The Orange Girl

'"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.'