The Orange Girl Part 53

'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 Ladys.h.i.+p.'

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 pa.s.s 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 n.o.ble House. Poor old merchant! And this after his Alderman's pride and glory: after being Warden of his Company: after a long partners.h.i.+p 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 dest.i.tute, 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 s.h.i.+llings 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 grat.i.tude; he cursed, but mechanically, and as if he could say nothing else. Instead of getting warmer, his teeth chattered and he s.h.i.+vered 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 s.h.i.+vered 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.'