
Halliday's case might be considered certain. 'When I heard this,' the
witness said, 'I hastened to Lambeth, where Mr. Will was living with his
wife. I could not see him because he was playing for Madame Vallance's
Assembly. I therefore went again to Lambeth the next day, which was
Sunday, and I told him all. While I was telling him, Mr. Probus himself
came. So they put me in the kitchen where I could hear what was said.
Mr. Probus made another effort to persuade Mr. Will to sell his chance
of succession. Then he went away in a rage, threatening things. So I
implored Mr. Will to get out of the way of the villains. He promised:
but it was too late. The next thing I hear is that he has been charged
with highway robbery. Mr. Will--the best of men!'

I now thought my case was going pretty well.

There were, however, other witnesses.

To my amazement Jenny's mother appeared. She was dressed up as a most
respectable widow with a white cap, a black dress, and a white apron.
She curtseyed to the Court and kissed the book with a smack, as if she
enjoyed it.

She said that she was a widow, and respectable: that she kept the Black
Jack, which was much frequented by the residents of St. Giles's. The
Counsel did not press this point but asked her if she knew the Rev. Dr.
Carstairs. She replied that she knew him, under other names, as a
frequenter of her house off and on for many years: that he was
familiarly known as the 'Bishop': that she did not inquire into the
trades of her customers, but that it was understood that the Bishop was
one of those who use their skill in writing for various purposes: for
threatening persons who have been robbed: for offering stolen property
for sale: for demanding money: for forging documents: and other branches
of roguery demanding a knowledge of writing. She showed her own
knowledge of the business by her enumeration of the branches. She said,
further, that the gentleman had slept at the Black Jack every night for
the last two months: that he had a bed there, took his meals there, and
carried on his business there. As regards Mr. Ferdinando Fenwick, she
knew him as the 'Captain,' or as Tom Kestever, and she identified him in
the same way and beyond any power of doubt. As for Merridew, she knew
him very well: he was a thief-taker by profession: he gave his man a
good run and then laid information against him: he encouraged young
rogues and showed them how to advance in their profession: and she
deposed that on a certain day Merridew came to the house where the
Bishop and the Captain were drinking together and sat with them: that
all their talk was about getting a man out of the way: that the Bishop
did not like it, but was told by Mr. Merridew very plainly that he must,
and that he then assented.

Jenny's sister, Doll, next appeared. She was transformed into a young
and pleasing woman with a silver ring for greater respectability. Her
evidence corroborated that of her mother. But she added an important
particular, that one morning when there was no one in the place but the
Bishop and the Captain, Mr. Probus came with Mr. Merridew and sat
conversing with those two gentlemen for a long time.

Then the young fellow called Jack went into the box. By this time the
interest of everyone in the court was intense, because here was the
unrolling of a plot which for audacity and wickedness was perhaps
unequalled. And the wretched man Probus, still writhing in his seat,
cast his eyes to the door in hopes of a chance at flight: in his agony
his wig was pushed back, and the whole of his head exposed to view. I
confess that horror rather than revenge possessed me.

The young fellow called Jack gave his evidence in a straightforward way.
He confessed that he had run away from his native village in consequence
of an unfortunate love affair; that he had come up to town, hoping to
get employment: that he had been taken to the Black Jack by someone who
met him in the street: that he had there been introduced to Mr.
Merridew, who promised to find him work: that in fact he had been
employed by him in shop-lifting and in small street robberies: his
employer, he explained, would go along the street first and make a sign
where he could carry off something: that he was promised promotion to be
a highwayman by Mr. Merridew if he should deserve it: that he had been
told to keep himself in readiness to help in knocking a gentleman on the
head: that the thing was talked over with him by the Bishop and the
Captain: that at the last moment they told him they should want none of
his help. Asked what he should do after giving this evidence, replied
that if Mr. Merridew got off, he should have to enlist in order to save
his neck, which would be as good as gone. More he said, but this was the
most important.

Then Mr. Caterham called Mr. Halliday.

My unfortunate cousin entered the witness-box pale and trembling. In
answer to questions he acknowledged that he had lost the whole of his
fortune and ruined a once noble business in the space of three or four
years. He confessed that his bankruptcy was inevitable: that Probus had
been urgent with him to get his cousin to sell his chance of succession
in order to raise money by which he himself might recover his money:
that he was willing to do so if his cousin would sell: but his cousin
would not. He said that Mr. Probus had come to him stating that a man's
life might be lost in many ways: that, for instance, he might fall into
the hands of the law: that he had brought Mr. Merridew, who offered to
arrange so that his cousin might lose his life in some such way if he
were paid a thousand pounds down; that he would not listen to such
detestable overtures; that he heard of his cousin's arrest: that he had
informed his cousin's attorney of the offer made him by Probus and
Merridew: but he had neither paid nor promised a thousand pounds, or
anything at all: and that he had never been a consenting party to the
plot.

He was allowed to stand down: he remained in the court, trembling and
shivering, as pitiable an object as the wretched conspirators
themselves.

If there had been interest in the case before, judge what it was now in
the appearance of the next witness, for there entered the box none other
than Jenny herself, the bewitching Jenny. She was all lace and ribbons,
as beautiful a creature as one could expect to see anywhere. She smiled
upon the Judge and upon the Lord Mayor: she smiled upon the Jury: she
smiled upon me, the prisoner in the Dock. In answer to the questions put
to her, she answered, in substance: 'My name is Jenny Halliday. I am the
wife of the last witness, Matthew Halliday. I am an actress. I am known
by my maiden name, Jenny Wilmot. As an entertainer, I am known as Madame
Vallance.' There was now the most breathless attention in Court. 'By
birth, I am the daughter of the landlady of the Black Jack. It is a
place of resort of the residents of St. Giles's. Most of them, to my
certain knowledge, probably all, are thieves. I sometimes go there to
see my mother and sister, not to see the frequenters of the place.
Whenever I do go there, I always find the two witnesses who just now
called themselves Carstairs and Fenwick: at the Black Jack they were
always called the Bishop and the Captain. I have always heard, and I
understand, that they are rogues of the deepest dye. The Bishop is not a
clergyman at all: he is so called because he dresses like a clergyman
and can write well: the Captain is a highwayman: most of his fraternity
call themselves Captains: he is the son of a butcher in Clare market.
His name is Tom Kestever. Both are Mr. Merridew's men: that is, they
have to carry out whatever he orders, and they live in perpetual terror
that their time is up. The last time I was in the Black Jack, Merridew
came in, drank a glass or two of punch in a friendly way, and so left
them. When he said that he did not know the men, it was flat perjury. He
was continually in the Black Jack looking up his people; admonishing the
young and threatening the elders. Not a rogue in London but knows Mr.
Merridew, and trembles at the thought of him.'

Asked about Mr. Probus, she said she did not know him at all, save by
repute. That he constantly threatened the prisoner with consequences if
he did not consent to sell his chance of succession: and that she had
been present on a certain occasion in Newgate when Mr. Probus visited
the prisoner and offered him there and then, if he would sign the
document offered, that the principal witnesses should not appear at the
Trial, which would thus fall through.

Asked as to her knowledge of the prisoner, she deposed that she found
him in the King's Bench Prison, sent there through the arts of Mr.
Probus: that she took him out, paying the detainers: that she then gave
him employment in her orchestra: that he was a young gentleman of the
highest principle, married to a wife of saintly conduct and character:
that he was incapable of crime--that he lived quietly, was not in debt,
and received for his work in the orchestra the sum of thirty shillings a
week, which was enough for their modest household.

Asked again about her husband, she said that she could not live with
him, partly because he was an inveterate gambler: and that to gratify
this passion there was nothing he would not sell. That he had gamed away
a noble fortune and ruined a noble business: that steps had already been
taken to make him bankrupt: and that it was to save his own money that
the man Probus had designed this villainy.

'Call Thomas Shirley.' It was the Junior Counsel who rose.

Tom went into the box and answered the preliminary questions. 'Do you
remember meeting Mr. Probus in Newgate about a month ago?'

'I do.'

'What offer did he make?'

'He offered my brother-in-law £5,000 down if he would sell his chance of
the succession, and further promised that the principal witnesses should
not appear.'

'You swear that this was his offer?'

'I swear it.'

The counsel looked at Serjeant Cosins who shook his head.

'You may sit down, Sir.'

'My Lud,' said Mr. Caterham, 'my case is completed. I have no other
evidence unless you direct me to sweep the streets of St. Giles's and
compel them to come in.'

When all the evidence was completed there was a dead silence in the
Court. Everybody was silent for a space: the faces of the rogues in the
gallery were white with consternation: here were the very secrets of
their citadel, their home, the Black Jack, disclosed, and by the very
people of the Black Jack, the landlady and her daughters. The Jury
looked at each other in amazement. Here was the complete revelation of a
plot which for wickedness and audacity went beyond everything ever
invented or imagined. What would happen next?

'Brother Cosins,' said the Judge.

He threw his papers on the desk. 'My Lud,' he said, 'I throw down my
brief.'

Then the Judge charged the Jury. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'it has been
clearly established--more clearly than I ever before experienced, that a
wicked--nay a most horrible--crime, designed by one man, carried out by
three others, has been perpetrated against the prisoner, William
Halliday. It is a case in which everything has been most carefully
prepared: the perjury of the witnesses has been established beyond a
doubt even though the witnesses have been in part taken from the regions
of St. Giles's, and from actual criminals. Gentlemen, there is but one
verdict possible.'

They did not leave the box: they conferred for a moment: rose and
through their foreman pronounced their verdict--'Not Guilty.' They added
a hope that the conspirators would not escape.

'They shall not,' said the Judge. 'William Halliday, the verdict of the
jury sets you free. I am happy to say that you leave this court with an
unblemished character: and that you have the most heartfelt
commiseration of the court for your wholly undeserved sufferings and
anxiety.' Then the Judge turned to the four. 'I commit Eliezer Probus:
Samuel Carstairs alias what he pleases: the man who calls himself
Ferdinando Fenwick: and John Merridew for trial on the charge of
conspiracy and perjury.'




CHAPTER XIII

THE COMPANY OF REVENGE


The case was over--I stepped out of the Dock: I was free: everybody,
including Mr. Caterham, K.C., was shaking my hand: the Lord Mayor sent
for me to the Bench and shook my hand warmly: he said that he had known
my worthy father, Sir Peter, and that he rejoiced that my innocence had
been made as clear as the noonday: all the Jury shook hands with me: my
cousin Tom paid my dues to the prison, without payment of which even a
free man, proved innocent, must go back to the prison again and there
stay till he discharges them--because a gaoler everywhere has a heart
made of flint. At last, surrounded by my friends I went out of Court.
Outside in the street there was a crowd who shouted and cried my name
with 'Death to the Conspirators!' But I saw many who did not shout. Who
are they who had no sympathy with innocence? They stood apart, with
lowering faces. They came down from the public gallery where--I was
afterwards told--the appearance in that witness-box first of the
well-known landlady of the Black Jack--their ancient friend: next, of
her daughter--also their friend: thirdly, of the young fellow called
Jack, one of themselves, a rogue and the companion of rogues: and
lastly, of the woman of whom they had been so proud, Jenny the actress,
Jenny the Orange Girl: Jenny of Drury Lane: filled them with dismay and
rage. What? Their own people turn against their own friends? The
landlady of the Black Jack, even the landlady of the Black Jack, that
most notorious receiver of stolen goods, and harbourer of rogues, to
give evidence against her own customers? Thief betray thief? Dog bite
dog? Heard ever man the like? Now you understand the lowering and gloomy
faces. These people whispered to each other in the Gallery of the Court
House: they murmured to each other outside on the pavement: when we
climbed into a hackney coach--Jenny--her mother and sister--the young
fellow called Jack and myself--they followed us--in pairs;--by fours,
talking low and cursing below their breath. After a while they desisted:
but one or two of them still kept up with the coach.

I sent Alice home under charge of Tom. I would get home, I said, as
quickly as I could, after seeing Jenny safely at her own house.

We arrived at the house in Soho Square. It was empty save for some
women-servants, for there was no entertainment that evening. We went
into the small room on the left and lit the candles.

It was then about seven o'clock in the evening and quite dark, as the
time of year was November. Jenny was restless and excited. She went to
the window and looked out. 'The Square is quiet,' she said. 'How long
will it remain quiet?'

The servants brought in some supper. Jenny took a little glass of wine.
She then went away and returned in a plain dress with a cloak and hood.

'I must be ready,' she said, 'to set off on my travels--whither?
Mother'--she turned to the old lady--'you are a witch. Look into the
fire and tell me what you see.'

The old woman filled and drained a glass of Madeira and turned her chair
round. She gazed intently into the red coals.

'I see,' she said, 'a crowd of people. I see a Court. I see the
condemned cell....' She turned away. 'No, Jenny, I will look no more.
'Twas thus I looked in the fire before thy father was taken. Thus and
thus did I see. I will look no longer.'

'Well,' said Doll, 'what will they do next? They know now where you
live, Madame Vallance.'

The old woman sat down and sighed heavily. 'The Black Jack!' she
murmured. 'We shall never see it again.'

Jenny was quiet and grave. 'We have beaten them,' she said. 'They never
suspected that so complete a beating was in store for them. Now comes
our turn--my turn rather.'

'Your turn, Jenny?'

'Yes, Will, my turn. Do you suppose they will forgive us? Why, we have
given evidence against our own people. All St. Giles's trusted my mother
and sister--Could one suspect the Black Jack? Why, because I was a
daughter of the house, all St. Giles's trusted me--and we have betrayed
them! There will be revenge and that quickly.'

Doll nodded expressively. Her mother groaned.

'What kind of revenge?'

Doll nodded her head again and drew a long breath. Her mother groaned
again.

'I do not know, yet. Listen, Will. The people know very well that this
case has been got up by myself. I found out, by my mother's assistance,
those facts about the trials and floggings and imprisonments: I went
into the country and secured the evidence. I brought up the gaolers to
testify to the men's identity. I even went to my husband and
promised--yes, I swore--that I would put him into the conspiracy as well
as the other four if he did not give evidence without saying a word to
Probus. And then I bought my mother out.'

'You bought out your mother?'

''Twas as sweet a business, Sir,' the old woman interrupted, 'as you
ever saw. A matter of three pounds a day takings and two pounds a day
profit.'

'I bought her out,' said Jenny. 'I also compensated her for the contents
of her vaults.'

'Ah!' sighed the old woman. 'There were treasures!'

'The Black Jack is shut up. When the people go there this
evening'--again Doll nodded--'they will find it closed--and they will
wreck the place.'

'And drink up all that's left,' said Doll.

'Let us prevent murder. Jack, you will find it best for your health to
get at far as possible out of London. Take my mother and sister to one
of the taverns in the Borough. There's a waggon or a caravan starts
every morning for some country place or other; never mind where. Go with
them, Jack: stay with them for a while till they are settled. Mother,
you won't be happy unless you can have a tavern somewhere. If you can
find one, Jack will do for you. There you will be safe, I think. St.
Giles's doesn't contain any of our people. But in London you will be
murdered--you and Doll, too--for sure and certain.'

'For sure and certain,' said Doll, grimly.

Jenny gave her mother more money. 'That will carry you into the
country,' she said. 'You can let me know, somehow, where you are. But
take care not to let anyone know who would tell the people here. The
gipsies are your best friends, not the thieves.'

I asked her if it was really necessary to make all these preparations.

'You don't know these people, Will. I do. The one thing to which they
cling is their safety from the law so long as they are among themselves.
There will be wild work this evening. As for me I have under my dress
all my money and all my jewels. I am ready for flight.'

'Why, Jenny, you don't think they will attack you here?'

'I do, indeed. There is nothing more likely. Did you observe a woman
running along Holborn beside the coach? I know that woman. She is the
Captain's girl. Revenge was written on her face--easy to
read--revenge--revenge. She stood beside the doorstep when we came in.
She marked the house. She has gone back to St. Giles's to tell them
where we can be found this evening. But they learned that fact in Court.
Oh! They will come presently.'

'Well, Jenny, let us escape while we can.'

'There are many ways of escape,' she said. 'There is no hurry. We can
pass over the roof of the next house and so into the garrets of the
house beyond. I have proved this way of escape----Oh! Will, I counted
the cost beforehand. Or there is the back door which opens on Hog Lane.
We can get out that way. I am sure they will not think of the back door.
Or it is easy to climb over the garden wall into the next house: there
are plenty of ways. I am not afraid about our escape--if we can keep
them out for a few minutes. But, Jack, you had better take my mother and
sister away at once.'

'No,' said Jack, stoutly. 'Where you are, Madame, there I am.'

'You are a fool, Jack,' she replied with her sweet smile, which made him
more foolish still. 'They will murder you if they can.'

'They shan't murder you, then,' the lad replied, clutching his cudgel.

By the time we finished supper and held this discourse it was close upon
eight.

'Will,' said Jenny, 'you and Jack had better barricade the door. It is a
strong door but even oak will give way. Take the card-tables and pile
them up.'

The card-tables were thin slight things with curved legs all gilt and
lacquer. But the long table was a heavy mahogany thing. We took out
some of the pieces by which it was lengthened and closed it up. Then we
carried it out to the hall and placed it against the door: the length of
the door filled the breadth of the hall and jammed in the boards until
it seemed as if it would bear any amount of pressure from without. We
piled the smaller tables one above the other behind the large table: if
the mob did get in, they would be encumbered for awhile among the legs
of so many tables. This was the only attempt we could make at fortifying
the house: the lower windows were protected by the iron railings
outside.

'Will,' said Jenny, 'we have made the door safe. But Lord! what is to
prevent their breaking down the railings and entering by the area? Or
why should they not bring a ladder and force their way at the first
floor?'

'Would they be so determined?'

'They scent blood. They are like the carrion crow. They mean blood and
pillage. The latter they will have. Not the former.'

At this point we heard a low grumbling noise in the distance, which
became the roar of many voices.

'They are already at the Black Jack,' said Jenny. 'I should like to see
what they are doing. Come with me, Will. It is too dark for anyone to
recognise me, and there will be a great crowd. All St. Giles's will be
out to see the wreck of the Black Jack.'

She drew her hood over her head which in a measure hid her face, and
taking my hand, she led me through the garden and so out by the back
door into Hog Lane. The place, always quiet, was deserted and, besides,
was nearly pitch dark, having no lamps in it.

Jenny's house--the Assembly Rooms of Soho Square--stood at the corner of
Sutton Street, and with its gardens extended back into Hog Lane. Nearly
opposite Sutton Street, a little lower down, the short street called
Denmark Street ran from Hog Lane into St. Giles's High Street opposite
the Church. The Black Jack stood opposite to the Church.

When we got to Denmark Street we took the north side, because there were
fewer people there. Yet the crowd was gathering fast. We stood at the
corner of the street at the East and where we could see what was going
on and be ready to escape as quickly as possible in case of necessity.

A company of men with whom were a good many women and a few boys, were
besieging the dark and deserted Black Jack. They were a company apart
acting by themselves without any assistance from the crowd, which looked
on approvingly and applauded. They neither asked for, nor would they
accept, assistance. If any man from the outside offered to join them, he
was roughly ordered back. 'It is their revenge, Will,' said Jenny. 'They
will have no one with them to join in their own business.' Their
resolution and the quiet way with which they acted--for the roars and
shouting we heard did not proceed from the company of revenge but from
the crowd that followed them--struck one with terror as if we were
contemplating the irresistible decrees of Fate. They battered at the
doors: as no one answered, they broke in the doors; but first with a
volley of stones they broke every window in the house.

'Poor mother!' said Jenny. ''Twould break her heart. But she will lose
nothing. I bought her out. It is the landlord who will suffer. Now they
have found candles: they light up; see, they are going all over the
house in search of the landlady.' We saw lights in the rooms one after
the other. 'They will not find her: nor her money: nor anything that is
valuable. It is all gone, gentlemen: all provided for and stowed away in
a safer place. This is not a house where a woman who values her throat
should be found, after to-day's work. See--now, they have made up their
minds that no one is left in the house. What next? Will they set fire to
it?'

No: they did not set fire to the house. They proceeded to break up
everything: all the furniture: the beds, chairs and tables and to throw
fragments out of windows into the open space below where some of them
collected everything and made a bonfire. When the house was emptied they
began to bring out the bottles and to haul up the casks out of the
cellars: upon this there was a rush of the crowd from the outside:
strange as it may appear the company of revenge were going to break the
bottles and to set the casks running. But the mob rushed in: there was
fighting for a few minutes: someone blew a whistle and the rioters drew
apart, and stood together before the house. Then one of them; their
leader, spoke.

'This is the revenge of St. Giles's on the landlady of the Black Jack.
Drink up all her casks and all her bottles, and be damned to ye!'

The people that rushed upon the casks were like ravenous beasts of prey:
you would have thought that they had never had their fill of strong
drink before: indeed for such people it is impossible to have their fill
of strong drink unless insensibility means satiety. They set the casks
running: they made cups of their hands: they drank with their mouths
from the taps: they filled empty bottles: they fought for the full
bottles: the place was covered with broken glass: their faces were
bleeding with cuts from broken bottles: the bonfire lifted its fierce
flame hissing and roaring: at the open windows of houses hard-by women
looked on, shrieking and applauding: some, within the railings of the
Church, looked on as from a place of safety: as the flames lit up their
pale faces, they might have been the ghosts of the dead, called out of
their quiet graves to see what was going on.

'It is not their intention to burn down the Black Jack,' said Jenny.
'Then there will be a new landlady, and the Thieves' Kitchen will go on
again.'

The leader of the Company blew his whistle, and the men fell into some
kind of line.

'My turn now,' said Jenny. 'Let us fly, Will. Let us fly back again.'

We ran down Denmark Street into the quiet, dark Hog's Lane before the
Company reached the place. We ran through the garden door and locked it.
Then we went back to the house. The old woman was half drunk by this
time and half asleep. Doll was sitting upright, waiting. Jack stood by
the door.

'They are coming,' said Jenny. 'They have sacked the Black Jack, Doll.
They would have murdered you had you been in the house: they have broken
all the furniture and made a bonfire of it: and they have brought out
all the liquor. The people are drinking it up now--beer and rum and
gin--and wine. Well, you have lost nothing, Doll--nothing at all. Now
they are coming here.' She rang the bell, and called the servants. There
were six of them. 'There is a mob on their way to this house,' she told
them. 'They are going to wreck the place and to murder me, if they can.
You had better get out of the house as soon as you can. Put together all
that you can carry, and go out of the back way. You can go to one of
the inns in Holborn for the night: if any of you have the courage to
venture through the streets of Soho, you might go to the Horse Guards
and call the soldiers to save the house. Now be quick. To-morrow I will
pay you your wages.'

The women looked astonished, as well they might. What sort of company
was Madame keeping? There was the old woman bemused with drink: there
was the young country man: who were they? What did it mean?

'The mob are coming to-night, Madame?'

'They are coming now. They will be here in a few minutes. If you would
escape, go put your things together and fly by the garden door.'

They looked at each other: without a word they retired: and I suppose
they got away immediately, because we saw no more of them.

And then we heard a steady tramp of feet along Sutton Street.

'They are here,' said Jenny.

We heard the feet, but there was no shouting. They marched in a silence
which was more threatening than any noise. I closed the wooden shutters
of the room. It was as well not to show any lights.

'I suppose,' said Doll, 'that you will give us time to escape. Otherwise
we shall all four have our throats cut, and perhaps this gentleman too,
for whom you've taken all this trouble--and him with a wife of his own.
He'd better go back to her.'

'Yes, Doll,' Jenny replied meekly, without replying to the suggestion.
'You shall have time to escape.'

They drew up, apparently in very good order before the house, without
any shouting, because most of the crowd that had followed them to the
Black Jack were still on the spot drinking what they could get in the
general scramble. There were some, however, who came with them and hung
outside and behind the company of revenge who began to assemble and to
shout 'Huzzah' after the way of the Londoners. But I believe they knew
not what was intended save that it was revenge of some kind: there would
most certainly be the breaking of windows and the smashing of doors:
there would be the pleasant spectacle of revenge with more bonfires of
broken furniture: perhaps more casks and bottles of strong drink: in
all probability women would be turned out into the street with every
kind of insult and ill-usage, as had happened, indeed, only a week
before in the Strand when a company of sailors wrecked a house and
turned the women out of doors with blows and curses.

First they knocked loudly at the door, shouting for the door to be
opened or it would be the worse for everybody inside. Then they pushed
the door which yielded not.

'They will not force the door easily,' said Jenny. 'Who will run
downstairs and see that the area door is secure?'

I volunteered for this duty. The kitchen windows were provided with
strong iron bars which would keep the people off for a time: the area
door was strong and was barred within: for further precaution I locked
and barred the kitchen door and a strong door at the head of the
staircase: we should thus gain time.

Crash--smash--crash! Were you ever in a house while the mob outside were
breaking the windows? Perhaps not. 'Tis like a field of battle with the
rattle of musquetry. At one moment half the windows in the house were
broken: at the next moment the other half went: and still
crash--crash--the stones flew into the windows tearing out what little
glass remained.

Then there was silence again.

'Our time is nearly up,' said Jenny. 'Doll, wake up mother. Tie her hat
under her chin, wrap her handkerchief round her neck--so. What will they
do next? Jack, are you afraid to reconnoitre? Go up to the first floor,
and look out of window.'

I went with him. The stones were still flying thickly through the
windows. We made our way along the wall till we came to the window. Then
we went on hands and knees and crept to the window. I wrapped one hand
in a curtain and held it before my face while I looked out.

They were lighting torches and conferring together. By the torchlight I
could make out their faces. They were of the type which I had had a
recent opportunity of studying in Newgate: the type which means both the
hunter and the hunted. It is a cruel and hard type: a relentless type:
the faces all had the same expression--it meant 'Revenge.' 'We have been
betrayed,' said the faces, 'by our friends, by the very people we
trusted: we will have revenge. As we have sacked the Black Jack, so we
will sack the Assembly Rooms. As we would have killed the landlady of
the Black Jack: so we will kill her daughter, the Orange Girl, if we
find her.' That is what the faces seemed to say.

They were conferring what to do next. One of them I could see, advocated
breaking down the iron railings: but they had no instruments: another
wanted to use a battering ram against the front door but they had no
battering-ram: a third proposed a ladder and entering by the first floor
windows. But they had no ladder.

While they were thus debating a man came into the Square who brought a
ladder for them. There was no further hesitation. 'Come, Jack,' I said.
'There is no time to be lost: we must get away as quickly as possible.'

'You go on,' said Jack, 'I will follow.'

He waited. The ladder was raised to the window at which he watched. A
fellow ran up quickly. Jack sprang to his feet, threw up the sash and
hurled him headlong off the ladder. The poor wretch fell on the spikes.
He groaned but only once. He was killed. There was silence for a moment.
Then there arose a mighty scream--I say it was like the screaming of a
woman. The mob had tasted blood. It was their own--but it was blood.
They yelled and roared. Some of them ran to hold the ladder while a
dozen men ran up. Jack prudently retired, but locked the door behind
him.

'I believe I have killed him,' he said quickly. 'The one who ran up the
ladder. I think he fell on the spikes.'

'Come,' said Jenny. 'We must go at once if we mean to go at all. Wake up
mother again, Doll. Farewell to my greatness. Will, I grudge not any
cost--remember--whatever it is. Take me with you, to your own home for
awhile, till I am able to look round again. These devils! they are
overhead, I hear them falling over the furniture. Pray that they break
their shins. Come, everybody.'

She blew out the candles and led the way. The old woman half awake was
led out by Jack and Doll. I followed last. As we passed out into the
garden, we could hear the cursing of the fellows overhead and the
smashing of the door which Jack had locked.

In Sutton Street, over the garden wall, everything seemed quiet: that
is, there were no footsteps as of a crowd. Yet in the Square the crowd
roared and yelled, and from St. Giles's was still heard the clamour of
the people fighting over the drink. We looked out of the garden door
cautiously. No one was in Hog Lane, which was as deserted as a city in
the Desert. We closed the door and turned to the right, and so making
our way by streets which I knew well, either by day or by night, we got
to St. Martin's Lane and then to Charing Cross where we found a hackney
coach.

'Jenny,' I said in the coach, taking her hand. 'The evening spoils the
day. All this you have suffered for my sake. What can I say? What can I
feel?'

'Oh! Will, what are a few sticks of furniture and curtains compared to
your safety and to Alice's happiness? I care not a straw. I am ruined,
it is true; but--for the first time in my life, I am thankful for it--I
am a married woman. My debts will all be transferred to Matthew. Will!
Think of it! The first effect of the victory will be to make Matthew a
bankrupt at once. After what he owned in Court, after he receives the
news of my debts: there can be no delay. Henceforth, my dear Will, you
will be safe from Mr. Probus.'

I was, indeed, to be safe from him, but in a way which she could not
expect.

'Meantime,' she added, with a sigh, 'they have not done with me, yet.'

'Why, what further harm can they do you?'

'I know not. You asked the same question before. There is no end to the
ways of a revengeful spirit. They will murder me, perhaps: or they will
contrive some other way.'

'Then go out of their reach.'

'The only place of safety for me is with my own folks. I should be safe
in a gipsy camp. They have their camps everywhere, but I do not want to
live with them. No, Will. I shall remain. After all, the revenge of
people like these soon passes away. They will wreck my house to-night.
That very likely will seem to them enough. I should have thought so, but
for the things that mother saw in the coals. She is a witch, indeed. I
say, mother, you are a proper witch.' But the good lady was fast asleep.

We left her with her daughter Doll and the young fellow they called
Jack, at the White Hart Inn. It appeared that a waggon was going on in
the morning to Horsham in Sussex. They might as well stay at Horsham for
a time as anywhere else. There was very little fear that the St.
Giles's company of revenge would make any further inquiries about them.
So they left us and I saw the pair no more--and cannot tell you what
became of them in the end. As for the young fellow, you will hear more
about him. The hackney coach took us to our cottage on the Bank where,
after so many emotions and surprises, I, for one, slept well.

Let us return to the house in the Square. The rioters finding no one
within, quickly pulled away the barricade of the front door and threw it
open. Then the work of wrecking the place began. When you remember that
supper was sometimes provided for two thousand people, you will
understand the prodigious quantity of plates, dishes, knives, forks,
tables, benches, and things that were stored in the pantries and
kitchens. You have heard of the hangings, the curtains, the candelabra,
the sconces, the musical instruments, the plants, the vases, the
paintings, the coloured lamps, the card-tables, the candlesticks, the
stores of candles--in a word the immense collection of all kinds
necessary for carrying on the entertainments. It is true that the
suppers were cooked at a tavern and sent in, cold; but they had to be
served in dishes and provided with plates. There was no wine to speak of
in the house, because the wine was sent in for the night from the tavern
which supplied it. Everything in the house was broken. The company of
revenge did its work thoroughly. Everything was broken: everything was
thrown out of the windows: the centre of the Square was made the site of
a huge bonfire which, I believe, must be remembered yet: all the
furniture was piled up on this bonfire: the flames ascended to the
skies: that of the Black Jack was a mere boy's bonfire compared to this,
while the piles of broken glass and china rendered walking in the Square
dangerous for many a day to come.

You have heard that Jenny recommended her women-servants to call out the
soldiers. One of them dared to run through the dark streets to the Horse
Guards. Half an hour, however, elapsed before the soldiers could be
turned out. At last they started with muskets loaded and bayonets fixed:
when they arrived, the work was nearly finished: it would have been
better for poor Jenny had it been completely finished, as you will
presently discover: the furniture was all broken and, with the hangings,
curtains and carpets, was burning on the bonfire. The soldiers drew up
before the door: the mob began throwing stones: the soldiers fired into
them. Four or five fell--of whom two were killed on the spot: the rest
were wounded. The mob soon ran away. Some of the soldiers proceeded to
search the house: they found a dozen or twenty fellows engaged in
smashing the mirrors and the candelabra in the dancing-hall: they
secured them: and then, the mob all gone, and the bonfire dying away
they left a guard of four or five and marched back with their prisoners
and the wounded men. In the morning the soldiers fastened up the broken
door somehow and left the empty house. Alas! If only the mob had been
able to fire the house and to burn down and gut the place from cellar to
garret.

This was the first act of revenge on the part of St. Giles's. There was
to be another and a more deadly act.




CHAPTER XIV

AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE


The joy of the acquittal and the release was certainly dashed by the
wild revenge of the mob in the evening. The wreck of the great house
with all its costly fittings and decorations could be nothing short of
ruin to poor Jenny. Still it was with heartfelt gratitude that I
returned to my own roof with character unblemished. Alice had a little
feast prepared, not so joyful as it might have been, though Jenny made a
brave attempt to be cheerful. Tom was with us: the punch-bowl was
filled: the glasses went round: Tom played and sang--nobody could sing
more movingly than he when he was in that vein; that is, when he sat
with a cheerful company round the steaming punch-bowl.

More revenge, however, was to follow. Next morning, about eight or nine
of the clock, Jenny came out with me to walk upon the Bank. For the time
of year the weather was fine, the sun, still warm, though it was now low
down, and had a wintry aspect, shone upon the river: the wind tossed up
the water in little waves; the boats rocked; the swans rolled about and
threatened to capsize.

Jenny carried the boy, who laughed and played with her hair and
impudently planted his fingers upon her cheek.

'Will,' she said, 'I must now contrive some other means of existence.
The Assembly Rooms of Soho Square are wrecked and destroyed. That is
certain. They are very likely burned down as well. All my furniture, all
my property is destroyed. Of that I am quite certain. The villains would
make short work once inside. Well, I can never recover credit enough to
refit them. Besides, the mob might break in again, though I do not think
they would. I am sorry for my creditors. They will be much more injured
than I myself,' she laughed.

'Who are your creditors, Jenny?'

'Upholsterers, painters, furniture-makers, cooks, wine-merchants,
bakers, grocers, drapers--half London, Will. There was never anybody a
greater benefactor to trade. They let me go on, because you see, they
thought the profits of the winter season would clear them. Poor dear
confiding people!'

'Well, but Jenny, since they trusted you before, will they not trust you
again?'

'They cannot, possibly. Consider what it would take to refit that great
place. By this time all the mirrors and the paintings have been
destroyed. Most likely the house is burned down as well; unless the
soldiers came in time, which I doubt. They generally march up when the
mischief is done.' So she began to toss and to dandle the boy, singing
to it. 'Will,' she said, 'the happiest lot for a woman is to live
retired and bring up her brats. If Matthew had been what he promised and
taken me away from London and into the country!'

'Do you know how much you owe?'

'I heard, some time ago, that it was over £30,000. Masquerades, I fear,
cannot be made to pay. They say I give them too much wine and too good.
As for giving them too much, that is impossible. The men would drink,
every night, a three-decker full; their throats are like the vasty
deep.'

'But--is it possible? £30,000? Jenny, you can never pay that enormous
sum.'

'My dear Will, I never thought I should be able to pay it. Unfortunately
while it is unpaid the good people are not likely to give me any more
money. No, Will, that chapter is finished. Exit Madame Vallance. Who
comes next?'

'But there are the creditors to consider.' I began to have fears of a
Debtors' Prison for Jenny.

'Oh! The creditors? The creditors, my dear Will, will be handed over to
Matthew. You are a good musician but an indifferent lawyer.
Matthew--Matthew--is responsible for his wife's liabilities. This is the
only point which reconciles me to marriage with such a man. I am
provided with a person who must take over all my debts. Dear Matthew!
Kind Matthew! That worthy man, that incomparable husband will now, for
the first time, understand the full felicities of the married state.'

'But Matthew can never pay this enormous sum of money.'

'I do not suppose he can. Then he will retreat to the Prison where he
put you, and, as long as he lives, will have opportunity of blessing
first the day when he married a wife, and next the day when he made it
impossible for her to live with him. If I can no longer carry on my
Assembly Rooms, what remains?'

'There is always the stage. Your friends desire nothing so much as your
return to Drury Lane.'

'Yes, the stage. I might return to Drury Lane. But, Will, those good
people who sacked the Black Jack and wrecked the house in the Square
yesterday, they were my friends of old; some of them, I believe, are my
cousins: they formerly came to applaud. Do you think they would come to
applaud after what has happened? Not so. They would come with baskets
full of rotten apples and addled eggs: they would salute me with those
missiles; there would be frantic cursings and hissings; they would drive
me off the stage with every brutal insult that their filthy minds could
invent. Oh! I know my own people--my cousins. I know them.'

'They will forget you, Jenny.'

'Yes, if I keep quiet. If I put myself forward the old rancour will be
revived. Who betrayed her old friends? Who sent the Bishop and the
Captain to Newgate? Who got them put in pillory--where they will most
certainly have to stand? Who caused all the addled eggs in London to fly
in their innocent faces? I tell you, Will, I know my people. Are they
not my people? And have I not betrayed them? You lovely boy--tell your
Dada that Jenny will never repent or regret what she did for his sake:
she would do it again, she would--she would--she would.'

'Oh! Jenny, you cut me to the heart. What can I do for you?'

'You can look happy again: and you can get the Newgate paleness out of
your cheeks--that is what you can do, Will.'

At this point of our discourse I observed, without paying any attention
to them, a little company of two men and a woman, walking across the
Marsh in the direction of the Palace or the Church or perhaps the
cottages. I looked at them without suspicion. Otherwise it would have
been easy for Jenny to have jumped into a boat and to have escaped--for
a time at least. But at this juncture we were singularly unfortunate.
The house in Soho Square had not been burned; otherwise there would have
been no further trouble. But you shall hear. I went back to the question
of the liabilities. How could anyone be easy who owed £30,000?

'Since there is no help, Jenny, for the creditors, and since you are not
responsible, why then, Jenny, you shall live with us, and it will be our
pride and happiness to work for you.'

She laughed. No: that would not do either.

Meantime the people I had seen crossing the Marsh were drawing nearer. I
now observed that the woman with the two men was none other than the
girl I had seen at the Black Jack, sitting on the Captain's knee.

'Jenny,' I said, 'Quick! Here comes a woman who owes you no goodwill.
Are you afraid of her? If so, let us take boat and escape across the
river.'

'Is it one of the St. Giles's company? No, Will, I am not afraid of the
woman, and you, I am sure, are not afraid of the men.'

They were within fifty feet of us. The woman broke away from the men and
ran towards us. 'Here she is!' she cried. 'This is the woman. Make her
prisoner. Quick! She will run away. I told you she would be here. Oh!
Make her prisoner. Quick! Put on the handcuffs. Tie her hand and
foot--she's a devil--bring out the chains. She is desperate. She will
claw some of you with her nails. Once she bit off a man's ear. That was
when she was an orange girl. Make her prisoner, good gentlemen, as quick
as you can. Take care of her. She'll tear your eyes out for you.'

Jenny flushed scarlet and stood still. But she caught my hand. 'Don't
leave me, Will,' she murmured. Leave her? But a terrible sinking of the
heart warned me that something horrible and dreadful was falling upon
us. What was it? 'I have felt it coming,' said Jenny. 'Come with me
whatever they do.'

The woman was within six feet of us, standing on the Bank. A wild figure
she was, bare-headed save for her hair which streamed out in the fresh
breeze: she wore a black leather corset and a frock of some thick stuff
with a woollen shawl or kerchief round her neck. Her red arms were bare
to the elbow; she had a black eye and a disfiguring scratch across her
cheek. Her bosom heaved; her lips trembled; her eyes were bright; her
cheeks were flaming. I knew her now! She was the girl I had seen sitting
on the Captain's knee. And I understood. This was more revenge.

The two men then approached. I knew them, too, alas! I had good reason
to know them. They were officers of Bow Street Court.

'By your leave, Madame,' said one, 'I have an order to arrest the body
of Madame Vallance, otherwise called Jenny Wilmot, otherwise Mrs.
Matthew Halliday.' He produced his emblem of office, the short wand with
a brass crown upon it.

'I am the person Sir. I suppose you have some reason--some
charge--against me?'

'Receiving stolen goods, knowing the same to have been stolen.'

'Oh!' she caught at my arm. 'I had forgotten that danger--Will, do not
leave me--not yet--not yet.' Then she recovered her self-possession.
'Well, gentlemen, I am your prisoner. This gentleman, my friend and
cousin, may, I suppose, come with me?' Alice came to the door and looked
out astonished to see two officers. 'Take your child, Alice,' said
Jenny, 'I must go with these gentlemen. Not content with destroying my
property, they are now trying to destroy my character. Will goes with me
to see what it means. He will report to you later on!'

'Oh! your character!' said the woman. 'A pretty character you've got!
How long since you had a character at all, I should like to know?
Destroy your character? I will destroy your life--your life--your
life--vile impudent drab--I shall take your life. You shall learn what
it means to turn against your friends.'

'Come,' said one of the men, 'you've shown us where she was. No more
jaw. Now leave us. Go. You have had your revenge.'

'Not yet--not till I see her in the cart. That is the only revenge that
will satisfy me.'

Jenny looked at her with a kind of pity. 'Poor soul!' she said, gently.
'Do you think the man is worth all this revenge? Do you think he cares
for you? Do you think you will care about him after a day or two? What
do you think you will get by all the revenge possible? More of his love
and fidelity? Who gave you that black eye? Will you make him any happier
in his prison--will you make him any fonder?'

'Oh!' the woman gasped and caught her breath. 'Revenge? If I can find
your mother and your sister I will kill them both with a pair of
scissors.' She improved this prophecy by a few decorative adjectives.
'As for you, this will teach you to turn against your own folk--the poor
rogues--you belong to us: and you turn against us. To save a man that
belongs to other folk. Ha! The rope is round your neck already! Ha! I
see you swinging. Ho!' She stopped and gasped again, being overcome with
the emotion of satisfied revenge.

'Perhaps,' I said weakly, 'this good woman would take a guinea and go
away quietly?'

'No! No!' she replied, 'not if you stuffed my pockets full of guineas.
You've put my man in prison. They say he'll stand in pillory and p'r'aps
be killed--the properest man in St. Giles's. They kill them sometimes in
the pillory,' she shuddered, 'but p'r'aps they'll let him off easy. As
for you, my fine Madame--you that look so haughty--you, the orange
girl--you'll be hanged--you'll be hanged!' She screamed these words
dancing about and cracking her fingers like a mad woman. Never before
had I seen a woman so entirely possessed by the fury of love's
bereavement. Do not imagine that I have set down her actual words--that
I could not do--nor the half of what she said. And all for such a lover!
for a footpad and highway robber; for a brute who beat her, kicked her,
and knocked her down; a low, dirty villain, who made her fetch and carry
and work for him; who had no tenderness, or any good thing in him at
all. Yet he was her man; and she loved him; and she would be revenged
for him. This woman, I say, was like a tigress bereft of her cubs. Had
it not been for the constable who stood between and for myself who stood
beside, she would have flown at poor Jenny with nail and claw and,
indeed, any other weapon which Nature had given to woman. I saw two
women fighting once for a man: 'twas in the King's Bench Prison; they
were pulled apart after one had been disfigured for life by the other's
teeth. This woman wanted only permission to rush in and do likewise. But
the constable kept her back with his strong arm.

'Come,' he said, 'enough said. What's the use of crying and shrieking?
You'll all be hanged in good time--all be hanged. What else are you fit
for? And a blessed thing it is for you that you will be hanged. That's
what I say. If you only knew it. Madame,' he said very respectfully, 'I
must ask leave to take you before his worship.' He held out his hand:
the hand of Law in all her branches from Counsel to thief taker is
always held out. I gave him half a guinea.

The woman was still standing beside us, shaking and trembling under the
agitation of the late storm. 'Here you,' said the officer, 'we've had
enough of your filthy tongue. Get off with you. Go, I say.' He stepped
forward with a menacing gesture. Among these women a blow generally
follows a word. She turned and walked away. I followed her with my eyes.
Her shoulders still heaved; her fingers worked: from time to time she
turned and shook her fist: and though I could not hear I am certain she
was talking to herself.

'Where are we going?' Jenny asked, humbly.

'To Sir John Fielding's, Bow Street, Madame. Lord! what signifies what a
madwoman like that says? She's lost her man and she's off her head.'

'How are we to get there?'

'Well, Madam, there is no coach to be got this side the High Street. If
I may make so bold there's the boats at the Horseferry. We can drop down
the river more quickly than over London Bridge.'

Jenny made no remark. She sat in the boat with bent head, her cheeks
still flaming.

'I am thinking, Will. Don't speak to me just at present.'

The boat carried us swiftly down the river.

'I am thinking,' she repeated, 'what is best to do. Will, I had quite
forgotten the things.' I could not understand a word of what she said.
'I know now what I have to do. It's a hard thing to do, but it's the
best.'

She explained no more, and we presently arrived at the Savoy Stairs and
took a coach to Bow Street Police Court. It was only six weeks since I
was there last, but on what a different errand!

The blind magistrate took our case and called for the evidence.

First, the woman who had delivered Jenny into the hands of the law
deposed that she was a respectable milliner by trade; that she was
accidentally in the neighbourhood of the Black Jack about midnight three
nights before, when she became aware of something which excited her
curiosity and interest. The landlady of the tavern and her daughter Doll
were carrying between them a box full of something or other. She
followed them, herself unseen. They walked down Denmark Street into
Hog's Lane, and carried their box into a garden, the door of which was
open: for greater certainty of knowing the place again she marked the
door in the corner with a cross. Then the two women came out and
returned to the Black Jack. All night long they were carrying things
from the tavern to the garden gate; sometimes in boxes, sometimes in
their arms; there were silk mantles and satin frocks and embroidered
petticoats, very fine. That work kept them all night. Now, knowing the
old woman to be a notorious fence, she was certain that these were
stolen goods, and that they were removing them for safety to this house
probably unknown to the master and the mistress; that in the morning
when it was light she went back to the place and found that the
garden-door was the back-door of the premises known as the Soho Square
Assembly Rooms kept by a Madame Vallance.'

'Well? what then?' asked Sir John.

'Your worship, the next day was the trial of that gentleman there for
robbing the Bishop and the Captain. I was in the Old Bailey, sir, and
the gentleman would have been brought in guilty and hanged, as many a
better man than he has suffered it without a whisper or a snivel--but
this woman here--this Madame Vallance who is nothing in the world but
Jenny Wilmot the actress--who was an Orange Girl at Drury Lane once--and
is the daughter of the old woman that keeps the Black Jack.'

'The Black Jack!' said Sir John. 'The mob wrecked that house last
night.'

'And the other house too. They would have set it on fire, your Honour,'
said the girl, 'but the soldiers came up and stopped them. More's the
pity.'

'Have a care, woman,' said the magistrate, 'or I shall commit you for
taking part in the riot. Go on with your evidence if you have any more.'

She gave her evidence in a quick impetuous manner. It was like a
cataract of angry burning words.

'It was in the garret that I found the things; I knew them at once. I'd
been down in Mother Wilmot's cellars. Oh! I knew them at once. Jenny's
got the stolen goods, I said. And so she had. So she had, your Honour,
and oh! let her deny it--let her deny it--if she can.'

'You found property in the garret which you identified as stolen. Pray
how did you know that fact?'

'Because it came from Mother Wilmot's cellars.'

'That does not prove it to be stolen.'

'Well, Sir, I happened to know some respectable people who had been
robbed of late, and I made bold to tell them of it; and they found their
own things, and here the worthy respectable gentlemen are to testify.'

'I will hear them presently.' Then Sir John began to ask the woman a few
questions which mightily disconcerted her. If, he asked, she was a
respectable milliner, where did she work? If she was a respectable
woman, what was she doing in front of St. Giles's Church at midnight? If
she were a respectable woman, how did she come to know the landlady of
the Black Jack and her daughter? How was it she found herself in the
garrets at all? At what time was she in the garrets? How did she come to
know the people who had lost property of late? In a word he made the
woman confess who she was and what she was. And he then, to her
confusion and amazement, committed her for trial for taking part in the
riots. So she was put aside, and presently consigned to Newgate with
other rioters taken in the fact. In the end she was imprisoned and
whipped. Still her evidence proved the deposit of goods in the garrets.
The worthy gentlemen to whom she referred were three or four
respectable tradesmen of Holborn. They deposed, one after the other, how
they had suffered of late much from depredations which prevented them
from exposing their goods at their doors; that this woman had called to
warn them of certain things found by the rioters in the garrets of the
Soho Square Assembly Rooms; that they went to see the things by
permission of the guard of soldiers: that they found certain things of
their own, which they identified by private marks upon them.

The evidence was concluded. 'Madame,' the magistrate said, 'you have
heard the evidence. What have you to say? If you desire to call evidence
for the defence I will remand the case. You can produce, perhaps, your
mother and sister, though I confess, they are not likely to appear.'

'They got away yesterday, to avoid the fury of the mob, Sir. This woman
is angry because I have proved her lover to be guilty of perjury.'

'That is evident. On the other hand, your house contained the stolen
goods; your mother was seen taking them into the house. The
circumstances are such as to make it evident that your mother desired a
place of safety. It is proper to show that you were not an accomplice of
the removal and the reception in your house.'

'I submit, Sir, that I can only prove this by calling my mother as
witness, and, Sir, you have yourself acknowledged that she is not likely
to appear.'

'Then, Madame, I can only ask you for anything you may say in defence.'

'Sir, I shall say nothing.'

This reply amazed me beyond anything. I expected her to deny indignantly
any knowledge of the matter, and to declare that the things had been
brought into the house without her knowledge. She would say nothing.
Then Sir John committed her for trial. I placed her in a coach with such
heaviness of heart as you may imagine and we drove to Newgate. Jenny was
well remembered by the turnkeys, to whom she had been generous and even
profuse, in my case. Turnkeys are never astonished, but the appearance
of Madame was perhaps an exception to this general rule. However, on
payment of certain guineas she was placed, alone, in the best cell that
the woman's side could boast.

'Jenny!' I cried when we were alone. 'For God's sake what does it mean?
Why did you not deny knowledge of the whole business? What have you to
do with stolen goods? Even supposing that your mother took them there,
what has that got to do with you?'

'I shall tell the whole truth to you, Will, and only to you. But you may
tell Alice. From you I will keep no secrets.'

'Oh! Jenny, it is for me--for me--that you have fallen into all this
trouble. What shall I do? What shall I do?' I looked round the mean,
bare, and ugly walls of the cell. 'Twas a poor exchange from the private
room in the Square. And all for me!

'What did your boy tell you this morning, Will? That Jenny never
regrets--never repents--what she has done for you. She would do it all
over again--over again--a hundred thousand times over again.' She buried
her face in her hands for a moment. 'Twas not in woman's nature to
restrain the tears. Then she sprang to her feet. 'What? you think I am
going to cry because the woman has done this? At least she is coming to
Newgate as well. Now, Will. I must tell you the truth. It was most
important to get the evidence of my mother and of Doll. They connected
Probus with the conspiracy. They helped to identify the two principal
witnesses. Well, I had to buy their evidence. They made me pay a pretty
price for it. As for Doll, you wouldn't believe what a grasping creature
she is. That comes of keeping the slate. I had to compensate them for
the loss of their daily takings at the Black Jack. I paid them for their
stock of liquors--we saw the mob drinking it up last night: I paid them
for their furniture and their clothes. I gave them money to get out of
London with, and to keep them until they can get another tavern; they
got money from me on one pretence or the other till I thought they were
resolved on taking all I had. And when I had paid for everything and
thought they were settled and done with there arose the question of the
stolen goods. And I really thought the whole business was ruined and
undone.'

'What question?'

'Why, my parent, Will, had got under the old house a spacious stone
vault quite dry, built up with arches and paved with stone; there isn't
a finer store-room in all London: it belonged once to some people--I
don't know--religious people who liked shutting themselves up in the
dark. I suppose that mother couldn't bear waste or the throwing away of
good opportunities for she turned the vault into a cellar for stolen
goods; she bought the goods; she stored them down below; she sold them
to people who carried them about the country. Everybody knew it; and she
was pretty safe because she had a good name for the prices she gave, and
even Merridew had to let her alone. Well, what was to be done with the
things in the vault? There was enough to hang them both a hundred times.
They took me down to see them. I never suspected there was anything like
the quantity of things. Plain silver melted down; gold melted down;
precious stones picked out of rings; and snuff-boxes; patch boxes; rolls
of silk; boxes of gloves; handkerchiefs; frocks and gowns and
embroidered petticoats and mantles; ribbons of all kinds; the place was
like a wonderful shop. Time was pressing. It was impossible for mother
to sell everything at once; things have to be taken into the country and
sold cautiously to the Squire's' lady, who knows very well what she is
buying, just as her husband knows that he is buying smuggled brandy.'

'So you bought the things?'

'There was nothing else to do. Mother tied up the jewels in her
handkerchief; Doll took the melted gold and silver; and they undertook
to carry all the rest of the things across to the garden door in Hog
Lane; the door by which we escaped yesterday; and to store them in my
cellars and garrets. This, I suppose, they did. I paid for the things.
They are mine, Will.'

'Oh!' I groaned.

'Yes, they are mine. This comes of being born in St. Giles's and
belonging to the Black Jack. Well, I clean forgot all about the things.
Well now; this is the point. If I deny knowledge of them they will send
out a hue and cry for mother. She will certainly be found and brought up
on the charge. And she is not the sort to suffer in silence. I know my
people, Will: she and Doll will let it be known that I bought the
things, so that we may all thus stand in the Dock together. And I assure
you, Will, I would much rather stand in the Dock alone. I shall have a
better chance.'

'Yes--but----'

'If I take the whole business on myself they won't drag in mother. They
will let her alone and she will keep quiet for her own sake. Besides,
seeing what this woman has got by her evidence I don't think the others
will be eager to give their evidence. Now, Will, you know the exact
truth. And--and--this is what one expects if you belong to the Black
Jack.'

'But--Jenny--think--think.'

'I know what you would say, dear lad. They will hang me. It is a most
ungraceful way of going out of the world. One would prefer a feather bed
with dignity. But indeed; have no fears, Will. They will do nothing of
the kind. If Jenny Wilmot made any friends at Drury Lane now is the time
to prove them. But I must think what to do.'

She sat down to the table. There were writing materials upon it. She
took quill in hand. Then she turned to me with her pretty smile. 'Oh!
Will--what a disaster it was that the soldiers came up before the mob
had set fire to the house! What a disaster! If the house was burned the
things in the garrets would have been burned as well and all the stolen
goods would have been destroyed and no trace left. What a disaster!' She
laughed. 'What might have been called my good fortune has turned out the
greatest misfortune that could have happened to me.'

'I must think,' she said. 'I must be alone and think out the whole
situation. It all depends on what should be told and what should be
concealed. That, I take it, is the history of everything. Some parts we
hide and some we tell. I must think.'

I did not disturb her. She leaned her head upon her hand and was silent
for awhile.

'Will,' she said, 'of all my friends there are but two on whom I can
rely with any hope of help--only two. Yet they told me I had troops of
friends. You have heard me speak of a certain noble lord who made love
to me. He made love so seriously that he was ready to marry me. I
refused him, as a reward. Besides his sister came and wept--I told you
the story. I cannot bear to see even a woman weep. Well, Will, this man
is, I am quite sure, a loyal and faithful gentleman, the only one of all
my lovers whom I could respect. I am going to write to him. He promised
me, upon his honour, to come to my assistance if ever I wanted any help
of any kind. I am going to remind him of that promise. The next friend
is the Manager of Drury. He will help me if he can, though he did not
propose to marry me. I will write to him as well. And I must write to my
attorney, who is also a friend of yours. Now, Will I want you to take by
your own hand a letter to his lordship. Go to his town house in Curzon
Street and ask the people to deliver the letter instantly. The other two
letters you can send by messenger. And, Will, one more thing. I believe
you ought to warn Matthew what to expect. Since he is going to be
bankrupt on his own account it will not hurt him very much to be
bankrupt on mine as well. Now wait a little, while I write the letters.'




CHAPTER XV

THE FILIAL MARTYR


I hastened on my errand, taking a boat to Westminster, whence it is a
short walk across the Parks to Curzon Street, where my Lord Brockenhurst
had his town house. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon: I found
carriages and chaises waiting outside the open door, and the hall within
filled with servants in livery lolling about and exchanging insolent
remarks upon the people who crowded up the stairs. I am little versed in
the customs of the Great, but I confess that the continual presence of
these insolent and hulking varlets in the house and in all the rooms
would be to me a burden intolerable. What says Doctor Johnson?

            'The pride of awful state,
    The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate,
    The regal palace, the luxurious board,
    The liveried army and the menial lord

I believe he meant the lords who were obsequious to the Cardinal: we may
read it, to suit those times, the impudent menials who lord it over
their Master's house.

I thought of those lines as I waited, neglected, in the Hall among the
lacqueys. Fortunately I was reminded of other lines by the same great
author.

    'Where won by bribes, by flatteries implored,
    The groom retails the favours of his Lord.'

I turned to one of them whose shoulder knots and his rod of office
proclaimed him one in authority.

'Sir,' I said, 'I am the bearer of a letter for his Lordship.'

'Wait, friend, wait. His Lordship will receive presently.'

'Sir. It is an important letter. It is from a lady. I assure you that
his Lordship would be much vexed not to receive it.'

'Give it to me, then.'

'Sir. By your leave. It is very important. Can you contrive to put it
into his Lordship's hand immediately?'

He looked at me with an air of surprise, and made no reply.

'Pardon me, Sir,' I said, taking out my purse, in which were two
guineas--all I had in the world--'I forgot to add that I rely on your
good offices,' with that I slipped a guinea into his hand.

'Ay--' he said. 'Now you talk sense. Well, Sir, you may trust me. His
Lordship shall have the letter within an hour, as soon as his company
begins to go.'

With this assurance I was fain to be content. So I came away hoping that
the fellow would keep his word. This, happily, he did.

It was too late at that hour to seek out Matthew in his counting-house.
Besides, I confess that I felt pity for the poor wretch thus hastening
to destruction. His haggard look at the trial showed the miseries he was
suffering. He gave his evidence, as you have heard on the threat that
otherwise he would be charged with the other four with conspiracy: and
now a misfortune almost as bad was to fall upon him. To go to him would
have the appearance of exulting over these misfortunes. Yet it was
necessary to tell him.

I went home sadly. That Jenny should suffer the wreck and destruction of
her house in Soho Square, was hard: that she should, also, which was
much worse, be arrested on a capital charge and committed to Newgate:
that she should have nothing to say or to plead in defence: in revenge
for the part she had played in proving my innocence: these things, I
say, were difficult to understand. Why should she not plead 'Not
Guilty,' and leave it to the prosecution to prove that she was the owner
of the property or that she knew it was in her house? Who would believe
the word of the revengeful fury who swore to seeing the things taken to
the house by the old woman and her daughter? Would not a clever counsel
make her contradict herself? and confess, somehow, that she herself had
laid the things there by way of a trap?

So I argued, blind, in my anxiety.

'Will,' said Alice, 'you would meet misfortune by falsehood. Fie! You
would lay a trap set by a clever talker to catch this miserable ignorant
woman. Fie!'

'What then?' I cried. 'Ignorant or not she is a mischievous and a
revengeful woman. My dear, I would save Jenny at any cost.'

'I think Jenny is right, Will. She will meet the charge by simply
pleading "Guilty" to whatever they can prove against her: namely, having
the things in her house, knowing that they were stolen. I think it is
her wisest course. No questions will be asked: no one will believe that
a woman in her position could actually be guilty of receiving stolen
goods so worthless: it will be understood by everybody that she is
screening someone--some close relation--even at the risk of her own
life.'

I replied by a groan of dissent.

'Jenny is not an actress for nothing. She ought not to have bought the
things at all: or she ought to have destroyed them: this I suppose she
would have done, but she forgot: she was wholly occupied in saving you.
We must remember that with gratitude unspeakable, Will.'

'Yes, wife, God knows I do.'

'The world has been told over and over again that poor Jenny was once an
Orange Girl: do people ever expect Orange Girls to come of respectable
parents? To take guilt upon yourself--in order to screen your
mother--will appear to the world as a noble and generous act. It would
have taken you and me, Will, a month to discover the best way out of the
trouble. But Jenny saw her way at once.'

In the end Alice proved to be right. Jenny chose the very best thing
possible, as you shall see.

In the morning I began by making my way to the old familiar place, the
Counting House and Wharf close to All-hallows the Great. The Wharf was
quite empty and desolate: the cranes were there, but there were no
lighters: the casks and bales that formerly encumbered the place were
gone: in the outer counting-house there were no clerks except Ramage.
But the place was filled with lawyers' clerks attornies, creditors and
their representatives. The talk was loud and angry: all were talking
together: all were threatening terrible things unless their claims were
paid in full.

Ramage held up his hands when he saw me and shook his head.

'Will my cousin see me, Ramage?' I asked. 'Tell him I have something of
the greatest importance to say to him.'

'It is all over, Mr. William,' he whispered. 'The blow has fallen. After
the things which came out in the Old Bailey there was no hope. It was
all over the City at once and on Change in the afternoon. You will find
him within. I fear you will find that he has been drinking. Go in, Sir,
you must not pay any heed to what he says. He has been strange and
unlike himself for a long time. No wonder with all these troubles.' Thus
did the faithful servant stand up for the credit of an unworthy master.
'Go in, Sir. He will insult you. But don't mind what he says.'

I went in. Matthew was evidently half drunk. He had a bottle of brandy
before him, and he was drinking fast and furiously.

'Gaol-bird!' he cried, banging his fist on the table and talking
thickly. 'Newgate-bird--what do you want? Money? You all want money. You
may go away then. I haven't got any money. All the money's gone. All the
money's lost.' So he went on repeating his words, and maundering and
forgetting one moment what he had said just before.

'Matthew,' I said, 'I have not come to ask for money or for anything. I
have brought you news.'

'What news? There is no news but bad news. Perhaps somebody has murdered
Probus. Why don't you murder Probus--murder--murder Probus?' I suffered
him to go on in his foolish way without reply. 'Do you know, Will,' he
lay back in his chair and plunged his hands in his pockets, 'there is
nobody I should like to see murdered so much as Probus--Ezekiel Probus,
excepting yourself. If I could see both of you hanging side by side, I
should be happy; but if I could see you both murdered with a
bludgeon I could go--I could go--I could go to the King's Bench
cheerfully--cheerfully.'

It was no use prolonging the interview. I told him, briefly, why I had
come.

'Your wife,' I said, 'has had her house sacked and the whole of her
property destroyed by the mob.'

'I am glad of that--very glad to hear that. All of it destroyed you say?
This is good news indeed.'

'She can no longer carry on her business at the Soho Square Assembly
Rooms. The property destroyed consists largely of furniture supplied for
the use of the Rooms. It is not yet paid for. Therefore, she will be
compelled to refer her creditors to you.'

'Her creditors? Does this abandoned woman owe any money, then?'

'I believe about £30,000 is the sum of her liabilities.'

He laughed. He laughed cheerfully, as if it was one of the merriest and
heartiest jokes he had ever heard. 'Is that all? Why, man, it's nothing.
Put it on my back; and as much more as you please: as much as the Bank
of England contains. Why, I can bear it all. Nothing makes any
difference now. Tell her she is quite welcome to double it, if she can
get the credit. It's all one to me.'

'That is what I came to tell you.'

'Very good, gaol-bird. Probus very nearly succeeded, did he not? You
felt a kind of a tightening about the neck, I suppose. Never mind. Don't
be disappointed. I dare say you will go to Tyburn after all. You are
young yet, and then the fortune will come to me--and we shall see--we
shall see'--he drank another glass of Nantes--'we shall see----What was
I going to say?'

So I left him and went on my way to Newgate.

Jenny was in conference with her attorney.

'Come in, Will. I have no secrets from my cousin, Mr. Dewberry. Now, if
you please, give me your opinion.'

'First, then, if you plead Not Guilty--what can they prove against you?
That certain things were found in your garrets? How did they get there?
A wretched, revengeful drab says that your mother and sister put them
there. Is her word to be believed? She is the sweetheart of a
conspirator and presumably a highwayman, whom you have been instrumental
in consigning to a prison, with probably a severe punishment to follow.
Where are your mother and sister? They are gone away? Where? You cannot
be asked. But you do not know. Why? To escape the revenge of the mob who
have wrecked their house. Very well. There the case ends--and breaks
down.'

'Not so. It does not break down. My mother has long been known as the
greatest receiver in the trade. She bought more and sold more than
anybody else. The Court dressmakers came to her to buy her lace and her
embroidery for the great Court Ladies. Why, she is the most notorious
woman in London. If I am acquitted, they will get up a Hue and Cry for
her, and they will certainly find her. And then there isn't a thief in
prison or out who will not give evidence against her, after the evidence
she has given against the thieves. And as for Doll--my sister's name is
Doll--in order to save her own skin, she will most certainly be ready to
give evidence to the effect that I bought the things of my mother and
paid for them. Which I did. As I told you.'

'You never told me so. I don't know that it matters much. I am only
trying to see my way to an acquittal. And considering there is nobody
but that woman to testify to the conveyance of the goods, really, I
think there ought to be no doubt as to the result.'

'Mr. Dewberry,' Jenny laid her hand upon his arm. 'Understand me. I have
been kept down, all my life, by my origin. As soon as this business is
over I shall try in some way or other to get clear away from them
all--Oh! what an origin it is! Oh, how I have always envied the children
of honest parents. Why--my father----'

'Dear lady, do not speak of these things.'

'Well, then, my cousins--I mean those of them who are not yet
hanged--live in the courts and blind alleys of St. Giles's. I have no
longer any patience with them--it makes me wretched to think of them,
and it humiliates me to go among them because I have to become again one
of them and I do it so easily. Well, Sir, I am what I am: yet strange
as it may seem to you--I will not lend my help to getting my mother and
sister hanged.'

Mr. Dewberry took her hand and kissed it. 'Proceed, Madame,' he said
gravely.

'If, then, I plead Guilty, the woman's evidence will be received without
any dispute or discussion, and when sentence is passed, the case will be
closed. No one, afterwards, will venture to charge my mother with that
crime.'

'I suppose not. But the sentence, Madame, the sentence!'

She shuddered. 'I know what the sentence will be. But I am not afraid. I
have friends who will come to my assistance.'

In fact one of them appeared at that very moment. He was a gentleman of
a singularly sweet and pleasant countenance, on which kindness, honour,
and loyalty were stamped without the least uncertainty. He was dressed
very finely in a satin coat and waistcoat, and he wore a sash and a
star.

'Divine Jenny!' he said, taking her hand and kissing it. 'Is it possible
that I find thee in such a place and in such a situation as this?'

Jenny suffered her hand to remain in his. When I think of her and of her
behaviour at this juncture I am amazed at her power of acting. She
represented, not her own feelings, which were those of the greatest
disgust towards her nearest relations (to whom one is taught to pay
respect), but the feelings which she wished Lord Brockenhurst, and,
through him, the world at large, should believe of her.

In her left hand she held a white lace handkerchief, scented with some
delicate perfume: the woman was one of those who are never without some
subtle fragrance which seemed to belong to her, naturally. This
handkerchief she applied to her eyes--from time to time: they were dry,
to my certain knowledge but the act was the outward semblance of
weeping.

'My Lord,' said Jenny, 'this gentleman is my cousin--not of St.
Giles's--my husband's cousin--My husband, however, I cannot suffer to
approach me. This other gentleman is Mr. Dewberry, of Great St. Thomas
Apostle in the City of London, attorney at Law. They are considering my
case with me. By your Lordship's permission we will renew our
conference in your presence. If, on the other hand, you would prefer to
hear, alone, what I have to state, they will leave us.'

'I am in your hands, Jenny,' he kissed her hand again and let it go. 'My
sole desire is to be of service. Pray remember, Jenny, that whatever I
promise I try to perform. All the service that I can render you in this
time of trouble is at your command.'

I placed a chair for him and looked to Jenny to begin.

She sat down and buried her face in her hands while we all waited.

'My Lord,' she rose at last and continued standing, 'I once told you--at
a time when it was impossible to conceal anything from you, that I was
originally an Orange Girl at the Theatre where you honoured me
frequently by witnessing my humble performances.'

'Say, rather, Jenny, inspired performances.'

She bowed her head, like some queen. 'If your Lordship pleases. I also
told you that my parents were of the very lowest--so low that one can
get no lower.'

'You did.'

'Now, my Lord, I am accused of receiving stolen property in my house,
knowing the property to be stolen.'

'Oh! Monstrous! Most monstrous!'

'My accuser is a girl whose sweetheart is now by my evidence and the
evidence of others lying in this prison beside me, on a charge of
conspiracy. With the girl it is an act of revenge. She would tell you as
much. The mob, also in revenge for exposing a most diabolical plot, has
wrecked and sacked my mother's house in St. Giles's and my own in Soho
Square. They have destroyed all that I possessed. I am therefore ruined.
But that is nothing. On the stage we care very little about losing or
gaining money. This woman has now brought a charge against me which I
blush even to name.'

'You have only to deny the charge, Jenny. There is not a man in London
who would doubt the word of the incomparable Jenny Wilmot.'

She bowed her head again. 'I would I could think so.'

She made as if she would go on; then stopped and hesitated, looking down
as if in doubt and shame.

'My Lord, I will put the case to you quite plainly. Mr. Dewberry is of
opinion that the result, if the matter is brought before the court will
certainly be decided in my favour.'

'I am certain on the point,' said the Attorney. 'I beg your Lordship's
pardon for my interruption.'

'Oh! Sir, who has a better right to interrupt?' He turned again to
Jenny, whom he devoured with his eyes. Truly if ever any man was in love
it was Lord Brockenhurst.

'If I were acquitted,' she went on. 'Indeed, I believe I should be
acquitted--but the case would not be ended by that acquittal. Suppose,
my Lord--I put a case--it need not be mine'--she plucked at the lace of
her handkerchief as if deeply agitated--'I say, it need not be my own
case--I suppose a case. Such a charge is brought against a
person--perhaps innocent. She is acquitted--But the charge remains. It
will then be brought against the real criminal. Out of revenge every
thief in St. Giles's would crowd in to give evidence. That person's fate
would be certain. She would be--she would be--your Lordship will spare
me the word.' Again she covered her eyes. Then she lifted her head again
and went on. 'I know that the--person--is guilty--She deserves nothing
short of what the law provides. Yet reflect, my Lord. Born among rogues:
brought up among rogues: without education and moral principles, or
honour, or religion, can one wonder if such a person turns to crime? And
can you wonder, my Lord'--again she sank into a chair and covered her
face with her hands--'can you wonder if the daughter should resolve to
save the mother's life, by taking--upon herself--the guilt--the
confession--the consequences of the crime?'

She was silent save for a sob that convulsed her frame. His Lordship
heard with humid eyes. When she had finished he rose with tears that
streamed down his face. For a while he could not speak. Then he turned
to Mr. Dewberry.

'Sir,' he said, 'tell me--tell me--what she means.'

'She means, my Lord, to plead Guilty and to take the consequences. By so
doing she will save her mother--yes, my Lord, her mother--even at the
sacrifice of her own life.'

'Oh!' he cried, 'it must not be! Great Heavens! It must not be.
Jenny--Jenny--thou art, I swear, an angel.'

'No, my Lord, no angel.'

'Yes, an angel! Hear me, Jenny. I will stand by thee. The world shall
know--the world that loves thee--By ---- the world shall know what a
treasure it possesses in the incomparable Jenny Wilmot. As an actress
thou art without an equal. As a child--as a daughter--history records no
greater heroism. Thou shalt be written down in history beside the woman
who saved her father from starvation and the woman who saved her husband
from the traitor's block. I can endure it no longer, Jenny. To-morrow
when my spirits are less agitated, I will come again.' He stooped and
kissed her bowed head and so left us.

A common or vulgar actress when the man for whom she had been playing
had gone, would have laughed or in some way betrayed herself. Not so
Jenny. She waited a reasonable time after his Lordship's departure and
then lifted her head, placed her handkerchief--still dry--to her eyes
and stood up.

'Mr. Dewberry,' she said, 'do you agree with me in the line I have
resolved to take?'

'Madame, I do,' he replied emphatically.

'And you, Will?'

I hesitated, because I perceived that she had been playing a part. Yet
an innocent part. She did not, certainly, desire to bring her mother and
sister to a shameful end: but, at the same time, she did not wish it to
be known that she had really paid for the property and ordered its
removal to her own house: she did not regard the landlady of the Black
Jack with all the filial affection (not to speak of respect) which her
emotion undoubtedly conveyed to his Lordship: on the other hand, it
would serve her own case--as well as her estimable mother--better that
she should be regarded as a voluntary victim to save a parent than that
she should be acquitted in order to give place to her mother who would
certainly be convicted.

'I agree, Jenny--I agree,' I answered.

'Sir,' said Mr. Dewberry as we walked away, 'I have often heard Miss
Jenny Wilmot described as an incomparable actress. I am now convinced of
the fact.'




CHAPTER XVI

THE SNARE WHICH THEY DIGGED FOR OTHERS


The same day on leaving Jenny, the Turnkey who conducted me to the gate,
offered me congratulations--rather gruff and even forced--on the turn
things had taken.

'I assure you, Sir,' he said with feeling, 'that we know generally
beforehand what will happen, and we'd quite made up our minds as to your
case, spite of Madame's interest. There didn't seem any doubt. Some of
us are a bit disappointed: we don't like, you see, for anyone to slip
out. Well: there's always disappointments. Would you like to cast an eye
on your friends--them that hatched that pretty plot? Come this way,
then. I wouldn't like to be in their shoes if it comes to Pillory--and
it will.'

So he led me out of the passage into one of the yards. At the sight of
the place my heart sank to think how I had myself trodden those
flagstones and stepped from side to side of those dismal walls. The
place was the Master's side: there were twenty prisoners or more in it.
One or two were sitting on the stone bench drinking beer and smoking
tobacco: one was playing a game of fives by himself. My two principal
witnesses, the Bishop and his friend the Captain, were walking side by
side, both in irons. Mr. Probus sat in a corner his head hanging down:
taking no notice of anything. Mr. Merridew walked by himself with an
assumption of being in the wrong place by accident and with an air of
importance, the prisoners making way for him right and left, for the
terror of his name accompanied him even into Newgate.

The turnkey called him. 'Merridew,' he said, with familiarity. 'Come and
see the young gentleman you tried to hang. Now he'll hang you. That's
curious, isn't it? Here we go up,' he turned to me with a philosophic
smile, 'and here we go down.'

'Sir,' Mr. Merridew obeyed the call and approached me, bowing with great
humility. His cringing salute was almost as nauseous as the impudent
brutality which he had shown in the Thieves' Kitchen. 'Sir, I am
pleased to make your honoured acquaintance. I hardly expected, in this
place where I am confined by accident----'

'Oh! Sir, I did not come here to make your acquaintance, believe me.'

'Sir, I am pleased to have speech with you, even in this place, and if
only to remove a misunderstanding which seems to have arisen regarding
my part in the late unhappy business. If you will kindly remember, Sir,
I merely testified to what I saw, being an accidental eye-witness. The
night was dark: there was a scuffle. You will bear me out, Sir--so
far--a scuffle--whether you were attacking that fellow'--he pointed to
the Bishop who with his friend the Captain was now looking on--'or that
other fellow'--he indicated the Captain--'villains both,
Sir,--both--who, but for my mistaken kindness, would have been hanged
long ago--I cannot exactly say. I may have been--perhaps--we all make
mistakes--too ready to believe the other side, and what they said.
However, that is all over and, of course, I shall be set free in an hour
or two. With expressions of sorrow, for an undeserved imprisonment----'
He looked in my face for some expression of sympathy but, I believe,
found none. 'No malice, Sir, I hope.' He held out the abominable hand
which was steeped in the blood of his victims and rank with the stink of
his wickedness. 'I hope, Sir, that if the case comes to trial, I may not
see you among the prosecutors.' I maintained silence and took no notice
of his proffered hand. 'But indeed, I shall certainly be out in an hour
or two: or perhaps a day or two. My case has not yet, perhaps, been laid
before the authorities. I am here as a mere matter of form.
Ha!--form--in fact I have no business here--no business at all--no
business.' His voice sank to a whisper, showing the real agitation of
his mind.

'Mr. Merridew, I have not come here with any desire to converse with
you.'

'You are not going to bear malice, Mr. Halliday? Be content with
exposing two villains. Two will be enough--If you want more there is
Probus. He's an extraordinary villain. As for you, Sir, consider: you
are a fortunate man, Sir. You ought to be in the condemned cell. You
have got off against all expectation, and when everybody, to a man,
thought it was a certainty. Had I been consulted by your sweetheart I
should have advised her, Sir, I should, indeed, so strong a case was
it--to my experienced mind, Sir, I should have advised her, Sir, to buy
the cap and the ribbons and the nosegay and the Orange--Oh! a fortunate
man, indeed!'

As if he had had nothing whatever to do with the case! As if there had
been no Conspiracy!

I was turning away in disgust, when the other pair of villains drew
near. I prepared for some volley of abuse and foul language, but was
disappointed. They addressed me, it seemed in no spirit of hostility,
but quite the contrary. They were lamb like.

'Sir,' said the Bishop, 'what was done by my friend the Captain and
myself was done by orders of Mr. Merridew here. He said, "Do it, or
swing." So we had no choice. Merridew gave us the orders and Probus
invented the plot. "Do it or swing," was the word.'

'You shall swing, too,' the Thief taker turned upon him savagely, 'as
soon as I get out. A pair of villains, not fit to live.'

'You won't hang anybody any more,' said the Captain, with defiance.
'Your own time's up at last, Merridew. Your own rope has come to an
end.'

'Wait till I get out. Wait till I get out,' he roared.

'That won't be just yet, brother,' said the turnkey. 'Conspiracy's an
ugly word, friend Merridew. There's imprisonment in it--and flogging,
sometimes--and pillory. But make up your mind for a long stay and be
comfortable.'

'Dick,' said Mr. Merridew. He knew every turnkey as well as most of the
prisoners. It was said that he often had to go shares with the turnkeys.
'Dick, you know me, of old.'

'Ay--ay--We all know you.'

'We've worked together----'

'That is as may be. But go on.'

'Well, Dick, I am a sheriff's officer. I know all the rogues in London,
don't I?'

'Why, certainly.'

'I know where to lay my hands upon every one. I know where they practise
and what they do.'

'Correct,' said the turnkey.

'They don't dare to lock me up. Do they? Lock _me_ up?' he snorted.
'Why, if I am kept here long, all the villains will go free. London will
no longer be safe. There won't be fifty hangings in a year. Who fills
your gaols? John Merridew. Who fills your carts? John Merridew. You know
that, Dick. Nobody knows better than you.'

'Correct,' said Dick.

'The judges can't send me to prison. They can't do it, I say. Why--of
course--of course----' Again his voice sank to a whisper.

I looked at the man with amazement. He was evidently seeking consolation
by delusive assurances. At heart he was filled with terror. For beside
the prison, there was the dread of pillory. They might be set in
pillory. He knew, none better, that the thief-taker who is also the
thief-maker, has not a single friend in the whole world. What would be
done to him if he should stand in pillory?

'Let me get out as soon as possible,' he went on, appealing to me. 'Why,
Sir, unless I go out the whole criminal procedure of this country will
be thrown out of gear. I am the only man--the only man, Sir--ask Dick,
here.' The turnkey shook his keys and nodded.

'But they'll give you a heavy sentence, my friend,' he said.

'The only man that can't be spared--the only man--the only man----'
Again his voice dropped to a whisper. He turned away babbling and
shaking his head, all the insolence gone out of him.

'His power is gone,' said the Bishop. 'He won't get my more rewards.'

'Yes,' said the turnkey. 'But he has had a long innings. Why, he must be
nearly fifty. There's a many would envy Merridew.'

The Bishop once more addressed himself to me. 'Sir,' he said, 'I grieve
to hear that our friends wrecked the Black Jack and Madame's house. I
fear these acts of violence may make you vindictive.'

'Madame herself was brought in yesterday--for receiving stolen goods.'

'Madame? Madame brought here? On a charge----?' The Bishop's face
expressed the liveliest concern.

'Why,' said the Captain. 'It's----' A motion of his fingers to his
throat showed what he meant.

'Nothing could have been more disastrous,' said the Bishop. 'Believe me,
Sir, we have nothing to do with the wreck of the houses, and we were
ignorant of this charge, I assure you, Sir. Oh! This is a great
misfortune!'

The misfortune, it appeared, lay in the danger--nay, the certainty, that
this persecution would make both Madame and myself more vindictive. Now
the events of the Trial, when at a word, as it seemed, from
Madame--witnesses sprang up in a cloud to confront them with their
villainy, made them believe that she had friends everywhere.

'It cannot be,' said the Bishop, 'but she will get off. Who is the
principal evidence?'

'Ask the Captain. And that is enough.'

I stepped across the yard and laid my finger on Probus's shoulder as he
sat with bowed form and hanging head. He looked up with lack-lustre
eyes. I believe that the loss of his money and the result of his
conspiracy had affected his brain, for he seemed to pay no heed to
anything.

'Mr. Probus,' I said. 'I must tell you that my cousin is now bankrupt.'

He stared without any look of recognition.

'Mr. Probus,' I repeated, 'my cousin Matthew is a bankrupt. I tell you,
in order that you may send in your claim with those of the other
creditors.'

'Ay--ay--' he replied. 'Very like.'

'Bankrupt!' I said again. 'Even had you succeeded in your plot you would
have been too late.'

He nodded without attention.

'And another mass of debts has been added. His wife's house has been
wrecked by the mob and all her property destroyed. Therefore her
liabilities have been presented to her husband.'

'All gone!' he moaned. 'All gone! The work of an honest lifetime wasted
and thrown away. Nothing will ever be recovered.'

'Mr. Probus,' I said, 'the money is gone. That is most true. But more
than that is gone. Your character--your honour--it is all gone--wasted
and thrown away--none of it will be recovered.'

'All gone--all gone,' he repeated.

The turnkey stood beside me. 'Queer, isn't it?' he said. 'He's lost his
money and his wits have gone after it. A money lender, he was. He's put
more poor folk into the Fleet and the King's Bench than his friend
Merridew has put prisoners here. And he ought to be thinking of
something else--his trial and his sentence.'

'His sentence?'

'Well--you see, Merridew, he knows. This one doesn't. The Bishop, he
knows--and the Captain--and they don't like it. This man doesn't care.
For you see they will certainly have to stand in Pillory--and if the mob
don't love money lenders they love thief takers less, and Merridew's the
most notorious thief taker in town. Well--it's a wonderful country for
Law and Justice. Now, I suppose they poor French would be content to
hang up a man at once. We don't. We give 'em an hour's ride in a cart
where they sometimes gets roses but more often gets addled eggs. Or we
put 'em in pillory where they may get dead cats or they may get flints
and broken bottles.'

I came away. The heavy gate closed: the key turned in the lock; the four
wretches were shut in once more, there, at least, the prey to the
keenest terrors, dying a thousand deaths before they should be taken out
for the dead cats and the addled eggs and perhaps the flints and broken
bottles.




CHAPTER XVII

THE CASE OF CLARINDA


The town has notoriously a short memory, yet I doubt if there be any
still living who remember the year 1760 and have forgotten the case of
Jenny Wilmot. For, indeed, no one for some time talked of anything else.
There were armies in the field: these were forgotten; there were fleets
and naval battles and expeditions: these were forgotten; there was the
strife of party: that was forgotten; there were the anxieties of trade:
they were forgotten; there were scandals among the aristocracy: they
were forgotten; there was the new play; the new poem: all were clean
forgotten and neglected while the town talked at my Lady's breakfast or
Moll King's tavern of Jenny Wilmot; Jenny Wilmot; Jenny Wilmot. The
world at first could find nothing too bad to say or think of her. At the
clubs they suspended their play while they listened to the latest
rumour about Jenny. At the coffee-houses every quidnunc and gobemouche
brought a new story which he had heard and transmitted with
embroideries; or else a trifling variation in the old story to
communicate.

People remembered how she disappeared mysteriously from the stage a year
or two before this catastrophe!--Ha! what a proof of wickedness was
that! Why, it was now known that she was none other than Madame Vallance
who provided the masquerades and the Assemblies in Soho Square and was
never seen by the company except in a domino. There was another
illustration of her wicked disposition! It was also recalled, for the
benefit of those who did not remember the fact, that she had been an
Orange Girl at Drury before she was promoted to the stage. What could be
expected of an Orange Girl? And now it was actually brought to
light--could one believe it!--it was actually discovered--had she not
herself confessed it?--that her mother and sister kept a tavern in St.
Giles's, a place of resort for the lowest; a mere thieves' kitchen; the
rendezvous of highwaymen, footpads, pickpockets and rogues of every
description.

It was certain that Jenny had been born and brought up in this vile
receptacle or Temple of Vice. Many people were found who had
recollections of Jenny as a child playing in the gutter, or on the steps
of St. Giles's Church. These recollections were of an edifying nature.
One gentleman, of an aspect which we call smug--somewhat resembling, in
fact, my cousin Matthew at his earliest and best--related in my hearing
that he had addressed the child, and on hearing that her ambition was to
become an Orange Girl at Drury Lane Theatre, had warned her against the
perils of that path; unhappily without effect, except that while he was
exhorting her to a godly life, his tears were checked by the theft of
his pocket-handkerchief. And so on: and so on; because the occasion gave
an opportunity for securing a momentary distinction, and when the
imagination is fired the tongue is loosed.

Again, there is in the English mind something particularly repellant in
the life and the acts of the informer. Now it cannot be denied that in
my Trial, Jenny figured as one who had turned against her old friends
and associates; had used her knowledge to secure their arrest; and had
induced her mother and sister and at least one of the rogues of the
Black Jack, to join her in giving evidence against the conspirators. So
that when the news was spread abroad that her house, as well as the
Black Jack, had been wrecked and the contents destroyed there was at
first a strong feeling among many that this was a kind of wild justice
which she deserved, because she ought not to have turned against her
friends. As for the man for whose sake she did it, you may be sure that
the motive commonly attributed to her was such as would naturally
commend itself to the majority. That any woman should be so deeply moved
by generosity of heart, by love of justice, by honest indignation
against so foul a conspiracy as to resolve, at all risks and hazards, to
defeat the object of the villains, and to prevent the destruction of an
innocent man, required too high a flight to make it possible to be
considered by the common sort--I mean, not the poor, but the common sort
of 'respectable' burgesses; the folk of the coffee-house and the club.
The world always accepts the worst where it ought to believe the best.
And the wickedness of the natural man is never so strongly demonstrated
as when he is searching for motives. In a word, it was pretended and
believed, that in order to rescue her lover--a broken-down gentleman and
a highwayman--from the charge of robbery, which could only be proved by
the witnesses taking false names, in order to protect themselves, being
unfortunately rogues themselves, she brought a charge against them of
conspiracy and exposed their true names and their history, which she
could only effect by the knowledge she got from the Black Jack and the
assistance of her mother: that her lover, it was true, was cast loose
upon the world again; but that the innocence of those four persons,
including one most respectable attorney would be established as the
noonday clear at the ensuing Criminal Court at the Old Bailey.

Further, it was spread abroad that Jenny had been arrested, at her
lover's house in the Rules of the King's Bench, that she had been
brought before Sir John Fielding and had been by him committed to
Newgate on a charge of receiving stolen goods. Receiving stolen goods!
What, however, could one expect from St. Giles's and the daughter of the
Black Jack? She who must needs expose the crimes of her friends was now
in prison on a charge far more serious than theirs. Receiving stolen
goods! Monstrous! And one who entertained even R-- P--s at her
Assemblies! And she was all the time acting with her mother in receiving
stolen goods! After this, what pity could one feel even for a woman so
beautiful and so engaging as Jenny Wilmot? But was she so beautiful?
Some of the men raised this question. Painted for the stage: all
artificial. Was she engaging? She played as she was taught: she smiled
and laughed as she was told to smile and laugh. That is not true acting.
Alas! Poor Jenny! Poor favourite of the town, how wert thou fallen! And
certainly for a day or two the reputation of Jenny was very low indeed.

Suddenly, however, there came a change--to me most welcome, because
without doubt the mind of the town was poisoned and prejudiced against
Jenny, in whose favour no one ventured to speak.

The first cause of the change was due to a paper--I think, if my memory
serves me right, in the _Connoisseur_. In this paper the 'Case of
Clarinda' put forth with great skill and power thinly disguised the
history of Jenny. I venture to quote a portion of that paper. As soon as
people understood that it was her history that was told the paper flew
from hand to hand: everybody in the coffee-houses and the taverns cried
out for it when they entered the house. And when it was read a silence
fell upon the room and shame upon all hearts. The author, I have always
understood, I know not why, was my Lord Brockenhurst, though he never
confessed it.

The mottoes--there were two--were as follows:

     'Non tali auxilio, non defensoribus istis Tempus eget;'

and

     'Tandem desine matrem.... sequi.'

'The Case of Clarinda, whose future yet remains to be determined, is one
which ought to reduce to humility those who boast of our civilization
and the justice of our institutions. For, certainly, it will be allowed
that the first requisite of justice is that the officers of the State
shall be sufficiently provided with intelligence, with resources and
with encouragement, to search into all cases of alleged crime, and to
take care by ascertaining especially the private character and previous
history of the witnesses how far they are to be credited. In a word,
and speaking of those cases in which human intelligence can be of avail,
it should be impossible for an innocent man to be convicted of any crime
charged to him. Yet the case of Clarinda shows that such is the
condition of the times, such the weakness of our criminal procedure that
a conspiracy as vile, as villainous, as was ever concocted out of Hell
would have succeeded to the judicial murder of an innocent man, had it
not been for the activity, the courage, the lavish expenditure of a
woman unaided and single-handed. Her efforts have resulted in the escape
of the innocent man and the imprisonment of the conspirators. But at
what a price for herself?

'Clarinda is the daughter of a widow who for a long time has kept a
tavern in that part of the town known as St. Giles's. It is not
pretended that the place is the resort of the Quality. There has been
nothing, however, alleged against the conduct of the house or the
character of the landlady. Some of the frequenters certainly belonged to
the ranks of those who live by their wits. It is not the case, as
alleged in some quarters, that Clarinda was ever the companion or the
friend of these people. When she was still quite young she was placed in
the pit of Drury Lane Theatre as an Orange Girl. Accident drew towards
her the attention of the manager, who found her clever and attractive
with a lovely face and figure, a charming manner, and a beautiful voice.
In a word, the Orange Girl was transferred to the stage, and there
became the delight of the town; the greatest favourite of living
actresses.

'After a time Clarinda, as often happens to actresses, grew weary of the
stage, and longed for a quiet life in the country far from the lights
and music and applause of the Theatre.

'Among the many who sighed for her was a young merchant from the city;
he said he was rich; he swore he loved her; he promised to take her out
of town to a country house where she would have a carriage, a garden,
and all that she could desire.

'Clarinda listened. He was grave in demeanour; he was even austere; but
this proved that he was free from the vices of the men she more
frequently met. Clarinda accepted him, and they were married.

'She discovered, on the very day of her marriage, that he had lied to
her. He was not rich, though once he had been possessed of a large
fortune; he was a gambler; he had gambled away all his money; he had
married her because she was lovely; he proposed to use her charms for
the purpose of attracting rich gentlemen to his rooms where he intended
to carry on a gaming table.

'Clarinda on this discovery instantly left the man in disgust; but for
the moment she would not go back to the stage. She then took a large
house in one of the western squares. She decorated and furnished this
house, and she opened it for Masquerades and Assemblies. One day she
received a letter from two of the frequenters of her mother's house.
They were in a Debtors' Prison: they were afraid of becoming known, in
which case not only would other detainers be put in, but they might
themselves be arrested on some criminal charge.

'Clarinda, always generous, went to the Prison, saw the two men, and
promised them relief. It was an unfortunate act of generosity, which in
the end worked toward her ruin.

'In the Prison she espied a young man so closely resembling her own
unworthy husband that she accosted him and learned that he was
imprisoned, probably for life, by her husband aided by Mr. Vulpes, an
Attorney, on a vamped-up charge of debt with the hope of making him
obtain his liberty by selling his chance of succession to a large
fortune.

'She obtained the release of this gentleman, who, with his wife, can
never cease to be sufficiently grateful to her. She gave him, for he was
a fine musician, a place in her orchestra.

'She then learned that Vulpes, the attorney, together with one Traditor,
a Thief taker, was organizing another plot against this already injured
gentleman. But she was unable to learn the nature of the plot, except
that the two Villains whom she had released from Prison were involved in
it. The next step was that the gentleman was accused by the whole party
of four as a highway robber, and as such was cast into prison.

'Then it was that our Magistrates should have taken up the case.
Clarinda repaired to Rhadamanthus, the Magistrate, and pointed out to
him the truth. He told her that he had neither men nor money to follow
up the case. Therefore Clarinda, at her own expense, fetched up from
various country prisons turnkeys and governors who should expose the
character of the witnesses; she persuaded her mother and sister to give
evidence to the same effect; in order to do this, she was obliged to buy
her mother out of the tavern. She herself gave evidence; and she made
her unwilling husband give evidence. The result was the acquittal of the
prisoner and the committal of the conspirators. Not the magistrates of
the country; but--_Dux femina facti_--a woman, without assistance,
single-handed, at her own private charges, has done this.

     '"Non tali auxilio non defensoribus istis Tempus eget."

'That the mob should, in revenge, wreck her house and destroy her
property was to be expected at a time when we cannot protect our streets
in the very day time. But there was more.

'Clarinda's mother at the time of the trial had in her keeping a certain
quantity of stolen property. Whether she knew it to be stolen or not
cannot be said. When, however, the old woman accepted Clarinda's
proposal that she should give evidence against the conspiracy she seems
to have thought that the garrets of her daughter's house would be a safe
place for storing these goods. She was observed to be conveying them by
a woman, the mistress of one of the conspirators. While the house was in
the hands of the mob, this woman looked for, and found the property--a
miserable paltry collection of rags--in the garrets. For the sake of
revenge she brought information against Clarinda, who now therefore lies
in Newgate waiting her trial at the Old Bailey.

'What should Clarinda do? If she pleads "Not Guilty," which under
ordinary circumstances she should do; the more so as there is no
evidence whatever to connect her with any knowledge of these rags; she
will be acquitted; but then her mother will be arrested and tried on
this capital charge. If, on the other hand, she takes upon herself the
full responsibility, the mother escapes scot free while the daughter may
pay the full penalty for the crime.

'The reader will not think it necessary to ask what course will be
pursued by Clarinda. The generous heart which would risk all, sacrifice
all, lavish all, in the cause of justice and for the rescue of a
man--not her lover, but a worthless husband's cousin--from an
ignominious and undeserved death, will assuredly not hesitate to save
her erring mother even at the risk of her own life. That generous heart;
that noble heart; will be sustained and followed unto the end, even
though justice demands the uttermost penalty, by the tears of all who
can admire heroic sacrifice and filial martyrdom.'

       *       *       *       *       *

There was more, but this is enough.

In a single day the voice of the people veered round to the opposite
pole. It was wonderful how quickly opinion was changed. Jenny, who
yesterday had been a traitress; a spy; a receiver of stolen goods; a
hussy with no character; suddenly became a heroine; a martyr.

Then the men remembered once more that she was a wonderful actress; a
most charming woman; a most beautiful, graceful, vivacious creature.
Then, as of old, men recalled the evenings when as they sat in the pit,
Jenny seemed to have singled out one by one each for a separate and
individual smile, so that they went home, their heads in the clouds, to
dream of things impossible and unspeakable, and all the old love for the
Favourite returned to them, and they panted for Jenny to be set free.

During this time I was with Jenny all day long ready to be of service to
her. The more I observed her, the more I marvelled at the strange power
which brought all men to their knees before her. She had but to smile
upon them and they were conquered. The Governor of the Prison was her
servant; the turnkeys were her slaves; her visitors crowded her narrow
cell every afternoon, while Jenny received them dressed like a Countess
with the manner of a Countess. Sometimes I was honoured by her commands
to play to them; tea and chocolate were served daily. Great ladies came
with the rest to gaze upon her; actresses, once her rivals, now came,
all rivalry apart, to weep over her; gentlemen wrote her letters of
passionate love; portrait painters begged on their knees permission to
limn her lovely features. In a word, for a while the centre of fashion
was Jenny's cell in Newgate.

And every day, among the visitors stood my Lord of Brockenhurst,
foremost in sympathy and truest in friendship. He was, indeed, as Jenny
had assured me, the most loyal of the gentlemen and the most sincere of
friends.

It must be added that Jenny's time in prison was not wholly spent in
converting a cell into a drawing-room of fashion. The unfortunate women,
her fellow-prisoners, were much worse off than the men; they had fewer
friends; they were suffered to starve on the penny loaf a day, the
allowance of the prison. They lay for the most part in cold and
starvation; in rags and dirt and misery overwhelming. Jenny went into
their yard and among them. There was the poor creature who had caused
her arrest. She was half starved now. Jenny gave her food and spoke to
her friendly without reproach; she sent food to others who were
starving. She not only fed them; she talked to them, not about their
sins, because poor Jenny knew nothing about sins except so far as that
certain deeds are punished by the law; but she talked to them about
being clean and neat: she revived the womanly instinct in them: made
them wash themselves, dress their hair, and take pleasure again in
making themselves attractive. Never had a woman a keener sense of the
duty of women to be beautiful. She made them in a week or two so
civilized that they left off fighting: there was not a black eye in the
place; and while Jenny was in the ward there was hardly so much as a
foul word. It was pretty to see how they loved her and welcomed her and
would have worked themselves to death for her. Poor lost souls--if
indeed they are lost! They must all be dead now. The horrible gallows
has killed some; the gaol fever, others; the fever of bad food and bad
drink and bad air, others, yet until the day of death I am sure that all
remembered Jenny. Notably, there was her accuser. She was sullen at
first; she was revengeful; next she was ashamed and turned aside; then
she wept; and then she became like a tame kitten following her through
the ward, hungering and thirsting for one more word--one more word of
friendship--from the very woman whom she had brought to this place.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE FALLEN ALDERMAN


Let me return to the wretched man who had caused this trouble. I learned
that, although his two fellow-prisoners declared openly that Mr.
Merridew's power was gone and that he would never again have the power
to hang anybody, some of his credit was still maintained: he pretended
that the books--of which he spoke often and with pride, were still kept
up, and that every man's life and liberty were in his hands: and many
poor rogues, thinking to curry favour, waited upon him daily, bringing
him presents of wine, tobacco and (secretly) rum, so that he was able to
be drunk and to forget his anxieties for the greater part of the day.
The two rebels against his authority, the Bishop and the Captain,
carried themselves bravely: there is, indeed, in the profession of the
rogue something of the soldier, in that they both brave dangers without
fear. The battle field is covered with the dead and wounded: but there
are plenty left standing unhurt: every soldier thinks he will escape:
the rogue's field of honour is covered with whipping-posts, stocks,
pillory, and gallows. It is far more dangerous than the field of battle.
Yet every rogue hopes to escape, and carries himself accordingly.
Perhaps it is better so. One would not wish such a crew to be whining
and snivelling and pretending repentance and imploring pity.

One day I met, coming out of the prison, one whose face and appearance I
knew. He was old and bent, and in rags: his woollen stockings were in
holes: the elbows of his coat were gone: his hat was too limp to
preserve its shape: his buttons were off his coat--he wore the old jasey
with a broken pigtail. I touched him on the shoulder.

'You are Mr. Probus's clerk?' I said.

'If I am, Sir,' he replied, 'is that a crime?'

'No--no--no. But you remember me? You bade me once go throw myself into
the river with a stone about my neck.'

'Ay--ay,' he replied. 'Yes, I remember you now. I did, I did. Was it
good advice, young man?'

'It was, doubtless, very good advice. But I did not take it. What are
you doing here?'

'I come to look after my master,' he replied simply.

'Your master? He has kept you in rags and wretchedness. He has given you
a starvation wage.'

'Yet he is my master. I have eaten his bread, though it was bitter. I
come every day to look after him.'

'Has he no friends? No wife or children to do this for him?'

'His friends were his money bags till he lost them. They were his wife
and children as well.'

'Has he no relations--cousins--nephews?'

'Perhaps--he has driven them all away long ago.'

'You are his friend at least.'

'I am his clerk,' he repeated. 'Sir, since my master found that all his
money had been thrown away and lost, he has not been himself. He has
been mad with rage and grief. That is why he hatched that unfortunate
plot. I was in Court and heard it. Ah! he was not himself, Sir, I assure
you. Common tricks he practised daily, because he knew how far he could
go. But not such a big job as this conspiracy. In his sober senses he
would not have been so mad. Have you seen him, Sir? Have you observed
the change in him? 'Twould bring tears to a flint. He moans and laments
all day long.'

'Yes, I have seen him.'

'Sir, he thinks about nothing else. Sir, I verily believe that he does
not know even that he is in Newgate. All the money he had in the world
is gone--lent to Mr. Matthew and lost by Mr. Matthew. Terrible!
Terrible!'

'Was there not some lent to the man Merridew?'

'A trifle, Sir: a few hundreds only. No: it is all gone. My master and I
must become beggars and go together into the workhouse.' He shook his
poor old head and went his way.

Now this man had received the treatment of a dog. How long he had been
with Probus: what was his previous history I never knew: it matters not:
he had received the treatment of a dog and the wages of a galley slave:
yet he was faithful and stood by his master--the only living thing who
did--in his adversity as in his prosperity.

I next heard from Mr. Ramage that the Counting House was closed and the
gates of the Quay locked: that Matthew had run away. Then that the
unfortunate Alderman, partner in the House, had been arrested for debt
and was taken to the Fleet Prison. After this, that Matthew had been
arrested: that he was bankrupt: that he had been taken to the same
prison: and that the whole amount of the liabilities was now so great
that this meant certain imprisonment for life. By the custom of London,
too, a creditor may, before the day of payment, arrest his debtor and
oblige him to find sureties to pay the money on the day it shall become
due. By this custom the whole of Jenny's liabilities became the cause of
new detainers, so that I believe the total amount for which Matthew was
imprisoned was not far short of £150,000. I conveyed this intelligence
to my mistress.

'Misfortune,' she said, gravely, 'is falling upon all of us. Thou alone
wilt survive--the triumph of virtue. Go, however, take the man
something, or he will starve. Give it him from me, Will. Tell him--tell
him'--She considered for a little. 'Tell him--as soon as I can
forget, I will forgive. Not that he cares whether he is forgiven
or not. A man, Will, I very truly believe, may be anything he
pleases--drunkard--murderer--highwayman: yet something may still survive
in him of human kindness. There will still be a place, perhaps, for
compassion or for love. But for a gambler there is no compassion left.
He is more hardened than the worst villain in this wretched place: he
has neither sense, nor pity, nor affection, nor anything. He is all
gambler.'

'I will give him your money, Jenny. But not your message.'

She smiled sadly. 'Go, Will. The money will solace him as long as it
lasts. Perhaps a quarter of an hour.'

I repaired without delay to the Fleet Prison. Those who walk up and down
the Fleet market know of the open window in the wall and the grating,
behind which stands a man holding a tin box which he rattles to attract
attention while he repeats his parrot cry, 'Pity the Poor Prisoners!
Pity the Poor Prisoners!' This humiliation is imposed upon those of the
Common side: they must beg or they must starve. What was my surprise and
shame--who could believe that one of my family should fall so low?--to
recognise in the prisoner behind these bars, my cousin Matthew! None
other. His face was pale--it had always been pale: now it was white: his
hand shook: he was unshaven and uncombed: I pretended not to notice him.
I entered the prison and was told that he was holding the plate, but
would be free in half an hour. So I waited in the yard until he came
out, being relieved of his task. I now saw that he was in rags. How can
a man dressed as a substantial merchant fall into rags in a few days?
There was but one answer. The gambler can get rid of everything:
Matthew had played for his clothes and lost.

I accosted him. At sight of me he fell into a paroxysm of rage. He
reviled and cursed me. I had been the cause of all his misfortunes: he
wept and sobbed, being weak for want of food and cold. So I let him go
on until he stopped and sank exhausted upon the bench.

Then I told him that I had come to him from his wife. He began again to
curse and to swear. It was Jenny now who was the cause of all his
troubles: it was Jenny who refused to obey him: her liabilities alone
had prevented him from weathering the storm: he should certainly have
weathered the storm: and so on--foolish recrimination that meant
nothing.

I made no answer until he had again exhausted his strength, but not his
bitterness.

'Matthew,' I said, 'the woman against whom you have been railing sends
you money. Here it is. Use it for living and not for gambling,' The
money I gave him was five guineas.

The moment he had it in his hand he hurried away as fast as he could go.
I thought he ran away in order to conceal his agitation or shame at
receiving these coals of fire. Not so, it was in order to find out
someone who would sit down to play with him. Oh! It was a madness.

I watched him. He ran to the kitchen and bought some food. He swallowed
it eagerly. Then he bent his steps to the coffee-room. I followed and
looked in. He was already at a table opposite another man, and in his
hands was a pack of cards. In a few hours or a few minutes--it mattered
not which--Jenny's present of five guineas would be gone, and the man
would be destitute again. Poor wretch! One forgave him all considering
this madness that had fallen upon him.

'But,' said Jenny, 'he was bad before he was mad. He was bad when he
married me: he is only worse: nothing more is the matter with him.'

But my uncle, the Alderman, also involved in the bankruptcy, had been
carried to the same place, while his great house on Clapham Common, with
all his plate and fine furniture, had been sold for the benefit of the
creditors. Matthew had ruined all. I went to see him. He was on the
Masters', not the common side. It was a most melancholy spectacle. For
my own part I bore the poor man no kind of malice. He had but believed
things told him concerning me. He gave me his hand.

'Nephew,' he said, his voice breaking, 'this is but a poor place for an
Alderman: yet it is to be my portion for the brief remainder of my days.
What would my brother--your father--have said if he had known? But he
could not even suspect: no one could suspect--'

'Nay, Sir,' I said, 'I hope that your creditors will give you a speedy
release.'

'I doubt it, Will. They are incensed--and justly so--at their treatment
by--by--Matthew. They reproach me with not knowing what was doing--why,
Will, I trusted my son'--he sobbed--'my son--Absalom, my son--the steady
sober son, for whom I have thanked God so often: Will, he made me
believe evil things of thee: he accused thee of such profligacy as we
dare not speak of in the City: profligacy such as young men of Quality
may practise but not young men of the City. I dared not tell my brother
all that he told me.'

'Indeed, Sir, I know how he persuaded not only you but my father as
well--to my injury. In the end it was my own act and deed that drove me
forth, because I would not give up my music.'

'If not that, then something else would have served his purpose. Alas!
Will. Here come your cousins. Heed them not. They are bitter with me.
Heed them not.'

The girls, whom I had not seen since my father's funeral, marched along
with disdainful airs pulling their hoops aside, as once before, to
prevent the contamination of a touch. They reddened when they saw me,
but not with friendliness.

'Oh!' said one, 'he comes to gloat over our misfortunes.'

'Ah! No doubt they make him happy.'

'Cousins,' I said, 'I am in no mood to rejoice over anything except my
own escape from grievous peril. The hand of the Lord is heavy upon this
family. We are all afflicted. As for your brother Matthew, it is best to
call him mad.'

'Who hath driven him mad?' asked Amelia, the elder. 'The revengeful
spirit of his cousin!'

This was their burden. Women may be the most unreasonable of all
creatures. These girls could not believe that their brother was guilty:
the bankruptcy of the House: the stories of his gambling: his marriage
with an actress: his evidence in the Court: were all set down as
instigated, suggested, encouraged, or invented, by his wicked cousin,
Will. It matters not: I have no doubt that the legend had grown in their
minds until it was an article of their creed: if they ever mention the
Prodigal Son--who is now far away--it is to deplore the wicked wiles by
which he ruined their martyred Saint: their brother Matthew.

'It is of no use,' I said to my uncle, 'to protest, to ask what my
cousins mean, or how I could have injured Matthew, had I desired. I may
tell you, Sir, that I learned only a short time ago that Matthew was a
gambler: that the affairs of the House were desperate: and that an
attempt was to be made upon my life--an attempt of which Matthew was
cognizant--even if he did not formally consent. So, Sir, I take my
leave.'

They actually did not know that Matthew was within the same
walls.--Father and son: the father on the Masters' side, dignified at
least with the carriage of fallen authority: the son a ragged, shambling
creature, with no air at all save that of decay and ruin. Unfortunate
indeed was our House: dismal indeed was its fall: shameful was its end.




CHAPTER XIX

THE END OF THE CONSPIRACY


The trial of our four friends for conspiracy took place in the middle of
January. For my own part, I had to relate in open Court the whole
history with which you are already acquainted: the clause in my father's
will giving me a chance of obtaining a large fortune if I should survive
my cousin: the attempts made by Mr. Probus to persuade me to sell the
chance of succession: the trumping up of a debt which never existed: my
imprisonment in a debtors' Prison: my release by Jenny's assistance: the
renewed attempts of Mr. Probus to gain my submission: his threats: and
the truth about the alleged robbery. I also stated that two of the
defendants had been imprisoned in the King's Bench at the same time as
myself and that they were at that time close companions.

The Counsel for the defence cross-examined me rigorously but with no
effect. My story was plain and simple. It was, in a word, so much to the
interest of Mr. Probus to get me to renounce my chance that he stuck at
nothing in order to effect this purpose--or my death.

I sat down and looked about me. Heavens! with what a different mind from
that with which I stood in the dock now occupied by my enemies. I should
have been more than human had I not felt a great satisfaction at the
sight of these four men standing in a row. Let me call it gratitude, not
satisfaction. The spectacle of the chief offender, the contriver of the
villainy, Mr. Probus, was indeed enough to move one's heart to terror,
if not to pity. The wretched man had lost, with the whole of his money,
the whole of his wits. The money was his God, his Religion, his Heaven:
he had lost the harvest of a life: he was old: he would get no more
clients: he would save no more money. He would probably have to make a
living, as others of his kind have done, by advising and acting as an
attorney for the rabble of St. Giles's and Clerkenwell. He stood with
rounded shoulders and bowed head: he clutched at the iron spikes before
him: he pulled the sprigs of rue to pieces: he appeared to pay no
attention at all to the evidence.

Mr. Merridew, on the other hand, showed in his bearing the greatest
possible terror and anxiety: he gasped when his Counsel seemed to make a
point in his favour: he shivered and shook when his part in the plot was
exposed. He who had given evidence in so many hanging cases unconcerned,
now stood in the dock himself. He was made to feel--what he had never
before considered--the natural horror of the prisoner and the dreadful
terror of the sentence.

The case might have been strengthened by the evidence of the landlady of
the Black Jack. She, worthy soul, was out of the way, and no one
inquired after her. Nor was her daughter Doll present on the occasion.
But there was evidence enough. The gaolers and masters of the country
prisons proved the real character of the two witnesses who called
themselves respectively a clergyman and a country gentleman. Ramage, the
clerk, proved, as before, that Probus brought Merridew to the Counting
House. Jack, the country lad, proved the consultations at the Black Jack
between Probus, Merridew, and the two others. These two, indeed, behaved
with some manliness. They had given up all hope of an acquittal and
could only hope that the sentence would be comparatively light. They
therefore made a creditable appearance of undaunted courage, a thing
which is as popular in their profession as in any other.

I do not suppose their crime was capital. Otherwise the Judge would most
certainly have sent them all to the gallows.

'Many,' he said at the end, 'are justly executed for offences mild
indeed, in comparison with the detestable crime of which you stand
convicted.'

When the case was completed and all the evidence heard, the Judge asked
the prisoners, one after the other, what they had to say in their own
defence.

'Ezekiel Probus, you have now to lay before the Court whatever you have
to urge in your own defence.'

Mr. Probus, still with hanging head, appeared not to hear. The warder
touched him on the shoulder and whispered. He held up his head for a
moment: looked round the court, and murmured:

'No--no--it is all gone.'

Nothing more could be got from him.

'John Merridew, you have now the opportunity of stating your own case.'

He began in a trembling voice. He said that he had been long a sheriff's
officer: that he had incurred great odium by his zeal in the arrest of
criminals: that it was not true that he had concocted any plot either
with Mr. Probus or with the other prisoners: that he was a man of
consideration whose evidence had frequently been received with respect
in that very court: that it was not true, further, as had been stated by
the Prosecution, that he had ever encouraged thieves or advised them to
become highwaymen: that, if he went to such places as the Black Jack, it
was to arrest villains in the cause of Justice: that he deposed at the
last trial, what he saw or thought he saw--namely a scuffle: he might
have been in too great a hurry to conclude that the late prisoner
Halliday was the assaulting party: the night was dark: he only knew the
two witnesses as two rogues whom he intended to bring to justice on a
dozen capital charges for each, as soon as he was out of Newgate: and
that he was a person--this he earnestly begged the Court to
consider--without whom the criminal Courts would be empty and Justice
would be rendered impossible. With more to the same effect, and all
with such servile cringings and entreaties for special consideration as
did him, I am convinced, more harm than good.

When it came to the Doctor's turn, he boldly declared that if the
verdict of the Jury went against him--'And gentlemen,' he said, 'I must
own that the evidence has certainly placed me in a strange, and
unexpected and most painful position'--he would bring over the
Archbishop of Dublin: the Dean of St. Patrick's Cathedral: and the
Provost of Trinity College: besides noblemen of the Irish Peerage and
many of his old parishioners in order to prove that he was what he
pretended to be. 'The assurance, gentlemen, that I shall be thus
supported, enables me to bear up even against your possible view of the
case and his Lordship's possible opinion. To a Divine of unblemished
life it is, I confess, inexpressibly painful to be confused with forgers
and highwaymen.'

Lastly, the gallant Captain spoke of himself. 'This,' he said with a
front of brass, 'is a case of most unfortunate resemblance. It appears
that I bear some likeness to a certain notorious robber and highwayman
called, it is said, the Captain.' Here the whole Court burst into
laughter, so unabashed was the villain when he pronounced these words.
He looked round him with affected wonder. 'The event of this trial,
however,' he went on, 'matters but little because in two or three weeks
I can bring to town the Mayor and Alderman, the Town Clerk, the Rector
of the Church and the Master of the Grammar School of my native town to
testify that I am what I have declared myself to be. This being so,
gentlemen, you may proceed, if you please, to do your duty.'

The Judge then summed up. He went through the whole case, adopting the
views of the Counsel for the Prosecution. He said that the evidence
before him was practically unshaken. It showed that these men, who had
pretended to know nothing of each other were in fact banded and allied
together--in short he gave the whole weight of his opinion against the
prisoners. Indeed, I cannot think what else he would do seeing the
nature of the evidence. So he left the jury to find their verdict.

They found it, without leaving the box. It was a verdict of 'Guilty'
against all four prisoners. I looked to see the Judge assume the black
cap. To my surprise, he did not. He began by commenting in the
strongest terms on the diabolical wickedness of the conspiracy. He said
that he could find no difference as to the respective guilt of one or
the other. The prisoner Probus, a member of a learned profession, was
the contriver or designer of the deed: perhaps he might be thought the
worst. Indeed, his was a depth of infamy to which it was difficult to
find a rival or an equal. He would be punished worse than the rest
because he would infallibly lose by his disgrace his profession and his
practice. The infamy of the prisoner Merridew, when one considered the
hold that he had over a large number of criminals and rogues, was very
close to that of the prisoner Probus. He had apparently forced the other
two into carrying out the plot, on threat of informing against them. In
short, he pronounced the sentence of the court; namely, that the
prisoners should stand in pillory for an hour and then be imprisoned for
the space of four years.

On hearing the sentence Mr. Merridew shrieked aloud. 'My Lord!' he
cried. 'My Lord! Have mercy! They will murder me!'

They led him off crying that he was a murdered man. The Doctor swelled
out his cassock. 'The Archbishop,' he said, 'will arrive, I believe,
next week. There will still be time for his Grace to procure my
release.' So rolling his head and squaring his sleeves, he followed
along the passage which leads to the Prison.

I left the Court and made my way through the crowd to the gates of
Newgate in order to tell Jenny.

'Four years,' she said, 'will more than suffice to ruin the man
Merridew. His companies of thieves will be broken up; he will no longer
have any hold over them. He will have to turn rogue himself. When all
has been said, this is the greatest villain of them all. I hope they
will not maltreat the prisoners in pillory; because there they are
defenceless. But a thief-taker--a thief-taker, they cannot abide. If I
were Mr. Merridew I should wish the job well over.'

While we were discoursing there came a message from the Captain. Would
Madame grant him the favour of speech with her?

He came in, walking with his heavy clanking irons. He had lost the
braggart swagger which he assumed at the trial, and now looked as
humble as any pickpocket about to undergo the discipline of the pump.

'Madame,' he said, 'I thank you for this favour.'

'Your trial is over, Captain, I hear.'

'It is over,' he sighed. 'Mr. Halliday, Sir, I hope you are satisfied.'

'I desire no revenge,' I said. 'I want safety and peace--nothing more.
These blessings you and your friends denied me.'

'It is quite true, Sir. It was a most damnable plot. The only excuse for
me is that I had no choice but to comply and obey, or be hanged.'

'Captain, I do not desire more of your company than is necessary. Will
you tell me what you want of me?'

'The sentence is'--he made a wry face--'Pillory, Pillory, Madame. And
four years' imprisonment. But the four years will pass--what I fear is
Pillory.'

'I have heard of a man's friends protecting him.'

'Mine will do what they can. But, Madame, my fear is not so much on my
own account as that I may be put up on the same scaffold with Mr.
Merridew or Mr. Probus. There isn't a rogue in London who will not come
out with something for the thief-taker. Madame, no one knows the terror
in which we poor robbers live. The world envies us our lot; they think
it is glorious to ride out of a moonlight night and stop the coach all
alone. They don't know that the thief-taker is always behind the
highwayman. He lays his hand on the largest share of the swag; he
encourages lads to take the roads, and whenever he wants money he says
that the time is up and then he takes the reward. My time was up.'

'I know all this--unhappily--as well as you. What do you want me to do?'

'Mr. Probus--he will prove quite as unpopular as Merridew. They thirst
for his blood. There will be murder done in the pillory. Madame, for the
love of God, do something for me.'

'What?'

'You have great influence. Everybody knows what powerful friends you
have. Make them put the two unpopular prisoners on the same scaffold.
They will share the flints between them. Let me stand up beside the
Bishop. Nobody will give us much more than a dead cat or two and a
basket of rotten eggs. But the other two'--he shivered with cold
terror--'I know not what will happen to them.'

'Well, Captain, perhaps if Merridew gives up the profession, you may
possibly turn honest man again when you go out of this place.'

He shook his head. 'No, that is impossible.'

'Well, I will do this. The Governor of the Prison is civil to me. I will
ask him as a special favour to place you as you desire. I hope that you
both--the Bishop as well as yourself--will enjoy your short hour on that
elevated position. Will, give the Captain a bottle of wine to take away
with him. You can go, sir.'




CHAPTER XX

THE HONOURS OF THE MOB


It was far from my intention to witness the reception of my friends in
Pillory from the sympathizing mob. I was, however, reminded that the day
had arrived by finding in my morning walk from Lambeth to the Old Bailey
the Pillory itself actually erected, in St Martin's Lane, somewhat above
St. Martin's Church. It was put up in the open space where Long Acre
runs into St Martin's Lane, very nearly in the actual spot where the
assault was delivered and the plot carried out A just retribution. Even
now, after thirty years, only to think of the villainy causes my blood
to boil: nothing surely could be bad enough for these creatures, vilest
of all the vile creatures of this wicked town. At the same time when I
saw the preparations that were making for the reception of the
criminals, my heart sank, and I would willingly have spared them all and
forgiven them all to save them from what followed.

The pillory, on a scaffold four feet high, was put up with
'accommodation'--if we may so describe it--for two persons standing side
by side, so that they could not see each other. They were also so close
together that favours intended for the face of one might if they missed
him be received by some part of the body of the other. A vast crowd was
already assembled, although the sentence would not be carried out till
eleven, and it was then barely nine. The crowd consisted of the scum and
off-scouring of the whole city: there was a company from Southwark.
While I was looking on, they arrived marching in good form like
soldiers: there were contributions from Turnmill Street and
Hockley-by-the-Hole: there were detachments from the Riverside: from St.
Katherine's by the Tower: from Clerkenwell: but, above all, from St.
Giles's.

'Who is to stand up there to-day?' I asked one of them--a more
decent-looking man than most. Of course, I knew very well, but I wished
to find out what the people intended.

'Where do you come from, not to know that?' the man replied. ''Tis the
thief-taker: him that makes the rogue: teaches the rogue and then sells
the rogue. Now we've got him--wait till we leave him. And there's the
lawyer who made the plot to hang a man. We've got him, too. We don't
often get a lawyer. Wait a bit--wait a bit. You shall see what they'll
look like when we leave them.'

He had his apron full of something or other--rotten eggs, perhaps: or
rotten apples: or, perhaps, brickbats. The faces of all around expressed
the same deadly look of revenge. I thought of the Captain's terror, and
of his petition to Jenny; that he might be put up with the Bishop; it
was impossible not to feel awed and terrified at the aspect of so much
hatred and such deliberate preparation for revenge. A thief-taker and a
lawyer! Oh! noble opportunity! Some carried baskets filled with
missiles: some had their aprons full; the women for their part brought
rotten eggs and dead cats, stinking rabbits, and all kinds of putrid
offal in baskets and in their arms, as if they had been things precious
and costly. They conferred together and laughed, grimly telling what
they had to throw, and how they would throw it.

'I don't waste my basket,' said one, 'on rotten eggs. There's something
here sharper than rotten eggs. He took my man before his time was up,
because he wanted the money. My man was honest before he met Merridew,
who made him a rogue, poor lad!--yes, made him--told him what to
do--taught him: made him a highwayman: told him where to go; hired a
horse for him and gave him a pistol. Then he sold him--got forty pounds
and a Tyburn ticket for him and twenty pounds allowance for his own
horse. Oh! If my arm is strong enough! Let me get near him--close to
him, good people.'

'He took my son,' said another, 'to be sure he was a rogue, but he
thieved in a safe way till John Merridew got him. If I had my strength
that I used to have it wouldn't be rotten eggs; but never mind--there's
others besides me. Don't waste your brickbats: throw straight: let the
women get to the front. Oh! He shall look very pretty when he is carried
home. He shall have a pleasant hour with his friends. We love him, don't
we? We love him like a son, we do.'

This man had for years exercised absolute sway over Rogueland. He
instructed the young in the various branches of the criminal's horrid
trade: he led them on from pocket-picking to stealing from stalls and
bulkheads: to shop-lifting; to burglary; to robbery in the street: to
forgery: to coining and issuing false coin: to highway robbery and, at
times, to murder. 'Twas the most accomplished and the most desperate
villain that ever lived--I cannot believe that his like was ever known.
No one dared to cross him or to refuse his orders. If anyone should be
so presumptuous, he speedily repented in Newgate under a capital charge
followed by a capital sentence. There are so many ways of getting
hanged, and so few outside the law know what offences may be capital and
what are not, that there was never any certainty in the mind of the
smallest rogue that he was safe from such a charge. Children of fourteen
on his information were hung as well as grown men: little girls of
fourteen were hung on his information as well as grown women: for
shop-lifting, for lifting linen from the hedge--why this devil incarnate
would instigate a child to commit a capital offence and then give him
into custody for the reward, careless whether the child was hanged or
not. It was a terrible end that he met with. I read sometimes of
dreadful punishments: of tortures and agonies: yet I cannot picture to
myself a punishment more awful than to stand up before an infuriated and
implacable mob; to look down upon thousands of faces and to see no gleam
of relenting upon one: not one with a tear of pity: to hear their yells
of execration: to see their arms springing up with one consent----Poor
wretch! Poor wretch!

These people knew very well that Mr. Merridew could hang them all: that,
in course of time, he would hang them all; and that, if they offended
him, he would hang them all at once. It was a terrible weapon for one
man to wield: nor can I believe that the laws of the land intended that
any one man should be able to wield such a weapon. Why they allowed him
to exist I know not--seeing their insensibility to crime, one would
think that they would have murdered him long before. From wives he had
taken their husbands; from mothers their sons; from girls their
sweethearts: he had taken their wives and their mistresses from the men;
he had taken the boys--one cannot say the innocent boys--from their
playfellows; and he had hanged them all. It would be interesting to know
how many he had hanged, this murderous, blood-stained villain, whose
heart was like the nether millstone for hardness.

The punishment of pillory hands a man over to the people, for judgment
and execution or for acquittal or for pardon. The law says practically,
'We find him guilty: we assign him a term of imprisonment: it is for the
people to increase the punishment or to protest against it.' In the case
of a common rogue, whose offence is in no way remarkable, a few rotten
eggs, broken on his face and dropping yellow streams over the nose and
cheeks, please the mob, who like this harmless demonstration in favour
of virtue which does not hurt their friend and brother, the prisoner. In
other cases, where the sympathy of the people is entirely with the
prisoner, one hour of pillory means an hour of triumph. For they bring
bands of music and welcome the criminal; they shout applause: they hang
the pillory with flowers: they take out the horses and drag the
carriage. This happened to Dr. Shebbeare, who came to the pillory in the
sheriff's carriage and stood in front of the pillory, not in it, a man
holding an umbrella over his head the whole time to keep off the rain.
It is, however, the most terrible punishment that can be devised when
the mob are infuriated with the prisoner. In this case the thief-taker,
the Man-slayer was about to stand before them: and with him the designer
of a plot to take away the life of an innocent man.

The crowd now became so dense that it was impossible to get forwards or
back. Therefore, though it might seem revengeful to look on at the
popular reception of these two wretches, I was fain to stay where I was,
namely, on the top step of Slaughter's Coffee House. The time passed
quickly while I stood looking on and listening. The crowd grew thicker:
on the outskirts with me were many respectable persons. Their
indignation against the crime was, like mine, tempered by the prospect
of the horrible punishment that awaited the evil-doers. I would not tell
them that I myself was the object of this plot, for fear of being
considered as wishing to enjoy a revenge full and satisfying.

'The greatest villain of the four,' said one gentleman, 'is the
attorney. He will barely escape, I think: but these people are assembled
to vent their revenge upon the thief-taker. I know not whether, when he
is gone, crime will decrease, but it is time that something was done to
prevent the encouragement of crime with one hand, and the arrest of the
criminal with the other. Such a wretch, Sir, is not fit to live.'

'And,' said another, 'unless I mistake, we are here to witness the
resolution of the mob that he shall no longer live.'

At eleven o'clock there was a shout which ran all down St. Martin's
Lane. 'Here they come! here they come!' followed by roars which were
certainly not meant for applause and approval.

'It is an awful moment,' said my next neighbour. 'If I could get out of
the throng I would go away. It will be a terrible spectacle.'

There was a force of constables round the pillory. As it appeared
immediately afterwards, it was insufficient. They formed a circle
standing shoulder to shoulder, to keep back the crowd and to preserve an
open space round the scaffold. It is a merciful plan because the greater
the distance, the better is the prisoner's chance.

The prisoners were brought in a cart. It was recognised by the crowd as
a cart used for flogging unfortunates, and there were jokes on the
subject, perhaps the hitching of shoulders, as it passed. It was guarded
by a force of constables armed with clubs; not that they feared a
rescue, but that they feared a rush of the crowd and the tearing of the
prisoners to pieces.

I was standing, I say, on the highest doorstep of Slaughter's Coffee
House, the windows of which were full of men looking on. Looking thus
over the heads of the people, I saw that the driver and the prisoner
Probus were covered already with filth and with rotten eggs. The former
cursed the people. 'Why can't you wait--you?' he cried as the eggs flew
about his head or broke upon his face. Mr. Probus sat on the bench bowed
and doubled up. He showed no fear: he was as one who is utterly broken
up, and in despair: he had lost his money--all his money: the work of
his life. That was all he cared for. He was disgraced and imprisoned--he
had lost his money. He was going to be pelted in the pillory--he had
lost his money--nothing else mattered.

To a revengeful man this day's work was revenge indeed, ample and
satisfying, if revenge ever can satisfy. I do not think it can: one
would want to repeat it every day: the man in the Italian Poem who gnaws
his enemy's head can never have enough of his cruel and horrid revenge.
I hope, however, that no one will think that I rejoiced over sufferings,
terrors, and pain unspeakable; even though they were deserved.

If Mr. Probus showed callousness and insensibility extraordinary, his
companion behaved in exactly an opposite manner. For he had thrown
himself down in the bottom of the cart, and there lay writhing while the
execrations of the people followed the cart. When the procession arrived
at the pillory it took six men to drag him out. He covered his face with
his hands: he wept--the tears ran down his cheeks: he clung to the
constables; it took a quarter of an hour before they had him up the
steps and on the platform: it took another ten minutes before he was
placed in the machine, his face turned towards the crowd on the north
side with his helpless hands struck through the holes. As for the other
he stood facing the south.

When both the miserable men were ready the under-sheriff and the
constables ducked their heads and ran for their lives from the stage
down the ladder and waited under cover.

For, with a roar as of a hungry wild beast the mob began. There was no
formal or courteous commencement with rotten eggs and dead cats. These
things, it is true, were flung, and with effect. But from the very
beginning they were accompanied by sharp flints, stones and brickbats.
The mob broke through the line of constables and filled up the open
space; they pushed the women to the front: I think they were mad: they
shrieked and yelled execrations: the air was thick with missiles; where
did they come from? There were neither pause nor cessation. For the
whole time the storm went on: the under-sheriff wanted, I have heard, to
take down the men; but no one would venture on the stage to release
them. Meanwhile with both of them the yellow streams of broken eggs had
given way to blood. Their faces and heads were covered every inch--every
half inch--with open bleeding wounds: their eyes were closed, their
heads held down as much as they could: if they groaned; if they
shrieked; if they prayed for mercy; if they prayed for the mercy of
Heaven since from man there was none; no one could hear in the Babel of
voices from the mob. It was the Thief-taker, the Man-slayer, who was the
principal object of the crowd's attention: but they could not
distinguish between the two and they soon threw at one head or the other
impartially. It was indeed a most dreadful spectacle of the popular
justice. Just so, the Jews took out the man who worshipped false idols,
and the woman who was a witch and stoned them with stones, so that they
died. For my own part I can never forget that sight of the two bowed
heads at which a mob of I know not how many hundreds crowded together in
a narrow street hurled everything that they could find, round paving
stones, sharp flints, broken bricks, wooden logs, with every kind of
execration that the worst and lowest of the people can invent. From the
south and from the north: there was an equal shower; there was no
difference.

For a whole hour this went on. The pillory should have been turned every
quarter of an hour. But no one dared to mount the stage in order to turn
it--besides it was safer to let one side exhaust their artillery than to
tempt the unspent stores of the other side.

At last the hour of twelve struck. There was a final discharge: then all
stopped. The heads hung down inanimate, motionless. Had the mob, then,
killed them both?

The under-sheriff mounted the stage: one of the constables cleared it of
the miscellaneous stuff lying at the feet of the prisoners; then they
took out the men. Both were senseless; they were carried down the steps
and placed in the cart. The driver went to the horse's head; the
constables closed in: the show was over.

In five minutes the whole crowd had dispersed; they had enjoyed the very
rare chance of expressing their opinion upon a Thief-taker and an
Attorney. They went off in great spirits, marching away in companies
each in its own direction. Those from Clare Market I observed, were
headed by music peculiar to that district played by eight butchers with
marrow-bones and cleavers.

The horrid business over I thought I would learn how the other two fared
in Soho Square. The pillory was still standing when I got there, but the
business of the day was over. From a gentleman who had been a spectator
I learned that the two men were turned to the four quarters in the
pillory, that their friends on the St. Giles's side would not pelt them;
but that on the other three sides they received a liberal allowance of
eggs and such harmless gifts, together with a more severe expression of
opinion in stones and brickbats. They were taken out wounded and
bleeding, but they could walk down the ladder and were carried off in
their right senses, at least.

I went on to Newgate. There I learned that the man Merridew was already
dead: he was found dead in the cart when he was brought in. It was not
wonderful. His skull was battered in; his cheek-bones were broken: his
jaw was fractured: for the last half-hour it was thought he had been
already senseless if not dead. The case of Mr. Probus was nearly as bad.
He was breathing, they told me, and no more. It was doubtful if he would
recover.

The Captain and the Bishop were, as I have said, more fortunate. They
escaped with scars which would disfigure them for life. But they did
escape, and since their master the Man-slayer was dead, they might begin
again, once out of prison, with another rope much longer, perhaps, than
the first.

I suppose they are long since hanged, both of them. No other lot was
possible for them. I have not seen them or heard of them, since that
day.




CHAPTER XXI

"GUILTY, MY LORD"


The days slipped away. Visitors came, gazed, and departed. Our attorney
exhorted Jenny every day to consider her decision and to prepare a
defence.

'Consider, Madame,' he urged earnestly, 'you will stand before a Court
already prepossessed by the knowledge of your history, in your favour.
There will be no pressure of points against you. It will be shown, nay,
it is already well known, that you have, by your own unaided efforts,
defeated a most odious conspiracy and made it possible for the
conspirators to be brought to justice. This fact, further, assigns
reasons and motives for the persecution and the malignity of their
friends. I am prepared to show that at the time when you are charged
with receiving stolen property you were occupying a fine position; that
you were solvent because you were receiving large sums of money: that
you were the last person to be tempted even to receive stolen goods
especially those of a mean and worthless character. Those who might
otherwise be ready to perjure themselves against you will be afraid to
speak since this last business. You have this protection brought about
by your own action. It will be impossible to prove that you had any
knowledge of the property found on your premises.'

'All that is true. Yet, dear Sir, I cannot change my mind.'

'It is so true that I cannot believe it possible under the circumstances
for a jury to convict: you are also, Madame, which is a very important
feature in the case, possessed of a face and form whose loveliness alone
proclaims your innocence.'

'Oh! Sir, if loveliness had aught to do with justice! But could I, even
then, rely upon that claim?'

'Let me instruct Counsel. He will brush aside the evidence! Good
Heavens! What evidence! A woman swears that she saw the property carried
into your house during the whole of a certain night. That is quite
possible. Certain shopkeepers have been found to swear to some of the
articles found in your rooms as their own. How do they know? One bale of
goods is like another. That kind of evidence is worth very little. But
if the things are theirs how are you to be connected with them? I shall
prove that you lived in a great house with many servants: that it was
quite easy to carry things in and out of that house without your
knowledge: I shall call your servants, who will swear that they know
nothing of any such conveyance of goods. I will prepare a defence for
you in which you will state that you had no knowledge of these things:
nor do you know when, or by whom, they were brought into the house: you
will point to your troop of servants, including footmen, waiters,
carvers, cooks, butlers and women of all kinds: you will ask if a
manager of any place of entertainment is to be held responsible for what
was brought under his roof--that you were not in want of money and that
if you were the rubbish lying in your garrets would be of no use to you.
And so on. There could not possibly be found a better defence.'

'I know one better still,' said Jenny quietly.

'Tell me what it is, then.'

'I have already told you. Once more then. My mother has long been
notorious as a receiver of stolen goods. The people used to bring their
plunder to the Black Jack by a back entrance: under the house there are
stone vaults and a great deal of property can be stored there. When I
understood that we should want the evidence of my mother I was obliged
to offer her a large sum of money as a bribe before she would consent.
When she found that I would give no more, she accepted my offer but on
conditions. 'Remember,' she said. 'None of us will ever be able to show
our faces at the Black Jack any more. We should be murdered for sure,
for going against our own people.'

'Well,' said Mr. Dewberry, 'doubtless she was right. But what were the
conditions?'

'They were connected with the stolen goods. The vaults contained a great
deal of property which could not be sold at once. If I would suffer her
to store that property in my house, she would consent Sir, at that time,
and in order to defeat those villains, I would have consented to
anything. It was agreed that my mother and sister should move the things
by night after the Black Jack was shut up. I suppose the woman watched.
So you see, unfortunately, I did consent without thinking.'

'You did consent--oh!' he groaned. 'But, after all, your mother and
sister will not give evidence. Where is the evidence of your consent?
Are they out of sight? Good. Let them keep out of sight.'

'But there is more. Dear Sir, you will say I am very imprudent. When it
was arranged for my mother to go away after the trial and lie snug for
awhile, she could not bear to think of losing all her property, and
so--still without thinking of consequences--I bought the whole lot.'

'You bought! Oh! This, indeed, I did not expect. You bought the whole!
However, one comfort, no one knows except your mother.'

'And my sister. Now, Sir, Doll will not allow my mother to suffer alone.
If she is accused of receiving I shall be charged with buying the
property.'

'I wish the mob had burned the place.'

'Nobody can wish that more than myself. Now consider. If I plead "Not
Guilty" and am acquitted, my mother will certainly be arrested. There
will be a Hue and Cry after her, and I shall then be charged again with
buying stolen property, knowing it to be stolen. No, Sir, my mind is
quite made up. I shall plead Guilty. If the evidence is only what we
know, there will be no further inquiry after the property. So, at least,
my mother will be safe.'

Mr. Dewberry said nothing for a while. 'Would your mother,' he asked,
'do as much for you?'

'I dare say she would. We have our virtues, we poor rogues, sometimes.'

He remonstrated with her: he repeated over and over again his assurance
that her defence was as perfect as a defence could be. She could not be
examined or cross-examined. The evidence of the woman would be confined
to one point. It was all in vain: she was obstinate.

'I shall plead Guilty,' she said.

Finally he went away and left me alone with her.

'Jenny,' I said, 'sometimes I believe you are mad so far as your own
interests are concerned.'

'No, Will--only crafty. Now listen a little. I have one firm, strong,
powerful friend--I mean Lord Brockenhurst. If a woman wants a man to
remain in love with her, she must keep him off. He knows all about me,
he says: he has made up the prettiest tale possible. And he actually
believes it.'

'Made up a tale, Jenny?'

'It was a very pretty story that he wrote called the "Case of Clarinda,"
This is a prettier story still. It appears that I am the lost and stolen
child of noble parents. My birth is stamped upon my face. Never a gipsy
yet was known to have light hair like mine, and blue eyes like mine. I
have been brought up in ignorance of my parentage, by a woman of
dishonest character who stole me in infancy. She made me, against my
wish (for a person of my rank naturally loathes employment so menial)
an Orange Girl of Drury Lane Theatre. Then I rose above that station by
the possession of parts inherited, and became an actress and the Toast
of the Town. The woman clung to her pretended daughter still. Then I
left the stage in order to be married: when I found my husband little
better than a sordid gambler, I left his house and opened the
Assembly-room: the woman, for her own safety, made, unknown to me, a
storehouse of my garrets. That is his story. But the end is better
still. My true nobility of soul, inherited from my unknown illustrious
ancestors, prompts me to plead Guilty in order to save this pretended
mother. Now, Will----'

'How does the story help?'

'Because it has already got abroad. Because it will incline everybody's
heart to get me saved.'

'Yes--but an acquittal is so easy.'

'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?'

The Old Bailey never witnessed a greater crowd than that which filled
the court to witness the trial of Mistress Jenny Wilmot, charged with
receiving stolen goods knowing them to be stolen. Her assumed name of
Madame Vallance was forgotten: her married name of Halliday was
forgotten: on everybody's tongue she was Jenny Wilmot the actress: Jenny
Wilmot the Toast of the Town: Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane. They spoke of
her beauty, her grace, her vivacity: these were still remembered in
spite of her absence from the stage of nearly two years. Now two years
is a long time for an actress, unless she is very good indeed, to be
remembered. But the 'Case of Clarinda' was by this time known to every
club and coffee-house in London: not a City clerk or shopman but had the
story pat, with oaths and sighs and tears. My Lord Brockenhurst had done
his share in changing public opinion, and the later story, that of the
noble origin of the stolen girl, was also whispered from mouth to
mouth.

The court, I say, was crowded. Behind the chairs of the Lord Mayor and
Judge, the Aldermen and the Sheriffs, were other chairs filled with
great ladies: the public gallery was also filled with ladies who were
admitted by tickets issued by sheriffs: the entrances and doorways and
the body of the court were filled with gentlemen, actors and actresses
mixed with an evil-looking and evil-smelling company from St. Giles's.

The witnesses, among whom I failed to observe the revengeful woman,
consisted, I was pleased to see, of no more than the two or three
shopkeepers who were waiting to swear to their own property. They stood
beside the witness-box, wearing the look of determined and pleased
revenge common to those who have been robbed. The Jury were sworn one
after the other, and took their seats. I could not fail to observe that
the unrelenting faces with which they had received me, the highwayman,
were changed into faces of sweet commiseration. If ever Jury betrayed by
outward signs a full intention, beforehand, of bringing in a verdict of
Not Guilty, with the addition, if the Judge would allow it, that the
lady left the dock without a blemish upon her character, it was that
jury--yet a jury composed entirely of persons engaged in trade, who
would naturally be severe upon the crime of receiving stolen goods.

When the Court were ready to take their places the prisoner was brought
in, and all the people murmured with astonishment and admiration and
pity, for the prisoner was dressed as for her wedding day. She was all
in white without a touch of any other colour. Her lovely fair hair was
dressed without powder over a high cushion with white silk ribbons
hanging to her shoulders: her white silk frock drawn back in front,
showed a white satin petticoat: white silk gloves covered her hands and
arms: she carried a nosegay of white jonquils: a necklace of pearls hung
round her neck: her belt was of worked silver. She took her place in the
dock: she disposed her flowers between the spikes, among the sprigs of
rue. Her air was calm and collected: not boastful: sad as was natural:
resigned as was becoming: neither bold nor shrinking: there was no
affectation of confidence nor any agitation of terror. She was like a
Queen: she was full of dignity. She seemed to say, 'Look at me, all of
you. Can you believe that I--I--I--such as I--Jenny Wilmot--could
actually stoop to receive a lot of stolen rags and old petticoats and
bales of stuff worth no more altogether than two or three guineas?'

During the whole time of the trial the eyes of everybody in court, I
observed, were turned upon the prisoner. Never before, I am sure, did a
more lovely prisoner stand in the Dock: never was there one whose
position was more commiserated: they were all, I verily believe, ready
to set her free at once: but for the act and deed of the prisoner
herself. Her attitude: her face: her dress all proclaimed aloud the
words which I have written down above. Everybody had seen her on the
stage playing principally the coquette, the woman of fashion and folly,
the hoyden, the affected prude--but not a part like this. 'Ye gods!' I
heard a young barrister exclaim. 'She looks like an angel: an angel sent
down to Newgate!' The strange, new, unexpected look of virginal
innocence stamped on the brow of the once daring and headlong actress
startled the people: it went to the heart of everyone: it made everybody
present feel that they were assisting at a martyrdom: nay, as if they
were themselves, unwillingly, bringing faggots to pile the fire. Before
the trial began many an eye was dim, many a cheek was humid.

The Court entered: the people rose: the Counsel bowed to the Bench: the
Lord Mayor took his seat: beside him the Judge: with him the Aldermen
and the Sheriffs: the prisoner also did reverence to the Court like a
gentlewoman receiving company. One would not have been surprised had my
Lord Mayor stepped down and kissed her on the cheek in City fashion. But
neither in her look nor in her actions was there betrayed the least sign
of degradation, fear, or shame.

When a somewhat lengthy indictment had been read, she raised her head.
'My Lord, I would first desire to ask for my name to be amended.'

'What amendment do you desire?'

'I am described as Madame Vallance, alias Jenny Wilmot, actress. It is
true that Jenny Wilmot was my maiden name, and that I assumed the name
of Madame Vallance when I left the stage and opened the Assembly Rooms.
My true name is Jenny Halliday, and I am the wife of Mr. Matthew
Halliday, son of Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman, and partner in the House
of Halliday Brothers, West India Wharf, by the Steel Yard in the Parish
of All Hallows the Great.'

The Judge, whom nothing could surprise, answered with the awful coldness
which becomes a Judge and so terrifies a prisoner. 'There is no dispute
concerning identity. Plead in your married name, if you will.'

'Then, my Lord, I plead Guilty.'

She had done it, then. With a case so strong: with an assurance of
acquittal, she had pleaded Guilty. My heart sank. Yet I knew what she
would do. The Lord Mayor whispered the judge again.

'You are ignorant of law and procedure in Courts of Justice,' he said.
'I will allow you to withdraw that plea. Have you no Counsel?'

'I need none, my Lord. I plead Guilty.'

The people all held their breath. Then the 'Case of Clarinda' was true
after all.

'I am anxious,' the Judge went on, 'that you should have a fair trial.
Appoint a Counsel. Advise with him.'

'I plead Guilty' she repeated.

The Judge threw himself back in his seat 'Let the trial proceed,' he
said.

The Counsel for the Prosecution opened the case. It was, he said a
remarkable case, because there seemed no sufficient reason or temptation
for breaking the law, or for receiving stolen property. The information
was laid by a woman living in the purlieus of St. Giles's Parish: she
was, very probably, a person of no character at all: but character was
not wanted in this case because her information would be supplemented by
the evidence of several persons of the highest respectability who would
swear to certain articles as their own property. The woman in fact,
would depose to the conveyance of stolen goods to the house in question:
she gave information the goods were actually found there: and other
witnesses would claim as their own many things among the property so
found.

'Gentlemen of the Jury,' he went on, 'this is a case of a painful
nature. The prisoner who pleads guilty--who rejects the clemency--the
kindly benevolence--of the Court--is a person who, as you know, a year
or two ago was delighting the town by the vivacity of her acting and the
beauty of her person: she left the stage, the world knew not why, or
what had become of her: it now appears that she took a certain house in
Soho Square, where she carried on assemblies, masquerades, and other
amusements still delighting the town: there is nothing to make one
believe that she was in pecuniary embarrassments: and we now learn that
she is actually the wife of a City merchant of great wealth and
reputation.' Here his neighbour hurriedly wrote something on a paper:
and handed it to him. 'My learned friend,' he said correcting himself,
'informs me that this House, until recently in the highest repute, has
fallen into evil times and is now bankrupt. But, gentlemen, whether the
prisoner attempted to stave off her husband's bankruptcy or not, the
property which she received was of so trifling a character that it would
seem as if she was breaking the Law for the sake of a few shillings. The
things found in her possession were not those which we are accustomed to
regard as the booty of robbers: there are no jewels, gold chains, silver
cups, lace, silks or anything at all but things belonging to poor people
or to people just raised above poverty. There are women's petticoats,
men's nightcaps: watches in tortoise-shell cases: knives and forks:
small spoons, handkerchiefs: stockings, even: wigs, and so forth. I
expected, I confess when I surveyed this rubbish, to hear a defence on
the ground that such a person in a position so responsible--with friends
so numerous, some of them of high rank, could not condescend to
countenance the mean and sordid traffic. I confess that I looked forward
to this trial as a means of finding out the real criminal who had taken
advantage of access to the house and impudently used the rooms in Madame
Vallance's premises for their own dishonest purposes. That expectation
must be now disappointed: that hope must be abandoned. By her own
repeated confession, the prisoner has assured the Court that she is
guilty.

'The case,' he went on, 'has grown out of one recently heard before this
Court. It was one in which the present prisoner exerted herself very
actively in the cause of a man named Halliday, presumably a connection
of her own by marriage. Halliday was charged with highway robbery. The
evidence was clear and direct. The prisoner before us, however, with
great activity and courage, brought together an overwhelming mass of
evidence which proved that the charge was a conspiracy of the blackest
and foulest kind. The conspirators are now undergoing their sentence. By
this brave action an innocent life was saved and four villains were sent
to prison. I mention the fact because it shows that the prisoner
possesses many noble qualities, which make it the more marvellous that
she should be guilty of acts so mean, so paltry, so sordid. The woman
who will appear before you was the mistress of one of these
conspirators. Her information was doubtless laid as an act of revenge.
Yet we cannot weigh motives.' And so on.

It appeared that the evidence was of a merely formal character and that
the witnesses would not be cross-examined. The first witness was the
woman of whom you know. She, among other women prisoners in Newgate, had
been kept from starvation by Jenny; this fact might have softened her
heart: but unfortunately the recent sufferings of her lover in pillory
re-awakened her desire for revenge. She was an eager witness: she wanted
to begin at once and to tell her tale her own way. The main point now
was a statement invented since her evidence before the magistrate. She
now declared that she herself was engaged by the prisoner to carry the
property to the Assembly Rooms. This abominable perjury she stoutly
maintained. The Counsel for the Prosecution questioned her apparently in
order to elicit the facts: in reality, as I now believe, in order to
make her contradict herself. She was asked where she put the things: why
in the garret: what servants helped her: who received her: who carried
candles for her: why the prisoner selected her for the job: what share
she had in the riots: whether she was in prison on that account: and so
on. She was a poor ignorant creature, thirsting for revenge: therefore
she maintained stoutly that the prisoner had paid her for moving the
goods into her house.

Whether by accident or design, nothing was said about the Black Jack or
about the landlady of that establishment. I suppose that the Prosecution
was only anxious to establish the bare facts to which the prisoner had
pleaded Guilty.

The manner in which the witness gave her evidence: the fire in her eyes
and in her cheeks: the dirty slovenly look of the woman: her uncombed
hair: her voice: her gestures: her manifest perjuries and
contradictions: disgusted all who looked on: the Judge laid down his pen
and leaned back in his chair as if what she said was of no concern: the
Aldermen looked at the Judge as much as to ask how long this was to be
permitted: the Jury whispered and shook their heads: the ladies present
knotted their brows and fanned themselves and whispered each other
angrily. At last she sat down flaming and vehement to the end. Her
evidence had in fact ruined the case. Why, she had the impudence to
allege that the property she had herself carried to the house was
received by Madame herself, who ordered her footmen to carry it to the
garrets.

She was followed by the shopkeepers who had been robbed. They swore to
certain goods of no great value, which had been stolen from them. Their
evidence was quickly given. There was, in fact, no evidence really
implicating the prisoner except that of the woman. There was clearly
something behind: something not explained, which everybody was
whispering to each other--it had been revealed in the famous paper
called 'The Case of Clarinda.' And now I understood what Jenny meant
when she said that her defence would bring her mother into the business.
For Counsel would have inquired into the Black Jack story and asked what
the things were doing there: how they came there: who was the landlord:
with many other particulars, some of which would have brought out the
truth. As for the woman, whether by feminine cunning or by accident, she
concealed the relationship between Jenny and the Black Jack: she had
really seen the sister and the mother carrying things to the house in
Soho Square: she did not then know that Madame Vallance was Jenny: she
found out the fact at the trial: she then invented the story of being
hired for carrying the property _because she knew it was there_. All
that the Court knew, however, was the fact that such a woman as stood
before them, this angel of loveliness this woman of position: had
actually confessed to the crime of receiving the miserable odds and
ends--the rags and tawdry finery--stolen from quite poor people. It was
amazing: it was incredible.

'That is my case, my Lord,' said the Counsel with a sigh, as if he was
ashamed of having conducted it at all.

'Prisoner at the Bar,' said the Judge, 'you have heard the verdict of
the Jury. You may now say anything you wish in explanation or
extenuation.'

'What can I have to say, my Lord,' she replied simply but with dignity,
'since I pleaded guilty? Nevertheless, I have to thank the Counsel for
the Prosecution, who almost proved my pleading impossible.'

The Judge summed up in a few words. The verdict of the Jury included a
recommendation to mercy.

The Judge assumed the black cap: he pronounced sentence of Death: the
Ordinary appeared in his robes and prayed that the Lord would have mercy
on her soul: the warder tied the usual slip of string about the
prisoner's thumb to show what hanging meant. The only person unaffected
by the sentence was the prisoner herself. Never before had she acted so
finely: never before, indeed, had Jenny been called upon to play such a
part. She stood with clasped hands gazing into the face of the Judge,
not with defiance, not with wonder: not with resentment: but with a meek
acceptance. The women in the court, the great ladies behind the Lord
Mayor wept and sobbed without restraint: even the younger members of the
outer Bar were affected to unmanly humidity of the eyes.

Now when the verdict of the Jury was pronounced, and before the sentence
of the Judge, Jenny did a strange thing, which moved the people almost
more than the words of the sentence. She took up a small roll which lay
before her. It was a black lace veil. She threw this over her head: it
fell down upon her shoulders nearly to her waist. She held it up while
the Judge was speaking: when he finished she dropped it over her face.
So with the veil of Death falling over her spotless robes of Innocence
she stepped down from the dock and followed the men in blue back to the
prison. 'Ye Gods!' cried one of the barristers, 'she is nothing less
than the Virgin Martyr!' Indeed she seemed nothing less than one of the
Christian martyrs, the confessors faithful to the end whom no tortures
and no punishment could turn aside from the path of martyrdom.

I hurried round to the prison. 'Ah! Sir,' sighed a turnkey, 'she must
now go to the condemned cell. Pity! Pity!' They were all her
friends--every one of these officers, hardened by years of daily contact
with the scum of the people. 'But they won't hang her. They can't.'

'And all for her mother,' said another. 'I remember old Sal of the Black
Jack, also her sister Dolly. All to save that fat old carrion carcass.
Well, well. You can go in, sir.'

Jenny was standing by the table. She greeted me with a sad smile. 'It is
all over at last,' she said. 'It is harder to play a part on a real
stage than in a theatre. Did I play well, Will?'

'You left a House in tears, Jenny. Oh!' I cried impatiently, 'Is this
what you wanted?'

'Yes, I am quite satisfied. I really was afraid at one time that the
Counsel would throw up the case because his leading witness was so gross
and impudent a liar. Didst ever hear a woman perjure herself so roundly
and so often? What next?'

'Yes, Jenny. What next?'

'I don't know, Will. The Assembly Rooms which are taken in my name are
seized, I hear, by my husband's creditors. But all the furniture and
fittings have been destroyed already. That is done with, then. Am I to
begin again in order to have everything seized again?' She talked as if
her immediate enlargement was certain. I could not have the heart to
whisper discouragement.

'There is still the stage, Jenny. The world will welcome you back
again.'

'Do you think so? The Orange Girl they could stand; it pleased the Pit
to remember how they used to buy my oranges. But the woman who has come
out of a condemned cell? The woman who pleaded guilty to receiving
stolen goods? I doubt it will.'

'What does that matter? Everybody knows why you pleaded Guilty. You are
Clarinda.'

'An audience at a theatre, Will, sometimes shows neither pity nor
consideration for an actress. They say what they like: they shout what
they like: they insult her as they please--an actress is fair game: to
make an actress run off the stage in a flood of tears is what they
delight in. They would be pleased to ask what I have done with the
stolen goods.'

'What will you do then, Jenny?'

There came along, at this point, another visitor. It was none other than
the Counsel for the Prosecution. He stood at the door of the cell, but
seeing me, he hesitated.

'Come in, Sir,' said Jenny. 'You wish to speak to me. Speak. This
gentleman, my husband's first cousin, can hear all that you have to ask
or I to reply.'

'Madame,' he bowed as to a Countess. 'This is a wretched place for you.
I trust, however that it will not be for long. The recommendation of the
Jury will certainly have weight: the Judge is benevolently disposed: you
have many friends.'

'I hope, Sir, that I have some friends who will not believe that I have
bought a parcel of stolen petticoats?'

'Your friends will stand by you: of that I am certain. Madame, I venture
here to ask you, if I may do so without the charge of impertinent
curiosity--believe me--I am not so actuated----'

'Surely, Sir. Ask what you will.'

'I would ask you then, why you pleaded Guilty. The case was certain from
the outset to break down. I might have pressed the witness as to the
property itself, but I refrained because her perjuries were manifest.
Why then, Madame--if I may ask--why?'

'Perhaps I had learned that certain things had been sent to my garrets,
but I paid no thought to any risk or danger----'

'That might have been pleaded.'

'The case being over, that property can bring no other person into
trouble, I believe?'

'I should think not. The case is ended.'

'Then, Sir, I pray you to consider this question. If some person very
closely connected with yourself were actually guilty of this crime: if
you yourself were charged with it: if your acquittal would lead to that
person's conviction, what would you do?'

'That is what they whisper,' he replied. 'Madame, I hope that such a
choice may never be made to me. Is this true--what you suggest--what
people whisper?'

'Many things are whispered concerning me,' said Jenny proudly. 'I do not
heed those whispers. Well, Sir, such a choice has been presented to me.
It is part of the penalty of my birth that such a choice could be
possible.'

'Then it is true?' he insisted; 'the "Case of Clarinda" is true?'

'Sir, it is true in many points. I was once an Orange Girl of Drury
Lane. My people were residents of St. Giles's in the Fields. I was
brought up in the courts and lanes of that quarter. You, Sir, are a
lawyer. Need I explain further the nature of that choice?'

'Madam,' said the lawyer, 'I think you are the best woman in the world
as you are the loveliest.' So saying he lifted her hand to his lips,
bowing low, and left us.

'Well,' said Jenny, 'I think I have done pretty well for my mother and
for Doll. Their slate is clean again. They can begin fair. Receiving has
been her principal trade so long that she is not likely to be satisfied
with drawing beer. But the past is wiped out. And as for myself----'
She sighed. 'What next? Matthew is where the wicked can no longer
trouble. Merridew, poor wretch! has also ceased from troubling. My
friends of St. Giles's will be satisfied because I have now done what I
told you I should do, and gone through the fiery furnace. Why,' she
looked around the bare and narrow walls, 'I believe I am in it still.
But the flames do not burn, nor does the hot air scorch--believe me,
dear Will--oh! believe me--I would do it all again--all again--I regret
nothing--Will, nothing. Assure Alice that I would do it all
again--exactly as I have done.'

With a full heart I left her. What next? What next?




CHAPTER XXII

FROM THE CONDEMNED CELL


And now, indeed, began the time of endurance and suspense. To the
bravest of women came moments of depression--what else could be expected
when her days and nights were spent in a condemned cell? In this gloomy
apartment Jenny was now compelled to live. The place lies in a corner of
the women's yard or Court; it contains two rooms, one of them a small
bedroom, the other, when there are only one or two in residence, a
living room. One other prisoner was already in this cell, awaiting her
time for execution. Alas! she was a mere child, not more than sixteen,
and looking younger: a poor, ignorant creature who had never learned the
difference between right and wrong: who had been brought up, as was
Jenny herself, among children of rogues, themselves rogues from infancy.
The law was going to kill this child because the law itself had found no
way to protect her. Alas for our humanity! Alas for our statesmen! Alas
for our Church! Will there never arise a Prophet in the land to show us
how much better it is to teach than to kill?

Outside, the yard was all day long filled with women either convicted or
waiting to be tried: some of them were in prison for short sentences:
some were waiting to be whipped: some were waiting for ships to carry
them to the plantations: all alike were foul in language; unwashed,
uncombed and draggled; rough and coarse and common. Such women, gathered
together in one place, make each other worse: they swear like men: they
fight like men: they drink like men: their hair hangs loose over their
shoulders: the 'loose jumps' of leather which they use for stays are
never changed: the ragged kerchief over their shoulders is never washed:
the linsey-woolsey frock is foul with every kind of stain: their loud
harsh voices have no feminine softness: their red brawny arms terrify
the spectator: in their faces, even of the youngest, is no look of
Venus.

Taken to this place, Jenny had to wait, expectant, for the relief that
was promised her by Lord Brockenhurst. Her cheek grew pale and thin: her
eyes became unnaturally bright: I feared gaol fever but happily she was
spared this dreadful malady. Yet she kept up the appearance of
cheerfulness, and greeted me every day with a smile that was never
forced, and a grasp that was never chilled.

For exercise Jenny had the crowded yard. There, with no one to protect
her, she walked a little every morning, the women falling back, right
and left, to let her pass. They offered her no molestation. To save her
fancy man--so ran the legend--she had compassed the ruin of her old
friends: with this object ('twas the only one they could understand) she
put up her mother to bear witness against her own customers. Well: it
was to save her fancy man--the same came every day to see her in the
prison: that was some excuse for her: would not any woman do as much for
her man? And now she was herself condemned all through the other woman
whose man she had put in prison and in pillory. So far, then, they were
quits, and might all become friends again. And they remembered as a
point in Jenny's favour that the noble welcome with which the
thief-taker was received--a thing at which all Roguery rejoiced--was
entirely due to her exertions. These things passed from one to the other
clothed in the language peculiar to such people.

Jenny took two or three turns in the yard, every morning when the prison
air is freshest, and then went back to her cell, where she remained for
the rest of the day.

In those days she talked to me more freely than before and a great deal
about herself. She was forced to talk and to think about herself, for
the first time in her life. Her thoughts went back to the past when all
she could expect was to become such as the poor creatures with her in
the prison. Yet these poor women, whom I found so terrible to look upon
and to hear, she regarded with a tenderness which I thought excessive. I
now understand that it was more humane than at that time was within my
comprehension.

'They are not terrible to me,' she said. 'I know them--what they are and
what has made them so. I can speak their language, but I must not let
them know that I understand. It is the Thieves' tongue made up of Gipsy
and of Tinkers' talk. They talk about me all day--even when I am in
their midst. Poor wretches! They are not so bad as they look.'

'Nay, Jenny, but to see them beside you!'

'If we grow up among people, Will, and are used to them, we do not think
much of their manners and their looks. When I was a child I played among
them. Many a cuff have I had: many a slap for getting in their way: but
many a bit of gingerbread and many an apple. You think them terrible. If
they were clean and had their hair dressed they would not be terrible
any longer. Oh! Will, they are not very far from the fine
ladies--no--nor so very much below the best of good women, even Alice.
They are women, though you flog them at Bridewell and hang them at
Tyburn--they are still women. And they love--in their poor fond faithful
way--the very hand that knocks them down and the very foot that kicks
them. They love--Oh! the poor women--they love.'

She broke off, with a sob in her voice. I marvelled at the time because
I had always looked upon the creatures as something below humanity: as
belonging to a tribe of savages such as Swift called the Yahoos.
Afterwards, I understood; and then I marvelled more.

Another time she talked about her profession as an actress. 'Acting,'
she said, 'cannot be otherwise than delightful--but it takes an actor
away from himself. When one has been two or three years on the stage
nothing is left but the stage and the dressing-room: the company behind
the scenes and the audience in front. Nothing is real. Everything that
happens is but a scene in a play. When the curtain drops upon this Act,
that is, when they let me go, I shall rest for five minutes while the
next Act is getting ready: the play of _Clarinda_, or the _Orange Girl_,
has some excellent scenes. You remember that scene when the mob wrecked
the house: and the scene when the mob pelted Mr. Merridew--well, I
should not be in the least surprised to meet Mr. Merridew himself
walking along Holborn with one eye on a young thief in training for a
shoplifter: and I might look in at the Black Jack and see my mother
taking her morning dram and Doll adding up the scores upon the slate. In
five minutes after the curtain has dropped what has happened is little
more to me than the last scene in the play at Drury. Why, if I were put
into the cart and carried out to Tyburn I should still be the heroine
playing my part to a breathless house. And I believe I should enjoy that
part of the performance as much as anything. You saw how I played the
Virgin Martyr in Court.'

'Yet this is real enough, God knows,' I said, looking round the place.

'I dare say it looks so to you. To me, it is part of the Play. Will, the
Play is nearly over. I knew all along that disaster was coming upon me.
But the worst is over--the worst is over. I know that the worst is over.
I can now foretell what is coming next.' She looked straight before her,
her eyes luminous in the dark cell. 'I can see,' she said, 'a time of
peace and calm. Well, Will, reality or not, that scene will be pleasant.
I shall go out of this place very soon--But I know not when, and I
cannot see myself at any time again upon the boards of Drury. I am
certain that I shall never go back there. I cannot see myself in Soho
Square either. I shall never go back there. I see fields and hills and
woods'--she shuddered and with a gesture pushed the vision from her.
'Will--it is strange, all is strange: it is a beautiful country, but I
know it not--I cannot understand it.'

It was not the first time, as you have seen, that she showed this
strange power of peering into the future. Whether this fair-haired and
blue-eyed woman was really a child of the gipsies, or, as Lord
Brockenhurst conjectured, a stolen child, she had the powers that we
commonly find in gipsy women who are fortune-tellers all the world over.
That she compelled all men to become her servants you have seen: that
she could also compel women to follow and obey her was proved by what
she did during that three or four weeks which she spent in the condemned
cell: the same magic arts--yet she was no witch: and she could read the
future--a gift which is marvellous in our eyes.

Her power over others, even the most savage people, was shown by the
changed behaviour of the poor girl waiting for execution. I have
mentioned her: she was at first a wild creature: she fled to the darkest
corner of the cell and there crouched with eyes of suspicion and terror:
she snatched her food and ran into her corner to eat it: she was
altogether unwashed and altogether in rags: she was bare-footed,
bare-legged and bare-armed: her hair which should have been light--like
Jenny's own hair, was matted with dirt: it looked as if it had never
known a comb: yet long and beautiful hair: her eyes were blue, large and
limpid. She had never known kindness, or love, or care since the day
when her mother was marched away to Newgate wearing handcuffs. She was,
I say, a mere savage. The child might have been sixteen, but she looked
thirteen. Still, sixteen is young for Tyburn. Jenny found this child in
her cell: condemned like herself; and she tamed her. Not in a single
day, but in a few days. She tamed her with kindness; with soft words in
the language which the child understood best: with soft touches: with
gifts of pretty things: I suppose she gave her sweetmeats--I know not
what she did, but in a few days I found the savage wild creature
converted into a shy, timid girl--clinging to Jenny and following her
about like a favourite spaniel. She was washed and combed and dressed
from head to foot: she wore stockings and shoes: her hair, just confined
by a ribbon, hung over her shoulders in lovely tresses: she had become
an interesting child who promised to grow into a lovely maiden. And yet
she was to be carried out to Tyburn and there hanged.

Then, when the girl had assumed a civilized look, Jenny began to lament
her approaching fate of which the poor creature seemed herself
unconscious. Indeed, I think the child understood nothing at her trial
or her sentence except that she was horribly frightened and was carried
out of court crying.

'Is it not terrible,' she asked, 'that we must hang children--ignorant
children?'

'It is the law of the land, Jenny. Judges have only to administer the
law of the land.'

'Then it is a cruel law, and the Judges ought to say so. A man is a
murderer who condemns a child to death, even if it is the law, without
declaring against it.'

'Nay, Jenny'--this she could not understand for the reasons I have
already given--'we must remember that the children suffer for the sins
of the fathers, unto the third and fourth generation.'

She stared. 'Why,' she said, 'the poor child has been taught no better.'
And, indeed, there seems no answer to this plea. If in the mysteries of
Providence we must so suffer, the Law of men should not punish
ignorance. 'To hang children!' she insisted. 'To destroy their lives
before they have well begun! And for what? For taking something not
their own--Oh! Will, it is monstrous. Just for a bit of cloth--only a
bit of cloth off a counter. Oh! the poor child! the poor child!'

Then, just as she had spared no trouble to get me out of my danger so
she now began to work for the rescue of this child. She spoke to the
Governor about it. He looked astonished: children of fifteen, or so,
were frequently executed for one offence or the other: the Law was
doubtless severe: but criminals of all kinds were multiplying: after
all, they were out of the way when they were hanged: this girl, for
instance, would only grow up like the rest, a plague and a curse to the
community. Still he gave Jenny advice, and by her instruction I drew up
a Petition from the child herself addressed to no less a person than her
Gracious Majesty the young Queen, who was said to have a kindly heart.
The petition, with certain changes, might almost have been that of Jenny
herself for her own case. Here is a piece of it.

'Your Petitioner humbly submits that she was born and brought up in a
part of London occupied entirely by thieves, rogues, and vagabonds: that
she was taught from infancy that the only way by which she could earn
her daily bread was by stealing: that the only art or trade she had ever
learned was that of stealing without being detected: that she was never
at any school or Church or under any kind of instruction whatever: that
she was never taught the meaning of right or wrong: that she had learned
no religion and no morals and knew not what they meant; and that being
caught in the act of stealing a piece of cloth value six shillings from
a shop, she is now lying under sentence of death.'

To make a long story short, Jenny entrusted this Petition to Lord
Brockenhurst, who generously interested himself in the girl and
undertook that the Petition should reach the hands of Her Majesty the
Queen--with the result, as you shall presently hear, that the girl's
life was spared.

This incident has nothing to do with the story, save that it shows
Jenny's generous nature and her good heart; thus in the midst of her own
anxieties to think of the troubles of others. Nay, she not only saved
the life of this girl, but she brought her to a new mind and to new
thoughts: and, whereas she had been before what you have seen, she
converted the child into a decent, well conducted civil girl, worthy of
better things--even to marry an honest man and to become the mother of
stout lads and sturdy wenches. Let us consider how many lives might have
been destroyed had they hanged this young girl. I have sometimes
calculated that if they hang a hundred women every year, most of them
young, they deprive the country of five hundred children whose loss may
mean the loss of two thousand five hundred grandchildren, and so on. Can
any country afford to lose so many valuable soldiers and sailors every
year, the number still mounting up? Why, then, cannot we take the
children when they are still young out of Roguery and place them in some
house where they will be taught religion and morals and a craft? At
present the cry is all 'Hang! Hang! Hang!' or 'Flog! Flog! Flog!' So the
soldiers and the sailors and the wretched women are tied up and flogged
well nigh to death: and the carts go rumbling along Holborn loaded with
the poor creatures on their way to be hanged: but the rogues increase
and multiply. Since hanging and flogging do no good cannot we try
Jenny's method of kindness? I say this writing many years
afterwards--because at that time I did not understand the law of
kindness which I now perceive to be the Heavenly Law of Charity. Jenny,
who had no glimmer of religion, poor thing, in her quick way divined the
Law of Charity.

Why, she changed even the women in the Prison Yard. There was great
suffering among them. Many of them had no friends to bring them food:
they had nothing but the daily dole of the penny loaf. Presently, I
observed that they looked more contented and better fed: they were less
noisy: there was less quarrelling and fighting: they were even cleaner
to look at. All this was Jenny's doing. She fed them first: then when
their craving for food, which made them quarrelsome, was allayed, she
went among them and talked to them one at a time. I have seen her, I
have seen how the rough coarse common creatures would respond, little by
little, to words of kindness. She advised them about their affairs: she
made them confess what they had done: why, was she not one of
themselves?

'I knew you,' she said to one, 'long ago in Hog's Lane: you lived in the
Old Bell Alley: we were girls together. Come into my cell and I will
find you something more to put on; and your hair wants to be combed and
put up, doesn't it? And your face would look so much better if it were
washed. Come with me----' and so on with one after the other: not the
least case being the girl who had laid information and committed perjury
against her. It was what Jenny said--though the saying was then too hard
for me. They are women: as are all men and women, whether we call some
Yahoos or not: they are women: there is not such very great difference
between the greatest lady and the lowest woman: both are women: both are
ruled by the same irresistible forces of love. Some day, perhaps, some
gentlewoman will put the part of the Christian religion--I mean the Law
of Charity--into practice. It is strange that a woman who was not a
Christian, and had no religion, should first teach me that Charity means
more than the giving of alms.

'Let me,' said Jenny, 'do something for these poor creatures while I am
among them. That will not be for long. Then they will fall back again
into their own ways.'

'But, Jenny, you are spending all your money.'

'An actress never wants money. When I get out of this place I have made
up my mind what to do. I will not return to Drury Lane: I will go over
to Dublin. That is the strange country with hills and woods which I see
before me always. It is Ireland. I will go on the Dublin stage. As for
the money, I brought with me all there was in the house when I left it:
and all my jewels--but they are not worth much. These women have had
some of the money, and the turnkeys have had some, and Mr. Dewberry has
had some: and I think there is not much left.'

The question of money pressed hard because I had none, and as yet no new
situation, and when Jenny was released she would certainly want money to
carry her on.

She laughed, seeing my seriousness. 'Oh! Will--Will,' she said. 'You are
a musician and yet you are anxious about money. But you were born in the
City. Now in a theatre nobody thinks about money. When the money is
plenty it is freely lent: when there is none it is freely borrowed.
Believe me, Will, I shall want no money: I never have wanted money. Did
I ever tell you, Will, my own fortune? An old gipsy woman told me. "What
others envy she shall have: what she would have she shall lack. She
shall pass through dangers without harm: she shall be happy in the end.
Yet not in the way she would most desire." That is a strange fortune, is
it not? Now I am in the midst of dangers, yet nothing will do me harm.
What do I most desire? What do all women most desire? You were born in
the City, Will, where they do not study the human heart. Therefore you
know not. The old woman was a witch, as they all are--all the gipsy
women--so far I have had what others envy--and--alas! Will, I still lack
what most I desire.'

'What is it, Jenny?'

'Ask your violin, Will. Ask your music. Ask the play upon the stage what
women most desire. Oh! Foolish youth! they ask what you have given to
Alice--they ask the happiness of love.'

If the time was long to those who watched and waited, it was worse for
her who suffered. I believe if I remember aright that our poor Jenny
spent five or perhaps six weeks in that noisome cell; her cheek, as I
have said, grew thin and pale from the bad air and the confinement; but
her courage she never lost for a single day. She asked for no
consolations and desired no soothing to alleviate the weariness of her
prison. Of those fine ladies who called before she was tried not one
came now: nor did any of the actresses, her old friends and rivals,
visit her. They came before the trial, just as they visit a notorious
robber, because it is interesting to gape upon a person who stands in
the great danger of a trial for his life, or has done some daring act of
villainy, or is about to undergo some terrible ordeal. When her trial
was over and it became certain in everybody's mind that, although the
woman had pleaded guilty: although she was condemned: she would not
suffer the capital sentence, the interest of the public in the case
rapidly declined and in a few days ceased wholly: the great ladies ran
after other excitements: they sent letters to the new singer: they sent
rings to their favourite actor: they crowded the prison of the
fashionable highwaymen: the actresses, for their part, reflected that
they would probably have Jenny back among them before long casting them
all in the shade: so they left off calling: the portrait painters went
elsewhere after studies likely to be popular. Truly it was a lamentable
instance of the breath of popular favour fickle and uncertain. 'The Case
of Clarinda' was forgotten as soon as people had made up their minds
that Clarinda was not to be hanged, although she had screened her mother
and pleaded guilty and received sentence of death.

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.'

'You deserve all--all--divine Jenny--that a man can offer. Believe me
there is nothing that is too good or too great for such as Jenny
Wilmot.'

This dialogue was only one of many. Truly, as Jenny said, here was a
faithful and a loyal friend.

One more friend was found, as faithful and as loyal, but more humble.
You remember the country lad called Jack, who had fallen into Merridew's
clutches and had already entered under his guidance upon the career of a
rogue. He it was who gave evidence which helped to connect all four
plotters with the plot. He it was, also, who carried off the old woman
and Doll by the waggon to Horsham in Sussex. We thought no more about
him. He had done his service and had received his pay and had gone his
own way. The lad had an honest look--a wholesome country-bred face,
different from the pale cheeks of the boys and the swollen faces of the
men with whom he had begun to sit. In a word, he was not yet branded
with the mark of Cain. But, I say, we had forgotten him. He was one of
the characters in the last scene but one of the play which we were
performing with Miss Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane Theatre as the heroine.

Now, one morning, while I was playing something to please our prisoner
in her cell the turnkey brought us a visitor. It was none other than the
country lad. He stood at the open door and pulled his hair, holding his
hat in one hand.

'Your servant to command, Madame,' he said timidly, pronouncing his
words in the broad country manner which is too uncouth to be presented
to eyes polite.

'Why,' cried Jenny, 'it is Jack! How fares it, honest Jack?' and so took
him by the hand as if he was of her station. Jenny had no sense of what
is due to rank and station. 'Why,' she said, when I spoke to her about
it, 'we are all players in the same company: and we all like speaking
parts.'

'And how did you leave Mother and Doll?' she went on.

'Purely well, Madame. They got out of the waggon about two miles from
Horsham at a tavern by the roadside. It was shut up. Doll saw it.
"Mother," she said, "it would do for us." They wanted me to stay, and if
they could get the House I should be tapster and drawer. But I thought I
would go home. So I left them.'

'And then you went home.'

'Ay--I went home. But they didn't want me there. And the parson talked
about the whipping-post. So I came away again. And I found out where you
were, Madame, and I came to offer my humble services.'

'Thank you kindly, Jack. But what can I do with you here?'

'I will fetch and carry. I want no wages but just to live. Let me stay
with your Ladyship.'

He looked so earnest and so honest that Jenny turned to me. 'He might be
useful. I believe he is honest. What say you, Will?'

What could I say? Should I turn away a friend when we might want all the
friends we could find? How we were to keep our new servant was more than
I knew: however, there he was, upon our hands. It was a kindly act of
Jenny, when her fortunes were at their worst to take over this poor lad
who was thrown upon the world without a trade--save that of rustic
labourer, which is useless in London: without a character: and without
friends. Jenny's consent saved him--he could remain honest.

'Vex not your soul about money, Will. We shall want none. There is
always money when it is really wanted. See how cheaply I live: I cannot
wear out my fine clothes--indeed, the mob has left me mighty few to
wear: I have no rent to pay nor any servants. It is true that my money
is nearly gone, but there are still things--well--things of which you
know nothing: and the Judge who thinks so much about the Majesty of the
Law--will surely relent before long. If he would come to see me I think
I could soften his heart.'

'Indeed you would, Jenny, if it was of the hardness of the nether
millstone.'




CHAPTER XXIII

AN UNEXPECTED EVENT


At this juncture the question of money became pressing. For three months
I had been out of a place. Jenny's money, of which she was so prodigal,
was coming to an end; and although she hinted at other resources it
became obvious to me that the attempt must be made to find employment. I
looked forward to another round of walking about the town day after day
in fruitless search. At this juncture, however, an event happened wholly
unexpected, which changed the position altogether both for myself and,
as it proved, for Jenny.

You have heard how I visited my cousin in the Prison; how I found him
ragged and half starved; and how I gave him five guineas from his wife,
which he instantly gambled away. Jenny sent him no more money; nor did
she speak of him again; nor did I again visit him; nor did I think upon
him. To think of one who had been my life-long enemy served no purpose
but to make me angry: even now, after thirty years, when I have long
since forgiven this poor deluded wretch, ever running after a
Will-o'-the-wisp, I cannot think of what he did for me--how he made it
impossible for my father to be reconciled--without a momentary wrath
boiling up in my heart. Still, I say, at thinking of my Cousin Matthew
the pulse beats quicker; the blood rises to my cheeks; it is like a
wound whose scar never vanishes, though it may be hidden away: I would
not injure Matthew if he were still living in the world, but I cannot
forget. The old rule taught to children was that we must forget and
forgive; two boys fight and are reconciled: the master flogs the boy,
who is then forgiven and his offence at once forgotten: we all forget
and forgive daily: yet some things may not be forgotten: the long years
of continued persecution, animosity, misrepresentation and conspiracy
against dear life I cannot forget, though I have long since forgiven.

One evening Mr. Ramage came to see me. 'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have
called to tell you what you ought to know. The Alderman, Sir, has I
fear, lost his wits: his misfortunes have made him distracted: he now
dreams that he is living in a palace, and that his riches have no limit.
He buys land; he gives his daughters diamonds; he founds almshouses----'

'If he believes all that, he is surely happy,' I said.

This faithful servant shook his head. 'There is a look in his eyes which
belies his words,' he said, 'I would rather see him wretched in his
senses than happy without them.'

'How does he live?'

'He has a room on the Master's side; some of his old friends of the City
send him a guinea every week: his daughters pass the day with him. He
wants for nothing. But, Mr. Will--the change! the change!' and so his
eyes filled with tears. 'And he who would have been Lord Mayor--Lord
Mayor--next year!'

'How do my cousins treat you?'

'If I was a dog and toothless they could not treat me worse, because I
gave that evidence.'

The unfortunate Alderman! This was, indeed, a wretched ending to an
honourable career. I suppose that he knew nothing and suspected nothing
of what was threatening; and that the news of his wrecked fortunes fell
upon him like a thunderbolt. That some of his friends sent him a guinea
a week showed that he was pitied rather than blamed for this wreck and
ruin of a noble House. Poor old merchant! And this after his Alderman's
pride and glory: after being Warden of his Company: after a long
partnership in one of the oldest Houses in the City! Fortune, which used
to put Kings down and put Kings up, just by a turn of her wheel, now
makes rich merchants bankrupt and consigns Aldermen to Debtors' Prisons
in order to bring home to all of us--even the humble musician--the
uncertainty of human wealth. His wits gone a-wandering! A happiness for
him: a thing to be expected, when, at his age, there had fallen upon him
the thing which City merchants dread worse than death.

'How can we help him?' I asked.

'Nay: there is no help, but pity and to bear the scorn of the young
ladies as best one may.'

'Do they know that Matthew is in the prison with him?'

'No, Sir. They do not know. They do not inquire after Mr. Matthew. But
it was of him, Sir, that I came to speak.'

It then appeared that since in every depth of misery there is a lower
depth, so the unfortunate man had sunk still lower since I last saw him.
He was absolutely destitute, ragged, starving, even bare-footed.

'Will,' said Alice, 'we must take him to-morrow what we can spare. After
all he is your cousin. You must forgive him.'

'I would not harm him, certainly.'

Alas! Silver and gold had we little: out of our slender store we might
spare two or three shillings and some provisions. Half a loaf; a piece
of cheese; a piece of gammon; a bottle of beer; these things I carried
over to the Fleet Prison in the morning. I also carried over a warm coat
which I could ill spare; a pair of shoes and stockings; a warm wrapper
for the neck; and a thick blanket.

I had no difficulty in finding Matthew. He sat in a bare and wretched
room where, on this cold day of January, with a sharp frost outside,
there was no fire in the grate, no curtains to the rattling windows, no
carpet, no beds, nothing but the hard planks to lie upon when night fell
and the poor debtors could huddle together for such warmth as the
half-starved human body could afford. There was a small bench--I suppose
it found its way there by accident. Matthew sat on that, his feet under
the bench, his body bent, his hands clasped. I called him by name.
'Matthew!'

He looked up. He knew me. He murmured something, I know not what, but it
was unfriendly. To the last, he remained unfriendly.

I opened my bundle. I took out my provisions and the bottle of beer. He
ate and drank enormously, but without a word of thanks. Then I took out
the stockings and the shoes and put them on: tied the kerchief round his
neck; laid the thick blanket on the floor, laid him on it and rolled it
round him. He was quite unresisting; he was without gratitude; he
cursed, but mechanically, and as if he could say nothing else. Instead
of getting warmer, his teeth chattered and he shivered still.

I spoke to him again. 'Is there anything more I can do for you,
Matthew?'

'You can go away,' he said, articulate at last. 'You can go away and
leave me. The sight of you makes me mad.' I have since thought that this
might be a sign of repentance.

'I will go away directly. Is there anything more I can do for you?'

'I want,' he said, lifting his head and looking round, 'I want to have
my turn. The last time I lost. If you will find the man who won my coat
and will send him here, I shall be warm directly, and I can have another
turn. I've lost a good deal, somehow. The luck's been against me, always
against me.'

He lay back and shivered again, though now he was wrapped up in the
blanket with a warm coat on over his old rags. He should have been quite
warm. I felt his forehead; it was hot and dry.

'Matthew,' I said, 'I think you are in some kind of fever. Shall I bring
a doctor for you?' There are generally about a thousand people in this
barrack, men, women, and children, yet they have not so much as an
apothecary in the place. Outside, there is the wise woman who knows the
herbs and professes to cure all the diseases that flesh is heir to with
a bundle of camomile, feverfew, or vervain. She commonly lives in a
court. In Fleet Street there is the apothecary who has a shop full of
drugs. He despises the wise woman, yet is not so much wiser than she is,
except in his own conceit. There is the tooth-drawer; and there is the
bone-setter; but for physicians there are none.

His face, now that the pains of cold and hunger were appeased, looked
gray, and what the old women call drawn. It is a bad sign had I known
it, but I did not. I thought he was suffering from cold and hunger
first, and from some kind of fever brought on by privation.

'You think,' he murmured--his voice was sunk almost to a whisper--'to
bring a man--a murderer--to make an end--that is your revenge. But you
shall not. I will send to the Warden for protection. Go away. Leave me
alone. I can do you no more harm. I will have no doctor sent by you, to
poison me.'

'Do you know, Matthew, that Probus received such terrible injuries in
pillory that he will remain blind for the rest of his life?'

'Blind?' he sat up eagerly repeating. 'Blind for the rest of his life.
Ha! Then he will not be able to find me. Will, he wanted to get you
hung--so as to be out of the way. He was going to try next to get me
hung. Then all the money would be his. Blind, is he? Then he can't find
me. Will, the man is a devil; now a blind devil; a devil in the dark.'
The thought seemed to revive and to comfort him.

'The other man, Merridew, was killed by the mob in pillory.'

'Killed--killed--by the mob. I was afraid he was going to give me up for
the reward. Then I am safe; at last. Both of them out of the way. Now I
shall prosper again.'

'Yes--you are quite safe.'

'Will,' he held out his hand. 'Don't bear malice. Don't give information
against me.'

'I am not going to give any information against you.' But I could not
take his hand, for which I was afterwards sorry.

'The information ought to be worth fifty pounds at least and a Tyburn
ticket--a Tyburn ticket,' he went on repeating the words over one after
the other, which showed the weakness of his condition.

It is useless setting down all the nonsense he talked. After a while I
left him and looked about for someone who would attend to him. Presently
I found an old man in rags, almost as bad as Matthew's, who undertook to
look after him and give him some food from time to time. So I went away
and repaired to my daily post at Newgate again, saying nothing to Jenny
about this illness.

I repeat that I had no thought of anything but what they call a feverish
cold, which would be checked by the warmth and the food. You may
therefore imagine my surprise when I went to visit the sick man in the
morning to learn that he was dead.

'He talked a lot of nonsense,' said the old man, his nurse; 'all day
long he talked nonsense about murdering and hanging, and dividing
thousands. Now and then I gave him a bit and a sup and he went on
talking. There was no candle and I lay down beside him with a corner of
his blanket over me, and in the middle of the night I woke up and found
that he had left off talking and was quite still and cold. So I went to
sleep again.' The insensate wretch had actually finished his sleep
beside the corpse.

Matthew was dead.

They showed me his body lying in a small shed against the wall. It was
laid in a shell of pinewood roughly painted black, with no name or plate
upon it. It was to be taken across to the churchyard of St. George's
that afternoon, to be laid in a pauper's grave without mourners or
friends, and with a service hurriedly gabbled over his coffin.

The old man who had nursed him was now comfortably wrapped in the
blanket and clothed in the coat and stockings which Alice had sent for
the use of the dead man. I hope the things kept him warm.

Matthew was dead. At first I did not understand the difference it made
to me. I asked if he had left anything behind him; any letters or papers
or anything at all that his sisters might desire to have. There was
nothing; absolutely nothing was left of him at all.

Most of our lives are like the stones thrown in the water; it makes
circles widening and growing indistinct; presently these signs vanish
altogether. Then the stone is clean forgotten. So the man and his life
are clean forgotten, never to be brought to mind again. Matthew left no
circles even; his was a stone that fell into the water silently and made
no splash and left no mark upon the surface even for a minute. He lived
for eight-and-twenty years: he ruined an old and noble House of trade;
he lost all the wealth and possessions and money of the House; he lost
all the money he could borrow; he plotted against me continually in
order to get some of the money which might be mine; he wilfully and
deliberately deceived the woman who married him; he died in a debtors'
prison without a single friend in the world or a single possession to
bequeath to a single friend, if he had one. To die lying on the
floor--it would have been on the bare planks but for Alice; in the dark
room without fire or light; what more wretched end could one desire for
his worst enemy? What more miserable record could one set down against a
man?

I could do nothing more. I left the poor shell in the shed and passed
over to the other side. If my uncle could understand anything I had to
communicate the sad news to him. His only son was dead--What a son! What
a life! What a death!

The alderman was sitting before the fire. With him sat his two
daughters. The guinea a week which was meant for him alone procured food
for the two girls as well. They passed the whole day, I believe, sitting
thus before the fire in gloom and bitterness; their bitterness was
mostly directed against myself as the supposed cause of all their
troubles.

'Cousin,' said one of them looking up, 'you are not wanted here.'

'Perhaps not. I have come, however, to bring you news. It is not good
news, I am sorry to say.'

'That one can see by the joy expressed in your face.' Yet I did not feel
joyful.

'Sir,' I addressed my uncle. 'I bring you bad news.'

He looked up and smiled vacuously. 'You will find my brother, sir, on
Change, I believe.'

'Yes, Sir. I would speak to you of Matthew.'

'He is in the counting-house, or perhaps on board one of the ships. Or
on the Quay.'

I turned to the daughters. 'I see that he understands nothing.'

'No. He eats and sleeps. He talks nonsense. It is no use speaking to
him. You have seen us in our shame and misery. Give us your news and
go.'

'It is about Matthew.'

'Matthew? Where is he? We heard he had escaped.'

'You do not know? Matthew has been in this prison for some weeks.'

'Here? In this prison? And we have not see him?'

'He has been on the Common side; on the Poor side. Perhaps that is the
reason; perhaps he did not know that.

They looked at each other. Then they burst into tears. I thought they
were natural tears such as a sister might shed over the loss of her
brother. But they were not. 'Oh!' they cried. 'Oh! Oh! Oh! And now you
will have the whole of that great fortune. And we thought that you would
die and that Matthew would have it. What a misfortune! What a dreadful
thing!' They wept and lamented, capping each other in lamentations all
to the effect that the fortune had fallen to the undeserving one. 'And
after all his plots and after his shameful trial before all the world!
And after his highway robbery! And after the things that have been done
to us! and now that people will say that Matthew died a Pauper--on the
Common side! On the Poor side! We can never hold up our heads again.'

So I left these dear creatures. Never could I understand why they
attributed any one of their misfortunes to me; nor of what nature were
the plots to which they referred; nor why my trial was shameful.

However, I left these poor ladies. The reduction in their circumstances;
their precarious condition; their having nothing but the guinea a week
given by the Alderman's old friend; the uncertainty of his life; all
should be considered when we think of their bitterness.

For my own part it was not until my cousins reminded me that I
understood the great difference which the event made to me.

I was the survivor: and my succession came to me in less than three
years after my father's death.

I was the survivor. At a single step I rose from the condition of a
simple fiddler, at twenty-five or thirty shillings a week, to the
possession of a fortune of over a hundred thousand pounds.

I hastened to our trusty attorney, Mr. Dewberry. I apprised him of what
had happened; he undertook to present my claims and to transfer the
money to my name, which he faithfully effected, and without difficulty.

Then I went on to Newgate.

'What is the matter, Will?' cried Jenny, 'you look strangely agitated.'

'Jenny'--I took her hand and held it--'you told me the other day that
you were in no anxiety about money.'

'I never am, Will. For people of parts there is always plenty of money.'

'You are a Prophetess, Jenny. You will never want for money so long as
you live. For all that I have is yours, and I am rich.'

'You are rich?' Over her face, so quick to change, there passed a cloud.
'You are rich? Then--Will ... then ... if you are rich--I must be--a
widow. Is Matthew dead?'

'He is dead, Jenny.'

She sank into a chair. She shed no tears: she expressed no sorrow.

'Matthew is dead. I wish I had never met him--Matthew is dead.'

'He is dead, Jenny. He died in the prison.'

'And I am a widow. I am free again. I am a widow who never was a wife.
Will, I would not speak ill of the dead--of the unburied: but ... alas!
I can find no good words to speak of him. He can do no more harm--either
to you or to me.'

'Let us not speak of him, then.'

'No--we must forget him. As for this money, Will, it is yours--your
own--yours and Alice's--and the lovely boy's.'

'Jenny--all that we have is yours: all that we have and
more ... more ... gratitude and love and devotion--which are
more than gold.'




CHAPTER XXIV

COMMUTATION


At that very moment, while we were trying to find words befitting the
occasion which would not admit of grief yet demanded the respect due to
Death, arrived the news so long expected.

The Governor of the Prison, accompanied by our friend the Counsel for
the Prosecution, stood at the door, followed by one of the Turnkeys.

'Madame,' said the Governor, 'I come to bring you news.' But he looked
so serious that my heart sank.

'And I, Madame,' said the lawyer, 'shall be pleased to add a codicil to
this intelligence.'

'Gentlemen, I have already this morning received news enough for one day
at least. Am I, gentlemen, ordered to adorn the next procession along
the Oxford Road?'

'No, Madame,' the Governor replied. 'But I wish the news were more
joyful. I had hoped--I had expected--considering the whole case----'

I looked at Jenny. She turned suddenly pale; I thought she was going to
faint. Consider: she had persuaded herself that a full and immediate
pardon would be granted. She had no doubt as to that point. She did not
faint; she recovered and spoke with white lips and a hard forced voice.

'Tell me quick!'

'Madame, His Majesty has graciously commuted the sentence into
transportation to the plantations for the term of five years.'

Jenny made no reply. I groaned aloud. Transportation? To go out as a
servant! To be bought by a planter and made to work in the tobacco
fields under the lash? This for Jenny! All the world knew what
transportation meant and what were the mercies served out to convicts.

The Governor sighed and shook his head. The lawyer took up the tale.
'Madame,' he said, 'believe me; everything has been done that could be
done. Had you pleaded Not Guilty you would most certainly have been
acquitted. Madame, I know your reasons, and I respect them. You pleaded
Guilty. Your reasons were not such as could be laid before the King,
unless privately. The Judge in your case is a lawyer of great eminence;
that is to say, he is jealous of the Law; he holds that above all things
the Law must be feared. He is called a hanging Judge, being a most
merciful man; but the Law must be respected. There must not be one Law
for the rich rogue and another for the poor rogue.'

'Rich or poor,' said Jenny, 'I am a rogue for having stolen nightcaps in
my garrets; and I am a rogue and a vagabond because I am an actress.'

'Nay, Madame; but the Toast of the Town, the most lovely----'

'My loveliness does not stand me in much stead at this juncture. Tell me
again. I am to be shipped across seas: I am to stay there five years: I
am to herd on board with the wretched women outside: I am to work in the
fields with them and with negroes: I am to be whipped by my master: I am
to live on sweet potatoes. I am to wear sacking for all my clothes.
Gentlemen,' she added with flushed cheek, 'go, tell the King that I will
not accept this mercy.'

'Nay, Madame,' said the lawyer with persuasive tongue. 'You go too fast.
Those who have friends can evade the obligations of service; you, who
have so many friends, will find that you have nothing to fear beyond the
voyage and a short residence in a pleasant climate. For my own part,
dear Madame, I hope to see you before another year begins back upon the
boards of Drury Lane, with all the town at your feet. I pine, Madame, I
languish for the first evening to arrive.'

'Jenny,' I whispered, 'for Heaven's sake be careful. Consider; this
gentleman cannot be deceiving you. If there is, as he says, no real
obligation to service; and if, as he says, the sentence means only a
short residence in a pleasant country--then surely you must accept.
There is, however, the voyage. Perhaps, Sir,' I addressed the lawyer,
'it will be possible for Madame to take the voyage in a private cabin
apart from the rest of the--the company.'

'It will certainly be possible. She may take state rooms for herself and
her maid: she will be treated as a gentlewoman. It is only a question of
arrangement with the Captain. Madame, I assure you, upon my honour, that
the sentence means no more than what I have stated. It is a brief exile
in which you will endure no other indignity than that of sailing on
board the ship which carries a few scores of the wretches going out as
slaves--if one may call an Englishman a slave.'

Jenny wavered. Her cheek was still red with shame and disappointment.
She wavered.

'Jenny,' I said, taking her hand.

She sat down. 'Let it be, then, as you will.'

'That is bravely resolved,' said the Governor. 'And now I shall have the
pleasure of removing you immediately from this close and confined
chamber to one more airy and more commodious.'

'Gentlemen,' said Jenny, still crestfallen, 'I thank you both for your
good intentions. I should love you better if you would put a sword
through me and so end it. Perhaps, however, the ship may go to the
bottom. Let us hope so. It must sink, I am sure, so heavy will be the
heart of lead on board it.'

So, with renewed protestations of assistance and goodwill the lawyer
went away with the Governor. In the yard I observed that he stopped and
looked upon the crowd of women, many of whom he would help to the
gallows. Does such a lawyer, always occupied in getting up and preparing
a case, so as to persuade a jury into a verdict of 'Guilty' ever feel
remorse at having done so, or repugnance at doing it again? Do the
ghosts of those whom he has sent to the other world haunt his bedside at
night? One may as well ask if the Judge who pronounces the sentence
feels remorse or pity. He is the mouth of the Law; the Counsel feeds the
mouth; the Governor of Newgate is the arm of the Law. However, that the
Counsel for the Prosecution should take so much interest in the release
of a prisoner is, I should think, without example in the history of
Newgate, where they have never had before, and can never have again, a
prisoner so lovely, so attractive, so interesting, as Jenny. After him
came another visitor. It was my Lord Brockenhurst who brought us the
news we had already heard--but with a difference.

'Madame,' he said, after telling us what we had already heard, 'I shall
always regret that I was not the first to let you know. Indeed, I have
flown. The commutation of the sentence involves a voyage; that cannot be
denied; but there is no obligation to service. That will be arranged for
you; I can undertake so much, if necessary. The voyage is no great
matter; six weeks if you are fortunate; eight weeks, at most, will set
you on shore; the country is said to be beautiful; the climate is
healthy, the Virginians are mostly gentlemen of good family.'

'I thank you, my Lord, for your kind words.'

'There is another thing, Madame. I am empowered to assure you that the
Petition which you drew up for your young protégée here has been
graciously received by Her Majesty the Queen. She has herself asked for
the remission of the capital sentence. The girl's life will be spared.'

'This is good news, at least.'

'On conditions, which you must expect. She will go with you to Virginia
for five years. You can take her as your maid, if you please.'

'With me for five years?' Jenny repeated. 'I know so little of what is
ordered----'

'Briefly, Madame, a prisoner under sentence of transportation is engaged
as a servant, generally on a tobacco plantation, where he works with the
negroes. If there should happen to be one among them of a superior class
he becomes an accountant or even a manager; or if he can command
influence or money his engagement is merely nominal. Your engagement
will be a form which I shall arrange for you. This girl can remain with
you. When you come home you can bring her with you.'

'In five years?'

'No--in much less time--in a few months. I am permitted on the highest
authority to assure you that your banishment will be but short. As soon
as it can with decency be asked for, a full pardon will be asked for and
it will be granted. You will then only have to return in order to
delight your friends once more.'

'When shall I have to go?'

'A ship is now fitting out. She sails in a week or a fortnight. You will
sail as a cabin passenger, entrusted to the protection of the Captain.
The--the other--passengers will be confined between decks, I believe.'

'My Lord, I am deeply touched by all your kindness.'

'Madame, _I_ have done little--little indeed. Would it had been more! I
shall now, with your permission, make arrangements with the Captain of
the ship for your entertainment on the voyage and your reception on
reaching the port.'

'So,' said Jenny, 'in one day I am deprived of my husband. I am a widow
who never was a wife. I am deprived of my country--which is London; and
of all my friends.'

His lordship's face changed. 'Your husband, Madame? Is he dead?'

'He died last night. Let us not speak of him.'

'Then you are free' He glanced at me: I saw his meaning and the purpose
in his eyes. 'You are free.'

I stepped out, leaving them together. In a few minutes he came out with
the look of one distracted, and not knowing what he was doing or whither
he went.

Within the cell Jenny was sitting at the table with red and tearful
eyes.

'That good and noble friend, Will, would make me Lady Brockenhurst.'

'Jenny--why not?'

'He would go with me: he would marry me here and sail with me. No--no--I
promised his sister. What? Because I love a man--the best of men--should
I give him children who would be ashamed of their mother and her origin?
Mine would be a pretty history for them to learn, would it not? No,
Will, no. Believe me I love him too well. Even if he were a meaner man,
I could never bring my history to smirch the chronicles of a respectable
family.'

She was silent a little. 'Will,' she said presently, looking up, 'all
that I foretold has proved true. I want no money. I am going out to a
strange country. It is not Ireland as I thought. It is Virginia. I see
it again so plain--so clear--I shall know it when I land. But I can see
no farther. There will be no return for me to Drury Lane. My vision
stops short--now that I see you--somewhere--with me--I see Alice also.
But I cannot see England or London--or the Black Jack or Drury Lane.'

Then we moved to the more commodious chamber, where I soothed her
spirits with a cup of tea which is better far than wine or cordials for
the refreshment of the mind. Presently she began to recover a little
from her disappointment.

'It will be lonely at first,' she said, 'without a single friend, and I
suppose that a transported convict--say that for me, Will--it hath a
strange sound. It is like a slap in the face--a transported convict----'

'Nay, Jenny, do not say it.'

'I must. I say that though a transported convict must be despised, yet I
shall have my girl here with me, and perhaps my Lord will prove right
and I may come home again. Yet I do not think so. Will, there is one
consolation. At last I shall get clean away from my own people. They
used to congregate round the stage-door of the Theatre to congratulate
their old friend on her success. The Orange-Girls were never tired of
claiming old friendship. I married in order to get away from them, but
Matthew never meant to keep his promise--I am tired, Will, of my own
people. They have made me suffer too much. Henceforth let them go and
hang without any help from me.'

'It is high time, Jenny.'

'The Act ends lamely, perhaps. It may be the last Act of the Play. The
ship leaves the Quay. On the deck stands the heroine in white satin,
waving her handkerchief. The people weep. The bo's'n blows his whistle.
The sailors stamp about; the curtain falls. Will, if things are
real--what am I to do when I get back--if I do get back? How am I to
live?'

'Jenny,' I said seriously, 'I believe that one so good and so fearless,
for whom daily prayers are offered, will be led by no will of her own,
into some way of peace and happiness.'

'Think you so, good cousin? There spoke Alice. It is her language. She
says that beyond the stars are eyes that can see and hands that can
lead. Why, Will, for my people, the only hand that leads is the hand of
hunger: the only hand that directs is the hand with the whip in it; as
for eyes that see'--she shook her head sadly--'I wish there were,' she
said. 'Perhaps there would then be some order in St. Giles's. And there
would be some hope for the poor rogues. Oh! Will--the poor helpless,
ignorant, miserable rogues--of whom I am one--a transported convict--a
transported convict--how we suffer! how we die! And pass away and are
forgotten! Will ... Will ... I go with a heavy heart--I go to meet my
death. For never more shall I return. Where is the eye that sees? Oh!
Will--where is the hand that leads?'




CHAPTER XXV

TRANSPORTATION


In the evening when I left the prison, it was with emotions strange and
bewildering. Jenny, who was to have received a free pardon, was sent, a
self-accused convict, to the plantations. To the plantations, where they
send the common rogues and villains. She was to go out on board a
convict ship, counted happy because although one of that shameful
company, she was not kept below all the voyage on convict fare with
those wretches vile and unspeakable.

And I was rich. After all these troubles: after my father's displeasure:
after my disinheritance: after my persecution and imprisonment: I was
rich----

And Matthew, the cause of all, was dead.

Truly the hand of the Lord had been heavy upon them all. Matthew dying
in starvation and misery. Mr. Probus, lying in prison, a pauper and
blind: Merridew stoned to death: the other two escaped with life, but
that was all. But the innocent were suffering with the guilty: the old
man Alderman languishing in a debtors' prison with no hope of release:
and Jenny a convict to be transported across the seas. They did well to
call it a voyage: a short exile in a pleasant climate: she was a
convict: she was under sentence.

And I was rich. So I kept saying to myself as I walked home that
evening. So I kept saying to Alice when I told her what had happened
while we sat till late at night talking over these acts of Providence.

We were to see her go far away across the ocean--a convict, never
perhaps to return: to see her go alone, save for her little maid: in
danger of wicked men of whom there are plenty over every part of the
world: perhaps, in spite of what was said, a servant even, at her
master's beck and call: the woman to whom I owed more than life: far
more than life: honour: and the respect of the world: and the happiness
of my children and grandchildren: yea, even unto the third and fourth
generation. What was wealth? Where was its happiness when we had to
think of Jenny? It was this woman, I say, who by her ready wit, her
generosity, her fearlessness in the presence of risks certain and
dangers inevitable, made my innocence as clear as the noonday's sun. For
this service shall her name be blessed among those who come after me and
bear my name and are stimulated to deeds of honour by the thought that
they come of an honourable stock. Think of the burden upon their lives
had they been doomed to remember that their father or their grandfather
before them had suffered a shameful death for highway robbery!

Jenny saved me--but at what a price! She braved the worst that the
rogues, her former friends, could do to her. She compelled her own
people: their own associates to betray them in order to prove my
innocence. She paid for the betrayal by prison, trial and ruin. She
poured out her money like water in order that no doubt whatever should
exist in the mind of the Court or the Jury as to the real character of
the witnesses. In return she endured the foul air and the foul
companionship of Newgate and a shameful transportation to Virginia,
there to be set up, if her sentence was carried out, and sold as
a slave for five years. It was no common gratitude--we repeated over
and over again--that we owed her for this service. We owed her
all--all--all--that we possessed or ever could possess.

But money cannot effect everything: it could not, in this case, give
Jenny the full pardon and the immediate release we desired.

In the dead of night, as I lay sleepless, tortured in my mind because I
could think of nothing that we could do for Jenny, who had done so much
for us, Alice spoke to me, sitting up in bed.

'Husband,' she said, and then she fell to weeping for a while and it
seemed as if she could not stop her crying and sobbing--but they were
tears of prayer and praise. 'Let us talk. It is yet night. The world
sleeps; but the Lord is awake. Let us talk.'

So we talked.

'I am heavy in my mind about that poor creature,' she began.

'And I no less, my dear.'

'We must not think that the innocent are punished with the guilty. That
old man the Alderman is pulled down by his son: they lie in ruin
together: but he is innocent: for this reason he has been permitted to
lose his wits and now feels nothing. Jenny suffers because though she is
innocent in intention, she is guilty in fact. Will, if I think of that
poor creature, so good and generous and so self-denying: and of the
company among whom she has lived: and of the people among whom she was
born: and how she has no religion, not the least sense of religion, I
think that this new business may be but the leading of the poor
trembling soul to knowledge.'

'She is assured that before long she will be permitted to return.'

'Perhaps she will not be permitted to return. There is One who is higher
than kings.'

'What would you do, Alice?'

'Let us ask ourselves, Will, what we are to do with our new riches. I am
but a homely body, I cannot become a fine lady. As for yourself,
remember, my dear, that you have been a musician, playing for your
livelihood at the Dog and Duck: and you have stood your trial at the Old
Bailey: and you have been in a Debtors' Prison: and your father's House
is bankrupt: and your name is held in contempt where formerly it was in
honour. Where will you seek your new friends? In the country? But the
Quality despise a musician. In the City? They despise a musician much:
prisoner for debt, more: a bankrupt, most.'

'I know not what is in your mind, Alice.'

'I am coming to it, my dear. Remember, once more, what you said to-night
that we owe her all--all--all. Your life: your honour: your son's pride
in his father: my life, for the agony and the shame would have killed
me. Oh! Will, what can we do for her? What can we give her in return for
benefits and services such as these?'

'I will give her all I have, my dear, my whole fortune, this new great
fortune. I will give her everything but you, my dear, and the boy.'

'Money she does not want and it will not help her in this strait.'

'What then can we do? We have gratitude--it is hers. And our fortune, it
is hers if she will take it.'

'Oh! Will, be patient with me, dear. We can give her indeed, all that we
have: we can give her'--she bent over me and kissed me, and her tears
fell upon my forehead--'we can give her, Will--ourselves.'

'What?'

'We can give her--ourselves. The whole of our lives. We can become her
servants in grateful thanks for all that she has done for us.'

'But how, Alice, how?'

'Consider: she is going out to a new country--alone. We know not into
what company she may fall. It is a rough country not yet fully settled I
am told: there are fierce Indians and cruel snakes and wild
beasts--though I fear the men worse than the beasts. Who will protect
her? She is beautiful and men are sometimes driven mad by beauty in
women.'

I began to understand.

'Let us go away with her to this new country, where she shall be the
mistress and we will be the servants. They say it is a beautiful
country, with fine sunshine and fruits in plenty. Let us go with her,
Will, and protect her from dangers and teach her to forget the thieves'
kitchen and make her happy among the flowers and the woods. We will turn
her captivity into a holiday: we will think of nothing in the world but
to make her happy. I have told you. Will, what is in my mind. And, my
dear, I verily believe the Lord Himself has put it there.'

I reflected for a little. Then I kissed her. 'I am content, my dear,' I
said. 'As you desire, so shall it be. We will go with Jenny and become
her servants as long as the duty shall be laid upon us.'

And so we fell asleep. And in the morning this thing seemed a dream. But
it was no dream. Then we had to begin our preparations. It would be
close on three weeks, we learned, before the ship, the _Pride of
Ratcliffe_, would be ready to drop down the river. I went on board and
saw the Captain. He told us that Lord Brockenhurst had already engaged
the best cabin for Madame, that although one of the convicts she was to
be treated differently: to be separated from the rest: not to mix with
them: wherein, he said grimly, 'she is lucky indeed.' With her and in
her cabin was to go another convict, a young girl. They were to mess in
the Captain's cabin. 'See,' he said, 'what it is to be a friend of a
noble Lord.' I told him that the lady was a cousin of my own, which
disconcerted him. However, without many more words, we came to an
understanding. I was to have a cabin for so much. And the Captain
undertook to lay in provisions for us. He was kind enough to draw up a
list of the things we should require: it appeared necessary for a
passenger to America to buy up half the beeves and sheep of Smithfield,
together with all the turkey, geese and poultry, of Leadenhall, not to
speak of wine and rum, enough for the whole crew. He said that in bad
weather so much of the live-stock was destroyed that it was necessary to
provide against these accidents. So he prevailed, and I think I kept the
whole ship's company with my stores.

The ship was of 350 tons burden, a stout, well-built ship, with three
masts, not unlike one of my father's West Indiamen, but inferior in
tonnage: she was slow, it afterwards appeared, generally doing from
four knots an hour, or about a hundred knots a day at such times as
there was a favourable wind. If the wind was unfavourable, as generally
happened, her speed was much less. As for the length of the voyage, the
Captain reckoned that taking one voyage with another, she would get
across in six or eight weeks: the uncertainty of the time, as he pointed
out, as well as the possibility of storms, called for the apparently
vast quantity of provisions which he was laying in for our party.

And now began a busy time. First I communicated our design to Mr.
Dewberry, the attorney, who entirely approved of it. Next I arranged
with him for the safe investment of my new fortune as to which there was
no difficulty at all as soon as the death of Matthew had been duly
proved and attested. The amount which was originally £100,000 had now by
the accumulation of the interest become over £120,000, which, at five
per cent., produced the enormous income of £6,000 a year--more than a
hundred pounds a week. What would we do with a hundred pounds a week?
Mr. Dewberry laughed. 'I have never yet,' he said, 'found a rich man
complaining of too much wealth. For the most part he complains of
poverty. In a word, Mr. Halliday, your wealth will before many months
cease to be a burden to you. But remember, great as is this income, even
in the wealthy City of London, and enormous as it will be in the distant
land of Virginia, there are limits to the power even of such an income.
Keep within it: keep within it.'

It matters not how we made this money safe--that is, as safe as money
can be made. There are stocks and shares in the National Debt. Some of
these were obtained: and there were houses in the City which were
bought: in a few days my excellent attorney put my affairs in such order
that I was enabled to leave England without fear, and to be provided,
moreover, with letters of credit by which I could draw for such money as
might be necessary from time to time. By this time our plans, much
talked about, were matured. We would purchase an estate, as a
plantation: in Virginia every estate is a plantation: it would be
probably a tobacco-growing estate with its servants and slaves and
buildings complete. Thither we would all go together and take up our
abode. Letters were provided which I could present to responsible and
honest merchants at Baltimore, by whose assistance I hoped to get what
we desired, and we resolved, further, to tell Jenny nothing of these
plans until we were all on board together.

The next thing was to find out what we should take out from the old
country to the new. It was reported that already they made nearly
everything that was wanted: such as furniture and things made out of the
woods of the country, which are various and excellent. The things most
in demand were reported to be knives, tools, and ironmongery of all
kinds: guns and weapons: clothes of the better kind, especially dresses
for gentlewomen in silk and satin and embroidered work. Books, music,
and musical instruments were also scarce. I laid in a great stock of all
these things: they were packed in large chests bound in iron and sent on
board as they were bought.

In getting these purchases and in procuring this information the days
passed quickly, because it was necessary as well that I should visit
Jenny every day. A happy bustling time. After all the trouble of the
past it was pleasant to think of a new world opening before us with new
hopes of happiness. These hopes were realized. I do not say that people
are better in the New World than in the Old; everywhere are men
self-seeking and grasping: but there is less suffering, less poverty,
and, I believe, none of such infernal wickedness as may be devised at
home by men like Probus and Merridew. Such monstrous growths are not
found in a new country where the population is thin, and there is no
place for villains to hide their heads. The worst trouble in Virginia,
in those days, was with the convicts, concerning whom I shall speak
immediately.

While these preparations were going on, Jenny waited in Newgate somewhat
sadly. Lord Brockenhurst came to visit her daily: she had the girl whom
she had saved for a maid: the lad Jack came every day to fetch and carry
and do her bidding. I said nothing to this fellow of our purpose. One
day, however, while he waited in the corridor outside the cell, I called
him in and spoke to him seriously. 'Jack,' I said, ''tis known to thee
that Madame sails for America in a week or so?'

'Ay, Sir,' and his face dropped.

'What will you do, Jack? There is the old company of the kitchen at the
Black Jack: if that is broken up they have gone to the Spotted Dog.'

'No, Sir,' he said stoutly, 'I will be a rogue no more. I have promised
Madame.'

'Then there is the village. You could go home again, Jack.'

'They will not have me.'

'Then, Jack, what will you do?'

He held his hat in his hands, and then with tears rolling down his
cheeks he fell on his knees to Jenny. 'Take me with you, Madame,' he
said. 'I will be your faithful servant to command. Only take me with
you.'

'Alas, Jack! who am I that I should have a servant with me who shall be
but a servant myself. Poor lad, I cannot take thee.'

'By your leave, Jenny,' I said. 'There will be a little maid to wait
upon you and you will want Jack to protect both you and her. If you
consent to take him, he shall go.'

'But, Will, you know the conditions. I shall not be mistress even of
myself.'

'That is provided. Did not Lord Brockenhurst promise?'

'Lord Brockenhurst will do what he can. Of that I have no doubt. But as
to his power across the Atlantic, of that I have grave doubts.'

'Jenny,' I took her hand. 'Do you trust my word? Could I deceive you?
Could I ever hold out hopes unless I knew that they were well grounded?'

'Why, Will, whom should I trust if not you?'

'Then, Jenny, listen and believe. It is so arranged and provided that on
landing in America you will be provided with a house fit for your
station and with everything, so long as you may stay in the country,
that a gentlewoman can require. And all that you have or enjoy will be
yours--your own--and over all you shall be mistress.'

'Dear Will--this providing is your providing.'

'A manservant you must have to begin with. Negroes there are in plenty,
but an English manservant--an honest'--here I looked Jack in the face;
he reddened and was confused--'an honest, strong, capable, faithful
servant, that you want, Jenny; and that you must have, and here he is.'
I clapped the fellow on the shoulder as he still knelt before his
mistress.

'Get up, Jack,' she said. 'Since it must be so, it must. But you must
thank Mr. Halliday and not me.'

It was not a servant that she took out with her but a slave, one of
those willing slaves to whom their slavery is freedom, who have no
thoughts or desires of their own; none but the thought how best to
please their Lords or Ladies. Such servants are rare, except those who
have served in the army, where duty is taught to be the first virtue.

'At least,' said Jenny, 'I shall not be put ashore alone or among the
gang of poor creatures with whom I ought to stand as a companion.' And
indeed the prospect of this strong fellow to protect her at the outset
caused her, I was pleased to find, no slight consolation. Yet I dared
not tell her till it was too late to be altered, the resolution which we
had formed to go with her as well.

Despite the injurious treatment of my two cousins, I took it greatly to
heart that the unfortunate Alderman should, for no fault of his own, be
condemned to imprisonment for the short remainder of his days. He was
past understanding where he was. In imagination he rolled in his chariot
from Clapham Common to the Wharf and Counting House: he received the
Captains of the West Indiamen: he appeared on Change: he dined with his
Company: he sat on the Bench: he walked in his garden: he cut
pine-apples and grapes in his hothouses. He was quite happy. But there
was the shame of knowing that he was there and that he was supported by
the charity of his old friends.

Accordingly I sought Mr. Dewberry's advice and help. There was now but
little time to be lost, a matter which made things easier, because, Mr.
Dewberry said, so long as there was any chance of getting more by
putting off the matter it would be put off. In a word, he called
together the creditors. They were fortunately a small body: all those
who had claims in respect to Jenny's liabilities were cut off by
Matthew's death. The debt of Mr. Probus was also removed by his death
because it was an account of monies borrowed by Matthew privately. There
remained the debts of the House, and these were due to merchants and to
banks. The creditors met, therefore, and I attended. Mr. Dewberry
pointed out that my desire was the release of my uncle: that the
creditors had no claim upon me: that anything I might offer with the
view of attaining that object was a free and voluntary gift: that if the
creditors refused this gift they would never get anything at all: and
finally that they should consider that the poor man now in prison had
not been a party to any of the transactions which led to the ruin of
the House.

They asked half an hour to consider. At the end of that time, they
offered to accept in full discharge of all claims, two shillings in the
pound. I was advised to accept this offer. It took nearly £20,000 out of
my fortune; in fact, all the accumulations. But I had the satisfaction
before I left of releasing my uncle from his chamber in the loathed
King's Bench.

I knew how I should be received by my cousins: but words break no bones.
Besides, I wished to release him, so to speak, with my own hands.

'You are come again then,' said my elder cousin, who for some reason
unknown, was much the more bitter of the two. There is your handiwork.
Gaze upon it,' she pointed to her father, 'and exult! Exult!'

'On the whole,' I said, 'I can, this day at least, exult in my work.'

'It is your doing. None but yours. If you had signed what he wished this
misery would have been saved. And you would have had quite as much as
one in your beggarly trade could desire.'

'Thank you, cousin. You are always kind to me.'

'You are my brother's murderer. You have ruined my father,' she added.

'I am anything you wish. Indeed, I have no reply to make to such charges
as these. Meantime I have come here to-day in order to release your
father. Down below waits the attorney with his discharge in due form. He
is free. You can take him out of the Prison.'

'Out of prison?'

They both stared at me. Their eyes flashed: the sudden joy of liberty
seized them: they sprang to their feet.

'Free? He is free?' cried the younger. 'Father, you are free--do you
hear?'

'Free?' he replied. I have been free of the City for six-and-thirty
years.'

'Free!' echoed the elder. 'What is the good of freedom without the means
of getting a living? Free? Let us stay here, where at least we have a
guinea a week.'

'Your livelihood is provided for. You will receive during your three
lives the sum of three guineas paid weekly.'

'Three guineas?' The younger caught my hand, 'Cousin Will! Oh! It is
our living. It is everything to us poor paupers. Will, I doubt we have
misjudged you.'

Her sister snatched her hand away. 'Don't touch him!' she cried. 'Don't
speak to him! Three guineas a week! The miserable pittance! and he has
thousands--thousands--thousands a year'--her voice rose to a
shriek--'which ought to have been our murdered brother's and our own!'

One must never look for gratitude or even for reasonable recognition: or
for the courtesy of thanks: but these words were really more shrewish
and more bitter than one can endure. However, I made no reply and left
them, pleased at least that one of them could be moved to confessing her
prejudice. I know not what became of them, nor have I ever heard tidings
of them since that day.

One more addition was made to our party.

My brother-in-law, Tom Shirley, came to me one morning with a serious
face--serious at least, for him. 'Will,' he said, 'I have been thinking
about my own concerns, that is, my wife has been thinking about them for
me. It is a great advantage for a man to give over that part of his
business to his wife.'

'Well, Tom?'

'She says, if I remember right, because she has been saying a good deal,
that so long as I am content to play first fiddle at the Dog and Duck
for thirty shillings a week it matters not, as we shall never get on,
and shall have to live in the Rules all our life. Well, Will, I would as
lief live in the Rules as out of them. There is very good company in the
Rules, almost as good as in the King's Bench itself.'

'She is not content that you should always play the fiddle at that
place, and you are. Is that so?'

'For the patronage of aristocracy and the esteem of an audience of taste
there is no equal to the Dog and Duck,' he replied gravely, as if he
meant what he said of the dirty disreputable haunt of 'prentices and
their kind. 'But I confess, Will, that there are times when I consider
my musical compositions and when I long for a wider popularity. I think
that I should like an opportunity to get my name better known. At the
Dog and Duck the noble audience doth not ask the name of the composer.'

'You would leave the Rules if you could, and go live at Westminster,
where there are concerts and rich patrons? Well, Tom, we are now rich.
We might manage that for you I believe.'

He shook his head. 'No. Best not waste good money. I should only get
back here again in a month or two. My dear Will, if you only knew how
difficult it is to refuse when things are offered on credit. Now, in the
Rules no one has any credit, so that we save all our money.'

I never heard of Tom's saving any money. However, I asked him what he
would have.

He would go with me. But did they want music in Virginia?

'Perhaps not now. Wait, however, till they have heard and seen me. I
believe there is no musical composer, yet, in the Province. I will be
the first Virginian musician. I will be the Handel of Virginia.'

'Well, Tom, why not?' The knowledge of my great income made me yielding.
Was there not enough for a dozen Toms? 'I dare say we could pay out your
detaining creditors with no great difficulty.'

'Not for the world, my dear brother-in-law. Even from you I could not
accept such a favour. Pay me out? Why, it would be no favour: it would
be a crime. Do you know that my only detaining creditor is an attorney?
Pay an attorney? Never. Remember Probus. Surely you have had enough of
attorneys.'

'Indeed I am not likely to forget Probus as long as I live. But then, if
you are not paid out, Tom, how will you get out?'

'I shall walk out, Mr. William Halliday. If you let us go out with you I
shall send the wife on board with Alice and I shall then walk out with
my violin in one hand and a bundle of music in the other on the evening
before the ship sails. I shall go on board. When my creditor finds out
that I have taken my departure, which may take weeks--or it may take
months--that honest attorney will be pained no doubt, for he is of a
revengeful spirit. He will then do exactly what he pleases. But I
believe he will not venture out to Virginia. If he should dare that
attempt I will give him to friendly Indians in order to be--carbonadoed,
as I believe you Americans call it. That attorney, Will, shall be
carbonadoed over a slow fire.'

Tom, then, was to come with us. So with Jenny, her maid, and her man:
Tom Shirley and his wife: Alice, the boy and myself we should make up
as pleasant a family party as ever sailed across the Atlantic.

The time approached when we were to go on board. The ship was to drop
down with the ebb on Saturday morning at nine with the turn of the tide.
Everything was on board; on the forecastle on deck my live stock was
gathered: sheep, pigs, turkeys (all of which died in the Channel) geese
and poultry: our furniture, books and music were stowed away in the
hold: our wine and liquors were laid in bunks around the cabin: the
Captain and the mate were to take meals with us: they were also so
obliging as to drink up our rum and our wine. We had no leavetakings: on
Friday afternoon Alice and her sister-in-law went on board. Tom joined
them after sundown. At eight o'clock or thereabouts I was to bring Jenny
and her party on board. Lord Brockenhurst had expressed his desire to
say farewell to her on the quarterdeck.

A little after seven I repaired to the Gaol. At the gates I saw waiting
three large waggons which the people were filling with boxes and bundles
tied up in sacking and canvas. I thought nothing of these waggons at the
moment: they did not concern me, and I entered the Lodge. There was
waiting for me Jenny herself, dressed in splendour as if for a wedding.
Surely no prisoner sentenced to transportation ever went on board ship
in such a guise. She was taking an affectionate leave of the Governor,
who was moved almost to tears by her departure.

'Indeed, Sir,' she said, 'I am grieved to have put you to so much
trouble.' So she shook hands, smiling sweetly: then she turned to the
turnkeys. 'I am also very much in your debt, my friends,' and walked
along the whole line distributing guineas. 'God bless your Ladyship!'
they uttered fervently. 'We shall never see the likes of your Ladyship
here again.'

Indeed I am sure that they never will.

She mounted the steps of the coach which waited outside, she was
followed by the girl, by myself, and by the lad called Jack.

'I am glad,' she said, 'that this child goes out with me to Virginia.'
The child--she looked little more--took Jenny's hand and kissed it. 'She
is an affectionate little fool,' said Jenny, 'and loves me much. And to
think what they were going to do with her! Oh! Fools! Fools!' she
cried. 'Oh! monstrous Fools!'

We were now rolling slowly along Ludgate Hill. There was a rumbling
after us which continued. I looked out. They were the three waggons I
had observed at the Gate.

'What are those waggons?' I asked.

'They contain my baggage. Did you think I was going abroad with
nothing?'

'But in those waggons you must have the whole wardrobe of Drury Lane.'

She laughed. 'Will, you understand nothing. Did I not tell you that I
would have all those turnkeys at my feet in a day or two? Well, I
succeeded.'

'But what has that got to do with your baggage?'

'Why, you see, the officers that went to search my house for stolen
property began with the garrets. And there they stopped. Now when my
mother agreed to give evidence it was on conditions as I told you. I
gave her money for compensation and I bought the whole of her stock of
stolen property. It had been stored in the stone vaults under the Black
Jack. They carried it over to the cellars of my house, and when there
was no room left there, they used the garrets.'

'Oh! They took the garrets first.'

'Where there was very little to see. Now you understand why there was
such a paltry show. Could a woman in my position brave such a fate for
things so miserable?'

'Jenny! Jenny! You are wonderful.'

'No, Will, only I have my wits about me.'

'You have actually converted Newgate--Newgate Prison--into a Receiving
House for stolen property.'

'Five guineas apiece for the turnkeys was what it cost. I thought it the
safest and the simplest plan, Will.'

'Safest and simplest!'

Before I recovered the surprise of this information we reached the
stairs. On the Quarter deck was Alice with the boy.

'You dear good woman,' Jenny cried. 'You are come to see the last of the
transported convict: the end of the Orange Girl!'

Yet beside my wife in her homely dress, Jenny looked like a Countess.
Alice kissed her. 'We are not going to leave you, Jenny. We are going
with you, your servants as long as we live.'




CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAST TEMPTATION


'We are waiting,' said the Captain, 'for our passengers.'

While he spoke there came alongside the ship a dozen boats or more laden
with the passengers for whose sake the good ship was about to cross the
Atlantic. There were, I remember--it is not possible for me to forget
anything that happened on this voyage--one hundred and eight of them who
came on board, men and women. They were brought down from Blackfriars
Stairs in a closed lighter.

'Jenny,' I said, 'go into the cabin. Do not look at them.'

'Why, Will, I ought to be among them. I am one of them. Suffer me to
look at my brothers and sisters in misfortune.'

Of these poor wretches we had seen the greater part already in Newgate.
Within those walls: in the bad air; among those companions; where
everything was sordid and wretched; they did not present an appearance
so horrible as they did in the open air; on the bright river; in the
sunshine; under the flying clouds; among the sailors; where everything
spoke of freedom. The pallor of their faces; their wretched rags blowing
about in the breeze; their pinched faces; the unnatural brightness of
their eyes; their tottering limbs; their meek submissiveness to order;
proclaimed their long detention in prison while they were waiting for
the ship. As they climbed up the companion painfully; as they stepped
down upon the deck; as they stood huddled together like sheep, my heart
sank within me for thinking that Jenny, too, was reckoned as one of
these. I glanced at her; she was thinking the same thing; her cheek was
aflame; her eyes, glowed; her lips trembled.

'Will,' said she; 'we are a proper company. Virginia will welcome us.'

They brought with them--faugh! the prison reek and stench. But we saw
them for a few moments only. Then they were bundled down below to their
own quarters and we saw the poor creatures no more.

It has been said that these poor convicts are cruelly ill-used on board
the transport ships. I can speak only of what I saw; I know that our
Captain was a humane man. I can testify to the fact that there were
seldom more than two or three floggings a day, and of the women not so
many; I know that our convicts were a gang of hardened wretches whom
nothing but the fear of the lash kept in order; I know that when they
came on board they were for the most part in a wretched condition; of
low habits from long confinement, poor food, and bad drink; that many of
them lay down directly the ship got into open water and, what with
sea-sickness, fever, and weakness, never got up again. The truth is that
the contractors, who receive £5 a head for a voyage which takes about
two months, do honestly provide the convicts the rations prescribed by
the Government. These rations are sufficient but not luxurious; they
consist of beef, pork, biscuits and cheese once a week; to keep up their
spirits they are served a ration of gin. The beef may have been tough
and the pork rusty, but such as it was the Captain served it out among
them. Yet, on the voyage of seven weeks we buried forty-seven, or nearly
one every day. It seems a large number; those who died were nearly all
men; very few of them were women. They were unfit to face the fatigues
of the voyage and the rolling of the ship; some of them were even
consumptive; some were asthmatic; some were in fevers; some had other
diseases; they died; perhaps they would have died at home in prison. At
Newgate scarce a day passes that some poor wretch does not succumb to
privation and bad air. If so many of them died on board the ship that is
no proof of inhumanity.

Let us forget these poor sinners. It is easy to say that they deserved
all they got. No doubt they did. And what do we deserve? And when a man
like myself has gone through that gate and mouth of Hell called Newgate,
he looks on the poor creatures who go there to be flogged and branded
and pilloried and hanged and transported with some compassion because he
knows that such as they are, such they have been made. Mr. Merridew is
always with them: the landlady of the Black Jack is always ready to buy
what they offer her for sale: no respectable person will employ them;
they have never been taught anything. The Divine and the schoolmaster
dare not venture within their streets, which are the very Sanctuary of
Wickedness; our charities are all for the deserving; we have no bowels,
no compassion, for those we call the undeserving. Let us forget them.
Better to lie at the bottom of the ocean, where at least it is peaceful,
than to face the cruel whip of the overseer, and the burning fields of
the American Plantations.

Our voyage lasted, I say, little more than seven weeks; we were wafted
across a smooth sea by favouring breezes. After leaving the Channel we
got into a warmer air; we began to sit on the quarterdeck. Tom and I got
out our violins and played. We played for our party; we played for the
sailors; we sang those part-songs which he made so well. Jenny, for her
part, was silent. Now and then she spoke to me about herself.

'Will,' she said, 'if I receive that permission to return which my Lord
promises, what will you do? Will you come home with me?'

'I do not know,' I told her. 'If the place pleases us, why should we go
home again? My memories of home will be full of wrongs for many a year
to come. I can never get back to my old friends in the City. Although,
thanks to you, I was fully acquitted, I am a Newgate bird and a bird of
the King's Bench. People look askance upon such a man. I must think of
Alice, too, and of the boy. We must not let these memories haunt the
mother and make the boy ashamed.'

'To go back,' she answered without heeding me, 'to stand on the stage at
Drury Lane once more. Have they forgotten me already, do you think? The
Orange Girls will remember, I am sure, and the natives of St. Giles's,'
she laughed, 'I don't think they will bear malice.'

'You must not go back to Drury Lane, Jenny.'

'I can do better than Drury Lane, Will,' she said. 'I have but to
consent and I shall be--a Countess. And oh! how proud will my children
be of their mother, proud indeed of their mother. Oh! Will, to think how
one's birth clings round and hampers us all our lives. I might be happy;
I might make a good and faithful man happy; but the time would come when
the children would grow up and would ask who and what was their mother
and where she was born. Could I take them to the ruins of the Black
Jack? Could I take them to the Tyburn Tree of Glory and tell them how
how their grandfather died?' Then she relapsed into silence and so
remained for awhile.

She had none of the common accomplishments of women; she could not sew
or embroider or make things as women used. She could do nothing; she
could not cook or make cordials; she understood no household work of any
kind: she could read, but she had read nothing beyond the plays in which
she had acted; she knew no history or geography or politics; she knew
nothing but what she had learned for her own purposes; the scaffolding,
so to speak, on which the actor builds his playing; the art of fine
dress; and how to wear it; the art of dancing with an admirable grace of
manner and of carriage; the art of courtesy and graciousness, in which
she was a Princess; the art of making herself even more beautiful than
Nature intended; and the art of bringing all men to her feet. Before we
had been a day at sea, the Captain was her servant to command; by the
second day, the mate was her slave; by the third day the sailors
worshipped her. She brought good luck to the ship; every sailor will
tell you that passengers may, and often do, resemble Jonah, who was
pursued by a tempest; Jenny brought fair weather and a balmy breeze
always from the right quarter.

She did not forget our fellow-passengers. When she heard that they were
dying fast she would have gone below to visit them but the Captain
refused his leave; the noisome quarters where they herded together, day
and night, was not a proper place for any decent woman to visit. Let her
send down what she pleased, and they should have it. She sent down from
our stores daily drams of cordial and of rum; if she did not save many
lives she made death less terrible.

The voyage came to an end all too quickly. On a certain day at the
beginning of April we put into port and presently landed on the shores
of the New World. There are certain forms. The bodies of Jenny Halliday
and Pamela St. Giles's--I called the girl Pamela for obvious
reasons--were duly delivered to the officer representing the Governor
and as duly handed over to me as their master for five years. This
proceeding was performed without Jenny's presence or knowledge. I then
found a lodging not far from the Port and sought the merchants to whom I
had letters of introduction and credit.

My tale draws to an end. Let it not grow tedious in its last pages. In
one word, in a week or so after our landing we started on a short
journey of thirty miles or so over a somewhat rough road. Our journey
took us five hours. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when we
arrived. First there was a large wooden house of two storeys painted
white; in the front a long and deep veranda--meaning a place covered
over and protected from the sun by the roof and hangings at the side and
in the front. Before the house was a flower-garden; at the back was a
kitchen garden and orchard; the house was well and solidly furnished;
all round the house lay fields of tobacco on which black people were
working; on the steps of the veranda; in the garden; under the trees
played in the warm sun the little naked negro children.

'Where are we?' asked Jenny, looking round her.

I assisted her to get out of the waggon--it was little better--in which
we had made our journey.

I led her into the house. In the principal room there was a long table
laid as if for dinner. At the head was an armchair carved, I should
think, in the sixteenth century, or earlier; it was a kind of throne
with a coat of arms carved, gilded, and coloured upon it; the shield of
the late occupant of the estate, recently dead.

I led Jenny to the head of the table. I placed her in the throne.

'Madame,' I said, 'this house is yours; these gardens are yours; this
estate is yours; and we, if you please, are your most humble servants to
command.' So I bent one knee and kissed her hand.

'Your most humble, obedient and grateful servants,' said Alice,
following my example.

So we all did homage, but our Queen and mistress hid her face in her
handkerchief and for a while she could not speak.

Thus began our new life, in which we all vied with each other in making
Jenny feel that she was our mistress. We called her Madame; we made way
for her; we flew to obey her; the overseers were instructed to report to
her, personally, as to the condition of the field and the conduct of the
slaves--there were no white servants on the estate; the slaves
themselves looked to Madame as their owner, their mistress, and their
friend.

For a time Jenny's mind remained still with the events of the past: the
thought of Lord Brockenhurst; of the danger and the horrors which she
had escaped; indeed she could never forget these things. Little by
little, as I hoped, the sense of power and authority returned. She never
asked how this lovely property came to her, or if it truly belonged to
her; she began quietly, as she had done in the Assembly Rooms at Soho
Square, to direct, administrate, and improve. She mitigated the
floggings; she improved the slaves' rations; she gave them days of
rejoicing; she made the poor ignorant blacks who for the most part
understand little but the whip and the stick and the cuff, feel that
they were in kindly hands; their children rolled about at her feet
taking their childish liberties; she learned the business of
tobacco-growing in all the stages; she walked about the fields in the
morning before the sun was high, and noted how the plants were looking
and whether the weeds were kept down.

Our neighbours--we had neighbours in all directions at two or three
miles' distance--for some time hesitated to call. Things were variously
reported; that Madame had come out for the help of her cousin, a
convict; that Madame had brought out a large fortune; that the cousin
had certainly letters of credit for a very large amount; that Madame was
herself a convict; that we were all convicts--political prisoners--sent
out for some kind of treason--Jacobite conspirators; friends of the
Young Pretender; there was no end to the rumours and reports which were
spread abroad concerning us. Nor was it until Lord Brockenhurst himself
came all the way from England to visit us and stay with us, as you shall
hear, that the neighbours made up their minds that we could be visited.
I believe people think that Colonial society is open to all comers
without question--perhaps they think it is composed of convicts. On the
other hand the Colonials are more careful than the English at home whom
they admit into their houses on friendly or intimate terms.

Our method of life was simple and uniform. We assembled on the veranda
at seven, when I read prayers and a chapter. This done we took
breakfast, not the petty meal of thin bread and butter and tea which
satisfies the man about town, but a plentiful repast with many dishes
containing vegetables and fruits unknown in London. After breakfast came
the duties of the day. My own part was the keeping of the accounts. I
called myself the steward. Alice directed the household; Jack was
butler in command over the negroes of the house; and Pamela St. Giles's
was in charge of the stillroom. Outside, the blacks were busy in the
fields. At twelve a bell rang which brought them all back to camp where
they took their dinner. At half past twelve we dined. For our eating I
declare that we had the choicest birds; the finest mutton; the best
beef; the most excellent fish that you can imagine; all things cheap;
all plentiful; and for drink our cellars were full of such Canary,
Madeira and Port as few gentlemen could show at home. In the evening we
had supper at six; after supper I read prayers and another chapter. Then
we played cards; or we had in the violins; or Tom played on the
harpischord; or we sang glees and Madrigals. And every night all to bed
by nine.

On Sundays we had morning service, which I read. The overseers were
present and after the blacks grew to like the music they sat about the
door while we chanted the Psalms and sang our Hymns. In the evening I
read a sermon or a discourse on some godly subject.

At these religious exercises Madame would always be present; sitting in
her carved armchair, her head resting on her hand, expressing in her
face neither interest nor weariness. Remember that never had anyone
taught her a word of religion. She looked on and listened; sometimes she
did not listen; her eyes were fixed and far away; she was back on the
stage of Drury Lane.

Who can tell how they all loved and worshipped her? Even the overseers,
commonly the most brutal of men, some of whom pride themselves at being
able to cut a lump of flesh from a negro's leg at a distance of ten feet
and more, were softened by the gracious presence. The worst cruelties
were abandoned on our estate; as for floggings; of course there must be
flogging so long as there are slaves; and of course there must be slaves
so long as there are negroes. The clergy of Virginia are united in this
opinion; I wish they were also united in the opinion that even a slave
should be protected by the law from inhuman treatment.

This our quiet mode of life was broken into one day when there appeared
unexpectedly Lord Brockenhurst himself. It was about six months after
our arrival. He dismounted; he threw his reins to his servant and
mounted the steps of the veranda.

It was late in the afternoon--about six; the autumn sun was getting
low; Jenny was sitting with Alice and Tom's wife talking of household
affairs. She rose quietly with a pretty blush and stepped forward.

'Good Heavens, Jenny!' his Lordship cried, 'you are more beautiful than
ever, I swear.'

'Welcome, my Lord, to Virginia. You are come, I trust, to accept the
hospitality of this poor house?'

'Madame, you honour me. It is a lovely house with a view the most
charming in the world. I knew not that Virginia was half so fine a
country.'

'Indeed, if English people did know--they would all come over. I pray
your Lordship not to speak too well of us. There are some people in the
old country that we would not willingly welcome in the New.'

So she led him into the inner room and sent for Madeira to refresh him.

'Your Lordship has something to tell me,' she said, beginning to shiver
and shake. 'You did not come all the way from England only to wish me
Good-morning.'

'I bring you, Jenny, what I promised, your full pardon and release. It
is in the hands of the Governor. You can return, now, whenever you
please.'

'I was beginning to forget, my Lord, that I am but a prisoner still and
a convict. These people with whom I live, the best people, I very
believe, in the whole world, have almost made me forget that fact. But I
thank your Lordship all the same. I thank you most humbly and most
gratefully. Except my Cousin Will--my husband's cousin--there is no more
loyal and faithful gentleman than my Lord Brockenhurst.'

'I have done what I can. I could do no more.'

'My lord, you have ridden thirty miles. You are tired? No? Then--let me
ask you one more favour. Tell me about this matter to-morrow. Sleep
first upon it,' for she saw his purpose in his eyes. 'Think, I pray you,
partly of what I am and of what you are; partly of your own dignity;
partly of how one such as I am should behave towards one such as you.'

She rose.

'I will now,' she said, 'if you are not tired, show you our gardens and
our tobacco-fields.'

His Lordship took supper with us. I saw that he was pleased at the
little state and ceremony with which we surrounded Jenny. I saw, as
well, the love in his eyes, which he could not tear away from her face.

After supper, we had a little concert Tom took the harpsichord, and I
took the violin. First we played a piece, as a duet; then Tom played
while Alice sang; then we all, with Jack our Butler, who had an
excellent bass, while Tom sang alto and I the tenor, sang four-part
songs, and I saw how his Lordship watched the negroes sitting about
outside and crowding up the doorway. I am sure he took home the belief
that we were a happy household, blacks and all; and that Jenny was the
mistress over all.

After breakfast in the morning Jenny bade Alice and me come with her
while she received his Lordship.

She took her place at the window, sitting in her high chair. Lord
Brockenhurst entered, bearing certain papers in his hand.

'My lord,' she said, 'you can speak with perfect freedom. I entreat you
to use perfect freedom before my cousins. I have no secrets from them;
they can tell you perhaps more about myself than I ever will speak--for
myself.'

Lord Brockenhurst coloured and was confused, but only for a little.
'Dear Madame,' he said, 'since you will not give an interview alone I
must make the best of the presence of others.'

'They know everything,' said Madame.

He bowed. 'I have told you,' he said, 'that I have brought out and
delivered over to the Governor your full pardon and release. These
papers are a copy.'

Jenny pushed them aside. 'I do not want to see them,' she said, 'let me
never be reminded of their existence. Take them, Will, and lock them
up.'

I received them and placed them in my pocket.

'That done, Madame,' he went on, 'I have only to invite your remembrance
of a certain proposal that--I believe you have not forgotten it. Since
your worthy cousins know what that proposal was I have only to say that
once more, most divine woman, I offer myself--my name and rank--my
fortune and possessions--at your feet.' He fell on his knees and took
her hand.

Jenny turned away her face. 'Answer him, Alice--tell him what I have so
often told you. Rise, my Lord. Do not pain me by kneeling at my unworthy
feet.'

'My Lord,' said Alice solemnly, 'there is no one in the world--believe
me--whom Jenny regards with greater respect and gratitude than
yourself.'

'Respect and gratitude are but cold words,' he said.

'Let me add with greater love. Your Lordship is the only man in the
world whom she has ever loved or could love. That also, believe me, is
most true.'

'Why, then----' He held out his hand.

'Nay, my Lord. Jenny loves you so well that nothing would induce her to
accept the honour of your proposal.'

'How? Loves me so well?'

'Jenny bids me tell you that the time would come when your children
would ask who was their mother, and who were her mother's friends. They
would learn her history, I need not remind you of her history. You know
it all. Jenny loves you too well to bring shame and discredit on a noble
House. Your children, she says, must have a mother worthy of yourself.'

'There is no more worthy woman in the world than Jenny!'

'Their mother must have an unblemished name, my Lord, worthy of your
own. She knows you to be so good and loyal that you could never reproach
her with the past. But it belongs to her. And, my Lord, it must not
belong to you.'

'It must not; it shall not,' Jenny repeated through her tears.

'Is this your answer, Jenny? Oh! Jenny, will you cast me off for such a
scruple?'

'I must--I must. Go, my Lord. Think of me no more. Why'--she sprang to
her feet--'what could I expect? I--the Orange Girl--the daughter of the
Black Jack--the friend of thieves; the Newgate Prisoner; the transported
convict? A coronet? For me? the hand of a noble gentleman? the name of a
noble house? For me? Fie upon you, my Lord, for thinking of such a
thing! Remember what is due to a gentleman. And I thank you--oh! I thank
you--you can never know how much--for thinking--you the only one--of
nothing less or lower. Go, my Lord. Tempt me no more. I know what I must
do. Farewell.'

He seized her in his arms; he kissed her--forehead and cheek and lips
and hands. He ceased to urge his suit. He saw that she was fixed, and in
his heart he knew that she was right. 'I obey,' he said. 'Oh! noblest
of women, I obey.'

So he rushed away, and Jenny fell into Alice's arms.

       *       *       *       *       *

I sit on my own estate in the pleasant land of Virginia; outside the
veranda the hot sun ripens the corn and fruit: I did my duty in the
great and glorious war which set our country free: my sons will do
theirs if the occasion should again arise: we have taught our cousins
across the seas that we can fight for freedom: but there will be no more
fighting for that. It is won, once for all--I am now old, but as I sit
alone, my eyes resting on as fair a landscape of river and forest and
orchard and garden as the world can show, I suddenly wander away and
gaze beyond the ocean, beyond the years, upon that abode of despair and
wretchedness, where Jenny sits like a flower in a pigsty, talking of
what she should do when she came out of prison, but unable to read in
the future any return to the world at all. As for fear or doubt, or any
anxiety about the future, the poor soul had none. She was going to
continue for ever beautiful, to win that worship of men which she loved
so much. I have now lost all the friends of my youth: they pass before
me sometimes in a long procession. It is the consolation of age to live
in the past: but in all the array of ghosts there is none that brings
tears except the figure of Jenny in her wondrous beauty and her soft and
lovely eyes.

She lived with us for more than thirty years. She grew gray--but she was
as lovely in her age as in her youth. She was mistress unquestioned to
the end and never more than in her old age. But always with the same
kindness: the same grace: the same sweetness of look, and the same
softness of eye.

She died at last of some fever caught of a young negress whom she
visited in the infirmary. She was ill for three days only, and she died
lying in the veranda, looking out upon the woods and mountains on the
golden sunshine that she loved.

'Alice, dear,' she said, 'you have told me, often, that we are led, we
know not how, to things that are best for us, though by ways that we
would not choose. I have not forgotten what you said. I never forget, my
dear, what you say.'

Alice kissed her fingers.

'I understand now what you mean. I have been led. I have been led----My
dear, I am going to die. Bury me as one of yourselves--not in a ditch
like my own people--who, perhaps, are not led. Bury me in the
burial-ground where your baby lies. Put no stone upon my grave, but
plant white flowers over it. Let my abode, at least, look lovely after
death. I have been led, Alice--I have been led--I understand it now.'

After a little. 'Alice, I have been proud of what men called my
loveliness. It makes every woman happy when men call her lovely. My Lord
called me lovely. Send him, Alice, a lock of my hair. Tell him that I
have never loved any other man.'

She died. We buried her in the little burial-ground where lay the child
we lost. We put up no headstone, but we planted the grave with white
flowers.

There is now another grave beside hers with more white flowers. It bears
the name of Alice.

To me it has been given to love two women at the same time, and that
with equal love and equal respect and without blame or sin.