The Orange Girl

'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.