Walter Besant
The Orange Girl
His daughters, my dear cousins, turned up their noses, coughed and flattened themselves against the wall so that I should not touch so much as a hoop – and I saw these affectionate creatures no more, until – many things had happened.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TEMPTATION
One morning, about six weeks after the funeral, I was sitting at the harpsichord, picking out an anthem of my own composition. The theme was one of thanksgiving and praise, and my heart was lifted to the level of the words. All around was peace and tranquillity: on the river bank outside Alice walked up and down carrying our child, now nearly a year and a half old: the boy crowed and laughed: the mother would have been singing, but she would not disturb me at work. Can mortal man desire greater happiness than to have the work of his own choice; the wife who is to him the only woman in the world: a strong and lovely child: and a sufficiency earned by his own work? As for my chance of ever getting that huge fortune by my cousin's death, I can safely aver that I never so much as thought of it. We never spoke of it: we put it out of our minds altogether.
I heard steps outside: steps which disturbed me: I turned my head. It was Mr. Probus the attorney. He stood hat in hand before Alice.
'Mr. William's wife I believe,' he was saying. 'And his child? A lovely boy indeed, Madam. I bring you news – nothing less in short than a fortune – a fortune – for this lovely boy.'
'Indeed, Sir? Are you a friend of my husband?'
'A better friend, I warrant, Madam, than many who call him friend.'
'He is within, Sir. Will you honour our poor cottage?' He stood in the open door.
'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have your permission to enter?'
At sight of him the whole of the anthem vanished: harmony, melody, solo, chorus. It was as if someone was singing false: as if all were singing false. I put down my pen. 'Sir,' I said, 'I know not if there is any business of mine which can concern you.'
'Dear Sir,' he tried to make his grating voice mellifluous: he tried to smile pleasantly. 'Do not, pray, treat me as if I was an adviser of the will by which your father deprived you of your inheritance.'
'I do not say that you were. Nevertheless, I cannot understand what business you have with me.'
'I come from your cousin. You have never, I fear, regarded your cousin with kindly feelings' – this was indeed reversing the position – 'but of that we will not speak. I come at the present moment as a messenger of peace – a messenger of peace. There is Scripture in praise of the messenger of peace. I forget it at the moment: but you will know it. Your good lady will certainly know it.' Alice, who had followed him, placed a chair for him and stood beside him. 'I bear the olive-branch like the turtle-dove,' he continued, smiling. 'I bring you good tidings of peace and wealth. They should go together, wealth and peace.'
'Pray, Sir, proceed with your good tidings.'
Alice laid her hand on my shoulder. 'Husband,' she said, 'it would be no good tidings which would deprive us of the happiness which we now enjoy. Think well before you agree to anything that this gentleman, or your cousin, may offer.' So she left us, and carried the boy out again into the fresh air.
'Now, Sir, we are alone.'
He looked about him curiously. 'A pretty room,' he said, 'but small. One would take it for the cottage of a fisherman. I believe there are some of these people in the neighbourhood. The prospect either over the river or over the marsh is agreeable: the trees are pleasant in the summer. The Dog and Duck, which is, I believe, easily accessible, is a cheerful place, and the company is polite and refined, especially that of the ladies. No one, however, would think that a son of the great Sir Peter Halliday, ex-Lord Mayor and Alderman, West India Merchant, was living in this humble place.'
'Your good tidings, Sir?'
'At the same time the position has its drawbacks. You are almost within the Rules. And though not yourself a prisoner, you are in the company of prisoners.'
'Again, Sir, your good tidings?'
'I come to them. Scelerisque Probus is my motto. Probus, attorney at law, trusted by all. Now, Sir, you shall hear what your cousin proposes. Listen to me for a moment. You can hardly get on, I imagine, even in so small a way as this appears to be, under fifty pounds a year.'
'It would be difficult.'
'And in your profession, improperly hard and unjustly despised, it is difficult, I believe, to make much more.'
'It is difficult to make much more.'
'Ha! As your cousin said: "They must be pinched – this unfortunate couple – pinched at times."'
'Did my cousin say that?'
'Assuredly. He was thinking especially of your good lady, whom he remarked at the funeral. Well, your cousin will change all that. A heart of gold, Mr. William, all pure gold' – I coughed, doubtfully – 'concealed, I admit, by a reserved nature which often goes with our best and most truly pious men, especially in the City of London. I do assure you, a heart of gold.'
He played his part badly. His cunning eyes, his harsh voice, the words of praise so out of keeping with his appearance and manner – as if such a man with such a face could be in sympathy with hearts of gold – struck a note of warning. Besides, Matthew with a heart of gold?
'Well, Sir,' I interrupted him, 'what have you come to say?'
'In plain words, then, this. Mr. Matthew has discovered a way of serving you. Now, my dear Sir, I pray your attention.' He leaned back and crossed his legs. 'Your father showed a certain relenting – a disposition to consider you as still a member of the family by that provision as to survival which you doubtless remember.'
'So I interpret that clause in the will.'
'And with this view has put you in as the possible heir to the money which is now accumulating in the hands of trustees. Mr. Matthew, now a partner in the business, will, it is assumed, provide for his heirs out of the business. On his death your father's fortune will come to you if you are living. If you die first it will go to your cousin. In the latter event there will be no question of your son getting aught.'
'So I understand.'
'Your cousin, therefore, argues in this way. First, he is only a year or two older than yourself: next, he is in full possession of his health and strength. There is nothing to prevent his living to eighty: I believe a great-grandmother of his, not yours, lived to ninety-six. It is very likely that he may reach as great an age. You will allow that.'
'Perhaps.'
'Why then, we are agreed. As for you, musicians, I am told, seldom get past forty: they gradually waste away and – and wither like the blasted sprig in July. Oh! you will certainly leave this world at forty – enviable person! – would that I could have done so! – you will exchange your fiddle for a harp – the superior instrument – and your three-cornered hat for a crown – the external sign of promotion – long before your cousin has been passed the Chair.'
'All this is very likely, Mr. Probus. Yet – '
'I am coming to my proposal. What Mr. Matthew says is this. "My cousin is cut out of the will. It is not for me to dispute my uncle's decision. Still, what he wants just now is ready money – a supplement – a supplement – to what he earns."'
'Well?' For he stopped here and looked about the room with an air of contempt.
'A pleasant room,' he said, going back, 'but is it the room which your father's son should have for a lodging? Rush-bottomed chairs: no carpet … dear me, Mr. William, it is well to be a philosopher. However, we shall change all that.'
I waited for him to go on without further interruption.
'In a word, Sir, I am the happy ambassador – privileged if ever there was one – charged to bring about reconciliation and cousinly friendship.' Again he overdid it. 'Your cousin sent me, in a word, to propose that you should sell him your chances of inheritance. That is why I am here. I say, Mr. William, that you may if you please sell him your chance of the inheritance. He proposes to offer you £3,000 down – £3,000, I say – the enormous sum of three – thousand – pounds – for your bare chance of succeeding. Well, Sir? What do you say to this amazing, this astounding piece of generosity?'
I said nothing. Only suddenly there returned to my mind the words I had overheard in the outer counting-house.
'We will make him sell his reversion.'
What connection had these words with me? There was no proof of any connection: no proof except that jumping of the wits which wants no proof.
'With £3,000,' Mr. Probus continued, 'you can take a more convenient residence of your own – here, or elsewhere: near the Dog and Duck, or further removed: you can live where you please: with the interest, which would amount to £150 a year at least, and what you make by your honest labour, you will be, for one of your profession, rich. It will be a noble inheritance for your children. Why, Sir, you are a made man!'
He threw himself back in his chair and puffed his cheeks with the satisfaction that naturally follows on the making of a man.
I was tempted: I saw before me a life of comparative ease: with £150 a year there would be little or no anxiety for the future.
Mr. Probus perceived that I was wavering. He pulled a paper out of his pocket – he slapped it on the table and unrolled it: he looked about for ink and pen.
'You agree?' he asked with an unholy joy lighting up his eyes. 'Why – there – I knew you would! I told Mr. Matthew that you would. Happy man! Three thousand pounds! And all your own! And all for nothing! Where is the ink? Because, Sir – I can be your witness – that cousin of yours, I may now tell you, is stronger than any bull – sign here, then, Sir – here – he will live for ever.'
His eagerness, which he could not conceal, to obtain my signature startled me. Again I remembered the words:
'We will make him sell his reversion.'
'Stop, Mr. Probus,' I said. 'Not so quick, if you please.'
'Not so quick! Why, dear Sir, you have acceded. You have acceded. Where is the ink?'
'Not at all.'
'If you would like better terms I might raise it another fifty pounds.'
'Not even another fifty will persuade me.' At that moment I heard Alice singing,
'The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And lead me with a shepherd's care.'
The Lord – not Mr. Probus. I took the words for a warning.
'We shall not want any ink,' I said, 'nor any witness. Because I shall not sign.'
'Not sign? Not sign? But Mr. William – Sir – surely – have a care – such an offer is not made every day. You will never again receive such an offer.'
'Hark ye, Mr. Probus. By that clause in his will my father signified his desire, although he would punish me for giving up the City – to show that he was not implacable and that if it be Heaven's will that I should survive my cousin I should then receive his forgiveness and once more be considered as one of the family. Sir, I will not, for any offer that you may make, act against my father's wish. I am to wait, God knows I desire not the death of my cousin – I wait: it is my father's sentence upon me. I shall obey my father. He forgives me after a term of years – long or short – I know not. He forgives me by that clause. I am not cursed with my father's resentment.'
'Oh! He talks like a madman. With £3,000 waiting for him to pick up!'
'I repeat, Sir. In this matter I shall leave the event to Providence, in obedience to my father's wishes. Inform my cousin, if you please, of my resolution.'
More he said, because he was one of those tenacious and obstinate persons who will not take 'No,' for an answer. Besides, as I learned afterwards, he was most deeply concerned in the success of his mission. He passed from the stage of entreaty to that of remonstrance and finally to that of wrath.
'Sir,' he said, 'I perceive that you are one of those crack-brained and conceited persons who will not allow anyone to do them good: you throw away every chance that offers, you stand in your own light, you bring ruin upon your family.'
'Very well,' I said, 'very well indeed.'
'I waste my words upon you.'
'Why then waste more?'
'You are unworthy of the name you bear. You are only fit for the beggarly trade you follow. Well, Sir, when misery and starvation fall upon you and yours, remember what you have thrown away.'
I laughed. His cunning face became twisted with passion.
'Sir,' he said, 'all this talk is beside the mark. There are ways. Do not think that we are without ways and means.' Then he swore a great round oath. 'We shall find a way, somehow, to bring you to reason.'
'Well Mr. Integer Vitæ scelerisque Probus,' I said. 'If you contemplate rascality you will have to change your motto.'
He smoothed out his face instantly, and repressed the outward signs of wrath. 'Mr. Will,' he said, 'forgive this burst of honest indignation. You will do, of course, what you think fit. Sir, I wish you a return to better sense. I think I may promise you' – he paused and clapped his forefinger to his nose, 'I am sure that I can so far trespass on the forbearance of your cousin as to promise that this offer shall be kept open for three weeks. Any day within the next three weeks you shall find at my office the paper ready for your signature. After that time the chance will be gone – gone – gone for ever,' he threw the chance across the river with a theatrical gesture and walked away.
What did it mean? Why did Matthew want to buy my share? We might both live for forty years or even more. Neither could touch that money till the other's death. He might desire my early death in which case all would be his. But to buy my share – it meant that if I died first he would have paid a needless sum of money for it: and that if he died first it would not be in his power to enjoy that wealth. I asked Ramage on the Sunday why Matthew wanted it. He said that merchants sometimes desire credit and that perhaps it would strengthen Matthew if it were known that this great sum of money would be added to his estate whenever either his cousin or he himself should die. And with this explanation I must be content. There was another possibility but that I learned afterwards.
'We will make him sell his reversion.' What was the meaning of those words? Perhaps they did not apply to me. But I was sure that they did. Like a woman I was certain that they did: and for a woman's reason – which is none.
CHAPTER IX
THE CLAIM AND THE ARREST
You have heard how my old friend David Camlet, musical instrument maker, of Dowgate Street, presented me – or my wife – on our marriage, with a handsome harpsichord. Shortly after my father's death, this good old gentleman also went the way of all flesh: a melancholy event which I only learned by receiving a letter from Mr. Probus. Imagine, if you can, my amazement when I read the following:
'Sir,
'I have to call your immediate attention to your debt of fifty-five pounds for a harpsichord supplied to you by David Camlet of Dowgate Street, deceased. I shall be obliged if you will without delay discharge this liability to me as attorney for the executors —
'And Remain Sir,'Your obedient humble Servant,'Ezekiel Probus'
'Why,' said Alice. 'Mr. Camlet gave us the instrument. It was a free gift.'
'It was. If Mr. Probus will acknowledge the fact.'
'Mr. Probus? Is it that man with the harsh voice who talked lies to you?'
'The same. And much I fear, wife, that he means no good by this letter.'
'But Mr. Camlet gave us the harpsichord.'
Had the letter been received from any other person I should have considered it as of no importance; but the thought that it came from Mr. Probus filled me with uneasiness. What had that worthy attorney said? 'There are ways – we shall find a way to bring you to reason.'
'My dear,' said Alice, 'since we have had the instrument for two years without any demand for payment, we ought to be safe. Better go and see the man.'
It was with very little hope that I sallied forth. Not only was this man a personal enemy but he was an attorney. What must be the true nature of that profession which so fills the world with shuddering and loathing? Is it, one asks, impossible to be an honest attorney? This one, at all events, was as great a villain as ever walked. They are a race without pity, without scruple, without turning either to the right or to the left when they are in pursuit of their prey. They are like the weasel who singles out his rabbit and runs it down, being turned neither to one side nor the other. Their prey is always money: they run down the man who has money: when they have stripped him naked they leave him, whether it is in a debtor's prison or in the street: when he is once stripped they regard him no longer. Other men take revenge for human motives, for wrongs done and endured: these men know neither revenge nor wrath: they do not complain of wrongs: you may kick them: you may cuff them: it is nothing: they want your money: and that they will have by one way or another.
I took boat from St. Mary Overies stairs. As I crossed the river a dreadful foreboding of evil seized me. For I perceived suddenly that, somehow or other, Mr. Probus was personally interested in getting me to sell my reversion. How could he be interested? I could not understand. But he was. I remembered the persuasion of his manner: his anxiety to get my signature: his sudden manifestation of disappointment when I refused. Why? Matthew was now a partner with a large income and the fortune which my father left him. Matthew had no expensive tastes. Why should Mr. Probus be interested in his affairs?
Next, asked the silent reasoner in my brain, what will happen when you declare that you cannot pay this debt? This man will show no mercy. You will be arrested – you will be taken to Prison. At this thought I shivered, and a cold trembling seized all my limbs. 'And you will stay in the Prison till you consent to sell your reversion.' At which I resumed my firmness. Never – never – would I yield whatever an accursed attorney might say or do to me.
Mr. Probus wrote from a house in White Hart Street. It is a small street, mostly inhabited by poulterers, which leads from Warwick Lane to Newgate market: a confined place at best: with the rows of birds dangling on the hooks, not always of the sweetest, and the smell of the meat market close by and the proximity of the shambles, it is a dark and noisome place. The house, which had a silver Pen for its sign, was narrow, and of three stories: none of the windows had been cleaned for a long time, and the door and doorposts wanted paint.
As I stood on the doorstep the words again came back to me, 'We will make him sell his reversionary interest.'
The door was opened by an old man much bent and bowed with years: his thin legs, his thin arms, his body – all were bent: on his head he wore a small scratch wig: he covered his eyes with his hand on account of the blinding light, yet the court was darkened by the height of the houses above and the dangling birds below.
He received my name and opened the door of the front room. I observed that he opened it a very little way and entered sliding, as if afraid that I should see something. He returned immediately and beckoned me to follow him. He led the way into a small room at the back, not much bigger than a cupboard, which had for furniture a high desk and a high stool placed at a window so begrimed with dirt that nothing could be seen through it.
There was no other furniture. The old man climbed upon his stool with some difficulty and took up his pen. He looked very old and shrivelled: his brown coat was frayed: his worsted stockings were in holes: his shoes were tied with leather instead of buckles: there was no show of shirt either at the wrist or the throat. He looked, in fact, what he was, a decayed clerk of the kind with which, as a boy, I had been quite familiar. It is a miserable calling, only redeemed from despair – because the wages are never much above starvation-point – by the chance and the hope of winning a prize in the lottery. No clerk is ever so poor that he cannot afford at least a sixteenth share in this annual bid for fortune. I never heard that any clerk within my knowledge had ever won a prize: but the chance was theirs: once a year the chance returns – a chance of fortune without work or desert.
Presently the old man turned round and whispered, 'I know your face. I have seen you before – but I forget where. Are you in trade? Have you got a shop?'
'No. I have no shop,'
'You come from the country? No? A bankrupt, perhaps? No? Going to make him your attorney?' He shook his head with some vehemence and pointed to the door with his pen. 'Fly,' he said. 'There is still time.'
'I am not going to make him or anyone else my attorney,'
'You come to borrow money? If so' – again he pointed to the door with the feathery end of the quill. 'Fly! There is still time.'
'Then you owe him money. Young man – there is still time. Buy a stone at the pavior's – spend your last penny upon it; then tie it round your neck and drop into the river. Ah! It is too late – too late – ' For just then Mr. Probus rang a bell. 'Follow me, Sir. Follow me. Ah! That paving stone!'
Mr. Probus sat at a table covered with papers. He did not rise when I appeared, but pointed to a chair.
'You wish to see me, Mr. William,' he began. 'May I ask with what object?'
'I come in reply to your letter, Mr. Probus,'
'My letter? My letter?' He pretended to have forgotten the letter. 'I write so many, and sometimes – ay – ay – surely. The letter about the trifling debt due to the estate of David Camlet Deceased. Yes – yes, I am administering the worthy man's estate. One of many – very many – who have honoured me with their confidence.'
'That letter, Mr. Probus, is the reason why I have called.'
'You are come to discharge your obligation. It is what I expected. You are not looking well, Mr. William. I am sorry to observe marks – are they of privation? – on your face. Our worthy cousin, on the other hand, has a frame of iron. He will live, I verily believe, to ninety.'
'Never mind my cousin, Mr. Probus. He will live as long as the Lord permits.'
'When last I saw you Sir, you foolishly rejected a most liberal offer. Well: youth is ignorant. We live and learn. Some day, too late, you will be sorry. Now, Sir, for this debt. Fifty-five pounds. Ay. Fifty-five pounds. And my costs, which are trifling.'
'I have come to tell you, Mr. Probus, that your letter was written under a misapprehension.'
'Truly? Under a misapprehension? Of what kind, pray?'
The harpsichord was a gift made by Mr. David Camlet. I did not buy it.'
Mr. Probus lifted his eyebrows. 'A gift? Really? You have proof, no doubt, of this assertion?'
'Certainly.'
'Well, produce your proofs. If you have proofs, as you say, I shall be the first to withdraw my client's claim. But makers of musical instruments do not usually give away their wares. What are your proofs, Sir?'
'My word, first.'
'Ta – ta – ta. Your word. By such proof every debtor would clear himself. What next?'
'The word of my wife who with me received the instrument from Mr. Camlet.'
'Receiving the instrument does not clear you of liability – what else?'
'The fact that Mr. Camlet never asked me for the money.'
'An oversight. Had he, in a word, intended the instrument for a gift, he would have said so. Now, Sir, what other proofs have you?'
I was silent. I had no other proof.
He turned again to the book he had before consulted. It was the ledger, and there, in Mr. Camlet's own handwriting, firm and square, was an entry:
'To Will Halliday – a Harpsichord, £55.
In another book was an entry to the office that the instrument had been delivered.
Of course, I understand now what the old man meant by the entry. He wanted to note the gift and the value: and unfortunately he entered it as if it was a business transaction.
'Well, Sir?' asked Mr. Probus.
I said nothing. My heart felt as heavy as lead. I was indeed in the power of this man.
'There are such things as conspiracy,' he went on, severely. 'You have told me, for instance, that you and your wife are prepared to swear that the instrument was a gift. I might have indicted you both for a conspiracy, in which case Tyburn would have been your lot. For the sake of your excellent cousin and the worthy Mr. Peter, your uncle, Sir, I refrain from the indictment, though I fear I might be charged with compounding a felony. But mercy before all things: charity, mercy, and long suffering. These are the things that chiefly nourish the human soul, not guineas.'
I remained still silent, not knowing what to do or to say, and seeing this abyss yawning before me.
'Come Sir,' he said with changed voice, 'you owe fifty pounds and costs. If it were to myself I would give you time: I would treat you tenderly: but an Attorney must protect his clients. Therefore I must have that money at once.'
'Give me time to consult my friends.' Alas! All my friends could not raise fifty pounds between them.
'You have none. You have lost your friends. Pay me fifty pounds and costs.'
'Let me see the executors. Perhaps they will hear reason.'
'For what purpose? They must have their own. The long and the short of it, Mr. William Halliday, is that you must pay me this money.'
'Man! I have not got so much money in the world.'
He smiled – he could not disguise his satisfaction.
'Then, Mr. William Halliday' – he shut the ledger with a slam – 'I fear that my clients must adopt – most unwillingly, I am sure – the measures sanctioned by the law.' His eyes gleamed with a malicious satisfaction. 'I only trust that the steps we shall have to take will not disturb the mind of my much-respected client, your cousin. You will have to choose your prison, and you will remain in the – the Paradise of your choice until this money, with costs, is paid. As for your choice, the situation of the Fleet is more central: that of the Bench is more rural: beyond the new Prison there are green fields. The smell of the hay perhaps comes over the wall. Should you find a lengthened residence necessary, I believe that the rooms, though small, are comfortable. Ah! how useful would have been that three thousand pounds which you refused – at such a juncture as this.'
'If there is nothing more to be said – ' I got up, not knowing what I said, and bewildered with the prospect before me.
'Heaven forbid, Sir,' he continued sweetly, 'that I should press you unduly. I will even, considering the tender heart of your cousin, extend to you the term. I will grant you twenty-four hours in which to find the money.'
'You may as well give me five minutes. I have no means of raising the sum.'
'I am sorry to hear that for the sake of my clients. However, I can only hope' – he pushed back the papers and rose with a horrible grin of malice on his face – 'that you will find the air of the Prison salubrious. There have been cases of infectious fever – gaol fever, lately: perhaps the King's Bench and the Fleet are equal in this respect. Small-pox, also, is prevalent in one: but I forget which. Many persons live for years in a Prison. I hope, I am sure, that you will pass – many – many – happy years in that seclusion.'
I listened to none of this ill-omened croaking, but hastened to leave him. At the door I passed the old clerk.
'Go to the King's Bench,' he whispered. 'Not to the Fleet where he'll call every day to learn whether you are dead. There is still time,' he pointed to his throat while he noisily opened the door. 'Round the neck. At the bottom of the River: the lying is more comfortable than in the King's Bench.'
I had entered the house with very little hope. I left it with despair. I walked home as one in a dream, running against people, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. When I reached home I sat down in a kind of stupor.
'My dear,' I said, presently recovering, 'we are lost – we are ruined. I shall starve in a Prison. Thou wilt beg thy bread. The boy will be a gutter brat.'
'Tell me,' Alice took my hand. 'Oh! tell me all – my dear. Can we be lost if we are together?'
'We shall not be together. To-morrow I shall be in the Prison. For how long God only knows.'
'Since He knows, my dear, keep up your heart. When was the righteous man forsaken? Come, let us talk. There may be some means found. If we were to pay – though we owe nothing – so much a week.'
'Alice, it is not the debt. There is no debt. It is revenge, and the hope – '
I did not finish – what I would have added was, 'The hope that I may die of gaol fever or something.' 'My dear, be brave and let us arrange. First, I lose my situation in the Church and at the Gardens. Next, we must provide for the child and for thyself outside the prison. No, my dear, if the Lord permits us to live any other way the child shall not be brought up a prison bird.'
