The Orange Girl

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.'