How I got a new place
So I was free. For twenty-four hours I was like a boy on the first day
of his holidays. I exulted in my liberty: I ran about the meadows and
along 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 free
or 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 my
brother-in-law still led, there was no place for me.
There are, however, a great many taverns with gardens and dancing and
singing places and bands of music. I set off to find one where they
wanted a fiddle. I went, I believe, the whole round of them--from the
Temple of Flora to the White Conduit House, and from Bermondsey Spa to
the Assembly Rooms at Hampstead. Had all the world turned fiddler?
Everywhere the same reply--'No vacancy.' Meantime we were living on the
bounty of my brother-in-law whose earnings were scanty for his own
modest house.
Then I thought of the organ. Of course my place at St. George's Borough
was filled up. There are about a hundred churches in London, however:
most of them have organs. I tried every one: and always with the same
result: the place was filled. I thought of my old trade of fiddling to
the sailors. Would you believe it? There was not even a tavern parlour
where 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 cheerful
countenance: she brushed my coat and hat in the morning with a word of
encouragement: she welcomed me home when I returned footsore and with an
aching heart. Why, even in the far darker time that presently followed
she preserved the outward form of cheerfulness and the inner heart of
faith.
The weeks passed on: my bad luck remained: I could hear of no work, not
even temporary work: I began to think that even the Prison where I could
at least earn my two or three shillings a day was better than freedom: I
began also to think that Mr. Probus must have all the orchestras and
music-galleries in his own power, together with all the churches that
had organs. My shoes wore out and could not be replaced: my appearance
was such as might be expected when for most of the time I had nothing
between bread and cheese and beer for breakfast, and bread and cheese
and beer for supper. And I think that the miserable figure I presented
was often the cause of rejection.
Chance--say Providence--helped me. I was walking, sadly enough, by
Charing Cross, one afternoon, being weary, hungry, and dejected, when I
heard a voice cry out, 'Will Halliday! Will Halliday! Are you deaf?'
I turned round. It was Madame, my benefactress, my patroness. She was in
a hackney coach.
[Illustration: "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 are
hollow: your face is pale: your limbs are shaking: worse still--you are
shabby. 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 he
has been turned away at every application, he may be forgiven if he
loses, on small provocation, his self-control. I am not ashamed to say
that her kind words and her kind looks were too much for me in my weak
condition. I burst into tears.
She laid her hand on my arm, 'Will,' she said, as if she were a
sister, 'you shall tell me all--but you shall go home with me and we
will talk.'
I observed that the coachman drove up St. Martin's Lane and through a
collection of streets which I had never seen before. It was the part
called St. Giles's; a place which is a kind of laystall into which are
shot every day quantities of the scum, dirt, and refuse of this huge and
overgrown city. I looked out of the window upon a crowd of faces more
villainous than one could conceive possible, stamped with the brand of
Cain. They were lying about in the doorways, at the open windows, for it
was the month of September and a warm day and on the doorsteps and in
the unpaved, unlit, squalid streets. Never did I see so many ragged and
naked brats; never did I see so many cripples, so many hunchbacks, so
many 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 mean
drink: 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 through
these streets into High Street, Holborn, and to St. Giles's Church where
the criminal on his way to Tyburn receives his last drink. Then, by
another turn, into a noble square with a garden surrounded by great
houses, of which the greatest was built for the unfortunate Duke of
Monmouth. The coachman stopped before one of these houses on the East
side 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 still
I remembered how she spoke familiarly to those two villains in the
King's Bench Prison. The doors flew open. Within, a row of a dozen tall
hulking fellows in livery stood up to receive Madame. She walked
through them with an air that belonged to a Duchess. Then she turned
into 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 your
company, Will, I am nothing but....' She paused and sighed. 'I will tell
you another time.'
I think I was more surprised at the familiarity with which she addressed
me than with the splendour of the place. This room, for instance, though
but little, was lofty and its walls were painted with flowers and birds:
silver candlesticks each with two branches, stood on the mantelshelf
which 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 portrait
of Madame hung over the fireplace.
'Forgive me, my friend,' She sprang from the chair and pulled the bell
rope. 'Before we talk you must take some dinner.'
She gave her orders in a quick peremptory tone as one accustomed to be
obeyed. In a few minutes the table was spread with a white cloth and
laid out with a cold chicken, a noble ham, a loaf of bread, and a bottle
of Madeira. You may imagine that I made very little delay in sitting
down to these good things. Heavens! How good they were after the
prolonged diet of bread and cheese!
Madame looked on and waited, her chin in her hand. When I desisted at
length, 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 whole
story.'
I told her, briefly, that my story was nothing at all but the story of a
man out of employment who could not find any and was slowly dropping
into shabbiness of appearance and weakness of body.
'No work? Why, I supposed you would go back to--to--to something in the
City.'
'Though my father was a Knight and a Lord Mayor, I am a simple musician
by trade. I am not a gentleman.'
'I like you all the better,' she replied, smiling. 'I am not a
gentlewoman either. The actress is a rogue and a vagabond. So is the
musician I suppose.'
I stared. Was she, then, still an actress--and living in this stately
Palace?
'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 the
calling?'
'I am one of the calling. When I tell you that I used to live by
fiddling for sailors to dance----'
'Say no more--say no more. They are the finest critics in the world. If
you 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 wish
you well and would stand by you if I could. I will tell you, another
day, what those reasons are. Let me treat you as a friend. When we are
alone, I am not Madame: I am Jenny.'
There are some women who if they said such a thing as this, would be
taken as declaring the passion of love. No one could look at Jenny's
face which was all simplicity and candour and entertain the least
suspicion of such a thing.
'Nay, I can only marvel,' I said. For I still thought that I was talking
to some great lady. 'I think that I must be dreaming.'
'Since you know not where you are, this is the Soho Assembly and I am
Madame Vallance.'
I seemed to have heard of Madame Vallance.
'You know nothing. That is because you have been in the King's Bench. I
will now tell you, what nobody else knows, that Madame Vallance is Jenny
Wilmot. 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 painted
Cupids and flowers: rout seats were placed all round the room: the
hanging candelabra contained hundreds of candles: at one end stood a
music 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 and
played.
She stood below listening. 'Well played!' she cried. 'Now play me a
dance tune. See if you can make me dance.'
I played a tune which I had often played to the jolly sailors. I know
not what it is called. It is one of those tunes which run in at the ears
and down to the heels which it makes as light as a feather and as quick
silver for nimbleness. In a minute she was dancing--with such grace,
such spirit, such quickness of motion, as if every limb was without
weight. And her fair face smiling and her blue eyes dancing!--never was
there such a figure of grace: as for the step, it was as if invented on
the spot, but I believe that she had learned it. Afraid of tiring her, I
laid down the violin and descended into the hall.
She gave me both her hands. 'Will,' she said. 'You will make my fortune
if you consent to join my orchestra. There never was such playing. Those
sailors! How could they let you go? Now listen. I can pay you thirty
shillings. Will you come? The Treasury pays every Saturday morning. You
shall have, besides, four weeks in advance. Spend it in generous food
after your long Lent. Say--Will you accept?'
'It is too much, Jenny.' I took her hand and kissed it. 'First you take
me out of prison: then you give me the means of living. How can I thank
you sufficiently? How repay----'
'There is nothing to repay. I will tell you another time why I take an
interest in you.'
'When the most beautiful woman in the world----'
'Stop, Will. I warn you. There must be no love-making.' I suppose she
saw the irresistible admiration in my eyes. 'Oh! I am not angry. But
compliments 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 all
men, must not.'
I made no reply, not knowing what to say.
'There is another face in your home, Will, that is far more beautiful
than mine. Think of that face. Enough said.'
'I protest----' I began.
She laid her hand upon my lips. 'There must be no compliments,' she
said. 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 had
four weeks' pay in my pocket: Fortune once more smiled upon me: I ran in
and kissed my wife with an alacrity and a cheerfulness which rejoiced
her as much as it astonished her. I threw down the money. 'Take it, my
dear,' I said. 'There is more to come. We are saved again. Oh! Alice--we
are saved--and by the same hand as before.'
'I have heard of Madame Vallance,' said Tom, presently. 'She comes from
no one knows where: she keeps herself secluded: at the Assemblies she
always wears a mask: the people say she is generous: some think she is
rich: others that the expense of the place must break her.'
'I hope she is another Croesus,' I said. 'I hope that the River of
Pactolus will flow into her lap. I hope she will inherit the mines of
Golgonda. I hope she will live a thousand years and marry a Prince. And
we will drink her health in a bowl of punch this very night.'