PROLOGUE
On a certain afternoon in May, about four or five of the clock, I wasstanding at the open window of my room in that Palace to which Fortuneleads her choicest favourites--the College, or Prison, as some call it,of the King's Bench. I was at the time a prisoner for debt, with verylittle chance of ever getting out. More fortunate than most of thetenants, I was able to carry on my business. For instance, all thatmorning I had been engaged in composing a song--it was afterwards sungwith great applause at the Dog and Duck; and on the bed reposed theinstrument with which I earned the greater part of my daily bread--myfaithful violin.
My window was on the ground-floor in the great building which was thennew, for the Prison had been transferred from the other side two orthree years before. This building contains more than two hundred rooms,and twice that number of prisoners. Many of the ground-floor rooms havebeen converted into shops--chandlers', grocers', mercers', hosiers'. Youmay buy anything in these shops, except a good book. I believe thatthere is no demand in the prison for such an article of commerce.Song-books and jest-books and cards on the other hand, are constantlycalled for. It was a day of bright sunshine. Outside, on the GrandParade--otherwise called King Street--which is a broad footway flagged,strolled up and down in the sunshine an endless procession. They pacedthe pavement from East to West; they turned and paced it again from Westto East. Among them were a few neatly attired, but by far the greaternumber, men and women, were slatternly, untidy, and slipshod. Theirwalk--nobody was ever seen to walk briskly in the Prison--was thecharacteristic scuffle easily acquired in this place; the men weremostly in slippers: some were in morning gowns: very few had theirheads dressed: some wore old-fashioned wigs, rusty and uncombed: some,the poorer set, were bare-footed, and in such rags and tatters as wouldnot be tolerated in the open streets. The faces of the people as theypassed were various. There was the humorous face of the prisoner whotakes fortune philosophically: there was the face always resentful: theface resigned: the face vacuous: the face of suffering: the face soddenwith drink: the face vicious: the face soured: the face saddened: theface, like the clothes, ragged and ruined: everything but the facehappy--that cannot be found in the King's Bench Prison. Children ranabout playing and shouting: there were at this time many hundreds ofchildren in the prison. Against the wall--'tis surely twenty-five feethigher than is needed--the racquet and fives players carried on theirgames: at the lower end of the Parade some played the game called BumblePuppy: here and there tables were set where men drank and smoked pipesof tobacco and played cards, though as yet it was only afternoon. Thepeople talked as they went along, but not with animation: now and thenone laughed; but the merriment of the College is very near the fount oftears; it hath a sound hysterical. Some conversed eagerly with visitors:by their eagerness you knew that they were newcomers. What did they talkabout? The means of release? Yet so few do get out. For the first threeor four years of imprisonment, when visitors call, prisoners talk ofnothing else. After that time visitors cease to call: and there is nomore talk of release. A man in the King's Bench is speedily forgotten.He becomes dead to the world: dead and forgotten. Surely there is nomore pitiless and relentless enemy than a creditor. Yet in church everySunday he asks, and expects, that mercy from his God which he himselfrefuses to his debtor.
On no other day in the year could the Prison look more cheerful. Yet asI stood at the window there fell upon me such sadness as belongs only tothe Prison; it is a longing to be free: a yearning inconceivable for thegreen fields and the trees. Such moods are common in the Prison. I haveseen men turn aside from their friends in the midst of a song, in theheight of the revelry, and slink away from the company with droopinghead and bowed shoulders. It is indeed difficult not to feel thissadness from time to time. I was young: I had few friends, for a reasonthat I shall tell you presently. For aught that I could see there wasnothing before me but a life-long imprisonment. Nobody, I say, canunderstand the strength and the misery of this yearning for liberty--forair--that sometimes seizes the prisoner and rends him and will not lethim go. Yet I was better off than many, because, though I could in noway pay the money for which I was imprisoned, I was not without themeans of a livelihood. I had, as I have said, my fiddle. So long as aman has a fiddle and can play it he need never want. To play the fiddleis the safest of all trades, because the fiddler is always wanted. If acompany is drinking they will call for the fiddler to lift up theirhearts: if there are girls with them they will call for the fiddler tomake them dance: if they would sing they want the fiddler to lead themoff: if they are sitting in the coffee-room they call for the fiddler toenliven them. Grave discourse or gay; young people or old: they arealways ready to call for the fiddler and to pay him for his trouble. Sothat by dint of playing every evening, I did very well, and could affordto dine at the two shilling ordinary and to drink every day a glass ortwo of ale, and to pay my brother-in-law for the maintenance of Aliceand the boy.
Among the prisoners were two who always walked together: talkedtogether: and drank together. The others looked askance upon them. One,who was called the Captain, wore a scarlet coat which might have beennewer, and a gold-laced hat which had once been finer. He was a tall,burly fellow, with the kind of comeliness one may see in a horse-riderat a fair, or a fellow who performs on a tight-rope; a man who carriesby storm the hearts of village girls and leaves them all forlorn. Heswaggered as he walked, and looked about him with an insolence whichmade me, among others, desirous of tweaking him by the nose, if only tosee whether his courage was equal to his swagger. I have always, since,regretted that I lost the opportunity. Duels are not allowed in theCollege, and perhaps in an encounter with the simpler weapons providedby Nature I might have been equal to the Captain. His manners at theOrdinary were noisy and, if he had ever really carried His Majesty'sCommission, as to which there were whispers, it must have been in somebranch of the service where the urbanities of life were not required.Further: it was known that he was always ready to play with anyone: andat any time of the day: it was reported that he always won: thisreputation, coupled with his insolent carriage, caused him to be shunnedand suspected.
His companion, commonly known as the Bishop, was dressed in the habit ofa clergyman. He wore a frayed silk cassock and a gown with dirty bands.His wig, which wanted dressing, was canonical. His age might have beenforty or more: his cheeks were red with strong drink: his neck waspuffed: his figure was square and corpulent: his voice was thick: helooked in a word what he was, not a servant of the Lord at all, but ofthe Devil.
At this period I had little experience or knowledge of the people wholive by rogueries and cheats: nor had I any suspicion when a strangerappeared that he was not always what he pretended to be. At the sametime one could not believe that the hulking fellow in a scarlet coat hadever received a commission from the King: nor could anyone believe thatthe hoglike creature who wore a cassock and a gown and a clergyman's wigwas really in Holy Orders.
Among the collegians there was one who pleased me, though his raimentwas shabby to the last degree, by his manners, which were singularlygentle; and his language, which was that of a scholar. He scorned thevulgar idiom and turned with disgust from the universal verb (orparticiple) with which annoyance or dislike or disappointment wascommonly expressed. And he spoke in measured terms as one who pronouncesa judgment. I heard afterward that he wrote critical papers on new booksin the _Gentlemen's Magazine_. But I never read new books unless theyare books of music. When he could afford to dine at the Ordinary, whichwas about twice a week, he sat beside me and instructed me by hisdiscourse. He was a scholar of some college at Cambridge and a poet. Isometimes think that it may be a loss to the world not to know itspoets. There are without doubt some who regard poetry as musiciansregard music. Now if the work of a Purcell or a Handel were to fall deadand unnoticed it would be a most dreadful loss to music and adiscouragement for composers. So that there may be poets, of whom theworld hears nothing, whose verse is neglected and lost, though it mightbe of great service t
o other poets or to mankind, if verse can in anyway help the world.
However, one day, when these two prisoners, the Captain and the Bishop,had left the Ordinary and were brawling in the tavern hard by for abottle of Port, my friend the scholar turned to me.
'Sir,' he said, 'the Prison ought to be purged of such residents. Theyshould be sent to the Borough Compter or the Clink. Here we havegentlemen: here we have tradesmen: here we have craftsmen: we are alittle World. Here are the temptations of the world': he looked acrossthe table where some of the ladies of the Prison were dining. 'Thetavern invites us: the gaming table offers us a seat: we have ourvirtues and our vices. But we have not our crimes. And as a rule wecannot boast among our company the presence of the Robber, the Forger,or the Common Rogue. We have, in a word, no representative, as a rule ofthe Gallows, the Pillory, the Stocks, the Cart-tail, and the WhippingPost.'
I waited, for he did not like to be interrupted.
'Sir,' he went on, 'I am a Poet. As a child of the Muses'--I thoughtthey were unmarried but did not venture on that objection--'it is mybusiness to observe the crooked ways of men and the artful ways ofwomen, even though one may at times be misunderstood--as has once ortwice happened. One may be the temporary companion of a Rogue withouthaving to pick a pocket. I remember the faces of those two men--I sawthem in a Thieves' Kitchen whither I was taken in disguise by one whoknows them. The Captain, Sir, is a Highwayman, common and notorious. Heis now five-and-twenty, and his rope is certainly long out, so that heis kept from Tyburn Tree by some special favour by Mr. Merridew theThief-Taker. The other, whom they call the Bishop, is a Rogue of someeducation. He may last longer because he is useful and it would be hardto replace him. He was once usher in a suburban school at Marybone, andnow writes lying, threatening or begging letters for the crew. He alsoconcocts villainies. He threatens to set the house on fire, or to bringthe householder into bankruptcy: or in some way to injure him fatallyunless he sends a certain sum of money. He tells gentlemen who have beenrobbed that they can have their papers back, but not their money, bysending a reward. His villainy is without any pity or mercy orconsideration. The Captain is a mere robber--a Barabbas. The Bishop isworse: he has the soul of a Fiend in the body of a man.'
'But why,' I said 'are they here?'
'They are in hiding. A sham debt has been sworn against them. From theirdejected faces and from what I have overheard them saying, I learn thata true debt has been added for another detainer. But indeed I know nottheir affairs, except that they came here in order to be out of the way,and that something has happened to disconcert their plans. As honest menwe must agree in hoping that their plans, which are certainly dishonest,may succeed, in order that their presence among us may cease and so wemay breathe again. The air of the Prison is sometimes close and evenmusty, but we do not desire it to be mistaken for the reek of St.Giles's or the stench of Turnmill Street.'
However, I troubled myself but little as to these two men. And I knownot how long they were in the prison. Had I known what they would do forme in the future I think I should have brained them there and then.
This afternoon the pair were talking together with none of thelistlessness that belongs to the King's Bench. 'Might as well get out atonce'--I heard fragments--'quite certain that he won't appear--no moredanger--if she will consent,' and so on--phrases to which I paid noattention.
Suddenly, however, they stopped short, and both cried out together:
'She's come herself!'
I looked out of my window and beheld a Vision.
The lady was alone. She stood at the end of the Parade and looked abouther for a moment with hesitation, because the scene was new to her. Shesaw the ragged rout playing racquets: drinking at their tables: leaningagainst the pumps at each of which there is always a little gathering:or strolling by in couples on the Parade. Then she advanced slowly,looking to the right and to the left. She smiled upon the people as theymade way for her: no Queen could have smiled more graciously: yet not aQueen, for there was no majesty in her face, which was inspired by, andfilled with, Venus herself, the Goddess of charm and grace andloveliness. Never was a face more lovely and more full of love. As forher dress, all that I can tell you is that I have never known at anytime how this lady was dressed: she carried, I remember, anivory-handled fan in her hand: she seemed to beholders to be dressed innothing but lace, ribbons and embroidery. Her figure was neither tallnor short. Reasonably tall, for a woman ought not to be six feet high:so tall as not to be insignificant: not so tall as to dwarf the men:slender in shape and quick and active in her movements. Her eyes, whichI observed later, changed every moment with her change of mood: onewould say that they even changed their colour, which was a dark blue:they could be limpid, or melting, or fiery, or pitiful; in a word, theycould express every fleeting emotion. Her features changed as much asher eyes: one never knew how she would look, until one had watched andknown her in all her moods and passions: her lips were always ready tosmile: her face was continually lit up by the sunshine of joy andhappiness. But this woman wanted joy as some women want love. Her voicewas gentle and musical.
I speak of her as I knew her afterwards, not as she appeared on this,the first day of meeting. I make no excuse for thus speaking of her,because, in truth, the very thought of Jenny--I have too soon revealedher name--makes me long to speak of what she was. Out of the fulness ofmy heart I write about her. And as you will understand presently, Icould love without wronging my wife, and as much as a woman can beloved, and yet in innocence and with the full approval of the otherwoman whom also I loved.
At the sight of this apparition the whole Prison stared with open mouth.Who was this angel, and for what fortunate prisoner did she come? At thevery outset, when I could not dream that she would ever condescend tospeak to me, she seemed the most lovely woman I had ever beheld. Somewomen might possess more regular features: no one, sure, was ever solovely, so bewitching, so attractive. It is as if I could go on foreverrepeating my words. The women of the Prison--poor tattered drabs, forthe most part--looked after her with sighs--oh! to dress like that! Someof them murmured impudently to each other, 'Who gave her all thatfinery?' Most of them only looked and longed and sighed. Oh! to bedressed like her! To look like her! To smile like her! To put on thatembroidered petticoat--that frock--those gloves--to carry that fan--topossess that figure--that manner! Well: to gaze upon the inaccessiblemay sometimes do us good. The sight of this Wonder made those poor womenappear a little less slatternly. They straightened themselves: theytidied their hair: the more ragged crept away.
As for the men, they followed her with looks of wonder and of worship.For my own part I understood for the first time that power of beautywhich compels admiration, worship and service: when I am greatly movedby music that memory comes back to me. In looking upon such a woman, oneasks not what has been her history: what she is: what she has done: oneaccepts the heavenly cheerfulness of her smile: the heavenly wisdomseated on her brow: the heavenly innocence in her eyes: the purity whichcannot be smirched or soiled by contact with things of the world.
I continued to gaze upon her while she walked up the Parade. To mysurprise this angelic creature stopped before the pair of worthies--thebully in scarlet and the drunken divine. What could she want with them?They received her with profound salutations, the Bishop sweeping theground with his greasy hat.
'Madam,' he said, 'we did not expect that you would yourself condescendto such a place.'
'I wished to see you,' she replied, curtly. I seemed to remember hervoice.
'May we conduct you, Madam,' said the Captain, 'to the Coffee-room formore private conversation. Perhaps a glass----'
'Or,' said the Bishop, for she refused the proffered glass with animpatient gesture--could such a woman drink with such men? she refused,I say, with a shake of her head, 'for greater privacy to our own room.It is on the third floor. No one will venture to intrude upon us--andthere is a chair. I fear that, in the neglect, which is too common inthis place, the beds are not
yet made,' He looked as if the morning washhad not been performed either.
'What do I care, sir,' she asked, interrupting again, 'whether your bedsare made or not? I shall stay here,' She withdrew a little nearer to thewall beside my window, so as to be outside the throng of people. 'We cantalk, I suppose, undisturbed, and unheard, though, so far as I care, allthe world may hear. Bless me! The people look as if a woman was a rareobject here.' She looked round at the crowd. 'Yet there are women amongyour prisoners. Well, then, what have you got to say? Speak up, andquickly, because I like not the place or the company. You wrote to me.Now go on.'
'I wrote to you,' said the Bishop, 'asking a great favour. I know thatwe have no reason to expect that or any other favour from you.'
'You have no reason. But go on.'
'We came here, you know'--his voice dropped to a whisper, but I heardwhat he said--'in order to escape a great danger.'
'I heard. You told me. The danger was in connection with a gentleman anda post-chaise.'
'A villainous charge,' said the Captain.
'Villainous indeed,' repeated the Bishop. 'I could prove to you in fiveminutes and quite to your satisfaction that the Captain was engaged atNewmarket on the day in question, while I myself was conducting afuneral in place of the Vicar in a country village thirty miles on theother side of London.'
'An excellent defence, truly. But I will leave that to the lawyers.Well, the debt was sworn against you by Mr. Merridew.' I pricked up myears at this because this was the name of the man, as you shall hear,who swore a debt which never existed against me. Could there be twoMerridews?
'That was mere form. Unfortunately other detainers are out against bothof us. I know not how they found out that we were here. Mr. Merridewrefuses to take us out. He says that he thinks our time is up, and so heknows that we are safe.' He shuddered. Afterwards I understood why.'There is the danger that we may have to remain here till he takes usout. As for our present necessities--' He drew out his purse and dangledit--a long purse with a very few guineas in it. 'You see, Madam, to stayhere, where there is no opportunity of honest work, is ruin andstarvation.'
'Honest work! Why, if you go out, you will only continue in your oldcourses.'
'They are at least honest and even pious courses,' said the Bishop witha snuffle.
'As you please. But there is still the former danger.'
'No. The gentleman understands now that he only mislaid his pocket-book.Mr. Merridew found it for him. The drafts and notes were still in it,fortunately. The gentleman has redeemed the papers from Mr. Merridew. Hewill not take any further steps.'
'If I take you out,' she spoke to the Captain, 'you know what willhappen. Better stay here in safety.'
'What else can a man do?' asked the Captain.
'You might go abroad; go to America--anything is better than the Roadand the certain end.' She made a gesture with her hand, easy to beunderstood.
'If a man has a long rope, what else can he expect?'
'And you?' she turned to the Bishop, 'what will become of you? Will youstay in London where you are known in every street?'
'I have had thoughts of trying Ireland. A good many things can be donein Ireland. The Irish are a confiding people.'
'Do what you please. It is nothing to me what becomes of both of you. Iinterfere because--oh! you know why. And as for your future--that, Isuppose, will be arranged for you by your friend Mr. Merridew.
Putting together what my friend the starveling poet told me and whatthey themselves confessed, they were clearly a pair of rogues, and sheknew it, and she was going to help them. Charity covereth a multitude ofsins. Yet, surely, it was remarkable that a gentlewoman should come tothe King's Bench Prison in order to send two abominable criminals backto their old haunts.
'Any place is better than this,' said the Captain.
'Much better than this,' echoed the Bishop. 'Give me freedom while Ilive. A short life--' but he was certainly past forty--'and a free life,for me.'
'How much is it, then, altogether, for the pair of you?'
'The detainers, not counting Mr. Merridew's, amount to close uponseventy pounds. Then there are the costs and the fees.'
'Oh!' she cried impatiently, 'what is the good of setting you looseagain? Why should I let loose upon the world such a pair of rogues? Whynot keep you here so that you may at least die in your beds?'
The Bishop looked astonished at this outburst. 'Why,' he said, slowly,'we are what we are. That is true. What else can we be? Nobody knowsbetter than you what we are. Come, now, nobody, I say, knows better thanyou what we are.'
'Yes,' she replied with a sigh. 'I do know very well--I wish I didnot.'
And nobody knows better than you,' he went on, roughly, 'that what weare we must continue to be. What else can we do?'
'Say no more,' she replied, sighing again. 'There is no help, I suppose.When I made up my mind to come here at all, I made up my mind that Iwould take you out--both of you. Yet--it is like walking over a grave, Ishiver'--she did actually shiver as she spoke. 'I feel as if I werecontriving a mischief for myself. These signs always come true--amischief,' she repeated, 'to myself'--indeed she was, as you shallafterwards learn. 'As for the world you will certainly do as muchmischief to that as you can.'
'As we can, Madam,' said the Bishop with a smile--he was easy now thathe knew her mind. Before, he was inclined to be rough. 'The world, onthe other hand, is always trying to do a mischief to me.'
'But mischief to you, Madam?' cried the captain, that mirror ofgallantry. 'A soldier is all gratitude and honour. Mischief to you?Impossible!'
'And a Divine,' added the other with a grin, 'is all truth, fidelity,and honesty. His profession compels these qualities.'
'Quite so. Well, gentlemen of honour and truth, you shall once morereturn to the scenes and the pursuits and the companions that you love.Moll and Doll and Poll impatiently await you at the Black Jack. And Isee, only a short mile from that hospitable place, another refuge--callit the Black Jug--where before long you will pass a few pleasant days ofrest and repose before going forth in a glorious procession.'
'If we go forth in that procession', murmured the Bishop with loweringface, 'there are other people quite as deserving, who will sit therebeside us.'
'Go,' she said. 'I have talked enough and more than enough with such asyou. Go.'
They bowed again and walked away.
Now I heard this interview, half of which I did not understand, withamazement unspeakable. The lady was going to release this pair ofvillains--Why? Out of the boundless charity of her benevolent heart?
She looked after the precious pair, standing for a moment with her handshading her eyes. The light went out of her face: a cloud fell upon it:she sighed again: her lips parted: she caught her breath. Ah! Poorlady! Thy face was made for joy and not for sorrow. What thought, whatmemory, was it that compelled the cloud and chased away the sunshine?
She turned her head--she moved away. I was still standing at my windowlooking on: as she passed she started and stopped short, her faceexpressing the greatest possible bewilderment and amazement.
'It is not ...' she cried--'Surely--No--Yet the resemblance is so great.Sir, I thought--at first--you were a gentleman of my acquaintance. Youare so much like him that I venture to ask you who you are?'
'A prison bird, Madam. Nothing more,'
'Yes, but you are so like that gentleman. May I ask your name?'
'My name, at your service, Madam, is Halliday. My friends call me WillHalliday.'
'Will Halliday. Are you a brother--but that cannot be--of Mr. MatthewHalliday?'
'I am his first cousin.'
'Matthew Halliday's first cousin? But he is rich. Does he allow you toremain in this place?'
'It is not only by the sufferance of my cousin Matthew but by his desirethat I am here.'
'By his desire! Yes--I know something of your cousin, sir. It is by hisdesire. I discover new virtues in your cousin the more I learn of him. Isuppose, then, that yo
u are not on friendly terms with your cousin?'
'I am not indeed. Quite the contrary,'
'Can you tell me the reason why?'
'Because he desires my death. Therefore he has caused my arrest--he andan attorney of the devil--named Probus.'
'Oh! Probus! I have heard of that Probus. Sir, I would willingly hearmore concerning this matter and your cousin and Mr. Probus, if you willkindly tell me. I must now go, but with your permission I will comeagain. It is not I assure you, out of idle curiosity that I ask thesequestions.'
The next day, or the day after, the Captain and the Bishop walked out ofthe Prison. When they were gone open talk went round the Prison, perhapsstarted by the Poet, that one was a highwayman and the other asharper--perhaps a forger--a contriver of plots and plans to deceive theunwary. I marvelled that they should have received the bounty of sofine a lady, for indeed, whether highwayman or sharper or honest men,they were as foul-mouthed a pair of reprobates--drunken withal--as wehad in the prison.
And then I remembered, suddenly, the reason why I recognised the lady'svoice and why there was something in the face also that I seemed toknow. I had been but once in my life to the Theatre. On that occasionthere was an actress whose beauty and vivacity gave me the greatestpossible delight. One may perhaps forget the face of an actress playinga part, because she alters her face with every part: but her voice, whenit is a sweet voice, one remembers. The lady was that actress. Iremembered her--and her name. She was Miss Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane.
PART I
HOW I GOT INTO THE KING'S BENCH