WHO SHE WAS
'You now know, Will,' said Jenny, when I called next day, 'why I have
been interested in you, since I first saw you. Not on account of your
good looks, Sir, though I confess you are a very pretty fellow: nor on
account of your playing, which is spirited and true; but because you are
my first cousin by marriage.'
She received me, sitting in the small room on the left of the Hall. The
great house was quite empty, save for the servants, who were always
clearing away the remains of one fête and arranging for another. Their
footsteps resounded in the vacant corridors and their voices echoed in
the vacant chambers.
'Jenny, I have been able to think of nothing else. I could not sleep for
thinking 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--believe
me, it is far better for clearing the head after a night such as last
night, than Madeira. I have a great deal to tell you--I fear you will
despise me--but I will hide nothing. I am resolved to hide nothing from
you.'
Meantime the words kept ringing in my ears. 'Matthew a gambler! The
religious Matthew! To whom music was a snare of the Devil and the
musician a servant of the Devil! The steady Matthew! The irreproachable
Matthew!'
Yet, since I had always known him to be a violator of truth; a slanderer
and a backbiter, why not, also, a gambler? Why not also a murderer--a
forger--anything? I was to find out before long that he was quite ready
to become the former of these also, upon temptation. Yet the thing was
wonderful, 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 an
actress of Drury Lane Theatre! Matthew, to whom the theatre was as the
mouth of the Bottomless Pit! Who could believe such a thing?
As for what follows, Jenny did not tell me the whole in this one
afternoon. I have put together, as if it was all one conversation, what
took several days or perhaps several weeks.
'You think it so wonderful, Will,' Jenny said, reading my thoughts in my
face. '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 may
go mad: it is part of man's nature: women, never, save for love and
jealousy and the like. Men are so made: madness seizes them: down they
go to ruin and the grave. It is strong drink with some: and avarice with
some: and gaming with some. Your cousin Matthew is as mad as an Abram
man.'
She was silent for a while. Then she went on again. I have written it
down much as if all that follows was a single speech. It was broken up
by my interruptions and by her pauses and movements. For she was too
quick and restless to sit down while she was speaking. She would spring
from 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; she
would look in the round mirror hanging on the wall. She had a thousand
restless ways. Sometimes she stood behind me and laid a hand on my
shoulder 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 had
gone through that companionship should come out of it, filled through
and through, like a sponge, with the knowledge of wickedness and found
in childhood with those who practise wickedness, yet should be herself
so 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's
creatures.
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; or
in Fullwood's Rents; or in St. Giles's: or in Turnmill Street learns,
one would think, everything that is vile. But children do not always
inquire into the meaning of what they hear: most things that they see or
hear may pass off them like water from a duck's back. Their best
safe-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 the
respectable part of the city, in Cheapside itself, they can hear the low
language and the vile sayings and the blasphemous oaths of the common
sort. Children are absorbed by their own pursuits and thoughts. The
grown-up world: the working world, does not belong to them; they see and
see 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 an
unlucky name to me--and perhaps it will be more unlucky still.' I know
not if she was here foretelling what certainly happened, afterwards.
'Your cousin, Matthew, is no common player, who carries a few guineas in
his pocket and watches them depart with a certain interest and even
anxiety and then goes away. This man is a fierce, thirsty, insatiable
gambler. There is a play called 'The Gamester' in which the hero is such
an 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 he
cannot stop: he would play away the whole world and then would stake his
soul, unless he had first sold his soul for money to play with. Soul? If
he has any soul--but I know not.'
'You amaze me, Jenny. Indeed, I am overwhelmed with amazement. I cannot
get 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 many
years. When he got possession of your father's money and the management
of that House, he became a gambler in a large way. I say that I believe
he is already well-nigh ruined. You have seen him on one night, Will; he
is at the same game every night. I have had him watched--I know. His
luck is such as the luck of men like that always is--against him
continually. He never wins: or if ever, then only small sums as will
serve to encourage him. There is no evening in the week, not even
Sunday, when he does not play. I have reason to know--I will tell you
why, 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 House
is shaken. Worse than this, Will'--she laid her hand on my arm--'he had
then, already, borrowed large sums of Mr. Probus, and as he could not
pay he was borrowing more. There is the danger for you!'
'What danger?'
'You musicians live in the clouds. Why does Matthew continue to borrow
money? He pretends that he wants to put it into the business. Really, he
gambles with it. Why does Probus continue to lend him money? Probus does
not suspect the truth. In the hope that he will presently have such a
hold over Matthew that he will get possession of the business, become a
partner and turn out Matthew and your uncle. It looks splendid. All
these ships: the wharf covered with goods: but the ships are mortgaged
and their cargoes are mortgaged: and the interest on Probus's loans can
only be paid by borrowing more. In a very short time, Will, the bubble
will burst. The situation is already dangerous; it will then become full
of 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 the
security of that succession. Probus would have lent him money on that
security. Probus would have had another finger in the pie. He did not
know, then, what he will very soon find out, that all the money he has
already advanced to his rich client is lost. Then it was a mere
temptation to Matthew to put you under pressure: now it will become a
necessity to make you submit: a necessity for both, and they are a pair
of equal villains.'
'Last night you warned Matthew. Jenny, your words seemed to be no common
warning. You know something or you would not have pronounced that solemn
warning.'
'Every woman is a prophetess,' she replied, gravely. 'Oh! I can
sometimes 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 expect
it or wait for it. Last night, suddenly, I saw a vision of villainy, I
know not what. It was directed against you and Alice--and the
villains--among them was Matthew--were driven back with whips. They fled
howling. 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 slandered
you: without relenting and without ceasing. So long as it was possible
to do you a mischief with your father he did it: he has robbed you of
your 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 your
cousin 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? A
man like that who has injured you as much as he could and as often as
he 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 craves
for 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 any
active partnership in the business, which is conducted entirely by
Matthew. He passes now an idle life beside Clapham Common, with his
gardens and his greenhouses. Go to this poor gentleman: tell him the
truth. Let him learn that his son is a gambler: that he is wasting all
that is left to waste: that his losses have been very heavy already: and
that the end is certain bankruptcy. You can tell your uncle that you saw
yourself with your own eyes Matthew losing a hundred and fifty-five
guineas in the card-room of a Masquerade: this will terrify him, though
at first he will not believe it: then he will cause the affairs of the
House 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 this
I 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 assure
you, 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 truth
before the worst happens.'
I shook my head. Revenge is not a pleasing task. To go to my uncle with
such a tale seemed a mean way of returning Matthew's injuries.
'I do not counsel revenge, then,' she went on, again divining my
thoughts. 'Call it your safety. When you have alarmed your uncle into
calling 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 and
tell him without reference to his past villainies that his client
Matthew is an incurable gambler, and that all the money Probus has lent
to him has been lost over the gaming table.'
'Tell Probus?' The thought of speaking to Probus except as to a viper
was 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 their
victim, and they never let go till such time as there is no more blood
to suck. There is some blood left. Probus will never think of you while
he 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 own
father on the other, well-nigh terrified to death, Matthew will have
enough 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 a
sold--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 words
myself upon the stage.' She threw herself into an attitude and declaimed
with 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 should
prefer safety, and I should not object to revenge.'
'It is true, Jenny.'
'Perhaps. For my own part, I have known a monstrous number of wicked
people on whom no lightnings fell, and for whom the earth did never
gape. Nothing has happened to them so long as they were gentlemen. With
the baser sort, of course, there is Tyburn, and I dare say that feels at
the end like the gaping of the earth and the flash of lightning and the
roar of the thunder, all together. Even with them some escape.'
I would have quoted the Psalmist, but refrained, because by this time I
had made the singular discovery that Jenny seemed to have no knowledge
of religion at all. If one spoke in the common way of man's dependence
she looked as if she understood nothing: or she said she had heard words
to that effect on the stage: if one spoke indirectly of the Christian
scheme she showed no response: had I mentioned the Psalmist she would
have asked perhaps who the Psalmist was, or where his pieces were
played. She never went to church: she never read any books except her
own parts. She was sharp and clever in the conduct of affairs: she was
not to be taken in by rogues: how could such a woman, considering our
mode of education and the general acknowledgment of Christianity, even
in an atheistical age, that prevails in our books, escape some
knowledge, or tincture, of religion?
'Do not call it revenge,' she insisted. 'In your own safety you should
strike: and without delay. I repeat it: I cannot put it too strongly
before you. There is a great danger threatening. When Probus finds that
the money is really gone, he will become desperate: he will stick at
nothing.'
'Since he knows, now, that nothing will persuade me to sell that chance
of succession, he will perhaps desist.'
'He will never desist. If you were dead! The thought lies in both their
minds. 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 two
villains are continually brooding over the same thought, villainy will
not 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 months
at least.'
'No.' I said. 'They shall be left to themselves.'
Perhaps I was wrong. Had I told my uncle all, the bankruptcy would have
been precipitated and Probus's claim would have been treated with all
the others, and even if that large sum had fallen it would have been
added to the general estate and divided accordingly.
It was in the afternoon: the sun was sinking westward: it shone through
the window upon Jenny as she restlessly moved about the room--disquieted
by all she had to tell me. I remember how she was dressed: in a frock of
light blue silk, with a petticoat to match: her hair hung in its natural
curls, covered with a kerchief--the soft evening sunlight wrapped her in
a blaze of light and colour. And oh! the pity of it! To think that this
divine 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 I
ever loved him--nor could I endure his caresses--but he never offered
any--the only man who never wanted to caress me was my husband--to be
sure he did not love me--or anyone else--he is incapable of love. He is
a worm. His hand is slimy and cold: his face is slimy: his voice is
slimy. But I thought I could live with him, perhaps. If not, I could
always leave him.'
She paused a little as if to collect herself.
'Every actress,' she went on, 'has troops of lovers. There are the
gentlemen first who would fain make her their mistress for a month:
those who would make her their mistress for a year: and those who desire
only the honour and glory of pretending that she is their mistress: and
then there are the men who would like nothing better than to marry the
actress and to live upon her salary--believe me, of all these there are
plenty. Lastly, there is the gentleman who would really marry the
actress, 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 gambling
acquaintance. I remarked his long serious face, I thought he was a man
who 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 like
one who drank: he did not follow other actresses about with his eyes: I
say, Will, that I thought I could trust him. He came to my lodging. He
told me that he was a rich City merchant: he asked me what I should like
if I would marry him and he promised to give it to me--that--and
anything else----'
'If you did not love him--Jenny----'
'I did not love him. I will tell you. I wanted to get away from the man
I did love; and so I wanted, above all, to be taken away from London and
the Theatre into the country, never to hear anything more about the
stage. Had he done what he promised, Will, I would have made a good wife
to him, although he is a slimy worm. But he did not. He broke his word
on the very morning when we came out of church----'
'How?'
'He began by saying that he had a little explanation to offer. He said
that when he told me he was a rich merchant--that, indeed, was his
reputation: but his position was embarrassed: he wanted money: he wished
not to borrow any: he therefore thought that if he married an
actress--that class of persons being notorious for having no honour--his
very words to me, actually, his very words an hour after leaving the
church--he intended to open a gaming-house at which I was to be the
decoy. Now you understand why I call him a villain, and a wretch, and a
slimy worm.'
'Jenny!'
'I left him on the spot after telling him what he was--I left him--I
left the Theatre as well. I had a friend who found me the money to take
this place under another name. I have seen the man many times here--last
night--and once I called upon him and I made him give me the money to
get 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 he
had contributed nothing to the maintenance of his wife, and that he must
give me whatever the sum was. He was obliged to give it, otherwise I
should 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 noble
Lord, if that matters. He was quite different from all the rest: he
never came to the Green Room drunk: he never cursed and swore: he never
shook his cane in the face of footman or chairman: he was a gentle
creature--and he loved me and would have married me: well--I told him
who and what I was--I will tell you presently--that mattered nothing. He
would carry me away from them all. I would have married him, Will: and
we should have been happy: but his sister came to see me and she went on
her knees crying and imploring me to refuse him because in the history
of their family there had never been any such alliance as that with an
actress of no family. Would I bring disgrace into a noble family? If I
refused, 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 would
not 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 pity
to 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 anyone
before--and when a woman does love a man----' The tears rose in her
eyes,--'and then it was that your cousin came to the Theatre.'
Poor Jenny! And she always seemed so cheerful, so lively, so happy! Her
face might have been drawn to illustrate Milton's 'L'Allegra.' How could
she look so happy when she had this unhappy love story and this unhappy
marriage to think upon?'
'Will,' she cried passionately, 'I am the most unhappy woman in the
world.'
I made no reply. Indeed I knew not what there was to say. Matthew was a
villain: there can be few worse villains: Jenny was in truth a most
injured and a most unhappy woman.
It was growing twilight. What followed was told, or most of it, because
I have set down the result of two or three conversations in one, by the
light of the fire, in a low voice, a low musical voice--that seemed to
rob the naked truth of much of its horrors.
'I told my Lord, Will,' she said, 'what I am going to tell you
because I would not have him ignorant of anything, or find out
anything--afterwards--but there was no afterwards--which he might think
I should have told him before. He has a pretty gift of drawing: he
makes pictures of things and people with a pencil and a box of
water-colours. I made him take certain sketches for me. He did so,
wondering what they might mean.' Here she rose, opened a drawer in a
cabinet and took out a little packet tied up with a ribbon. 'First I
begged him to sketch me one of the little girls who run about the
streets 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: their
parents and their brothers and sisters and their cousins and their
grandparents are all thieves and rogues together: what can they become?
What hope is there for them? See,' she took one of the pictures out and
gave it to me. By the firelight I made out a little girl standing in the
street. In her carriage there was something of the freedom of a gipsy in
the woods: her hair blew loose in the wind, her scanty petticoat clung
to 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, I
asked the artist to sit down, as I have asked you to-day. And when he
was sat down, I had the bundle of pictures in my hand, and I said to
him, "My Lord, this is a very pretty sketch--I like it all the better
because it shows what I was like at that age." "You, Jenny?" "Yes, my
Lord, I myself. That little girl is myself." "Well!" he cried out on the
impossibility of the thing. But I assured him of the truth of what I
said. Then I took up the next picture. It represented the entrance of a
court in Soho. Round this entrance were gathered a collection of men and
women with the most evil faces possible. "These, my Lord," I said, "are
the people who were once my companions when they and I were young
together." "But not now?" he asked. "Not now," I told him, "save that
they all remember me and consider me as one of themselves and come to
the Theatre in order to applaud me: the highwaymen going to the pit; the
petty thieves and pickpockets and footpads to the gallery." Well, at
first he looked serious. Then he cleared up and kissed my hand: he loved
me 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 does
not cost me to tell you half as much as it did to tell that noble
heart. For he loved me, Will, and I loved him.' Again her eyes glistened
by the red light of the fire.
She took up a third picture. It represented a public-house. Over the
door swung the sign of a Black Jack: the first story projected over the
ground-floor, and the second story over the first: beside the
public-house stood a tall church.
'This,' I told my Lord, 'is the Black Jack tavern. It is the House of
Call 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 good
repute among the gentry who frequent it for its kitchen, where there is
always 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 cheap
things for thieves? Lightly got, lightly spent. There is nothing cheap
at that House. My mother enjoys a reputation for being a Receiver of
Stolen Goods--a reputation well deserved, as I have reason to believe.
The Goods are all stowed away in a stone vault or cellar once belonging
to some kind of house--I know not what.'
I groaned.
'That is how my Lord behaved. Then he kissed my hand again. "Jenny," he
said, "it is not the landlady of the Black Jack that I am marrying, but
Jenny 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 and
blue eyes, he was not a proper gipsy. I do not know how he got into the
caravan with the gipsies. Perhaps he was stolen in infancy: or picked up
on a doorstep. However, I do not remember him. My mother speaks of him
with pride, but I do not know why. By profession he was a footpad
and--and'--she faltered for a moment--'he met the fate that belongs to
that calling. See!' She showed me a drawing representing the Triumphal
March to Tyburn. 'My mother speaks of it as if it was the fitting end of
a 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. 'But
go on, Jenny.'
She took up another picture and handed it to me. It was a spirited
sketch representing a small crowd; a pump; and a boy held under the
pump.
'I had two brothers. This was one. He was a pickpocket. What could be
expected? He was caught in the act and held under a pump. But they kept
him so long that it brought on a chill and he died. The other brother is
now in the Plantations of Jamaica.'
She produced another picture. It represented an Orange Girl at Drury
Lane. She carried her basket of oranges on her arm: she had a white
kerchief over her neck and shoulders and another over her head: her face
was full of impudence, cleverness and wit.
'That, Will, is the first step upwards of your cousin's wife. From the
gutter to the pit of Drury Lane as an Orange girl. There was a step for
me! Yes. I looked like that: I behaved like that: I was as shameless as
that: I used to talk to the men in the Pit as they talk--you know the
kind of talk. And now, Will, confess: you are heartily ashamed of me.'
'Jenny!' Like the noble Lord, I kissed her fingers. 'Believe me, I am
not in the least ashamed of you.'
'The next step was to the stage. That, Will, was pure luck. The Manager
heard me imitating the actors and actresses--and himself. He saw me
dancing to please the other girls--I used to dance to please the people
in the Black Jack. He took a fancy in his head that I was clever. He
took me from among the other girls: he gave me instruction: and
presently a speaking part. That is the whole history. I have told you
all--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 orange
girls. While the highwaymen applauded in the pit and the pickpockets in
the Gallery, the Orange Girls were telling all the people that once I
was one of them with my basket of oranges like the rest--and so it was
agreed that I was to leave the stage and go away into the country out of
the way of all the old set.'
'And then.'
'Then I could no longer oblige my Lord. I left it to oblige myself and
to marry Matthew.'
She sat down and buried her face in her hands. 'But I loved my Lord,'
she said. 'I loved my Lord.'