CHAPTER II
How I got a new place
So I was free. For twenty-four hours I was like a boy on the first dayof his holidays. I exulted in my liberty: I ran about the meadows andalong the Embankment: I got into a boat and rowed up and down the river.But when the first rapture of freedom was spent I remembered that freeor within stone walls, I had still to earn a living. I had but one way:I must find a place in an Orchestra. At the Dog and Duck, where mybrother-in-law still led, there was no place for me.
There are, however, a great many taverns with gardens and dancing andsinging places and bands of music. I set off to find one where theywanted a fiddle. I went, I believe, the whole round of them--from theTemple of Flora to the White Conduit House, and from Bermondsey Spa tothe Assembly Rooms at Hampstead. Had all the world turned fiddler?Everywhere the same reply--'No vacancy.' Meantime we were living on thebounty of my brother-in-law whose earnings were scanty for his ownmodest house.
Then I thought of the organ. Of course my place at St. George's Boroughwas filled up. There are about a hundred churches in London, however:most of them have organs. I tried every one: and always with the sameresult: the place was filled. I thought of my old trade of fiddling tothe sailors. Would you believe it? There was not even a tavern parlourwhere they wanted a fiddle to make the sailors dance and drink. Had Mr.Probus been able to keep me out of everything?
Alice did her best to sustain my courage. She preserved a cheerfulcountenance: she brushed my coat and hat in the morning with a word ofencouragement: she welcomed me home when I returned footsore and with anaching heart. Why, even in the far darker time that presently followedshe preserved the outward form of cheerfulness and the inner heart offaith.
The weeks passed on: my bad luck remained: I could hear of no work, noteven temporary work: I began to think that even the Prison where I couldat least earn my two or three shillings a day was better than freedom: Ibegan also to think that Mr. Probus must have all the orchestras andmusic-galleries in his own power, together with all the churches thathad organs. My shoes wore out and could not be replaced: my appearancewas such as might be expected when for most of the time I had nothingbetween bread and cheese and beer for breakfast, and bread and cheeseand beer for supper. And I think that the miserable figure I presentedwas often the cause of rejection.
Chance--say Providence--helped me. I was walking, sadly enough, byCharing Cross, one afternoon, being weary, hungry, and dejected, when Iheard a voice cry out, 'Will Halliday! Will Halliday! Are you deaf?'
I turned round. It was Madame, my benefactress, my patroness. She was ina hackney coach.
"I TURNED AROUND; IT WAS MADAM."]
'Come in,' she cried, stopping her driver. 'Come in with me.'
I obeyed, nothing loth.
'Why,' she said looking at me. 'What is the matter? Your cheeks arehollow: your face is pale: your limbs are shaking: worse still--you areshabby. What has happened?'
I could make no reply.
'Your sweet wife--and the lovely boy. They are well?'
When a man has been living for many weeks on insufficient food: when hehas been turned away at every application, he may be forgiven if heloses, on small provocation, his self-control. I am not ashamed to saythat her kind words and her kind looks were too much for me in my weakcondition. I burst into tears.
She laid her hand on my arm, 'Will,' she said, as if she were asister, 'you shall tell me all--but you shall go home with me and wewill talk.'
I observed that the coachman drove up St. Martin's Lane and through acollection of streets which I had never seen before. It was the partcalled St. Giles's; a place which is a kind of laystall into which areshot every day quantities of the scum, dirt, and refuse of this huge andovergrown city. I looked out of the window upon a crowd of faces morevillainous than one could conceive possible, stamped with the brand ofCain. They were lying about in the doorways, at the open windows, for itwas the month of September and a warm day and on the doorsteps and inthe unpaved, unlit, squalid streets. Never did I see so many ragged andnaked brats; never did I see so many cripples, so many hunchbacks, somany deformed people: they were of all kinds--bandy-legged, knock-kneed,those whose shins curve outward like a bow, round-backed, one-eyed,blind, lame.
'They are the beggars,' said my companion. 'Their deformities meandrink: they mean the mothers who drink and drop the babies about.Beggars and thieves--they are the people of St. Giles's.'
'I wonder you come this way. Are you not afraid?'
'They will not hurt me. I wish they would,' she added with a sigh.
A strange wish. I was soon, however, to understand what she meant.
Certainly, no one molested us, or stopped the coach: we passed throughthese streets into High Street, Holborn, and to St. Giles's Church wherethe criminal on his way to Tyburn receives his last drink. Then, byanother turn, into a noble square with a garden surrounded by greathouses, of which the greatest was built for the unfortunate Duke ofMonmouth. The coachman stopped before one of these houses on the Eastside of the Square. It was a very fine and noble mansion indeed.
I threw open the door of the coach and handed Madame down the steps.
'This is my house,' she said. 'Will you come in with me?'
I followed marvelling how an actress could be so great a lady: but stillI remembered how she spoke familiarly to those two villains in theKing's Bench Prison. The doors flew open. Within, a row of a dozen tallhulking fellows in livery stood up to receive Madame. She walkedthrough them with an air that belonged to a Duchess. Then she turnedinto a small room on the left hand and threw herself into a chair. 'So,'she said, 'with these varlets I am a great lady. Here, and in yourcompany, Will, I am nothing but....' She paused and sighed. 'I will tellyou another time.'
I think I was more surprised at the familiarity with which she addressedme than with the splendour of the place. This room, for instance, thoughbut little, was lofty and its walls were painted with flowers and birds:silver candlesticks each with two branches, stood on the mantelshelfwhich was a marvel of fine carving: a rich carpet covered the floor:there were two or three chairs and a table in white and gold. A portraitof Madame hung over the fireplace.
'Forgive me, my friend,' She sprang from the chair and pulled the bellrope. 'Before we talk you must take some dinner.'
She gave her orders in a quick peremptory tone as one accustomed to beobeyed. In a few minutes the table was spread with a white cloth andlaid out with a cold chicken, a noble ham, a loaf of bread, and a bottleof Madeira. You may imagine that I made very little delay in sittingdown to these good things. Heavens! How good they were after theprolonged diet of bread and cheese!
Madame looked on and waited, her chin in her hand. When I desisted atlength, she poured out another glass of Madeira. 'Tell me,' she said.'Your sweet wife and the lovely boy--are they as hungry as you?'
I shook my head sadly.
'We shall see, presently, what we can do. Meantime, tell me the wholestory.'
I told her, briefly, that my story was nothing at all but the story of aman out of employment who could not find any and was slowly droppinginto shabbiness of appearance and weakness of body.
'No work? Why, I supposed you would go back to--to--to something in theCity.'
'Though my father was a Knight and a Lord Mayor, I am a simple musicianby trade. I am not a gentleman.'
'I like you all the better,' she replied, smiling. 'I am not agentlewoman either. The actress is a rogue and a vagabond. So is themusician I suppose.'
I stared. Was she, then, still an actress--and living in this statelyPalace?
'You are a musician. Do you, then, want to find work as a fiddler?'
'That is what I am looking for.'
'Let us consider. Do you play like a--a--gentleman or like one of thecalling?'
'I am one of the calling. When I tell you that I used to live byfiddling for sailors to dance----'
'Say no more--say no more. They are the finest critics in the world. I
fyou please them it is enough. Why should I not engage you, myself?'
'You--engage--me? You--Madame?'
'Friend Will,' she laid her hand on mine, 'there are reasons why I wishyou well and would stand by you if I could. I will tell you, anotherday, what those reasons are. Let me treat you as a friend. When we arealone, I am not Madame: I am Jenny.'
There are some women who if they said such a thing as this, would betaken as declaring the passion of love. No one could look at Jenny'sface which was all simplicity and candour and entertain the leastsuspicion of such a thing.
'Nay, I can only marvel,' I said. For I still thought that I was talkingto some great lady. 'I think that I must be dreaming.'
'Since you know not where you are, this is the Soho Assembly and I amMadame Vallance.'
I seemed to have heard of Madame Vallance.
'You know nothing. That is because you have been in the King's Bench. Iwill now tell you, what nobody else knows, that Madame Vallance is JennyWilmot. I have left the stage, for a time, to avoid a certain person.Here, if I go among the company, I can wear a domino and remain unknown.Do you know nothing about us? We have masquerades, galas,routs--everything. Come with me. I will show you my Ball Room.'
She led me up the grand staircase from the Hall into a most noble room.On the walls were hung many mirrors: between the mirrors were paintedCupids and flowers: rout seats were placed all round the room: thehanging candelabra contained hundreds of candles: at one end stood amusic gallery.
'Will,' she said, 'go upstairs and play me something.'
I obeyed.
I found an instrument, which I tuned. Then I stood up in the gallery andplayed.
She stood below listening. 'Well played!' she cried. 'Now play me adance tune. See if you can make me dance.'
I played a tune which I had often played to the jolly sailors. I knownot what it is called. It is one of those tunes which run in at the earsand down to the heels which it makes as light as a feather and as quicksilver for nimbleness. In a minute she was dancing--with such grace,such spirit, such quickness of motion, as if every limb was withoutweight. And her fair face smiling and her blue eyes dancing!--never wasthere such a figure of grace: as for the step, it was as if invented onthe spot, but I believe that she had learned it. Afraid of tiring her, Ilaid down the violin and descended into the hall.
She gave me both her hands. 'Will,' she said. 'You will make my fortuneif you consent to join my orchestra. There never was such playing. Thosesailors! How could they let you go? Now listen. I can pay you thirtyshillings. Will you come? The Treasury pays every Saturday morning. Youshall have, besides, four weeks in advance. Spend it in generous foodafter your long Lent. Say--Will you accept?'
'It is too much, Jenny.' I took her hand and kissed it. 'First you takeme out of prison: then you give me the means of living. How can I thankyou sufficiently? How repay----'
'There is nothing to repay. I will tell you another time why I take aninterest in you.'
'When the most beautiful woman in the world----'
'Stop, Will. I warn you. There must be no love-making.' I suppose shesaw the irresistible admiration in my eyes. 'Oh! I am not angry. Butcompliments of that kind generally lead to love-making. They all try it,but it is quite useless--now,' she added with a sigh. 'And you, of allmen, must not.'
I made no reply, not knowing what to say.
'There is another face in your home, Will, that is far more beautifulthan mine. Think of that face. Enough said.'
'I protest----' I began.
She laid her hand upon my lips. 'There must be no compliments,' shesaid. Her voice was severe but her smiling eyes forgave.
I left her and hastened home with dancing feet.
I was returning with an engagement of thirty shillings a week: I hadfour weeks' pay in my pocket: Fortune once more smiled upon me: I ran inand kissed my wife with an alacrity and a cheerfulness which rejoicedher as much as it astonished her. I threw down the money. 'Take it, mydear,' I said. 'There is more to come. We are saved again. Oh! Alice--weare saved--and by the same hand as before.'
'I have heard of Madame Vallance,' said Tom, presently. 'She comes fromno one knows where: she keeps herself secluded: at the Assemblies shealways wears a mask: the people say she is generous: some think she isrich: others that the expense of the place must break her.'
'I hope she is another Croesus,' I said. 'I hope that the River ofPactolus will flow into her lap. I hope she will inherit the mines ofGolgonda. I hope she will live a thousand years and marry a Prince. Andwe will drink her health in a bowl of punch this very night.'