Walter Besant
The Orange Girl
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.
