CHAPTER IV
WHO SHE WAS
'You now know, Will,' said Jenny, when I called next day, 'why I havebeen interested in you, since I first saw you. Not on account of yourgood looks, Sir, though I confess you are a very pretty fellow: nor onaccount of your playing, which is spirited and true; but because you aremy first cousin by marriage.'
She received me, sitting in the small room on the left of the Hall. Thegreat house was quite empty, save for the servants, who were alwaysclearing away the remains of one fete and arranging for another. Theirfootsteps resounded in the vacant corridors and their voices echoed inthe vacant chambers.
'Jenny, I have been able to think of nothing else. I could not sleep forthinking of it. I am more and more amazed.'
'I knew you would be. Well, Will, I wanted to have a long talk with you.I have a great deal to say. First, I shall give you some tea--believeme, it is far better for clearing the head after a night such as lastnight, than Madeira. I have a great deal to tell you--I fear you willdespise me--but I will hide nothing. I am resolved to hide nothing fromyou.'
Meantime the words kept ringing in my ears. 'Matthew a gambler! Thereligious Matthew! To whom music was a snare of the Devil and themusician a servant of the Devil! The steady Matthew! The irreproachableMatthew!'
Yet, since I had always known him to be a violator of truth; a slandererand a backbiter, why not, also, a gambler? Why not also a murderer--aforger--anything? I was to find out before long that he was quite readyto become the former of these also, upon temptation. Yet the thing waswonderful, even after I had actually seen it and proved it. And again,Matthew married! Not to a sober and godly citizen's daughter, but to anactress of Drury Lane Theatre! Matthew, to whom the theatre was as themouth of the Bottomless Pit! Who could believe such a thing?
As for what follows, Jenny did not tell me the whole in this oneafternoon. I have put together, as if it was all one conversation, whattook several days or perhaps several weeks.
'You think it so wonderful, Will,' Jenny said, reading my thoughts in myface. 'For my own part it is never wonderful that a man should gamble,or drink, or throw himself away upon an unworthy mistress. Every man maygo mad: it is part of man's nature: women, never, save for love andjealousy and the like. Men are so made: madness seizes them: down theygo to ruin and the grave. It is strong drink with some: and avarice withsome: and gaming with some. Your cousin Matthew is as mad as an Abramman.'
She was silent for a while. Then she went on again. I have written itdown much as if all that follows was a single speech. It was broken upby my interruptions and by her pauses and movements. For she was tooquick and restless to sit down while she was speaking. She would springfrom her chair and walk about the room; she would stand at the window,and drum at the panes of glass: she would stand over the fireplace; shewould look in the round mirror hanging on the wall. She had a thousandrestless ways. Sometimes she stood behind me and laid a hand on myshoulder as if she was ashamed for me to look upon her.
It was a wonderful tale she told me: more wonderful that a woman who hadgone through that companionship should come out of it, filled throughand through, like a sponge, with the knowledge of wickedness and foundin childhood with those who practise wickedness, yet should be herselfso free from all apparent stain or taint of it. Surely, unless the face,the eyes, the voice, the language, the thoughts, can all lie together,this woman was one of the purest and most innocent of Heaven'screatures.
It is not always the knowledge of evil that makes a woman wicked. Else,if you think of it, there would be no good woman at all among us.Consider: it is only a question of degree. A child born in the Mint; orin Fullwood's Rents; or in St. Giles's: or in Turnmill Street learns,one would think, everything that is vile. But children do not alwaysinquire into the meaning of what they hear: most things that they see orhear may pass off them like water from a duck's back. Their bestsafe-guard is their want of curiosity. Besides, it is not only in St.Giles's that children hear things that are kept from them: in therespectable part of the city, in Cheapside itself, they can hear the lowlanguage and the vile sayings and the blasphemous oaths of the commonsort. Children are absorbed by their own pursuits and thoughts. Thegrown-up world: the working world, does not belong to them; they see andsee not; they hear and hear not; they cannot choose, but see and hear:yet they inquire not into the meaning.
'Will,' she said, 'I would I had never heard your name. It has been anunlucky name to me--and perhaps it will be more unlucky still.' I knownot if she was here foretelling what certainly happened, afterwards.'Your cousin, Matthew, is no common player, who carries a few guineas inhis pocket and watches them depart with a certain interest and evenanxiety and then goes away. This man is a fierce, thirsty, insatiablegambler. There is a play called 'The Gamester' in which the hero is suchan one. He plays like this hero with a thirst that cannot be assuaged.He plays every night: he has, I believe, already ruined himself: yet hecannot stop: he would play away the whole world and then would stake hissoul, unless he had first sold his soul for money to play with. Soul? Ifhe has any soul--but I know not.'
'You amaze me, Jenny. Indeed, I am overwhelmed with amazement. I cannotget the words out of my head, "Matthew a gambler! Matthew a gambler!"'
'Yes--Matthew a gambler. He has been a gambler in a small way for manyyears. When he got possession of your father's money and the managementof that House, he became a gambler in a large way. I say that I believehe is already well-nigh ruined. You have seen him on one night, Will; heis at the same game every night. I have had him watched--I know. Hisluck is such as the luck of men like that always is--against himcontinually. He never wins: or if ever, then only small sums as willserve to encourage him. There is no evening in the week, not evenSunday, when he does not play. I have reason to know--I will tell youwhy, presently--that he has already lost a great fortune.'
'The fortune that my father left to him. It should have been mine.'
'Then, my poor Will, it never will be yours. For it is gone. I learned,six months ago, that his business is impaired: the credit of the Houseis shaken. Worse than this, Will'--she laid her hand on my arm--'he hadthen, already, borrowed large sums of Mr. Probus, and as he could notpay he was borrowing more. There is the danger for you!'
'What danger?'
'You musicians live in the clouds. Why does Matthew continue to borrowmoney? He pretends that he wants to put it into the business. Really, hegambles with it. Why does Probus continue to lend him money? Probus doesnot suspect the truth. In the hope that he will presently have such ahold over Matthew that he will get possession of the business, become apartner and turn out Matthew and your uncle. It looks splendid. Allthese ships: the wharf covered with goods: but the ships are mortgagedand their cargoes are mortgaged: and the interest on Probus's loans canonly be paid by borrowing more. In a very short time, Will, the bubblewill burst. The situation is already dangerous; it will then become fullof peril.'
'Why dangerous to me? I have borrowed no money.'
'You are a very simple person, Will. They put you into the King's Bench.Yet you don't understand. I do. Matthew wanted to borrow money on thesecurity of that succession. Probus would have lent him money on thatsecurity. Probus would have had another finger in the pie. He did notknow, then, what he will very soon find out, that all the money he hasalready advanced to his rich client is lost. Then it was a meretemptation to Matthew to put you under pressure: now it will become anecessity to make you submit: a necessity for both, and they are a pairof equal villains.'
'Last night you warned Matthew. Jenny, your words seemed to be no commonwarning. You know something or you would not have pronounced that solemnwarning.'
'Every woman is a prophetess,' she replied, gravely. 'Oh! I cansometimes foretell things. Not always: not when I wish: not as I wish.The prophecy comes to me. I know not how it comes: and I cannot expectit or wait for it. Last night, suddenly, I saw a vision of villainy, Iknow not what. It was directed against you and Alice--and thevillains--amon
g them was Matthew--were driven back with whips. They fledhowling. Will, this Vision makes me speak.'
This kind of talk was new to me: I confess it made me uneasy.
'Well, you now know the truth. Your cousin has defamed and slanderedyou: without relenting and without ceasing. So long as it was possibleto do you a mischief with your father he did it: he has robbed you ofyour inheritance: well: you can now, if you please, revenge yourself.'
'Revenge myself? How?'
'You will not only revenge yourself: you may make it impossible for yourcousin to do you any further injury.'
'Does he wish to do me any further injury?'
'Will, I suppose that you are a fool because you are a musician. Wish? Aman like that who has injured you as much as he could and as often ashe could will go on: it is the nature of such a man to injure others:his delight and his nature: he craves for mischief almost as he cravesfor gambling.'
'You are bitter against--your husband, Jenny.'
'I am very bitter against him. I have reason.'
'But about the revenge. Of what kind is it?'
'You may do this. His father, the Alderman, has withdrawn from anyactive partnership in the business, which is conducted entirely byMatthew. He passes now an idle life beside Clapham Common, with hisgardens and his greenhouses. Go to this poor gentleman: tell him thetruth. Let him learn that his son is a gambler: that he is wasting allthat is left to waste: that his losses have been very heavy already: andthat the end is certain bankruptcy. You can tell your uncle that you sawyourself with your own eyes Matthew losing a hundred and fifty-fiveguineas in the card-room of a Masquerade: this will terrify him, thoughat first he will not believe it: then he will cause the affairs of theHouse to be examined, and he will find out, if accountants are any use,how much has been already wasted. Mind, Will, I invent nothing. All thisI know. The House is well-nigh ruined.'
'How do you know all this, Jenny?'
'Not by visions, certainly. I know it from information. It is, I assureyou, the bare truth. The House is already well-nigh ruined.'
'I fear I cannot tell my uncle these things.'
'It would be a kindness to him in the end, Will. Let him learn the truthbefore the worst happens.'
I shook my head. Revenge is not a pleasing task. To go to my uncle withsuch a tale seemed a mean way of returning Matthew's injuries.
'I do not counsel revenge, then,' she went on, again divining mythoughts. 'Call it your safety. When you have alarmed your uncle intocalling for an explanation, go and see the man Probus.'
'See Probus? Why?'
'I would separate Probus from his client. Go and tell the man--go andtell him without reference to his past villainies that his clientMatthew is an incurable gambler, and that all the money Probus has lentto him has been lost over the gaming table.'
'Tell Probus?' The thought of speaking to Probus except as to a viperwas not pleasant.
'I have made inquiries about Probus,' She knew everything, this woman!'He is of the tribe they call blood-suckers: they fasten upon theirvictim, and they never let go till such time as there is no more bloodto suck. There is some blood left. Probus will never think of you whilehe is saving what he can of his own. Tell the money-lender this, I say,and what with Probus on the one hand, maddened by his loss, and his ownfather on the other, well-nigh terrified to death, Matthew will haveenough to do.'
'Would you like me to do this, Jenny?'
'I should like it done,' she replied, turning away her face.
'Would you like to do it yourself, Jenny?'
'I am a woman. Women must not do violent things.'
'Jenny, there is more revenge than precaution in this.'
'There may be some revenge, but there is also a good deal of prudence.'
'I cannot do it, Jenny.'
'Are you afraid, Will? To be sure, a musician is not asold--so--no--Will, forgive me. You are not afraid. Forgive me.'
'I shall leave them to work out their destruction in their own way,whatever way that may be.'
'But that way may be hurtful to you, my poor Will--even fatal to you,'
'I shall leave them alone: their punishment will surely fall upon them,they will dig a trap to their own undoing.'
'Will, I have heard that kind of talk before. I have used those wordsmyself upon the stage.' She threw herself into an attitude and declaimedwith fire.
'Think not, Allora, that I dread their hate: Nor hate, nor vile conspiracy shall turn me-- Still on their own presumptuous heads shall fall The lightning they invoke for mine; for lower Hangs yon black thunder cloud; and even louder I hear the rumbling of the angry earth. Wait but a moment: then the flash shall shoot; Then shall the thunder roar; the earth shall gape; And where they stood there shall be nothingness.'
'That is your position, Will. For my own part, if I were you, I shouldprefer safety, and I should not object to revenge.'
'It is true, Jenny.'
'Perhaps. For my own part, I have known a monstrous number of wickedpeople on whom no lightnings fell, and for whom the earth did nevergape. Nothing has happened to them so long as they were gentlemen. Withthe baser sort, of course, there is Tyburn, and I dare say that feels atthe end like the gaping of the earth and the flash of lightning and theroar of the thunder, all together. Even with them some escape.'
I would have quoted the Psalmist, but refrained, because by this time Ihad made the singular discovery that Jenny seemed to have no knowledgeof religion at all. If one spoke in the common way of man's dependenceshe looked as if she understood nothing: or she said she had heard wordsto that effect on the stage: if one spoke indirectly of the Christianscheme she showed no response: had I mentioned the Psalmist she wouldhave asked perhaps who the Psalmist was, or where his pieces wereplayed. She never went to church: she never read any books except herown parts. She was sharp and clever in the conduct of affairs: she wasnot to be taken in by rogues: how could such a woman, considering ourmode of education and the general acknowledgment of Christianity, evenin an atheistical age, that prevails in our books, escape someknowledge, or tincture, of religion?
'Do not call it revenge,' she insisted. 'In your own safety you shouldstrike: and without delay. I repeat it: I cannot put it too stronglybefore you. There is a great danger threatening. When Probus finds thatthe money is really gone, he will become desperate: he will stick atnothing.'
'Since he knows, now, that nothing will persuade me to sell that chanceof succession, he will perhaps desist.'
'He will never desist. If you were dead! The thought lies in both theirminds. If you were dead! Then that money would be Matthew's.'
'Do you think Mr. Probus will murder me?'
'Not with his own hands. Still--do you think, Will, that when twovillains are continually brooding over the same thought, villainy willnot follow? If I were you I would take this tale to the Alderman first,and to Probus next, and I should then keep out of the way for six monthsat least.'
'No.' I said. 'They shall be left to themselves.'
Perhaps I was wrong. Had I told my uncle all, the bankruptcy would havebeen precipitated and Probus's claim would have been treated with allthe others, and even if that large sum had fallen it would have beenadded to the general estate and divided accordingly.
It was in the afternoon: the sun was sinking westward: it shone throughthe window upon Jenny as she restlessly moved about the room--disquietedby all she had to tell me. I remember how she was dressed: in a frock oflight blue silk, with a petticoat to match: her hair hung in its naturalcurls, covered with a kerchief--the soft evening sunlight wrapped her ina blaze of light and colour. And oh! the pity of it! To think that thisdivine creature was thrown away upon my wretched cousin! The pity of it!
'Tell me, Jenny,' I said, 'how you became his wife?'
'Yes, Will, I will tell you,' she replied humbly. 'Don't think that Iever loved him--nor could I endure his caresses--but he never offeredany--the only man who never wanted to caress me was my h
usband--to besure he did not love me--or anyone else--he is incapable of love. He isa worm. His hand is slimy and cold: his face is slimy: his voice isslimy. But I thought I could live with him, perhaps. If not, I couldalways leave him.'
She paused a little as if to collect herself.
'Every actress,' she went on, 'has troops of lovers. There are thegentlemen first who would fain make her their mistress for a month:those who would make her their mistress for a year: and those who desireonly the honour and glory of pretending that she is their mistress: andthen there are the men who would like nothing better than to marry theactress and to live upon her salary--believe me, of all these there areplenty. Lastly, there is the gentleman who would really marry theactress, all for love of her, and for no other consideration. I thought,at first, that your cousin Matthew was one of these.'
'How did you know him?'
'He was brought into the Green Room one night by some gamblingacquaintance. I remarked his long serious face, I thought he was a manwho might be trusted. He asked permission to wait upon me----'
'Well?' For she stopped.
'I thought, I say, that he was a man to be trusted. He did not look likeone who drank: he did not follow other actresses about with his eyes: Isay, Will, that I thought I could trust him. He came to my lodging. Hetold me that he was a rich City merchant: he asked me what I should likeif I would marry him and he promised to give it to me--that--andanything else----'
'If you did not love him--Jenny----'
'I did not love him. I will tell you. I wanted to get away from the manI did love; and so I wanted, above all, to be taken away from London andthe Theatre into the country, never to hear anything more about thestage. Had he done what he promised, Will, I would have made a good wifeto him, although he is a slimy worm. But he did not. He broke his wordon the very morning when we came out of church----'
'How?'
'He began by saying that he had a little explanation to offer. He saidthat when he told me he was a rich merchant--that, indeed, was hisreputation: but his position was embarrassed: he wanted money: he wishednot to borrow any: he therefore thought that if he married anactress--that class of persons being notorious for having no honour--hisvery words to me, actually, his very words an hour after leaving thechurch--he intended to open a gaming-house at which I was to be thedecoy. Now you understand why I call him a villain, and a wretch, and aslimy worm.'
'Jenny!'
'I left him on the spot after telling him what he was--I left him--Ileft the Theatre as well. I had a friend who found me the money to takethis place under another name. I have seen the man many times here--lastnight--and once I called upon him and I made him give me the money toget you out of the Prison, Will.'
'Matthew found that money?'
'Of course, he did. I had none--I went to him and reminded him that hehad contributed nothing to the maintenance of his wife, and that he mustgive me whatever the sum was. He was obliged to give it, otherwise Ishould have informed the clerks of the Counting-house who I was.'
I laughed. 'Well, but Jenny, there was another man----'
'You are persistent, Sir. Why should I tell you? Well, I will confess.This man protested a great deal less than the others. He was a nobleLord, if that matters. He was quite different from all the rest: henever came to the Green Room drunk: he never cursed and swore: he nevershook his cane in the face of footman or chairman: he was a gentlecreature--and he loved me and would have married me: well--I told himwho and what I was--I will tell you presently--that mattered nothing. Hewould carry me away from them all. I would have married him, Will: andwe should have been happy: but his sister came to see me and she went onher knees crying and imploring me to refuse him because in the historyof their family there had never been any such alliance as that with anactress of no family. Would I bring disgrace into a noble family? If Irefused, he would forget me, and she would do all in her power for me,if ever I wanted a friend. It was for his sake--if I loved him I wouldnot injure him. And so she went on: and she persuaded me, Will--because,you see, when people pride themselves about their families it is a pityto bring the gutter into it--with Newgate and Tyburn, isn't it?'
'Jenny, what has Newgate got to do with it?'
'Wait and I will tell you. I gave way. It cost me a great deal,Will--more than you would believe--because I had never loved anyonebefore--and when a woman does love a man----' The tears rose in hereyes,--'and then it was that your cousin came to the Theatre.'
Poor Jenny! And she always seemed so cheerful, so lively, so happy! Herface might have been drawn to illustrate Milton's 'L'Allegra.' How couldshe look so happy when she had this unhappy love story and this unhappymarriage to think upon?'
'Will,' she cried passionately, 'I am the most unhappy woman in theworld.'
I made no reply. Indeed I knew not what there was to say. Matthew was avillain: there can be few worse villains: Jenny was in truth a mostinjured and a most unhappy woman.
It was growing twilight. What followed was told, or most of it, becauseI have set down the result of two or three conversations in one, by thelight of the fire, in a low voice, a low musical voice--that seemed torob the naked truth of much of its horrors.
'I told my Lord, Will,' she said, 'what I am going to tell youbecause I would not have him ignorant of anything, or find outanything--afterwards--but there was no afterwards--which he might thinkI should have told him before. He has a pretty gift of drawing: hemakes pictures of things and people with a pencil and a box ofwater-colours. I made him take certain sketches for me. He did so,wondering what they might mean.' Here she rose, opened a drawer in acabinet and took out a little packet tied up with a ribbon. 'First Ibegged him to sketch me one of the little girls who run about thestreets in Soho. There are hundreds of them: they are bare-footed:bare-headed: dressed in a sack, in a flannel petticoat: in anything:they have no schooling: they are not taught anything at all: theirparents and their brothers and sisters and their cousins and theirgrandparents are all thieves and rogues together: what can they become?What hope is there for them? See,' she took one of the pictures out andgave it to me. By the firelight I made out a little girl standing in thestreet. In her carriage there was something of the freedom of a gipsy inthe woods: her hair blew loose in the wind, her scanty petticoat clungto her little figure: she was bare-legged, bare-footed, bare-headed.'Can you see it, Will? Well--when I had got all the pictures together, Iasked the artist to sit down, as I have asked you to-day. And when hewas sat down, I had the bundle of pictures in my hand, and I said tohim, "My Lord, this is a very pretty sketch--I like it all the betterbecause it shows what I was like at that age." "You, Jenny?" "Yes, myLord, I myself. That little girl is myself." "Well!" he cried out on theimpossibility of the thing. But I assured him of the truth of what Isaid. Then I took up the next picture. It represented the entrance of acourt in Soho. Round this entrance were gathered a collection of men andwomen with the most evil faces possible. "These, my Lord," I said, "arethe people who were once my companions when they and I were youngtogether." "But not now?" he asked. "Not now," I told him, "save thatthey all remember me and consider me as one of themselves and come tothe Theatre in order to applaud me: the highwaymen going to the pit; thepetty thieves and pickpockets and footpads to the gallery." Well, atfirst he looked serious. Then he cleared up and kissed my hand: he lovedme for myself, he said, and as regards the highwaymen and such fellows,he would very soon take me out of their way.'
'But, Jenny----'
'Will, I am telling you what I told his Lordship. Believe me, it doesnot cost me to tell you half as much as it did to tell that nobleheart. For he loved me, Will, and I loved him.' Again her eyes glistenedby the red light of the fire.
She took up a third picture. It represented a public-house. Over thedoor swung the sign of a Black Jack: the first story projected over theground-floor, and the second story over the first: beside thepublic-house stood a tall church.
'This,' I told my Lord, 'is the Black Jack tavern. It is the H
ouse ofCall for most of the rogues and thieves of Soho. The church is St.Giles's Church. As for my own interest in the house, I was born there:my mother and sister still keep the place between them: it is in goodrepute among the gentry who frequent it for its kitchen, where there isalways a fire for those who cook their own suppers, and for the drinks,which are excellent, if not cheap. What is the use of keeping cheapthings for thieves? Lightly got, lightly spent. There is nothing cheapat that House. My mother enjoys a reputation for being a Receiver ofStolen Goods--a reputation well deserved, as I have reason to believe.The Goods are all stowed away in a stone vault or cellar once belongingto some kind of house--I know not what.'
I groaned.
'That is how my Lord behaved. Then he kissed my hand again. "Jenny," hesaid, "it is not the landlady of the Black Jack that I am marrying, butJenny Wilmot." He asked me to tell him more. Will you hear more?'
'I will hear all you desire to tell me, Jenny.'
'Once I had a father. He was a gipsy, but since he had fair hair andblue eyes, he was not a proper gipsy. I do not know how he got into thecaravan with the gipsies. Perhaps he was stolen in infancy: or picked upon a doorstep. However, I do not remember him. My mother speaks of himwith pride, but I do not know why. By profession he was a footpadand--and'--she faltered for a moment--'he met the fate that belongs tothat calling. See!' She showed me a drawing representing the TriumphalMarch to Tyburn. 'My mother speaks of it as if it was the fitting end ofa noble career. I have never been quite able to think so too, and Will,if I must confess, I would rather that my father had not been----'
'Not formed the leading figure in that procession,' I interposed. 'Butgo on, Jenny.'
She took up another picture and handed it to me. It was a spiritedsketch representing a small crowd; a pump; and a boy held under thepump.
'I had two brothers. This was one. He was a pickpocket. What could beexpected? He was caught in the act and held under a pump. But they kepthim so long that it brought on a chill and he died. The other brother isnow in the Plantations of Jamaica.'
She produced another picture. It represented an Orange Girl at DruryLane. She carried her basket of oranges on her arm: she had a whitekerchief over her neck and shoulders and another over her head: her facewas full of impudence, cleverness and wit.
'That, Will, is the first step upwards of your cousin's wife. From thegutter to the pit of Drury Lane as an Orange girl. There was a step forme! Yes. I looked like that: I behaved like that: I was as shameless asthat: I used to talk to the men in the Pit as they talk--you know thekind of talk. And now, Will, confess: you are heartily ashamed of me.'
'Jenny!' Like the noble Lord, I kissed her fingers. 'Believe me, I amnot in the least ashamed of you.'
'The next step was to the stage. That, Will, was pure luck. The Managerheard me imitating the actors and actresses--and himself. He saw medancing to please the other girls--I used to dance to please the peoplein the Black Jack. He took a fancy in his head that I was clever. Hetook me from among the other girls: he gave me instruction: andpresently a speaking part. That is the whole history. I have told youall--I never told these things to Matthew--why should I? But to my Lord,I told all----'
'Yes--and he was not ashamed.'
'No--but he did not like the applause of the rogues, and the orangegirls. While the highwaymen applauded in the pit and the pickpockets inthe Gallery, the Orange Girls were telling all the people that once Iwas one of them with my basket of oranges like the rest--and so it wasagreed that I was to leave the stage and go away into the country out ofthe way of all the old set.'
'And then.'
'Then I could no longer oblige my Lord. I left it to oblige myself andto marry Matthew.'
She sat down and buried her face in her hands. 'But I loved my Lord,'she said. 'I loved my Lord.'