MILLBANK
The immediate neighbourhood of Millbank Penitentiary is not one which we
should, for its own sake, choose for our residence, either on account of
its natural beauty, or the excellence of its habitations. That it is
a salubrious locality must be presumed from the fact that it has been
selected for the site of the institution in question; but salubrity,
though doubtless a great recommendation, would hardly reconcile us to
the extremely dull, and one might almost say, ugly aspect which this
district bears.
To this district, however, ugly as it is, we must ask our readers
to accompany us, while we pay a short visit to poor Gertrude. It
was certainly a sad change from her comfortable nursery and elegant
drawing-room near Hyde Park. Gertrude had hitherto never lived in an
ugly house. Surbiton Cottage and Albany Place were the only two homes
that she remembered, and neither of them was such as to give her much
fitting preparation for the melancholy shelter which she found at No. 5,
Paradise Row, Millbank.
But Gertrude did not think much of this when she changed her residence.
Early one morning, leaning on Charley's arm, she had trudged down across
the Park, through Westminster, and on to the close vicinity of the
prison; and here they sought for and obtained such accommodation as she
thought fitting to her present situation. Charley had begged her to get
into a cab, and when she refused that, had implored her to indulge in
the luxury of an omnibus; but Gertrude's mind was now set upon economy;
she would come back, she said, in an omnibus when the day would be
hotter, and she would be alone, but she was very well able to walk the
distance once.
She procured, for seven shillings a week, a sitting-room and bedroom,
from whence she could see the gloomy prison walls, and also a
truckle-bed for the young girl whom she was to bring with her as her
maid. This was a little Hampton maiden, whom she had brought from the
country to act as fag and deputy to her grand nurse; but the grand nurse
was now gone, and the fag was promoted to the various offices of nurse,
lady's-maid, and parlour servant. The rest of the household in Albany
Place had already dispersed with the discreet view of bettering their
situations.
Everything in the house was given up to pay what Alaric owed.
Independently of his dreadful liability to Madame Jaquêtanàpe, he could
not have been said to be in debt; but still, like most other men who
live as he had done, when his career was thus brought to a sudden close,
it was found that there were many people looking for money. There were
little bills, as the owners said of them, which had been forgotten,
of course, on account of their insignificance, but which being so very
little might now be paid, equally of course, without any trouble. It is
astonishing how easy it is to accumulate three or four hundred pounds'
worth of little bills, when one lives before the world in a good house
and in visible possession of a good income.
At the moment of Alaric's conviction, there was but a slender stock of
money forthcoming for these little bills. The necessary expense of his
trial,--and it had been by no means trifling,--he had, of course, been
obliged to pay. His salary had been suspended, and all the money that
he could lay his hands on had been given up towards making restitution
towards the dreadful sum of £20,000 that had been his ruin. The bills,
however, did not come in till after his trial, and then there was but
little left but the furniture.
As the new trustees employed on behalf of Madame Jaquêtanàpe and
Mr. Figgs were well aware that they had much more to expect from
the generosity of Tudor's friends than from any legal seizure of his
property, they did not interfere in the disposal of the chairs and
tables. But not on that account did Gertrude conceive herself entitled
to make any use on her own behalf of such money as might come into her
hands. The bills should be paid, and then every farthing that could be
collected should be given towards lessening the deficiency. Six thousand
pounds had already been made up by the joint efforts of Norman and
Captain Cuttwater. Undy Scott's acknowledgement for the other four
thousand had been offered, but the new trustees declined to accept it as
of any value whatsoever. They were equally incredulous as to the bridge
shares, which from that day to this have never held up their heads, even
to the modest height of half a crown a share.
Gertrude's efforts to make the most of everything had been unceasing.
When her husband was sentenced, she had in her possession a new dress
and some finery for her baby, which were not yet paid for; these she
took back with her own hand, offering to the milliners her own trinkets
by way of compensation for their loss. When the day for removal came,
she took with her nothing that she imagined could be sold. She would
have left the grander part of her own wardrobe, if the auctioneers
would have undertaken to sell it. Some few things, books and trifling
household articles, which she thought were dear to Alaric, she packed
up; and such were sent to Hampton. On the day of her departure she
dressed herself in a plain dark gown, one that was almost mourning,
and then, with her baby in her lap, and her young maid beside her, and
Charley fronting her in the cab, she started for her new home.
I had almost said that her pride had left her. Such an assertion would
be a gross libel on her. No; she was perhaps prouder than ever, as she
left her old home. There was a humility in her cheap dress, in her large
straw bonnet coming far over her face, in her dark gloves and little
simple collar; nay, there was a humility in her altered voice, and
somewhat chastened mien; but the spirit of the woman was wholly
unbroken. She had even a pride in her very position, in her close and
dear tie with the convicted prisoner. She was his for better and for
worse; she would now show him what was her idea of the vow she had
made. To the men who came to ticket and number the furniture, to the
tradesmen's messengers who called for money, to the various workmen with
whom the house was then invaded, she was humble enough; but had Mrs. Val
come across her with pity, or the Miss Neverbends with their sententious
twaddlings, she would have been prouder than ever. Fallen indeed!
She had had no fall; nor had he; he was still a man, with a greater
aggregate of good in him than falls to the average lot of mortals. Who
would dare to tell her that he had fallen? 'Twas thus that her pride was
still strong within her; and as it supported her through this misery,
who can blame her for it?
She was allowed into the prison twice a week; on Tuesdays and Fridays
she was permitted to spend one hour with her husband, and to take her
child with her. It is hardly necessary to say that she was punctual to
the appointed times. This, however, occupied but a short period, even
of those looked-for days; and in spite of her pride, and her constant
needle, the weary six months went from her all too slowly.
Nor did they pass with swifter foot within the prison. Alaric was
allowed the use of books and pens and paper, but even with these he
found a day in prison to be almost an unendurable eternity. This was the
real punishment of his guilt; it was not that he could not eat well,
and lie soft, or enjoy the comforts which had always surrounded him;
but that the day would not pass away. The slowness of the lagging hours
nearly drove him mad. He made a thousand resolutions as to reading,
writing, and employment for his mind. He attempted to learn whole pages
by rote, and to fatigue himself to rest by exercise of his memory. But
his memory would not work; his mind would continue idle; he was impotent
over his own faculties. Oh, if he could only sleep while these horrid
weeks were passing over him!
All hope of regaining his situation had of course passed from him, all
hope of employment in England. Emigration must now be his lot; and hers
also, and the lot of that young one that was already born to them, and
of that other one who was, alas! now coming to the world, whose fate
it would be first to see the light under the walls of its father's
prison.--Yes, they must emigrate.--But there was nothing so very
terrible in that. Alaric felt that even his utter poverty would be no
misfortune if only his captivity were over. Poverty!--how could any man
be poor who had liberty to roam the world?
We all of us acknowledge that the educated man who breaks the laws
is justly liable to a heavier punishment than he who has been born
in ignorance, and bred, as it were, in the lap of sin; but we hardly
realize how much greater is the punishment which, when he be punished,
the educated man is forced to undergo. Confinement to the man whose mind
has never been lifted above vacancy is simply remission from labour.
Confinement, with labour, is simply the enforcement of that which has
hitherto been his daily lot. But what must a prison be to him whose
intellect has received the polish of the world's poetry, who has known
what it is to feed more than the belly, to require other aliment than
bread and meat?
And then, what does the poor criminal lose? His all, it will be said;
and the rich can lose no more. But this is not so. No man loses his
all by any sentence which a human judge can inflict. No man so loses
anything approaching to his all, however much he may have lost before.
But the one man has too often had no self-respect to risk; the other
has stood high in his own esteem, has held his head proudly before
the world, has aspired to walk in some way after the fashion of a god.
Alaric had so aspired, and how must he have felt during those prison
days! Of what nature must his thoughts have been when they turned to
Gertrude and his child! His sin had indeed been heavy, and heavy was
the penalty which he suffered. When they had been thus living for about
three months, Gertrude's second child was born. Mrs. Woodward was with
her at the time, and she had suffered but little except that for three
weeks she was unable to see her husband; then, in the teeth of all
counsel, and in opposition to all medical warning, she could resist no
longer, and carried the newborn stranger to his father.
'Poor little wretch!' said Alaric, as he stooped to kiss him.
'Wretch!' said Gertrude, looking up to him with a smile upon her
face--'he is no wretch. He is a sturdy little man, that shall yet live
to make your heart dance with joy.'
Mrs. Woodward came often to see her. She did not stay, for there was
no bed in which she could have slept; but the train put her down at
Vauxhall, and she had but to pass the bridge, and she was close to
Gertrude's lodgings. And now the six months had nearly gone by, when, by
appointment, she brought Norman with her. At this time he had given
up his clerkship at the Weights and Measures, and was about to go to
Normansgrove for the remainder of the winter. Both Alaric and Norman had
shown a great distaste to meet each other. But Harry's heart softened
towards Gertrude. Her conduct during her husband's troubles had been
so excellent, that he could not but forgive her the injuries which he
fancied he owed to her.
Everything was now prepared for their departure. They were to sail
on the very day after Alaric's liberation, so as to save him from the
misery of meeting those who might know him. And now Harry came with Mrs.
Woodward to bid farewell, probably for ever on this side the grave, to
her whom he had once looked on as his own. How different were their lots
now! Harry was Mr. Norman of Normansgrove, immediately about to take his
place as the squire of his parish, to sit among brother magistrates, to
decide about roads and poachers, parish rates and other all-absorbing
topics, to be a rural magistrate, and fill a place among perhaps the
most fortunate of the world's inhabitants. Gertrude was the wife of a
convicted felon, who was about to come forth from his prison in utter
poverty, a man who, in such a catalogue as the world makes of its
inhabitants, would be ranked among the very lowest.
And did Gertrude even now regret her choice? No, not for a moment! She
still felt certain in her heart of hearts that she had loved the one who
was the most worthy of a woman's love. We cannot, probably, all agree in
her opinion; but we will agree in this, at least, that she was now right
to hold such opinion. Had Normansgrove stretched from one boundary of
the county to the other, it would have weighed as nothing. Had Harry's
virtues been as bright as burnished gold--and indeed they had been
bright--they would have weighed as nothing. A nobler stamp of manhood
was on her husband--so at least Gertrude felt;--and manhood is the one
virtue which in a woman's breast outweighs all others.
They had not met since the evening on which Gertrude had declared to him
that she never could love him; and Norman, as he got out of the cab with
Mrs. Woodward, at No. 5, Paradise Row, Millbank, felt his heart beat
within him almost as strongly as he had done when he was about to
propose to her. He followed Mrs. Woodward into the dingy little house,
and immediately found himself in Gertrude's presence.
I should exaggerate the fact were I to say that he would not have known
her; but had he met her elsewhere, met her where he did not expect to
meet her, he would have looked at her more than once before he felt
assured that he was looking at Gertrude Woodward. It was not that she
had grown pale, or worn, or haggard; though, indeed, her face had on it
that weighty look of endurance which care will always give; it was not
that she had lost her beauty, and become unattractive in his eyes; but
that the whole nature of her mien and form, the very trick of her gait
was changed. Her eye was as bright as ever, but it was steady, composed,
and resolved; her lips were set and compressed, and there was no
playfulness round her mouth. Her hair was still smooth and bright, but
it was more brushed off from her temples than it had been of yore, and
was partly covered by a bit of black lace, which we presume we must call
a cap; here and there, too, through it, Norman's quick eye detected
a few grey hairs. She was stouter too than she had been, or else she
seemed to be so from the changes in her dress. Her step fell heavier
on the floor than it used to do, and her voice was quicker and more
decisive in its tones. When she spoke to her mother, she did so as
one sister might do to another; and, indeed, Mrs. Woodward seemed to
exercise over her very little of the authority of a parent. The truth
was that Gertrude had altogether ceased to be a girl, had altogether
become a woman. Linda, with whom Norman at once compared her, though but
one year younger, was still a child in comparison with her elder sister.
Happy, happy Linda!
Gertrude had certainly proved herself to be an excellent wife; but
perhaps she might have made herself more pleasing to others if she had
not so entirely thrown off from herself all traces of juvenility. Could
she, in this respect, have taken a lesson from her mother, she would
have been a wiser woman. We have said that she consorted with Mrs.
Woodward as though they had been sisters; but one might have said that
Gertrude took on herself the manners of the elder sister. It is true
that she had hard duties to perform, a stern world to overcome, an
uphill fight before her with poverty, distress, and almost, nay,
absolutely, with degradation. It was well for her and Alaric that she
could face it all with the true courage of an honest woman. But yet
those who had known her in her radiant early beauty could not but regret
that the young freshness of early years should all have been laid aside
so soon.
'Linda, at any rate, far exceeds her in beauty,' was Norman's first
thought, as he stood for a moment to look at her--'and then Linda too is
so much more feminine.' 'Twas thus that Harry Norman consoled himself in
the first moment of his first interview with Alaric's wife. And he was
right in his thoughts. The world would now have called Linda the more
lovely of the two, and certainly the more feminine in the ladylike
sense of the word. If, however, devotion be feminine, and truth to one
selected life's companion, if motherly care be so, and an indomitable
sense of the duties due to one's own household, then Gertrude was not
deficient in feminine character.
'You find me greatly altered, Harry, do you not?' said she, taking his
hand frankly, and perceiving immediately the effect which she had made
upon him. 'I am a steady old matron, am I not?--with a bairn on each
side of me,' and she pointed to her baby in the cradle, and to her other
boy sitting on his grandmother's knee.
Harry said he did find her altered. It was her dress, he said, and the
cap on her head.
'Yes, Harry; and some care and trouble too. To you, you know, to a
friend such as you are, I must own that care and trouble do tell upon
one. Not, thank God, that I have more than I can bear; not that I have
not blessings for which I cannot but be too thankful.'
'And so these are your boys, Gertrude?'
'Yes,' said she, cheerfully; 'these are the little men, that in the good
times coming will be managing vast kingdoms, and giving orders to this
worn-out old island of yours. Alley, my boy, sing your new song
about the 'good and happy land.' But Alley, who had got hold of his
grandmother's watch, and was staring with all his eyes at the stranger,
did not seem much inclined to be musical at the present moment.
'And this is Charley's godson,' continued Gertrude, taking up the baby.
'Dear Charley! he has been such a comfort to me.'
'I have heard all about you daily from him,' said Harry.
'I know you have--and he is daily talking of you, Harry. And so he
should do; so we all should do. What a glorious change this is for him!
is it not, Harry?'
Charley by this time had torn himself away from Mr. Snape and the
navvies, and transferred the whole of his official zeal and energies to
the Weights and Measures. The manner and reason of this must, however,
be explained in a subsequent chapter.
'Yes,' said Harry, 'he has certainly got into a better office.'
'And he will do well there?'
'I am sure he will. It was impossible he should do well at that other
place. No man could do so. He is quite an altered man now. The only
fault I find with him is that he is so full of his heroes and heroines.'
'So he is, Harry; he is always asking me what he is to do with some
forlorn lady or gentleman, 'Oh, smother her!' I said the other day.
'Well,' said he, with a melancholy gravity, 'I'll try it; but I fear it
won't answer.' Poor Charley! what a friend you have been to him, Harry!'
'A friend!' said Mrs. Woodward, who was still true to her adoration of
Norman. 'Indeed he has been a friend--a friend to us all. Who is there
like him?'
Gertrude could have found it in her heart to go back to the subject of
old days, and tell her mother that there was somebody much better
even than Harry Norman. But the present was hardly a time for such an
assertion of her own peculiar opinion.
'Yes, Harry,' she said, 'we have all much, too much, to thank you for. I
have to thank you on his account.'
'Oh no,' said he, ungraciously; 'there is nothing to thank me for,--not
on his account. Your mother and Captain Cuttwater----' and then he
stopped himself. What he meant was that he had sacrificed his little
fortune--for at the time his elder brother had still been living--not to
rescue, or in attempting to rescue, his old friend from misfortune--not,
at least, because that man had been his friend; but because he was the
husband of Gertrude Woodward, and of Mrs. Woodward's daughter. Could he
have laid bare his heart, he would have declared that Alaric Tudor owed
him nothing; that he had never forgiven, never could forgive, the wrongs
he had received from him; but that he had forgiven Alaric's wife; and
that having done so in the tenderness of his heart, he had been ready to
give up all that he possessed for her protection. He would have spared
Gertrude what pain he could; but he would not lie, and speak of Alaric
Tudor with affection.
'But there is, Harry; there is,' said Gertrude; 'much--too much
--greatly too much. It is that now weighs me down more than anything.
Oh! Harry, how are we to pay to you all this money?'
'It is with Mrs. Woodward,' said he coldly, 'and Captain Cuttwater, not
with me, that you should speak of that. Mr. Tudor owes me nothing.'
'Oh, Harry, Harry,' said she, 'do not call him Mr. Tudor--pray, pray;
now that we are going--now that we shall never wound your sight again!
do not call him Mr. Tudor.
He has done wrong; I do not deny it; but which of us is there that has
not?'
'It was not on that account,' said he; 'I could forgive all that.'
Gertrude understood him, and her cheeks and brow became tinged with red.
It was not from shame, nor yet wholly from a sense of anger, but mingled
feelings filled her heart; feelings which she could in nowise explain.
'If you have forgiven him that'--she would have said, had she thought it
right to speak out her mind--'if you have forgiven him that, then there
is nothing left for further forgiveness.'
Gertrude had twice a better knowledge of the world than he had, twice a
quicker perception of how things were going, and should be made to go.
She saw that it was useless to refer further to her husband. Norman had
come there at her request to say adieu to her; that she and he, who had
been friends since she was a child, might see each other before they
were separated for ever by half a world, and that they might part in
love and charity. She would be his sister-in-law, he would be son to her
mother, husband to her Linda; he had been, though he now denied it, her
husband's staunchest friend in his extremity; and it would have added
greatly to the bitterness of her departure had she been forced to go
without speaking to him one kindly word. The opportunity was given to
her, and she would not utterly mar its sweetness by insisting on his
injustice to her husband.
They all remained silent for a while, during which Gertrude fondled her
baby, and Norman produced before the elder boy some present that he had
brought for him.
'Now, Alley,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'you're a made man; won't that do
beautifully to play with on board the big ship?'
'And so, Harry, you have given up official life altogether,' said
Gertrude.
'Yes,' said he--'the last day of the last year saw my finale at the
Weights and Measures. I did not live long--officially--to enjoy my
promotion. I almost wish myself back again.'
'You'll go in on melting days, like the retired tallow-chandler,'
said Gertrude; 'but, joking apart, I wish you joy on your freedom from
thraldom; a government office in England is thraldom. If a man were to
give his work only, it would be well. All men who have to live by labour
must do that; but a man has to give himself as well as his work;
to sacrifice his individuality; to become body and soul a part of a
lumbering old machine.'
This hardly came well from Gertrude, seeing that Alaric at any rate had
never been required to sacrifice any of his individuality. But she was
determined to hate all the antecedents of his life, as though those
antecedents, and not the laxity of his own principles, had brought about
his ruin. She was prepared to live entirely for the future, and to look
back on her London life as bad, tasteless, and demoralizing. England
to her was no longer a glorious country; for England's laws had made a
felon of her husband. She would go to a new land, new hopes, new ideas,
new freedom, new work, new life, and new ambition. 'Excelsior!' there
was no longer an excelsior left for talent and perseverance in this
effete country. She and hers would soon find room for their energies in
a younger land; and as she went she could not but pity those whom she
left behind. Her reasoning was hardly logical, but, perhaps, it was not
unfortunate.
'For myself,' said Norman, not quite following all this--'I always liked
the Civil Service, and now I leave it with a sort of regret. I am quite
glad that Charley has my old desk; it will keep up a sort of tie between
me and the place.'
'What does Linda say about it, mamma?'
'Linda and I are both of Harry's way of thinking,' said Mrs. Woodward,
'because Normansgrove is such a distance.'
'Distance!' repeated Gertrude, with something of sorrow, but more of
scorn in her tone. 'Distance, mamma! why you can get to her between
breakfast and dinner. Think where Melbourne is, mamma!'
'It has nearly broken my heart to think of it,' said Mrs. Woodward.
'And you will still have Linda, mamma, and our darling Katie, and Harry,
and dear Charley. If the idea of distance should frighten anyone it is
me. But nothing shall frighten me while I have my husband and children.
Harry, you must not let mamma be too often alone when some other knight
shall have come and taken away Katie.'
'We will take her to Normansgrove for good and all, if she will let us,'
said Harry.
And now the time came for them to part. Harry was to say good-bye
to her, and then to see her no more. Early on the following morning
Gertrude was to go to Hampton and see Katie for the last time; to see
Katie for the last time, and the Cottage, and the shining river, and
all the well-known objects among which she had passed her life. To Mrs.
Woodward, to Linda, and Katie, all this was subject of inexpressible
melancholy; but with Gertrude every feeling of romance seemed to have
been absorbed by the realities of life. She would, of course, go to
Katie and give her a farewell embrace, since Katie was still too weak to
come to her; she would say farewell to Uncle Bat, to whom she and Alaric
owed so much; she would doubtless shed a tear or two, and feel some
emotion at parting, even from the inanimate associations of her youth;
but all this would now impress no lasting sorrow on her.
She was eager to be off, eager for her new career, eager that he should
stand on a soil where he could once more face his fellow-creatures
without shame. She panted to put thousands of leagues of ocean between
him and his disgrace.
On the following morning Gertrude was to go to Hampton for two hours,
and then to return to Millbank, with her mother and sister, for whose
accommodation a bed had been hired in the neighbourhood. On that evening
Alaric would be released from his prison; and then before daybreak on
the following day they were to take their way to the far-off docks, and
place themselves on board the vessel which was to carry them to their
distant home.
'God bless you, Gertrude,' said Norman, whose eyes were not dry.
'God Almighty bless you, Harry, you and Linda--and make you happy. If
Linda does not write constantly very constantly, you must do it for her.
We have delayed the happiness of your marriage, Harry--you must forgive
us that, as well as all our other trespasses. I fear Linda will never
forgive that.'
'You won't find her unmerciful on that score,' said he. 'Dear Gertrude,
good-bye.'
She put up her face to him, and he kissed her, for the first time in his
life. 'He bade me give you his love,' said she, in her last whisper; 'I
must, you know, do his bidding.'
Norman's heart palpitated so that he could hardly compose his voice for
his last answer; but even then he would not be untrue to his inexorable
obstinacy; he could not send his love to a man he did not love. 'Tell
him,' said he, 'that he has my sincerest wishes for success wherever
he may be; and Gertrude, I need hardly say----' but he could get no
further.
And so they parted.