CHAPTER I.

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THE CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET

by

WALTER BESANT and JAMES RICE

Library Edition

London

Chatto And Windus, Piccadilly

1888

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson and Co.

Edinburgh and London.

CONTENTS.

Part I.

_WITHIN THE RULES._

CHAP. PAGE

I. HOW KITTY LOST HER FATHER AND HER FRIENDS. 9

II. HOW KITTY MADE ENGAGEMENTS. 19

III. HOW WE CAME TO LONDON ON THE COACH. 25

IV. HOW KITTY FIRST SAW THE DOCTOR. 41

V. HOW KITTY WITNESSED A FLEET WEDDING. 59

VI. HOW KITTY BEGAN TO ENJOY THE LIBERTIES OF THE FLEET. 76

VII. HOW KITTY LEARNED TO KNOW THE DOCTOR. 88

VIII. HOW KITTY SPENT HER TIME. 93

IX. HOW THE SOUTH SEA BUBBLE MADE TWO WOMEN PRISONERS. 105

X. HOW THE DOCTOR WAS AT HOME TO HIS FRIENDS. 110

XI. HOW THE DOCTOR DISMISSED HIS FRIENDS. 126

XII. HOW KITTY EXECUTED THE DOCTOR'S REVENGE. 132

XIII. HOW LORD CHUDLEIGH WOKE OUT OF SLEEP. 145

XIV. HOW MRS. DEBORAH WAS RELEASED. 152

XV. HOW MRS. ESTHER WAS DISCHARGED. 158

Part II.

_THE QUEEN OF THE WELLS._

I. HOW WE RETURNED TO THE POLITE WORLD. 177

II. HOW WE WENT TO THE WELLS. 186

III. HOW NANCY RECKONED UP THE COMPANY. 194

IV. HOW KITTY WENT TO HER FIRST BALL. 209

V. HOW KITTY WORE HER CROWN. 225

VI. HOW THE DOCTOR WROTE TO KITTY. 236

VII. HOW KITTY BROKE HER PROMISE. 241

VIII. HOW KITTY HAD LETTERS AND VERSES. 250

IX. HOW LORD CHUDLEIGH WENT TO LONDON. 258

X. HOW TWO OLD FRIENDS CAME TO EPSOM. 265

XI. HOW SIR MILES RENEWED HIS OFFER. 276

XII. HOW HARRY TEMPLE PROVED HIS VALOUR. 283

XIII. HOW DURDANS WAS ILLUMINATED. 291

XIV. HOW MY LORD MADE HIS CONFESSION. 301

XV. HOW NANCY HAD A QUICK TONGUE. 308

XVI. HOW SPED THE MASQUERADE. 313

XVII. HOW KITTY PREVENTED A DUEL. 326

XVIII. HOW HARRY GOT RELEASED. 344

XIX. HOW WILL LEVETT WAS DISAPPOINTED. 360

XX. HOW WILL WOULD NOT BE CROSSED. 379

XXI. HOW KITTY WENT TO LONDON. 417

XXII. HOW LORD CHUDLEIGH RECEIVED HIS FREEDOM. 435

THE CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET.

Part I.

_WITHIN THE RULES._

CHAPTER I.

HOW KITTY LOST HER FATHER AND HER FRIENDS.

My life has been (above any merits of my own) so blessed by Providence,

that methinks its history should be begun with the ringing of bells,

the singing of psalms, the sound of cornet, flute, harp, sackbut,

psaltery, and all kinds of music. For surely the contemplation of a

happy course should, even towards its close, be accompanied by a heart

full of cheerful piety and gratitude. And though, as often happens to

us in the Lord's wisdom, ill fortune, disappointment, troubles of the

flesh, and pain of disease may perhaps afflict me in these latter years

of fleeting life, they ought not to lessen the glad song of praise

for blessings formerly vouchsafed (and still dwelling in my memory)

of love, of joy, and of happiness. Truly, the earth is a delightful

place; a fair garden, which yields pleasant fruit; and, if it may be

so said with becoming reverence, there are yet, outside the gates of

Eden, places here and there which for beauty and delight, to those who

thither win their way, are comparable with Paradise itself. In such a

place it has been my happy lot to dwell.

Yet, just as the newborn babe begins his earthly course with a

wail--ah, joyful cry for ear of mother!--so must this book begin with

tears and weeping.

The weeping is that of an orphan over her dead father; the tears are

those which fall upon a coffin beside an open grave: they are the tears

of men and women come to pay this reverence at the burial of a man who

was their best friend and their most faithful servant.

All the morning the funeral knell has been tolling; the people listen,

now, to the solemn words of a service which seem spoken by the dead man

himself to those who mourn. They admonish and warn, but they bid them

be of good cheer, lift up hearts, and trust in the Lord.

When we are in great grief and sorrow, outward things seem to affect

us more than in ordinary times, when the heart is in repose, and the

mind, perhaps, slower of apprehension. The day, for instance, was

late in May; the blackbird, thrush, and chaffinch were singing in the

wood beside the church; a lark was carolling in the sky; a cuckoo was

calling from the coppice; the hedges were green, and the trees were

bright with their first fresh foliage; the white may-blossom, the

yellow laburnum, and the laylock were at their best, and the wild roses

were just beginning.

To the country girl who had never yet left her native village, this joy

of the spring was so natural that it did not jar upon the grief of her

soul. When the funeral was over, and the grave filled in and the people

all dispersed, she stood for a few moments alone, and then walked away

across the long grass of the churchyard, stepping lightly over the

graves of the villagers, opened the little wicket gate which led to the

vicarage garden, passed in, and sought a sheltered place where, beneath

the shade of bushes, she sat upon a bench and folded her hands, looked

before her, and fell a-thinking.

She was between sixteen and seventeen, but tall of her age, and looked

older; she wore a new black frock; she had thrown her straw hat with

black ribbons upon the bench beside her. As for her face, I suppose

it was pretty. Alas! I am a hypocrite, because I _know_ that it was

pretty. As yet, she did not know it, and had never thought about her

face. Her eyes were brown (she has ever been thankful to have had brown

eyes); her features were regular, and her face rather long; her hair

was abundant and soft: it was like the hair of most English maidens, of

a dark brown, or chestnut (it is now white); her arms were shapely, and

her fingers thin and delicate (they were the fingers of a Pleydell);

as for her complexion, it was as good as can be expected in a girl

whose blood is pure, who has, as yet, known no late hours, who has been

taught to use plenty of cold water and no washes or messes, who has

run about without thinking of freckles, and has lived in the open air

on homely food. In other words, as fine a show of red and white was in

the cheeks of that child as ever Sir Joshua Reynolds tried to copy upon

canvas.

She was thinking many things. First, of her father and his death; of

the funeral, and the grief shown by people whom she had thought to be

hard of heart, insensible to his admonitions, and untouched by his

prayers. Yet they stood about the grave and wept, rude women and rough

men. Would they ever again find a minister so benevolent, so pious, and

so active in all good work? She thought of the house, and how dark and

lonely it was, deserted by its former owner. She thought of what she

should do, in the time before her, and how she would be received in her

new home. One thing comforted her: she looked older than she was, and

was tall and strong. She could be helpful.

Then she drew out of her pocket a letter written for her only three

days before her father died. She knew it quite by heart, but yet she

read it again slowly, as if there might still be something in it which

had escaped her.

"MY BELOVED DAUGHTER" (thus it ran),--"Knowing that I am about to

die and to appear before my Father and merciful Judge, it is right

that I should bestir myself to make thee comprehend the situation

in which thou wilt be placed. Of worldly wealth I have, indeed, but

little to give thee. Face thy lot with hope, resignation, and a

cheerful heart. The righteous man, said one who knew, hath never

been found to beg his bread. Indeed, the whole course of this world

is so ordered (by Divine wisdom), that he who chooseth the narrow

path chooseth also the safest. Therefore, be of good cheer.

"_Imprimis._ When I am buried, search the bedstead, and, in the

head thereof, will be found a bag containing the sum of one hundred

guineas in gold pieces. I have saved this money during my twenty

years of incumbency. I trust that it will not be laid to my charge

that I did not give this also to the poor; but I thought of my

daughter first. Secondly, Farmer Goodpenny is indebted to me in

the sum of twenty-two pounds, four shillings, and eightpence, for

which I have his note. I charge thee that he be not asked to pay

interest, and since it may be that he hath not the money, let it

wait his good time. He is an honest man, who fears God. Thirdly,

there is money, some twelve pounds or more, lying in my desk for

present use. Fourthly, there are several small sums due to me,

money put out and lent (but not at usury), such as five shillings

from the widow Coxon, and other amounts the which I will have thee

forgive and remit entirely; for these my debtors are poor people.

The horse is old, but he will fetch five pounds, and the cow will

sell for two. As for the books, they may be sent to Maidstone,

where they may be sold. But I doubt they will not bring more than

ten guineas, or thereabouts, seeing that the call for works of

divinity is small, even among my brethren of the cloth. And when

you go to London, forget not to ask of Mr. Longman, publisher, of

St. Paul's Churchyard, an account of my 'Sermons,' published by him

last year; my essay on 'Philo-Judæus,' issued four years ago; and

my 'Reflections on the Christian State,' which he hath by him in

manuscript. He will perhaps be able to return a larger sum of money

than I was led by him at first to expect.

"My will and plain injunctions are as follows:

"When everything has been paid that is owing, and there are none

who can hereafter say that he had a claim upon me which was

unsatisfied, get together thy wearing apparel and effects, and

under some proper protection, as soon as such can be found, go to

London, and there seek out thy uncle and mother's brother, the

Reverend Gregory Shovel, Doctor of Divinity, of whom I have spoken

to thee of old. I take shame to myself that I have not sent him,

for many years, letters of brotherly friendship. Nor do I rightly

remember where he is to be found. But I know that he lives, because

once a year there comes to me a keg or anker of rum, which I know

must be from him, and which I have drunk with my parishioners in

a spirit of gratitude. Perhaps it would have been more consistent

in a brother clergyman to have sent one of the latest books of our

scholars. But he means well, and the rum is, I confess, of the

best, and a generous drink, in moderation. He was once Curate and

Lecturer of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields; but I would have thee go

first to the Coffee-house in St. Paul's Churchyard, where they know

all the London clergy, and ask for his present lodging. This found,

go to him, tell him that I am dead, give him thy money, entrust

thyself to him, and be guided by him as thou hast been by me.

"And now, my daughter, if a father's prayers avail thee, be assured

that I die like Jacob the patriarch, blessing thee and commanding

thee. For my blessing, I pray that the Lord may have thee in His

keeping, and give thee what is good for the eternal life. For my

commandment--Be good: for herein is summed up the whole of the

Commandments.

"And remember, my child, the Christian who lives in fear of

death is foolish: even as he is foolish who will not lay hold of

the promise, and so lives in terror of the Judgment. For now I

know--yea, I _know_--that the Lord loveth best that man who all

the days of his life walks in faith and dies in hope.--Your loving

father,

"LAWRENCE PLEYDELL."

Had ever a girl so sweet a message from the dead, to keep and ponder

over, to comfort and console her? She knew every word of it already,

but the tears came afresh to her eyes in thinking of the dear hand

which wrote those words--quiet now, its labours done, in the cold

grave. Her father's last Will and Testament gave her more than

riches--it gave her strength and consolation. The example of his life,

which was so Christian and so good, might be forgotten, because the

girl was too young to understand it, and too ignorant to compare; but

this letter of true faith and religion would never be forgotten.

The Reverend Lawrence Pleydell, Master of Arts and sometime Fellow of

the ancient and learned College or House of Christ, Cambridge, was

(which is a thing too rare in these days) a country clergyman who was

also a scholar, a divine, a man of pious thought, and a gentleman

by descent, though only of a younger branch. It is too often found

that if a country clergyman be a gentleman, he continues the habits

of his class, such as fox-hunting, card-playing, and wine-drinking,

concerning which, although the Bishops seem not yet of one mind upon

the matter, I, for my humble part, remembering what kind of man was my

good father, venture to think are pursuits unworthy of one who holds

a cure of souls. And when a clergyman is a scholar, he is too often

devoted entirely to the consideration of his Greek and Latin authors,

whereby his power over the hearts of the people is in a measure lost.

Or, if he is a divine, he is too often (out of the fulness of his mind)

constrained to preach the subtleties and hidden things of theology,

which cannot be understood of the common people, so that it is as if

he were speaking in an unknown tongue. And sometimes the parson of

the parish is but a rude and coarse person, of vulgar birth, who will

smoke tobacco with the farmers--yea, even with the labourers--drink

with them, and not be ashamed to be seen in beer-houses, tap-rooms, or

even at such unseemly diversions as bull-baiting, badger-drawing, and

cock-fighting. It were to be wished that the Church were purged of all

such.

The parish contained, besides farmers, but one family of gentlefolk,

that of Sir Robert Levett, Knight, who with his wife and two children

lived at the Hall, and had an estate worth two thousand a year at

least. When the vicar's wife died (she was somewhat his inferior in

point of family, but had a brother in the Church), and his child was

left without a mother, nothing would do for Lady Levett than that

the little maid should be taken into the Hall and brought up, having

governesses and teaching, with her own daughter, Nancy, who was of

about the same age, but a little younger. So the two girls were

playfellows and scholars together, being taught those things which

it befits a lady to learn, although one of them would be a poor lady

indeed. There was one son, Will, who was at first at Eton with his

cousin (and Sir Robert's ward), Harry Temple, the young Squire of

Wootton Hampstead. It was a fearful joy when they came home for the

holidays. For, although they kept the house in activity and bustle,

making disorder and noise where there was generally quiet and order,

yet after the manner of boys, who rejoice to show and feel their

strength, they would play rough tricks upon the two girls, upset and

destroy their little sports, and make them understand what feeble

things are young maidens compared with boys.

Now just as the two girls were different--for one grew up tall and

disposed to be serious, which was Kitty Pleydell, and the other was

small and saucy, always with a laugh and a kiss, which was Nancy

Levett--so the boys became different: for one, which was Will Levett,

a rosy-cheeked lad, with a low forehead and a square chin, grew to

dislike learning of all kinds, and was never happy except when he was

in the stables with the horses, or training the dogs, or fox-hunting,

or shooting, or fishing, or in some way compassing the death of wild

creatures, sports to which his father was only moderately addicted; but

the other, Harry Temple, was more studiously disposed, always came home

with some fresh mark of his master's approbation, and read every book

he could find.

There came a change in their behaviour to the girls as they grew

older. Will ceased to set a dog to bark at them, and to crack a whip

to frighten them, or ride unbroken colts in order to make them cry

out for fear; and Harry ceased to tease and torment them with little

tricks and devices of mischief at which they were half pleased and

half humiliated. When the boys left school they were sent to Pembroke

College, Cambridge, a college in which many generations of Levetts had

been educated. After two terms, Will came home, looking cheerful though

somewhat abashed. He had been rusticated _sine die_, as the phrase

runs: which means that he was not to go back again until he had made

such ample submission and apology, with promises of future amendment as

would satisfy the authorities as to the safety of allowing him back.

It was not known rightly what he had done; there was a story in which

a retriever, a horse, a punch-bowl, a badger, a bargee, a pump, and a

water-trough were curiously mixed up, and his rustication had somehow

to do with the introduction of a proctor (whom one understands to be a

learned and reverend magistrate) and a bull-dog, into this inconsistent

and discordant company.

Sir Robert looked grave when he received his son, my lady wept, and

the girls were ashamed; but all speedily recovered their good spirits,

and the whole stable rejoiced exceedingly to see Will back among them.

Even the foxes and their cubs, Sir Robert said, which had of late waxed

fat and lazy, manifested a lively pleasure, and hastened to get thin

so as to afford the greatest sport possible; the trout practised all

their tricks in readiness for one who respected a fish of subtlety;

the pheasants and young partridges made haste to grow strong on the

wing; the snipe and small birds remembered why Nature had taught them

to use a devious and uncertain flight; the rabbits left off running

straight; the otters remembered the uncertainty of life and the glory

of a gallant fight; the ferrets laughed, thinking of the merry days

they were going to have; the hares, who never take any solid interest

in being hunted, ran away to the neighbouring estates; and the badgers,

who were going to be drawn in their holes, turned sulky.

This was what Sir Robert told the girls, who laughed, but believed that

it was all true. As for Cambridge, there was no more thought of that.

Will had had enough of lectures, chapels, and dons; henceforth, he

said, he should please himself.

"Man," said Sir Robert, "who is ever disappointed, must continually

be resigned. What if Will hath refused to get learning? He will not,

therefore, gamble away the estate, nor disgrace the name of Levett.

Holdfast is a good dog. It is the fortune of this house that if, once

in a while, its head prove a fool as regards books, he still sticks to

his own."

Will promised to stick fast to his own, and though he gave himself up

henceforth altogether to those pursuits which make a man coarse and

deaden his sensibility (whereby he loses the best part of his life), he

promised, in his father's opinion, to prove a capable manager and just

landlord, jealous of his own rights, and careful of those of others.

Will thus remaining at home, the girls saw him every day, and though

they had little talk with him, because it could not be expected that

they should care to hear how the dogs behaved, and how many rats had

been killed that morning, yet he was, in his rough way, thoughtful

of them, and would bring them such trifles as pretty eggs, stuffed

kingfishers, dressed moleskins, and so forth, which he got in his walks

abroad. In the evening he would make his artificial flies, twist his

lines, mend his landing-nets, polish his guns; being always full of

business, and kindly taking no notice while Nancy or Kitty read aloud,

nor seeming to care what they read, whether it was the poetry of Pope,

or some dear delightful romance; or the "Spectator," or the plays of

Shakespeare. All was one to him.

He seemed in those days a good-natured young man who went his own

way and troubled himself not one whit about other people. Women were

inferior creatures, of course: they could not shoot, hunt, fish, ride

to hounds; they had no strength; they did not like to see things

killed; they did not love sport; they did not drink wine; they did not

take beer for breakfast; they did not smoke tobacco; they loved tea,

chocolate, coffee, and such vanities; they loved to dress fine and

stand up making bows to men, which they called dancing; they loved to

read a lot of nonsense in rhymes, or to cry over the sorrows of people

who never lived. Women, however, had their uses: they kept things in

order, looked after the dinner, and took care of the babies.

Will did not say all these things at once; but they were collected

together and written down by the girls, who kept a book between them,

where they entered all the things they heard which struck their

fancy. Nancy even went so far as to try to make up a story about the

proctor and the pump, but never dared show it, except to her father,

who pinched her ear and laughed. They called the page about the ways

of women "Will's Wisdom," and continually added to it without his

knowledge; because Will, like all men who love the sports of the field

and not the wisdom of the printed page, became quickly angry if he were

laughed at. The girls always pictured Esau, for instance, as a grave

man, with a square chin, who talked a good deal about his own hunting,

took no interest in the occupations of the women, and could never see a

joke.

Two years or so after Will's rustication, Harry came of age and

left Cambridge without taking a degree. There were bonfires, and

oxen roasted whole, and barrels of beer upon the green when he took

possession of his own estate and went to live in his own house, which

was three miles and a half from the Hall.

He came from Cambridge having no small reputation for learning and

wit, being apt at the making of verses in English, Latin, and Italian.

He was, moreover, skilled in mathematical science, and especially in

astronomy; he had read history, and understood the course of politics.

I think that from the beginning he aspired to be considered one of

those who by birth and attainments are looked upon as the leaders of

the world; he would be a scholar as well as a gentleman; he would be

a poet, perhaps to be ranked with Pope or Dryden; he would be a man

of fashion; and he would sit in ladies' _salons_, while other men sat

over bottles of port, and talked gallantry. As for his appearance, he

was tall and slight in figure; his face was long and rather thin; his

eyes were grave; his manner was reserved; to the girls he was always

courteous, asking their opinion, setting them right when they were

wrong, lending them books, and directing them what to read. To Kitty

he was a man to be respected, but never, she may truly say, did she

allow her thoughts to dwell on the possibility of love: perhaps because

love is between opposites, so that the grave may love the gay; perhaps

because she knew very early that Lady Levett earnestly desired one

thing--that Harry might fall in love with Nancy; and perhaps because to

Nancy herself, little, merry Nancy, whose heart was full of sunshine,

as her eyes were full of sunlight, and her lips never moved but to say

and sing something saucy, or to laugh and smile--to Nancy, I say, this

man was an Apollo, and she wondered that all women, not to speak of

men (whose stupidity in the matter of reverence for each other is well

known) did not fall down before him and do him open worship.

A few months after Harry Temple came of age, the vicar was taken ill

with a putrid fever, caught while administering the last rites of the

Church to a dying woman, and was carried off in a fortnight. This

disaster not only robbed poor Kitty of the best of fathers, but also

of the kindest patron and the most loving friend; for it took her away

from the Hall, and drove her out, as will be presently seen, to meet

dangers as she had never imagined among a people whose wickedness after

many years, and even to this day, makes her wonder at the longsuffering

of the Lord.

CHAPTER II.

HOW KITTY MADE ENGAGEMENTS.

The day after the funeral, Sir Robert Levett himself walked to the

Vicarage in the afternoon, and found the girl still in the garden, on

her favourite seat. As soon as she looked into his kind face she burst

into fresh tears.

"Cry on, pretty," he said, sitting beside her, and with a tear in his

own eye. "Cry on: to cry is natural. Thou hast lost the best and most

Christian father that ever girl had; therefore cry on till thou art

tired. Let the tears fall. Don't mind me. Out handkerchief. So good

a scholar shall we never see again. Cry on, if thou hast only just

begun, should it bring thee comfort. Nor ever shall we hear so good a

preacher. When thou hast finished let me have my say. But do not hurry."

Even at the very saddest, when tears flow as unceasingly as the

fountains in the Land of Canaan, the sight of an elderly gentleman

sitting on a bench beneath a mulberry-tree, his hat beside him, his wig

in his hands for coolness, his stick between his legs, and his face

composed to a decent position, waiting till one had finished, would be

enough to make any girl stop crying. Kitty felt immediately inclined to

laugh; dried her eyes, restrained her sobs, and pulled out her father's

will, which she gave to Sir Robert to read.

He read it through twice, slowly, and then he hummed and coughed before

he spoke--

"A good man, Kitty child. See that thou forget not his admonitions. I

would he were here still to admonish us all. Sinners that we were, to

heed his voice no better. And now he is gone--he is gone. Yet he was a

younger man than I, by ten years and more, and I remain." Here he put

on his wig, and rose. "As for this money, child, let us lose no time

in making that safe, lest some thief should rob thee of it. A hundred

guineas! And twenty more with Farmer Goodpenny! And this money waiting

at the publishers![A] Verily thou art an heiress indeed!"

In the bedroom, at the head of the great bed, they found beneath the

mattress a long narrow box secretly let into the panel close to the

great cross-beam. I say secretly, but it was a secret known to all

the world. Carpenters always made those secret hiding-places in beds,

so that had there been a robber in the house he would have begun by

searching in that place. Sir Robert knew where to find the spring, and

quickly opened the box.

Within it lay two canvas bags, tied up. Could bags so little hold so

great a sum! Sir Robert tossed them into his pockets as carelessly as

if they were bags of cherries.

"Now, little maid," said he, sitting on the bed, "that money is safe;

and be sure that I shall call on Farmer Goodpenny to-morrow. Let me

know what is to be done about thy father's wish that thou shouldst go

to London?"

"It is his injunction, sir," said Kitty gravely. "I must obey his will."

"Yet thy father, child, did not know London. And to send a young

girl like thyself, with a bag of guineas about thy neck, to ask in a

coffee-house for the address of a clergyman is, methinks, a wild-goose

sort of business. As for Dr. Shovel, I have heard the name--to be sure,

it cannot be the same man----" he stopped, as if he would not tell me

what it was he had heard.

"It is my father's command," she repeated.

"Unless nothing better should be found. Now, London is a dangerous

place, full of pitfalls and traps, especially for the young and

innocent. We are loth to lose thee, Kitty; we are afraid to let thee

go. Nothing will do for Lady Levett but that thou remain with us and

Nancy."

This was a generous offer, indeed. Kitty's eyes filled with tears

again, and while she stood trying to find words of gratitude, and to

decline the offer so as not to appear churlish, madam herself came

running up the stairs, in her garden hat and plain pinner, and fell to

kissing and crying over the girl.

Then she had to be told of the will and last commands.

"To be sure," she said, "thy father's commands must be respected and

obeyed. Yet I know not whether it would not be well to disobey them.

Kitty, my dear, stay with us and be my daughter, all the same as Nancy.

I do not ask thee to enter my service, or to receive wages, or to do

work for me any other than a daughter may."

Kitty shook her head again. She was truly grateful; there was no one so

kind as her ladyship; but she must go to London as her father bade her.

"Why," cried Sir Robert, "the child is right. Let her go. But if she

is unhappy with her friends, or if she is in any trouble, let her know

where to look for help."

"There may be cousins," said madam, "who will find thee too pretty

for their own faces, and would keep thee at home with the towels and

dusters and napkins. I would not have our Kitty a Cinderella--though

house-service is no disgrace to a gentlewoman. Or there may be manners

and customs of the house that a young girl should disapprove. Or there

may be harsh looks instead of kind words. If that is the case, Kitty,

come back to us, who love thee well, and will receive thee with kisses

and joy."

Then they left her in the empty house, alone with Deborah, the house

servant.

She was looking over her father's books, and taking out one or two

which she thought she might keep in memory of him (as if anything were

needed) when she heard steps, and Deborah's voice inviting some one to

enter.

It was Harry Temple: he stood in the doorway, his hat in his hand, and

under his arm a book.

"I was meditating in the fields," he said, "what I should say to Kitty

Pleydell, in consolation for her affliction. The learned Boethius----"

"O Harry!" she cried, "do not talk to me of books. What can they say to

comfort any one?"

He smiled. Harry's smile showed how much he pitied people not so

learned as himself.

"The greatest men," he said, "have been comforted by books. Cicero, for

instance.... Nay, Kitty, I will not quote Cicero. I came to say that I

am sorry indeed to learn that we shall lose thee for a time."

"Alas!" she said, "I must go. It is my father's order."

"I am sure," he replied, "that you would not leave us for a lighter

reason. You know our hearts, Kitty, and how we all love you."

"I know----" Kitty began to cry again. Everybody was so full of love

and pity. "I know, Harry. And perhaps I shall never n--n--never see you

again."

"And does that make this parting harder?" He turned very red, and laid

his precious book of consolation on the table.

"Why, of course it does," she replied, wiping her eyes.

"You _shall_ see us again," he went on earnestly. "You shall come back

with me. Kitty, I will give you one twelvemonth of absence. You know I

love you tenderly. But your father's commands must be obeyed. Therefore

for a whole year I shall not seek you out. Then, when I come for you,

will you return with me, never to go away again?"

"Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands, "how joyfully will I return!"

The young man took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Divine maid!" he cried. "Fit to grace a coronet, or to make the home

of a simple gentleman an Arcadia of pastoral pleasure!"

"Do not mock me, Harry," she said, snatching away her hand, "with idle

compliments. But forget not to come and carry me away."

"Alas!" he said; "how shall I exist--how bear this separation for

twelve long months? Oh, divine Kitty! Thou will remain an ever-present

idea in my heart."

"Harry," she burst out laughing in her tears, "think of the learned

Boethius!"

So he left her.

In half an hour another visitor appeared.

This time it was Will. He was in his usual careless disorder; his

scarlet coat a good deal stained, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his wig

awry, his boots dusty, his neckerchief torn, his hands and cheeks

browned by the sun. He carried a horsewhip, and was followed by

half-a-dozen dogs, who came crowding into the room after him.

"So," he said, sitting down and leaning his chin upon his whipstock,

"thou must go, then?"

"What do you want with me, Will?" she asked, angry that he should show

so little sympathy.

"Why," he replied, rubbing his chin with the whipstock, "not much,

Kitty. Nancy will come to cry."

"Then you can go away, Will."

"I came to say, Kitty, that though you do be going to go" (Will easily

dropped into country talk), "I shanna forget thee. There!"

"Thank you, Will."

"As for the matter of that, I love thee--ah! like I love old Rover

here."

"Thank you again, Will."

"And so I've brought along a sixpence--here it is--and we'll break it

together." Here he bent and broke the coin with his strong fingers.

"My half goes into my pocket--so; and the other half is thine--there."

He threw it on the table. "Well, that's done." He stood up, looked at

me sorrowfully, and heaved a great sigh. "I doubt I've a done wrong.

Hadst been going to stay, a' woulden a' spoke yet awhile. Liberty is

sweet--girls are skittish. Well, we'll take a twelvemonth yet. There's

no hurry. Plenty time before us. I shall have my liberty for that

while. Mayhap I will fetch thee in the spring. Ay, May's the best

month to leave the dogs and the birds, though the vermin will begin to

swarm--rot 'em! Come, Rover. Good-bye, wench."

He gave her a resounding kiss on the cheek, and turned away.

The girl laughed. She did not pick up the broken sixpence, which,

indeed, she hardly noticed, her mind being full of many things.

Presently Nancy came, and the two girls spent a miserable evening

together, in great love and friendship.

Now, how could an ignorant country girl, who had never thought over

these things at all, guess that she had engaged herself to be married,

in one day, in one hour even, to two different men? Yet that was

exactly what this foolish Kitty had actually done.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] When, some months later, Kitty went to the publisher, that

gentleman informed her that there was no money to receive, because he

had been a loser by the publication of the books.

CHAPTER III.

HOW WE CAME TO LONDON ON THE COACH.

With the purpose, therefore, of carrying out my father's injunctions,

I remained for a few days at the Vicarage alone, having one servant to

take care of me. But, had it not been for an accident, I might have

remained at the village all my life. "For," said Lady Levett, "it

is but right, child, that the instructions of your father should be

carried out; I should like to know, however, who is to take charge of

thee to London, and how we are to get thee there? A young maid cannot

be sent to London on a pack-horse, like a bundle of goods. As for Sir

Robert, he goes no more to town, since he has ceased to be a member.

I care not for the court, for my own part, and am now too old for the

gaieties of London. Nancy will enjoy them, I doubt not, quite soon

enough; and as for the boys, I see not very well how they can undertake

so great a charge. I doubt, Kitty, that thou must come to the Hall,

after all. You can be useful, child, and we will make you happy. There

is the still-room, where, Heaven knows, what with the cowslip-wine,

the strong waters, the conserving, pickling, drying, candying, and

the clove gilliflowers for palleting, there is work enough for you

and Nancy, as well as my still-room maid and myself. And just now,

Sir Robert calling every day for a summer sallet (which wants a light

hand), to cool his blood!"

I would very willingly have gone to the Hall; I asked nothing better,

and could think of nothing more happy for myself, if it could so be

ordered. My father's wishes must certainly be obeyed; but if no one

at the Hall could take charge of me, it seemed, at first, as if there

could be no going to London at all, for our farmers and villagers were

no great travellers. None of them knew much of this vast round world

beyond their own fields, unless it were the nearest market-town, or

perhaps Maidstone, or even Canterbury. Now and again one of the rustics

would go for a soldier (being crossed in love); but he never came

home again to tell of his campaigns. Or one would go for a gentleman's

servant (being too lazy to work like his father); then he would return

filled with all the wickedness of London, and stay corrupting the minds

of the simple folk, till Sir Robert bade him pack and be off, for a

pestilent fellow. Or one would go away to the nearest market-town to be

apprenticed to a handicraft (being ambitious, as will happen even to

simple clods, and aspiring to a shop). But if he succeeded, such an one

would seldom come back to the place which gave him birth.

An accident happened which served my purpose. There was a certain

farmer on Sir Robert's estate, whose sister had married a London

tradesman of respectability and reputed honesty, named Samuel Gambit

(he was a builder's foreman, who afterwards became a master builder,

and made great sums of money by taking city contracts. His son, after

him, rose to be an alderman in the city of London). Whether the young

woman was in ill health, or whether she was prompted by affection, I

know not, but she left her husband for a space and journeyed into the

country to see her friends and people. Now when I heard, by accident,

that she was about to return, my heart fell, because I saw that my time

was come, and that a proper person to take charge of me during the

journey was found in Mrs. Gambit.

Madam sent for her. She was a strong, well-built woman, of about six

or seven and twenty, resolute in her bearing, and sturdy of speech.

She was not afraid, she said, of any dangers of the road, holding (but

that was through ignorance) highwaymen in contempt; but she could not

be answerable, she said, and this seemed reasonable, for the safety of

the coach, which might upset and break our necks. As for the rest, she

would be proud to take the young lady with her to London, and madam

might, if she wished, consider the extra trouble worth something; but

that she left to her ladyship.

"I know," said Lady Levett, "that it is a great charge for you to

conduct a young gentlewoman to town in these bad and dangerous times,

when not only the high roads are thronged with robbers, and the

streets with footpads, but also the very inns swarm with villains, and

gentlemen are not ashamed to insult young persons of respectability in

stage-coaches and public places. But Kitty is a good girl, not giddy,

and obedient. I will admonish her that she obey you in everything upon

the road, and that she keep eyes, ears, and mouth closed all the way."

The good woman undertook to have her eye upon me the whole journey.

Then Lady Levett made her promise that she would take me straight

to St. Paul's Coffee-house, St. Paul's Churchyard, there to inquire

after my uncle's residence, and never leave me until she had seen me

deposited safely in Dr. Shovel's hands.

Now was I in a flutter and agitation of spirits indeed, as was natural,

considering that I was going to leave my native place for the first

time in my life and to seek out new relations.

"Nancy!" I cried, "what will be my lot? What will become of me?"

Nancy said that she would tell my fortune if I would only leave off

walking about and wringing my hands and be comfortable.

Then she sat down beside me in her pretty affectionate way, and threw

her arms round my waist, and laid her head upon my shoulder.

"You are so tall and so pretty, Kitty, that all the men will lose their

hearts. But you must listen to none of them until the right man comes.

Oh! I know what he is like. He will be a great nobleman, young and

handsome, and oh, so rich! he will kneel at your feet as humble as a

lover ought to be, and implore you to accept his title and his hand.

And when you are a great lady, riding in your own coach, as happy as

the day is long, you will forget--oh no, my dear! sure I am you will

never forget your loving Nancy."

Then we kissed and cried over each other in our foolish girls' way,

promising not only kind remembrance, but even letters sometimes. And we

exchanged tokens of friendship. I gave her a ring, which had been my

mother's, made of solid silver with a turquoise and two pearls, very

rich and good, and she gave me a silver-gilt locket with chased back,

and within it a little curl of her hair, brown and soft.

Lady Levett gave me nothing but her admonition. I was going, she said,

to a house where I should meet with strangers who would perhaps, after

the manner of strangers, be quicker at seeing a fault than a grace, and

this particularly at the outset and very beginning, when people are

apt to be suspicious and to notice carefully. Therefore I was to be

circumspect in my behaviour, and above all, be careful in my speech,

giving soft words in return for hard, and answering railing, if there

was any railing, with silence. But perhaps, she said, there would be

no railing, but only kindness and love, in the which case I was all

the more to preserve sweet speech and sweet thoughts, so as not to

trouble love. Then she was good enough to say that I had ever been a

good maid and dutiful, and she doubted not that so I would continue in

my new world, wherefore she kissed me tenderly, and prayed, with tears

in her eyes--for my lady, though quick and sharp, was wondrous kind of

heart--that the Lord would have me in His keeping.

I say nothing about Sir Robert, because he was always fond of me, and

would almost as soon have parted from his Nancy.

Now it was a week and more since I had, without knowing it, received

those overtures of love from Harry Temple and Will, which I took in my

innocence for mere overtures of friendship and brotherly affection.

They thought, being conceited, like all young men, that I had at once

divined their meaning and accepted their proposals; no doubt they gave

themselves credit for condescension and me for gratitude. Therefore,

when, the evening before I came away, Harry Temple begged me, with

many protestations of regret, not to inform Sir Robert or madam of his

intentions, I knew not what to say. What intentions? why should I not?

"Reigning star of Beauty!" he cried, laying his hand upon his heart,

"I entreat thy patience for a twelvemonth. Alas! such separation! who

can bear it!

"'Fond Thyrsis sighs, through mead and vale,

His absent nymph lamenting----'"

"O Harry!" I cried, "what do I care about Thyrsis and absent nymphs?

You have promised to bring me back in a year. Very well, then, I shall

expect you. Of course you can tell Sir Robert whatever you please. It

is nothing to me what you tell Sir Robert or my lady."

"She is cold as Diana," said Harry, with a prodigious sigh; but I broke

from him, and would hear no more such nonsense. Sighing shepherds and

cruel nymphs were for ever on Harry Temple's lips.

As for Will, of course he wanted to have an explanation too. He

followed Harry, and, in his rustic way, begged to say a word or two.

"Pray go on, Will," I said.

"I promised a twelvemonth," he explained. "I'll not go back upon my

word. I _did_ say a twelvemonth."

"A twelvemonth? Oh yes. You said the same as Harry, I remember."

"I don't know what Harry said, but I'll swear, whatever Harry said,

I said just the clean contrary. Now, then, liberty's sweet, my girl.

Come, let us say fifteen months. Lord! when a man is twenty-one he

don't want to be tied by the heels all at once. Let's both have our run

first. You are but a filly yet--ay--a six months' puppy, so to say."

"You said a twelvemonth, Will," I replied, little thinking of what he

meant. How, indeed, could I know? "I shall expect you in a twelvemonth."

"Very good, then. A twelvemonth it must be, I suppose. Shan't tell my

father yet, Kitty. Don't you tell un neyther, there's a good girl. Gad!

there will be a pretty storm with my lady when she hears it! Ho! ho!"

Then he went off chuckling and shaking himself. How could a courtly

gentleman like Sir Robert and a gentlewoman like her ladyship have a

son who was so great a clown in his manner and his talk? But the sons

do not always take after their parents. A stable and a kennel, when

they take the place of a nursery and a school, are apt to breed such

bumpkins even out of gentle blood.

In the morning at five I was to start in the cart which would take us

across the country to the stage-coach.

Nancy got up with me, and we had a fine farewell kissing. The boys

were up too; Harry out of compliment to me, dressed in a nightcap and

a flowered morning-gown; and Will out of compliment to his kennel,

for whose sake he always rose at daybreak. He was dressed in his old

scarlet coat, he carried a whip in one hand, and half-a-dozen dogs

followed at his heels.

"Remember, sweet Kitty," whispered Harry, with a ceremonious bow, "it

is but for a twelvemonth."

"Only a year," said Will. "Heart up, my pretty!"

They heard what each had said, and they were looking at each other

puzzled when I drove away.

"What did you mean, Will?" asked Harry, when the cart was out of sight,

"by saying only a year?"

"I meant what I meant," he replied doggedly. "Perhaps you know, and

perhaps you don't."

"Of course I know," said Harry. "The question is, how do you know?"

"Well," replied Will, "that is a pretty odd question, to be sure. How

could I help knowing?"

"I think," said Harry, red in the face, "that some one has been

injudicious in telling any one."

Will laughed.

"She ought not to have told, that's a fact. But we will keep it secret,

Harry; don't tell her ladyship."

So that each thought that the other knew of his engagement with Kitty.

Little heed gave I to them and their promises. It was pleasant,

perhaps, though I soon forgot to think about it at all, to remember

that Harry and Will after a twelvemonth would come to carry me home

again, and that I should never leave the old place again. But just then

I was too sad to remember this. I was going away, Heaven knew where,

amongst strangers, to people who knew me not; and I mounted the cart in

which we were to begin our journey crying as sadly as if it had been

the dreadful cart which goes to Tyburn Tree. The best thing to cure

a crying fit is a good jolting. It is impossible to weep comfortably

when you are shaken and rolled about in a country cart among the deep,

hard ruts of last winter. So I presently put up my handkerchief, dried

my eyes, and thought of nothing but of clinging to Mrs. Gambit when

the wheels sank deeper than usual. The way lay along the lanes which I

knew so well, arched over with trees and lofty hedges, then in their

beautiful spring dressing. It led past the churchyard, where the sun

was striking full upon my father's new-made grave. I tried to think of

him, but the cart jolted so terribly that I was fain to remember only

how I carried his last admonitions in my bosom, and the money in two

bags sewn to my petticoats.

Presently the lane led on to the high-road, which was not quite so

rough, and here we came to the roadside inn where the stage-coach

changed horses. We waited an hour or so, until at length we saw it

coming slowly up the hill, piled with packages and crowded with

passengers. But there was room for two more, and we mounted to our

places outside. Presently the machine moved slowly along again. It

was so heavily-laden and the roads were so rough, that we rolled as

if every moment we were going to roll over into the ditch, where we

should all be killed. Mrs. Gambit loudly declared that nothing should

ever again take her out of London, where a body could ride in a coach

without the fear of being upset and the breaking of necks. On this

journey, however, no necks were broken, because the coach did not

upset. When the rolling was very bad, Mrs. Gambit clutched me with one

hand and her right hand neighbour with the other. I, in my turn, seized

her with one hand and my right hand neighbour with the other. Then we

both shrieked, until presently, finding that we did not actually go

over, I began to laugh.

My neighbour was a clergyman of grave and studious aspect. He wore

a full wig, which had certainly been a second-hand one when it was

bought, so shabby, was it now; his gown was also shabby, and his

stockings were of grey worsted. Clearly a country clergyman of humble

means. His face, however, looked young. When I caught him by the arm,

he laid hold of my hand with both of his, saying gravely, "Now, madam,

I hold you so tightly that you cannot fall." This was very kind of him.

And, presently, he wanted to lay his arm round my waist for my better

protection. But this was taking more trouble than I would consent to.

There was, however, a worse danger than that of upsetting. This year,

England suffered from a plague of highway-robbers, the like of which

was never before known. The roads were crowded with them. They were

mostly disbanded soldiers, who, being either disinclined to return

to their old trades, or being unable to find employment, roamed

about the country either singly or in pairs, or in bands, rogues and

vagabonds, ready to rob, steal, plunder, or even murder as occasion

offered. They were sometimes so bold that they would attack a whole

coachful of passengers, and take from them whatever they carried,

unless, as sometimes happened, there were one or two valiant men on

the coach ready to give them a warm reception with guns, pistols,

swords, or even stout cudgels. They were said seldom to show much fight

(being conscious of the gallows awaiting them if they were wounded or

captured), and would generally make off. But it was not always that

passengers were found ready to risk the fight, and in most cases they

sat still and delivered.

With this danger before us, it was not surprising that the conversation

should turn upon highwaymen whenever the road became a little smooth,

and I listened with terror to the tales I heard. Most of them were

related by a man who sat opposite to me. He wore a scratch wig

(probably his second-best), and had his hat flapped and tied about his

ears as if it were winter. He was, I suppose, a merchant of some kind,

because he talked a great deal about prices, and stocks, and markets,

with other things, Greek and Hebrew to me. Also, he looked so uneasy,

and kept watching the road with so anxious an air, that I felt sure

he must be carrying a great parcel of money like me, and I longed to

advise him to imitate my prudence; and at the next town we got down

to sew it within his coat. He continually lamented, as we went along,

the desperate wickedness of the highway-robbers: he spoke of it as if

he were entirely disinterested, and regarded not at all the peril to

his own fortune, but only the danger of their own souls, liable to

be wretchedly lost and thrown away by their dreadful courses. And he

talked so feelingly on this subject that one began to feel as if good

words were being spoken to the edification of the soul. As for their

suppression, he said that, in their own interests, strong measures

would be necessary. Trade would never flourish, and therefore men would

not be induced to follow a respectable trade until ships could sail the

seas without fear of pirates, and honest merchants carry their property

up and down the king's highway without fear of highwaymen. Here we came

in sight of a man on horseback, and we all kept silence for an anxious

space, till we discovered, by his great wig and black coat, that it was

nothing but a country surgeon riding out to see a patient. Then the

merchant went on to say that since the gallows did not terrify these

evil-doers, he, for one, was for trying how they would like the French

wheel.

At this there was a terrible outcry: the clergyman, especially, asking

if he wished to introduce French barbarities.

"Such things," he said solemnly, "are the natural accompaniment of

Popery. Pray, sir, remember Smithfield."

"Sir," said the merchant, "I hope I am as good a Protestant as my

neighbours. I call that, however, not barbarity but justice and mercy

which punishes the guilty and deters the weak. As for barbarities, are

we Protestants better than our neighbours? Is it not barbarous to flog

our soldiers and sailors for insubordination; to flog our rogues at the

cart-tail; to lash the backs of women in Bridewell; to cut and scourge

the pickpockets so long as the alderman chooses to hold up the hammer?

Do we not hack the limbs of our traitors, and stick them up on Temple

Bar? Truly the world would come to a pretty pass if we were to ask our

cut-throats what punishment would hurt them least."

"I like not the breaking of legs on wheels," cried Mrs. Gambit. "But to

call the flogging of Bridewell hussies barbarous! Fie, sir! You might

as well call bull-baiting barbarous."

No one wanted to encourage highway-robbers, yet none but this merchant

from foreign parts would allow than an Englishman, however wicked,

should cruelly have his limbs broken and crushed by a rod of iron.

"As for the gentlemen of the road," said Mrs. Gambit, "I, for one, fear

them not. They may take the butter and eggs in my basket, but they

won't find my money, for that is in my shoe."

"Nor mine," said I, taking courage and thinking to show my cleverness;

"for it is all sewn safe inside my petticoats."

"Hush, silly women!" cried the merchant. "You know not but there is a

highwayman sitting in disguise on the coach beside you. I beg pardon,

sir," he turned to the clergyman beside me--"no offence, sir--though I

have heard of a thief who robbed a coach after travelling in it dressed

as a gentleman of your cloth."

"None, sir, none," replied his reverence. "Yet am I not a highwayman,

I do assure you for your comfort. Nor have I any money in my pocket or

my shoe. I am but a simple clergyman, going to look at a benefice which

hath been graciously bestowed upon me."

"That, sir," said the merchant, "is satisfactory, and I hope that

no other ears have heard what these ladies have disclosed. Shoes?

petticoats? Oh, the things that I have seen and heard!"

The clergyman then told us that he had a wife and six daughters, and

that the preferment (two hundred pounds a year!) would make a man of

him, who had as yet been little better than a slave with sixty pounds

for all his income. The Christian year, he told us, was a long Lent for

him, save that sometimes, as at Christmas and Eastertide, he was able

to taste meat given to him. Yet he looked fat and hearty.

"My drink," he said, "is from the spring, which costs nothing; and my

bread is but oatmeal-porridge, potatoes, or barley-meal."

Then he pressed my hand in his, said I resembled his wife in her

younger days, and declared that he already felt to me like a father.

There sat next to the merchant a young gentleman of about seventeen

or eighteen, brave in scarlet, for he had just received a commission

as ensign in a regiment of the line, and was on his way to join his

colours, as he told us with pride. Directly highway robbers were

mentioned he assumed, being a young man with rosy and blushing cheek,

fitter for a game of cricket on the green than for war's alarms, a

fierce and warlike mien, and assured us that we ladies should not want

protection while he was on the coach. And he made a great show of

loosening his sword in the scabbard to ensure its quick and ready use,

should the occasion rise. The merchant received these professions of

courage with undisguised contempt; the clergyman smiled; Mrs. Gambit

nodded her head and laughed, as if he was a boy whose talk meant

nothing. I neither laughed at him nor scowled at him. In fact I was

thinking, girl-like, what a handsome boy he was, and hoping that he

would some day become a great general. As the country seems at the

present juncture sadly in want of great generals, I fear he has been

killed in action.

When we stopped for dinner, at one o'clock--I remember that I never

before saw so prodigious a piece of roast beef upon the table--our host

must needs spoil all enjoyment of the meal by asking us, just as we

were sat down, sharp-set by the air, if we had met or seen anything of

a certain "Black Will," who seemed to be very well known by all. The

very name caused our poor merchant to push back his plate untasted, and

the young officer to rise from the table and hasten to assure himself

that his sword was loose in the scabbard.

"Because," said the landlord, "it is right for you to know that Black

Will is reported in this neighbourhood with all his crew: a bloody lot,

gentlemen. I hope you have no valuables to speak of upon you. However,

perhaps they will not meet you on the road. They murdered a man last

year, a young gentleman like you, sir," nodding to the ensign, "because

he offered resistance and drew his sword. What is a little toothpick

like that, compared with a quarterstaff in the hands of a sturdy rogue?

So they beat his brains out for him. Then they gagged and used most

unmercifully, kicking him till he was senseless, an honest gentleman

like yourself, sir"--he nodded to our merchant--"who gave them the

trouble of taking off his boots, where, for greater safety, as the poor

wretch thought, he had bestowed his money----"

"God bless my soul!" cried the merchant, changing colour, so that I for

one felt quite certain that his was there too, and that his courage was

down in his boots as well, to keep the money company. "Bless my soul!

hanging, mere hanging, is too good for such villains."

"It is indeed," replied the landlord, shaking his head. "There was a

young lady, too"--I started, because he looked at me--"who had her

money sewn in a bag inside her frock." I blushed red, knowing where

mine was. "They made her take it off and dance a minuet with one of

them in her petticoats. But indeed there is no end to their wickedness.

Come, gentlemen, let me carve faster; spare not the beef; don't let

Black Will spoil your appetites. Cut and come again. He may be twenty

miles away. A noble sirloin, upon my word! To be sure, he may be

waiting on the hill there in the wood."

"A glass of brandy, landlord," cried the merchant, who surely was a

dreadful coward. "Tell me, would he be alone?"

"Not likely." The landlord, I thought, took a pleasure in making

us uneasy. "He would have two or three with him. Perhaps six. With

pistols. Do take some more beef. And blunderbusses. Ah! a desperate

wicked gang."

In such cheerful discourse we took our dinner, and then, with

trepidation, mounted to our places and drove away.

We got up the hill safely, and met no Black Will. During the next stage

we all kept an anxious look up and down the road. The coach seemed to

crawl, and the way was rough. The sight of a man on horseback made

our hearts beat; if we saw two, we gave ourselves up for lost. But I

was pleased all the time to mark the gallant and resolute behaviour

of the boy, who, with his hand upon the hilt of his sword, sat pale

but determined; and when he caught my eye, smiled with the courage of

one who would defend us to the death, as I am sure he would, like the

gallant young knight he was.

Towards the evening we caught sight of the tower of Canterbury

Cathedral, and soon afterwards we rolled through the streets of that

ancient city, and got down at the Crown Inn, where we were to rest for

the night.

I pass over, as unworthy of record, my own wonder at so great and

beautiful a city. This was the first town I had ever seen; these the

first shops; and this the first, and still the grandest, to my mind, of

great cathedral churches. We walked through the great church at sunset,

where there was something truly awful in the lofty arches mounting

heavenwards, and the gloom of the roof. Outside there were Gothic

ruins; rooks were calling to each other in the trees, and swifts were

flying about the tower.

At supper we had more talk about highway-robbers, but we were assured

that there was less danger now, because between Canterbury and London

the road is more frequented, and therefore robbers, who are by nature

a timorous folk, hesitate to attack a coach. Moreover, the landlord

told us that we should have with us two or three honest citizens of

Canterbury, substantial tradesmen, who travelled to London together for

mutual protection, taking money with them, and pistols with which to

defend themselves.

"One of them," he added, "is a lieutenant in the train-band, and

a draper in the city: a more resolute fellow never handled a

yard-measure."

The gentlemen ordered a bowl of punch after supper, and we retired. As

we left the room, the clergyman followed us. Outside the door, Mrs.

Gambit having already begun to go upstairs, he said he would give

me his benediction, which he did, kissing me on the cheeks and lips

with much (and undeserved) affection. He was good enough to say that

I greatly resembled his youngest sister, the beautiful one, and he

desired closer acquaintance. Nor could I understand why Mrs. Gambit

spoke scornfully of this act of kindness, which was entirely unexpected

by me. "Kindness, quotha!" she cried. "A pious man indeed, to love to

kiss a pretty maid! I like not such piety."

In the morning the train-band lieutenant, with his two friends, came

swaggering to the inn. He carried his pistols openly, and made more

display of them, I thought, than was necessary, considering his

character for resolution and desperate bravery. Then we started, our

little soldier still ready with his sword.

The road was smoother; it ran for the most part along enclosures and

gentlemen's parks. It was broad and straight, having been made, we were

told by the draper, in the time of the Romans; and as we drew near to

London, the villages became more frequent, and the road was covered

with carts, waggons, and carriages of every kind, all moving towards

London. Was London bigger than Canterbury? I asked. They laughed at

my innocence, and began to tell me that you might take the whole of

Canterbury out of London and not miss it much: also that he or she who

had not seen London had not seen the greatest marvel and wonder of the

world.

"There are fine buildings," said the merchant, "in Paris, though the

streets are foul; but in London there are buildings as fine, with

streets that are broader: and there is the trade. Aha!"--he smacked his

lips--"Paris hath no trade. One has to see the ships in the Pool, and

the Custom House, and the wharves, before one can understand how great

and rich a city is London. And one should also--but that, young lady,

you cannot ever do, live as long as you will, being only a woman--feast

at one of the great City Companies to understand how nobly they can use

their wealth."

We were still anxious about highwaymen, but our fears were greatly

lessened by the presence of the brave draper of Canterbury. The

clergyman kept up a flow of anecdotes, which showed strange

acquaintance with the wickedness of the world, on highwaymen, footpads,

robbers of all kinds, deceivers of strangers, and practisers on

innocence. The merchant listened eagerly, and together they bemoaned

the credulity of the ignorant, and the subtlety of the designing.

Our spirits grew higher as we neared the end of our journey. Now,

indeed, there was but little fear. The coach travels from Canterbury to

London in a single day; we should arrive before nightfall.

"Ha! ha!" said the merchant, rubbing his hands, "we who travel

encounter many dangers. In London one can go to bed without fearing

to be murdered in one's sleep, and walk abroad without looking to be

brained and murderously treated for the sake of a purse and a watch.

There may be pickpockets, shoplifters, and such petty rogues: there

may be footpads about St. Pancras or Lincoln's Inn Fields, but small

villains all compared with these desperate rogues of highwaymen."

"Desperate indeed," said the clergyman. "Dear sir, we should be

grateful for our preservation."

It was already past seven when we arrived at the Talbot Inn. The

merchant fetched a deep sigh, and thanked Providence aloud for keeping

us safe from the danger of "Stand and deliver!" The clergyman said,

"Amen," but gently reproved the merchant for not allowing him, as an

ordained minister, to take the lead in every devotional exercise. When

they got down they entered the house together. The young ensign pulled

off his hat to me, and said that no doubt the rogues had got wind of

an officer's presence on the stage. Then he tapped his sword-hilt

significantly, and got down, and I saw him no more. The gallant draper,

getting down slowly, lamented that he must still be carrying loaded

pistols, with never an opportunity for using them upon the road, and

uncocked his weapons with as much ostentatious care as he had shown

in loading them. For my own part, I had no taste for fighting, or for

seeing fights, and was only too glad to escape the hands of men who, if

tales were true, did not even respect a girl's frocks. The clergyman

bestowed a final benediction upon me, saying that he craved my name

with a view to a closer friendship; and would have kissed me again had

not Mrs. Gambit pushed him away with great roughness.

The thing I am now about to relate will doubtless seem incredible. Yet

it is true. I learned it some time after, when Black Will was hanged,

and his last Dying Speech and Confession was cried in the streets.

The merchant and the clergyman entered the Talbot Inn to drink together

a bowl of punch at the former's expense before separating. The latter,

out of respect for his cloth, called for a private room, whither the

punch was presently brought.

Now, when they had taken a glass or two each, both being very merry,

they were disturbed by the entrance of two tall and ill-favoured

fellows, who walked into the room and sat down, one on each side of the

merchant.

"Gentlemen!" he cried, "this is a private room, ordered by his

reverence here and myself for the peaceful drinking of a thanksgiving

glass."

"No," replied the clergyman, rising and locking the door; "I find, dear

sir, that this room had been already bespoke by these gentlemen, who

are friends of mine own, and that we have very urgent business which

particularly concerns yourself."

At these words the merchant turned pale, being, as you may imagine,

horribly frightened, and perceiving that he had fallen into a nest of

hornets. Whereupon he sprang to his feet, and would have rushed to the

door, but that two of the villains seized him and pushed him back into

the chair, while the third drew a knife and held it at his throat,

informing him that his weasand would most certainly be cut across did

he but move a finger or utter a sigh. At this dreadful threat the poor

man gave himself up for lost, and said no more, only the tears of

despair rolled down his face as he thought of what was going to happen

to him.

The good clergyman then, with smiles and a polite bow, informed him

that in this world things are not always what they seemed to be.

"Honest tradesmen," he said, "often turn out to be common cheats, and

substantial citizens become bankrupts. Therefore, it is not surprising

if a reverend minister of the Established Church should occasionally

bear a hand in a little scheme in which good acting and dexterity are

essentials necessary for success. In fact," he went on, drinking up all

the punch meanwhile, "though to you and to many good friends I am a

pious divine, among my particular intimates and these gentlemen of the

road"--here he pointed to the two villains--"I am no other than Black

Will, at your service! Nay, do not faint, dear sir. Although you would

break me on the wheel, had you the power, I assure you I shall do you

no harm in the world. Wherefore, kick off your boots!"

Alas! in his boots was the money which the poor man was bringing home

from France. They took it all. They tied him to his chair, and that

to the table. They gagged him; they put his wig on the table, tied a

handkerchief over his head, so that he should seem to be asleep; and

then they left him, telling the waiter that the gentleman in the blue

room was tired after his journey, and would like to be undisturbed for

an hour or two.

To think that this villain (who was but twenty-four when he was hanged,

a year or so later) should dare to feel towards me like a father, and

to give me his blessing--on the lips!

CHAPTER IV.

HOW KITTY FIRST SAW THE DOCTOR.

It was past seven in the evening when we arrived at the Talbot Inn

of Southwark, and too late to begin our search after my uncle that

evening. Mrs. Gambit, therefore, after conference with a young man of

eight-and-twenty or so, dressed in broadcloth, very kindly offered me a

bed at her own lodging for the night. This, she told me, was in a quiet

and most respectable neighbourhood, viz., Fore Street, which she begged

me not to confound with Houndsditch. I readily assured her that I would

preserve separate the ideas of the two streets, which was easy to one

who knew neither.

She then informed me that the young man was no other than her husband,

foreman of works to a builder, and that, to save the expense of a

porter, he would himself carry my box. Mr. Gambit upon this touched

his hat respectfully, grinned, shouldered the box, and led the way,

pushing through the crowd around us, and elbowing them to right and

left without a word of excuse, as if they were so many ninepins.

I learned afterwards that it is customary with the mechanical tradesmen

of London thus to assert their right of passage, and as it is not every

one who gives way, the porter's burden is not unfrequently lowered

while he stops to fight one who disputes his path. In evidence of these

street fights, most of the London carters, coachmen, chairmen, porters,

and labourers, bear continually upon their faces the scars, recent or

ancient, of many such encounters. As for the gentlemen, it seems right

that they should not disdain to strip and take a turn with their fists

against some burly ruffian who would thrust his unmannerly body past

his betters, confident in his superior strength.

Mr. Gambit looked round from time to time to see if we were following,

and it gave me pain to observe how my box, which was long in shape,

became the constant cause of sad accidents; for with it Mr. Gambit

either knocked off a hat, or deranged a wig, or struck violently some

peaceful person on the back of his head, or gave an inoffensive citizen

a black eye, or caused profane passengers to swear. He was, however, so

big, strong, and careless about these reproaches, that no one cared to

stop him or offered to fight him until he was well on ahead.

"It's a royal supper," he turned and nodded pleasantly, shouting these

words to his wife: the box thus brought at right angles to the road,

barred the way while he spoke, except to the very short. "Tripe--fried

tripe!--with onions and carrots and potatoes. Will be done to a turn at

eight. Make haste!"

What crowds! what rushing to and fro! what jostling, pushing, and

crowding! What hurrying, and what wicked language! Sure something

dreadful must have happened, nor could I believe Mrs. Gambit when she

assured me that this was the usual crowd of London.

Then we came to London Bridge: and I saw the ships in the river and

the Tower of London. Oh, the forests of masts! And beyond the river,

the steeples of the great city shining bright in the evening sunshine.

Which of them was my uncle's church?

We crossed the bridge; we walked up Gracechurch Street to Cornhill; we

passed through a labyrinth of narrow and winding lanes, crowded like

the wider streets. Mr. Gambit hurried along, thinking, I suppose, of

his supper, and using my box as a kind of battering-ram with which to

force a way. Presently we came to a broad street, which was, in fact,

Fore Street, where was Mrs. Gambit's lodging.

"Eight o'clock," said Mr. Gambit, as we reached the top of the stairs.

"Now for supper."

There was such a noise in the street below that we could hardly hear

the church bells as they struck the hour. Yet there were churches all

round us. But their bells clanging together only added somewhat to the

general tumult.

"Eight o'clock, wife--good time!"

He dropped my box upon the floor, and hastened down the stairs.

It was a comfortable lodging of two rooms, in one of which a cloth was

laid for supper, which Mr. Gambit speedily brought from a cookshop, and

we had a royal supper indeed, with two quarts at least of the nauseous

black beer of London, to which such men are extravagantly addicted.

Supper ended, Mr. Gambit lit a pipe of tobacco and began to smoke,

begging me not to mind him. His wife told him of the farm and her

brother, and I tried to listen through the dreadful noise of the street

below. It was a warm evening and our window was thrown open; people

were passing up and down, talking, singing, whistling, shouting, and

swearing. I could hear nothing else; but the good man seemed as if he

was deaf to the roar of the street, and listened to his wife as quietly

as if we were in the fields. I asked him presently, with a shout, what

was the cause of a dreadful riot and tumult? He laughed, and said that

it was always the same. It was a pity, I said, that London being so

rich, could not keep the streets quiet.

"Ay, but," said he, "there are plenty of poor people as well, and you

must first ask what they think about having their mouth shut."

The strangeness of the place and the noise in the streets kept me awake

nearly all that night, so that, when Mrs. Gambit called me in the

morning, I was still tired. But it was time to be up and seeking for my

uncle.

We got everything ready: my father's last will and testament; my bags

of money, which Mrs. Gambit carried for me in her basket, and tied the

basket to her arm; and my box of clothes. Then, because Mrs. Gambit

said that a young lady should not walk with her box carried by a

porter, like a servant wench, we hired a coach and told him to drive us

to St. Paul's Coffee-house.

It is not far from Fore Street to St. Paul's Churchyard, but the crowd

in the streets, the waggons and carts, and the dreadful practice of

London drivers to quarrel and then to stop while they abuse each other,

delayed us a great deal, so that it was already half-past nine when we

came to the Coffee-house.

We got down, leaving the coach at the door.

It was a place the like of which I had never dreamed of. To be sure,

everything was new to me just then, and my poor rustic brain was

turning with the novelty. There was a long room which smelt of tobacco,

rum-punch, coffee, chocolate, and tea; it was already filled with

gentlemen, sitting on the benches before small tables, at which some

were taking pipes of tobacco, some were talking, some were writing, and

some were reading the newspapers. Running along one side of the room

was a counter covered with coffee-pots, bottles of Nantz, Jamaica rum,

Hollands, and Geneva: there were also chocolate-dishes, sugar, lemons,

spices, and punch-bowls. Behind the counter sat a young woman, of

grave aspect, knitting, but holding herself in readiness to serve the

customers.

The gentlemen raised their heads and stared at me; some of them

whispered and laughed; all gazed as if a woman had no more business

there than in the inner precincts of the Temple. That was what occurred

to me instantly, because they were, I observed, all of them clergymen.

They were not, certainly, clergymen who appeared to have risen in

the world, nor did their appearance speak so much in their favour as

their calling. They were mostly, in fact, clad in tattered gowns, with

disordered or shabby wigs, and bands whose whiteness might have been

restored by the laundress, but had changed long since into a crumpled

yellow. I heard afterwards that the house was the resort of those

"tattered crapes," as they are irreverently called, who come to be

hired by the rectors, vicars, and beneficed clergy of London, for an

occasional sermon, burial, or christening, and have no regular cure of

souls.

On such chance employment and odd jobs these reverend ministers

contrive to live. They even vie with each other and underbid their

neighbours for such work; and some, who have not the means to spend a

sixpence at the Coffee-house, will, it is said, walk up and down the

street, ready to catch a customer outside. One fears that there must

be other reasons besides lack of interest for the ill success of these

men. Surely, a godly life and zeal for religion should be, even in this

country of patronage, better rewarded than by this old age of penury

and dependence. Surely, too, those tattered gowns speak a tale of

improvidence, and those red noses tell of a mistaken calling.

This, however, I did not then know, and I naturally thought there must

be some great ecclesiastical function in preparation, a confirming on

a large scale, about to be celebrated in the great cathedral close

beside, whose vastness was such as amazed and confounded me. These

clergymen, whose poverty was no doubt dignified by their virtues, were

probably preparing for the sacred function after the manner practised

by my father, namely, by an hour's meditation. Perhaps my uncle would

be among them.

Seeing me standing there helpless, and I daresay showing, by my face,

what I immediately manifested in speech, my rusticity, the young woman

behind the counter came to my assistance, and asked me, very civilly,

what I lacked.

"I was told," I stammered, "to inquire at the St. Paul's Coffee-house

for the present lodging of my uncle." As if there was but one uncle in

all London!

"Certainly, madam," said the woman, "if you will tell me your uncle's

name."

"I was told that you knew, at this house, the residence of every London

clergyman."

"Yes, madam, that is true; and of a good many country clergymen. If you

will let me know his name, we will do what we can to assist you."

"He is named" (I said this with a little pride, because I thought that

perhaps, from my own rusticity and the homeliness of my companion, she

might not have thought me so highly connected), "he is the Reverend

Gregory Shovel, Doctor of Divinity."

"Lord save us!" she cried, starting back and holding up her hands,

while she dropped her knitting-needle. Why did she stare, smile, and

then look upon me with a sort of pity and wonder? "Dr. Shovel is your

uncle, madam?"

"Yes," I said. "My father, who was also a clergyman, and is but lately

dead, bade me come to London and seek him out."

She shook her head at this news, and called for one William. There came

from the other end of the room a short-legged man, with the palest

cheeks and the reddest nose I had ever seen. They spoke together for

a few minutes. William grinned as she spoke, and scratched his head,

under the scantiest wig I had ever seen.

"Can you tell me?" I began, when she returned. I observed that William,

when he left her, ran quickly up the room, whispering to the gentlemen,

who had ceased to stare at me, and that, as soon as he had whispered,

they all, with one consent, put down their pipes, or their papers, or

their coffee, stayed their conversation, and turned their clerical

faces to gaze upon me, with a universal grin, which seemed ill-bred,

if one might so speak of the clergy. "Can you tell me?"

"I can, madam; and will," she replied. "What, did your father not know

the present residence of Dr. Shovel? I fear it will not be quite such

as a young lady of your breeding, madam, had a right to expect. But

doubtless you have other and better friends."

"She has, indeed," said Miss Gambit, "if his honour Sir Robert Levett,

Justice of the Peace, is to be called a good friend. But if you please,

tell us quickly, madam, because our coach waits at the door, and

waiting is money in London. The country for me, where a man will sit

on a stile the whole day long, and do nothing, content with his daily

wage. And the sooner we get away from these reverend gentlemen, who

stare as if they had never seen a young lady from the country before,

the better."

"Then," the young woman went on, "tell your man to drive you down

Ludgate Hill and up the Fleet Market on the prison side; he may stop at

the next house to the third Pen and Hand. You will find the doctor's

name written on a card in the window."

We thanked her, and got into the coach. When we told the coachman where

to go, he smacked his leg with his hand, and burst out laughing.

"I thought as much," cried the impudent rascal. "Ah, Mother Slylips!

wouldn't the doctor serve your turn, but you must needs look out for

one in the Coffee-house? I warrant the doctor is good enough for the

likes of you!"

He cracked his whip, and we drove off slowly.

Now, which was really extraordinary, all the reverend gentlemen of the

coffee-room had left their places and were crowded round the door,

some of them almost pushing their wigs into the coach windows in their

eagerness to look at us. This seemed most unseemly conduct on the

part of a collection of divines; nor did I imagine that curiosity so

undignified, and so unworthy a sacred profession, could be called forth

by the simple appearance of a young girl in the coffee-room.

The faces formed a curious picture. Some of the clergymen were

stooping, some standing, some mounting on chairs, the better to see, so

that the doorway of the Coffee-house seemed a pyramid of faces. They

were old, young, fat, thin, red, pale, of every appearance and every

age; they were mostly disagreeable to look at, because their possessors

were men who had been unsuccessful, either through misfortune or

through fault; and they all wore, as they stared, a look of delighted

curiosity, as if here was something, indeed, to make Londoners

talk--nothing less, if you please, than a girl of seventeen, just come

up from the country.

"Bless us!" cried Mrs. Gambit, "are the men gone mad? London is a

wicked place indeed, when even clergymen come trooping out merely to

see a pretty girl! Fie for shame, sir, and be off with you!"

These last words were addressed to one old clergyman with an immense

wig, who was actually thrusting his face through the coach window. He

drew it back on this reprimand, and we went on our way.

I looked round once more. The young woman of the counter was still in

the doorway, and with her William, with the scrubby wig and the red

nose; round them were the clergymen, and they were all talking about

me, and looking after me. Some of them wagged their heads, some shook

theirs, some nodded, some were holding their heads on one side, and

some were hanging theirs. Some were laughing, some smiling, some were

grave. What did it mean?

"If," said Mrs. Gambit, "they were not clergymen, I should say they

were all tomfools. And this for a pretty girl--for you are pretty,

Miss Kitty, with your rosy cheeks and the bright eyes which were never

yet spoiled by the London smoke. But there must be plenty other pretty

girls in London. And them to call themselves clergymen!"

"Perhaps they were looking at you, Mrs. Gambit."

The idea did not seem to displease her. She smiled, smoothed the folds

of her gown, and pulled down the ends of her neckerchief.

"Five years ago, child, they might. But I doubt it is too late. Set

them up, indeed! As if nothing would suit them to look at but the wife

of a respectable builder's foreman. They must go into the country, must

they, after the pretty faces?"

But oh, the noise and tumult of the streets! For as we came to the west

front of St. Paul's, we found Ludgate Hill crowded with such a throng

as I had never before believed possible. The chairmen jostled each

other up and down the way. The carts, coaches, drays, barrows, waggons,

trucks, going up the hill, met those going down, and there was such

a crush of carriages, as, it seemed, would never be cleared. All the

drivers were swearing at each other at the top of their voices.

"Shut your ears, child!" cried Mrs. Gambit. But, immediately

afterwards: "There! it's no use; they could be heard through my

grandfather's nightcap! Oh, this London wickedness!"

There are many kinds of wickedness in London; but the worst, as I have

always thought, because I have seen and heard so much of it, is the

great and terrible vice of blasphemy and profane swearing, so that, if

you listen to the ragamuffin boys or to the porters, or to the chair

and coach men, it would seem as if it were impossible for them to utter

three words without two, at least, being part of an oath.

Then some of the drivers fought with each other; the people in the

coaches looked out of the windows--swore, if they were men; if they

were ladies, they shrieked. Most of those who were walking up and down

the hill took no manner of notice of the confusion; they pushed on

their way, bearing parcels and bundles, looking neither to the right

nor to the left, but straight in front, as if they had not a moment to

spare, and must push on or lose their chance of fortune. Some there

were, it is true, who lingered, looking at the crush in the road and

the men fighting; or, if they were women, stopping before the shops,

in the windows of which were hoods, cardinals, sashes, pinners, and

shawls, would make the mouth of any girl to water only to look at them.

At the doors stood shopmen, bravely habited in full-dressed wigs with

broad ribbon ties behind, who bowed and invited the gazers to enter.

And there were a few who loitered as they went. These carried their

hats beneath their arms, and dangled canes in their right hands.

There was plenty of time for us to notice all that passed, because the

block in the way took fully half an hour to clear away. We were delayed

ten minutes of this time through the obstinacy of a drayman, who,

after exchanging with a carter oaths which clashed, and clanged, and

echoed in the air like the bombshells at the siege of Mans, declared

that he could not possibly go away satisfied until he had fought his

man. The mob willingly met his views, applauding so delicate a sense

of honour. They made a ring, and we presently heard the shouts of

those who encouraged the combatants, but happily could not see them,

by reason of the press. Mrs. Gambit would fain have witnessed the

fight; and, indeed, few country people there are who do not love to see

two sturdy fellows thwack and belabour each other with quarterstaff,

singlestick, or fists. But I was glad that we could not see the battle,

being, I hope, better taught. My father, indeed, and Lady Levett were

agreed that in these things we English were little better than the poor

pagan Romans, who crowded to see gladiators do battle to the death,

or prisoners fight till they fell, cruelly torn and mangled by the

lions; and no better at all than the poor Spanish papists who flock to

a circus where men fight with bulls. It is hard to think that Roman

gentlewomen and Spanish ladies would go to see such sights, whatever

men may do. Yet in this eighteenth century, when we have left behind

us, as we flatter ourselves, the Gothic barbarisms of our ancestors, we

still run after such cruelties and cruel sports as fights with fists,

sticks, or swords, baitings of bull, bear, and badger, throwing stones

at cocks, killing of rats by dogs and ferrets, fights of cocks, dogs,

cats, and whatever other animals can be persuaded to fight and kill

each other.

When the fight was over, and one man defeated--I know not which, but

both were horribly bruised and stained with blood--the carts cleared

away rapidly, and we were able to go on. Is it not strange to think

that the honour of such a common fellow should be "satisfied" when he

hath gotten black eyes, bloody nose, and teeth knocked down his throat?

We got to the bottom of the hill, and passed without further adventure

through the old gate of Lud, with its narrow arch and the stately

effigy of Queen Elizabeth looking across the Fleet Bridge. Pity it is

that the old gate has since been removed. For my own part, I think

the monuments of old times should be carefully guarded, and kept, not

taken away to suit the convenience of draymen and coaches. What would

Fleet Street be without its bar? or the Thames without its river-gates?

Outside, there was a broad space before us. The Fleet river ran, filthy

and muddy, to the left, the road crossing it by a broad and handsome

stone bridge, where the way was impeded by the stalls of those who

sold hot furmety and medicines warranted to cure every disease. On the

right, the Fleet had been recently covered in, and was now built over

with a long row of booths and stalls. On either side the market were

rows of houses.

"Fleet Market," said the driver, looking round. "Patience, young lady.

Five minutes, and we are there."

There was another delay here of two or three minutes. The crowd was

denser, and I saw among them two or three men with eager faces, who

wore white aprons, and ran about whispering in the ears of the people,

especially of young people. I saw one couple, a young man and a girl,

whom they all, one after the other, addressed, whispering, pointing,

and inviting. The girl blushed and turned away her head, and the young

man, though he marched on stoutly, seemed not ill pleased with their

proposals. Presently one of them came to our coach, and put his head

in at the window. It was as impudent and ugly a head as ever I saw. He

squinted, one eye rolling about by itself, as if having quarrelled with

the other; he had had the bridge of his nose crushed in some fight;

some of his teeth stuck out like fangs, but most were broken; his chin

was bristly with a three days' beard; his voice was thick and hoarse;

and when he began to speak, his hearers began to think of rum.

"Pity it is," he said, "that so pretty a pair cannot find gallant

husbands. Now, ladies, if you will come with me I warrant that in half

an hour the doctor will bestow you upon a couple of the young noblemen

whom he most always keeps in readiness."

Here the driver roughly bade him begone about his business for an ass,

for the young lady was on her way to the doctor's. At this the fellow

laughed and nodded his head.

"Aha!" he said, "no doubt we shall find the gentleman waiting. Your

ladyship will remember that I spoke to you first. The fees of us

messengers are but half-a-crown, even at the doctor's, where alone the

work is secure."

"What means the fellow?" cried Mrs. Gambit. "What have we to do with

gentlemen?"

"All right, mother," he replied, with another laugh. Then he mounted

the door-step, and continued to talk while the coach slowly made its

way.

We were now driving along the city side of the Fleet Market, that

side on which stands the prison. The market was crowded with buyers

and sellers, the smell of the meat, the poultry, and the fruit, all

together, being strong rather than delicate.

"This," said Mrs. Gambit, "is not quite like the smell of the

honeysuckle in the Kentish hedges."

The houses on our right seemed to consist of nothing but taverns, where

signs where hoisted up before the doors. At the corner, close to the

ditch was the Rainbow, and four doors higher up was the Hand and Pen,

next to that the Bull and Garter, then another Hand and Pen, then the

Bishop Blaize, a third Hand and Pen, the Fighting Cocks, and the Naked

Boy. One called the White Horse had a verse written up under the sign:

"My White Horse shall beat the Bear,

And make the Angel fly;

Turn the Ship with its bottom up,

And drink the Three Cups dry."

But what was more remarkable was that of the repetition in every window

of a singular announcement. Two hands were painted, or drawn rudely,

clasping each other, and below them was written, printed, or scrawled,

some such remarkable legend as the following:

"Weddings Performed Here."

"A Church of England Clergyman always on the Premises."

"Weddings performed Cheap."

"The Only Safe House."

"The Old and True Register."

"Marriage by Church Service and Ordained Clergymen."

"Safety and Cheapness."

"The Licensed Clergyman of the Fleet."

"Weddings by a late Chaplain to a Nobleman--one

familiar with the Quality."

"No Imposition."

"Not a Common Fleet Parson;"

with other statements which puzzled me exceedingly.

"You do well, ladies," the man with us went on, talking with his head

thrust into the coach, "you do well to come to Doctor Shovel, whose

humble servant, or clerk, I am. The Doctor is no ordinary Fleet parson.

He does not belong to the beggarly gentry--not regular clergymen at

all who live in a tavern, and do odd jobs as they come, for a guinea a

week and the run of the landlord's rum. Not he, madam. The Doctor is a

gentleman and a scholar: Master of Arts of the University of Cambridge

he was, where, by reason of their great respect for his learning and

piety, they have made him Doctor of Divinity. There is the Rev. Mr.

Arkwell, who will read the service for you for half-a-crown; he was

fined five shillings last week for drunkenness and profane swearing.

Would it be agreeable to your ladyship to be turned off by such an

impious rogue? There is the Rev. Mr. Wigmore will do it for less, if

you promise to lay out your wedding money afterwards on what he calls

his Nantz: he hath twice been fined for selling spirituous drinks

without a license. Who would trust herself to a man so regardless of

his profession? Or the Rev. John Mottram--but there, your ladyship

would not like to have it read in a prison. Now, at the Doctor's is a

snug room with hassocks. There is, forsooth, the Rev. Walter Wyatt,

brother of him who keeps the first Pen and Hand after you turn the

corner; but sure, such a sweet young lady would scorn to look for

drink after the service; or the Rev. John Grierson, or Mr. Walker, or

Mr. Alexander Keith, will do it for what they can get, ay! even--it is

reported--down to eighteenpence or a shilling, with a sixpennyworth of

Geneva. But your ladyship must think of your lines; and where is your

security against treachery? No, ladies. The Doctor is the only man; a

gentleman enjoying the liberties of the Fleet, for which he hath given

security; a Cambridge scholar; who receives at his lodging none but the

quality; no less a fee than a guinea, with half-a-crown for the clerk,

ever enters his house. The guinea, ladies, includes the five-shilling

stamp, with the blessing of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which binds

the happy pair like an act of parliament or a piece of cobbler's wax.

This cheapness is certainly due to the benevolence and piety of the

Doctor, who would be loth indeed to place obstacles in the way of so

Christian and religious a ceremony."

"We have certainly," cried Mrs. Gambit, in dismay at such a flow of

words, "got into Tom Fool's Land. This man is worse than the parsons at

the Coffee-house."

"Now, ladies," the fellow went on, throwing the door wide open with

a fling, and letting down the steps, "this is the house. Look at it,

ladies!"

We got down and stood looking at it.

It was a low house of mean appearance, built in two stories of brick

and timber, the first floor overhanging the lower, as was the fashion

until the present comfortable and handsome mode of using stucco and

flat front was adopted. The brick had been once covered with a coat of

yellow wash, which had crumbled away over most of the front; the timber

had once been painted, but the paint had fallen off. The roof was

gabled; like the rest of the house, it looked decaying and neglected.

The window of the room which looked out upon the street was broad, but

it was set with leaden frames of the kind called diamond, provided

with the common greenish glass, every other pane being those thick

bull's-eye panes, which would stand a blow with a club without being

broken. Little light would enter at that window but for the bright sun

which shone full upon it; the casement, however, was set open to catch

the air.

As for the air, that was hardly worth catching, so foul was it with

the fumes of the market. Right in front of the door stood a great

heap of cabbage leaves, stalks, and vegetable refuse, which sometimes

was collected, put in barrows, and carted into the Fleet Ditch, but

sometimes remained for months.

Mrs. Gambit sniffed disdainfully.

"Give me Fore Street," she said. "There's noise, if you like, but no

cabbage-stalks."

"This, ladies," said the man after a pause, so that we might be

overpowered with the grandeur of the house; "this is no other than the

great Dr. Shovel's house. Here shall you find a service as regular and

as truly read as if you were in the cathedral itself. Not so much as

an amen dropped. They do say that the Doctor is a private friend of

the dean, and hand-in-glove with the bishop. This way. Your ladyship's

box? I will carry it. This is the good Doctor's door. The clerk's

fee half-a-crown; your ladyship will not forget, unless the young

gentleman, which is most likely, should like to make it half-a-guinea.

I follow your ladyships. Doubt not that, early as it is, his reverence

will be found up and ready for good works."

"I believe," said Mrs. Gambit, "that this man would talk the hind legs

off a donkey. Keep close to me, Miss Kitty. Here may be villainy; and

if there is, there's one at least that shall feel the weight of my ten

nails. Young man," she addressed the fellow with sharpness, "you let

that box alone, or if you carry it, go before; I trust Londoners as far

as I can see them, and no farther."

"Pray, ladies," cried the man, "have no suspicion."

"It's all right," said the coachman, grinning. "Lord! I've brought them

here by dozens. Go in, madam. Go in, young lady."

"This way, ladies," cried the man. "The Doctor will see you within."

"A clergyman," continued Mrs. Gambit, taking no manner of notice of

these interruptions, "may not always, no more than a builder's foreman,

choose where he would live. And if his parish is the Fleet Market,

among the cabbages, as I suppose the Doctor's is, or about the Fleet

Prison, among the miserable debtors, as I suppose it may be, why he

must fain live here with the cabbage-stalks beneath his nose, and make

the best of it."

"Your ladyship," the messenger went on, addressing himself to me, "will

shortly, no doubt, be made happy. The gentleman, however, hath not yet

come. Pray step within, ladies."

"You see, Miss Kitty," said Mrs. Gambit, pointing to the window, with

a disdainful look at this impertinent fellow, "this is certainly the

house. So far, therefore, we are safe."

In the window there hung a card, on which was written in large

characters, so that all might read:

+-------------------------------------+

| REVEREND GREGORY SHOVEL, |

| DOCTOR OF DIVINITY, |

| FORMERLY OF CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY. |

+-------------------------------------+

Now, without any reason, I immediately connected this announcement with

those curious advertisements I had seen in the tavern windows. And yet,

what could my uncle have to do with marrying? And what did the man mean

by his long rigmarole and nonsense about the Reverend This and the

Reverend That?

However, Mrs. Gambit led the way, and I followed.

The messenger pushed a door open, and we found ourselves in a low room

lit by the broad window with the diamond panes, of which I have spoken.

The air in the room was close, and smelt of tobacco and rum: the

floor was sanded: the wainscoting of the walls was broken in places;

walls, floors, and ceiling were all alike unwashed and dirty: the only

furniture was a table, half-a-dozen cushions or hassocks, and one

great chair with arms and back of carved wood. On the table was a large

volume. It was the Prayer-book of the Established Church of England and

Ireland, and it was lying open, I could plainly see, at the Marriage

Service.

At the head of the table, a reflection of the sunlight from the window

falling full upon his face, sat a man of middle age, about fifty-five

years or so, who rose when we came in, and bowed with great gravity.

Could this be my uncle?

He was a very big and stout man--one of the biggest men I have ever

seen. He was clad in a rich silk gown, flowing loosely and freely about

him, white bands, clean and freshly starched, and a very full wig.

He had the reddest face possible: it was of a deep crimson colour,

tinged with purple, and the colour extended even to the ears, and the

neck--so much of it as could be seen--was as crimson as the cheeks.

He had a full nose, long and broad, a nose of great strength and very

deep in colour; but his eyes, which were large, reminded me of that

verse in the Psalms, wherein the divine poet speaks of those whose eyes

swell out with fatness: his lips were gross and protruded; he had a

large square forehead and a great amplitude of cheek. He was broad in

the shoulders, deep-chested and portly--a man of great presence; when

he stood upright he not only seemed almost to touch the ceiling, but

also to fill up the breadth of the room. My heart sank as I looked at

him; for he was not the manner of man I expected, and I was afraid.

Where were the outward signs and tokens of that piety which my father

had led me to expect in my uncle? I had looked for a gentle scholar,

a grave and thoughtful bearing. But, even to my inexperienced eyes,

the confident carriage of the Doctor appeared braggart: the roll of

his eyes when we entered the room could not be taken even by a simple

country girl for the grave contemplation of a humble and fervent

Christian: the smell of the room was inconsistent with the thought

of religious meditation: there were no books or papers, or any other

outward signs of scholarship; and even the presence of the Prayer-book

on the table, with the hassocks, seemed a mockery of sacred things.

"So, good Roger," he said, in a voice loud and sonorous, yet musical as

the great bell of St. Paul's, so deep was it and full--"So, good Roger,

whom have we here?"

"A young lady, sir, whom I had the good fortune to meet on Ludgate

Hill. She was on her way to your reverence's, to ask your good offices.

She is--ahem!--fully acquainted with the customary fees of the

Establishment."

"That is well," he replied. "My dear young lady, I am fortunate in

being the humble instrument of making so sweet a creature happy. But I

do not see ... in fact ... the other party."

"The young lady expects the gentleman every minute," said the excellent

Roger.

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Gambit, "the man is stark mad--staring mad!"

"Sir," I faltered--"there is, I fear, some mistake."

He waved both of his hands with a gesture reassuring and grand.

"No mistake, madam, at all. I am that Dr. Shovel before whom the

smaller pretenders in these Liberties give place and hide diminished

heads. If by any unlucky accident your lover has fallen a prey to some

of those (self-styled) clerical gentry, who are in fact impostors and

sharpers, we will speedily rescue him from their talons. Describe the

gentleman, madam, and my messenger shall go and seek him at the Pen and

Hand, or at some other notorious place."

The clerk, meanwhile, had placed himself beside his master, and now

produced a greasy Prayer-book, with the aid of which, I suppose, he

meant to give the responses of the Church. At the mention of the word

"mistake" a look of doubt and anxiety crossed his face.

"There is, indeed, some mistake, sir," I repeated. "My errand here is

not of the kind you think."

"Then, madam, your business with me must be strange indeed. Sirrah!" he

addressed his clerk, in a voice of thunder, "hast thou been playing the

fool? What was it this young lady sought of you?"

"Oh, sir! this good person is not to blame, perhaps. Are you indeed the

Rev. Gregory Shovel, Doctor of Divinity?"

"No other, madam." He spread out both his arms, proudly lifting his

gown, so that he really seemed to cover the whole of the end of the

room. "No other: I assure you I am Dr. Gregory Shovel, known and

beloved by many a happy pair."

"And the brother-in-law of the late Reverend Lawrence Pleydell, late

vicar of----"

He interrupted me. "Late vicar? Is, then, my brother-in-law dead? or

have they, which is a thing incredible, conferred preferment upon sheer

piety?"

"Alas! sir," I cried, with tears, "my father is dead."

"Thy father, child!"

"Yes, sir; I am Kitty Pleydell, at your service."

"Kitty Pleydell!" He bent over me across the table, and looked into my

face not unkindly. "My sister's child! then how----" He turned upon his

clerk, who now stood with staring eyes and open mouth, chapfallen and

terrified. "FOOL!" he thundered. "Get thee packing, lest I do thee a

mischief!"

CHAPTER V.

HOW KITTY WITNESSED A FLEET WEDDING.

Then I pulled out my father's letter, and gave it to him to read.

He took it, read it carefully, nodding gravely over each sentence, and

then returned it to me.

"Lawrence, then," he said softly, "Lawrence is dead! Lawrence Pleydell

is dead! And I am living. Lawrence! He hath, without reasonable doubt,

passed away in full assurance. He hath exchanged this world for a

better. He hath gone to happiness. Nay, if such as he die not in faith,

what hope remains for such sinners as ourselves? Then would it be

better for those who dwell in the Liberties of the Fleet if they had

never been born. So. My sister's child. Hold up thy face, my dear."

He kissed me as he spoke, and held his hand under my chin so that he

could look at me well. "There is more Pleydell than Shovel here. That

is well, because the Pleydells are of gentle blood. And the daughter

doth ever favour the father more than the mother. Favour him in thy

life, child, as well as in thy features.

"Lawrence is dead!" he went on. "The gentlest soul, the most pious and

religious creature that the world has ever seen. He, for one, could

think upon his Maker without the terror of a rebellious and prodigal

son. The world and the flesh had no temptations for him. A good man,

indeed. It is long since I saw him, and he knew not where I live, nor

how. Yet he, who knew me when I was young, trusted still in me--whom no

one else will trust. This it is to start in life with goodly promise of

virtue, scholarship, and religion."

He cleared his throat, and was silent awhile.

"Thy father did well, child. I will treat thee as my own daughter. Yet

I know not, indeed, where to bestow thee, for this house is not fit for

girls, and I have none other. Still, I would fain take thy father's

place, so far as in me lies. He, good man, lived in the country, where

virtue, like fresh butter and new-laid eggs, flourishes easily and at

the cost of a little husbandry in the way of prayer and meditation.

As for us who live in great cities, and especially in the Rules or

Liberties of the Fleet, we may say with the Psalmist, having examples

to the contrary continually before us, with temptations such as

dwellers in the fields wot not of, 'He that keepeth the Law, happy is

he!' I have neither wife nor child to greet thee, Kitty. I must bestow

thee somewhere. What shall we do?"

He paused to think.

"I might find a lodging----but no, that would not do. Or in----but

the house is full of men. There is the clerk of St. Sepulchre's, whose

wife would take thee; but the rector bears me a heavy grudge. Ho!

ho!" he laughed low down in his chest. "There is not a parish round

London, from Limehouse to Westminster, and from Southwark to Highgate,

where the niece of Dr. Shovel would not find herself flouted, out of

the singular hatred which the clergy bear to me. For I undersell them

all. And if they pass an Act to prevent my marrying, then will I bury

for nothing and undersell them still. Well, I must take order in this

matter. And who are you, my good woman?" He asked this of Mrs. Gambit.

"Jane Gambit, sir," she replied, "at your service, and the wife of

Samuel Gambit, foreman of works. And my charge is not to leave Miss

Kitty until she is safe in your reverence's hands. There are the hands,

to be sure; but as for safety----"

She paused, and sniffed violently, looking round the room with a

meaning air.

"Why, woman, you would not think the child in danger with me?"

"I know not, sir. But Miss Kitty has been brought up among gentlefolk,

and the room is not one to which she has been accustomed to live in, or

to eat in, or to sleep in, either at the Vicarage or the Hall. Tobacco

and the smell of rum may be very well--in their place, which, I humbly

submit, is in a tavern, not a gentlewoman's parlour."

"The woman speaks reason," he growled, laying his great hand upon the

table. "See, my dear, my brother-in-law thought me holding a rich

benefice in the Church. Those get rich benefices who have rich friends

and patrons. I had none; therefore I hold no benefice. And as for my

residence, why, truly, I have little choice except between this place

and the Fleet Prison, or perhaps the King's Bench. Else might I welcome

thee in a better and more convenient lodging. Know, therefore, Kitty,

without any concealment, that I live here secluded in the Liberties of

the Fleet in order that my creditors, of whom I have as many as most

men and more importunate, may no longer molest me when I take my walks

abroad; that I am in this place outside the authority of the bishop;

and that my occupation is to marry, with all safety and despatch

without license, or asking of banns, or any of the usual delays, those

good people who wish to be married secretly and quickly, and can

afford at least one guinea fee for the ceremony."

I stared in amazement. To be sure, every clergyman can marry, but for a

clergyman to do naught else seemed strange indeed.

He saw my amazement; and, drawing his tall and burly figure upright,

he began to deliver an oration--I call it an oration, because he so

puffed his cheeks, rolled his sentences, and swelled himself out while

he spoke, that it was more like a sermon or oration than a mere speech.

In it he seemed to be trying at once to justify himself in my eyes, to

assert his own self-respect, and to magnify his office.

"It is not likely, child," he said, "that thou hast been told of

these marriages in the Fleet. Know, therefore, that in this asylum,

called the Rules of the Fleet, where debtors find some semblance of

freedom and creditors cease to dun, there has grown up a custom of

late years by which marriages are here rapidly performed (for the

good of the country), which the beneficed clergy would not undertake

without great expense, trouble, delay, and the vexation of getting

parents' and guardians' consent, to say nothing of the prodigality

and wasteful expense of feasting which follows what is called a

regular marriage. Therefore, finding myself some years ago comfortably

settled in the place, after contracting a greater debt than is usually

possible for an unbeneficed clergyman, I undertook this trade, which

is lucrative, honourable, and easy. There are indeed," he added, "both

in the Prison and the Rules, but more especially the latter, many

Fleet parsons"--here he rolled his great head with complacency--"but

none, my child, so great and celebrated as myself. Some, indeed, are

mere common cheats, whose marriages--call them, rather, sacrilegious

impostures--are not worth the paper of their pretended certificates.

Some are perhaps what they profess to be, regularly ordained clergymen

of the Church of England and Ireland as by law established, the supreme

head of which is his gracious Majesty. But even these are tipplers, and

beggars, and paupers--men who drink gin of an evening and small beer

in the morning, whose gowns are as ragged as their reputations, and

who take their fees in shillings, with a dram thrown in, and herd with

the common offscourings of the town, whom they marry. Illiterate, too:

not a Greek verse or a Latin hexameter among them all. Go not into the

company of such, lest thou be corrupted by their talk. In the words of

King Lemuel: 'Let them drink and forget their poverty, and remember

their misery no more.'" Here he paused and adjusted his gown, as if he

were in a pulpit. Indeed, for the moment, he imagined, perhaps, that

he was preaching. "As for me, Gregory Shovel, my marriages are what

they pretend to be, as tight as any of the archbishop's own tying,

conducted with due decorum by a member of the University of Cambridge,

a man whose orders are beyond dispute, whose history is known to all,

an approved and honoured scholar. Yes, my niece, behold in me one who

has borne off University and College medals for Latin verse. My Latin

verses, wherein I have been said to touch Horace, and even to excel

Ovid, whether in the tender elegiac, the stately alcaic, the melting

sapphic, or the easy-flowing hendecasyllabic loved of Martial, have

conferred upon my head the bays of fame. Other Fleet parsons? Let

them hide their ignorant heads in their second-hand peruques! By the

thunders of Jupiter!"--his powerful voice rose and rolled about the

room like the thunder by which he swore--"By the thunders of Jupiter,

I am their Bishop! Let them acknowledge that I, and I alone, am THE

CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET!"

During this speech he swelled himself out so enormously, and so

flourished his long gown, that he seemed to fill the whole room. I

shrank into a corner, and clasped Mrs. Gambit's hand.

This kind of terror I have always felt since, whenever, which is rare,

I have heard a man speak in such a full, rich, manliness of voice. It

was a voice with which he might have led thousands to follow him and

do his bidding. When I read of any great orator at whose speeches the

people went mad, so that they did what he told them were it but to rush

along the road to certain death, I think of the Reverend Dr. Shovel.

I am sure that Peter the Hermit, or St. Bernard, must have had such a

voice. While he spoke, though the words were not noble, the air was

such, the voice was such, the eloquence was such, that my senses were

carried away, and I felt that in the hands of such a man no one was

master of himself. His demeanour was so majestic, that even the shabby,

dirty room in which he spoke became for the time a temple fit for the

sacred rites conducted by so great and good a man: the noise of carts,

the voices of men and women, were drowned and stilled beneath the

rolling music of his voice. I was rapt and astonished and terrified.

Mrs. Gambit was so far impressed when the Doctor began this oration,

that she instantly assumed that attitude of mind and body in which

country people always listen to a sermon: that is to say, she stood

with her chin up, her eyes fixed on the ceiling (fie! how black

it was!), her hands crossed, and her thoughts wandering freely

whithersoever they listed. It is a practice which sometimes produces

good effects, save when the preacher, which is seldom, hath in his own

mind a clear message to deliver from the Revealed Word. For it prevents

a congregation from discerning the poverty of the discourse; and in

these latter days of Whitfield, Wesley, and the sad schisms which daily

we witness, it checks the progress of Dissent.

The Doctor, after a short pause, swept back his flowing gown with

a significant gesture of his left hand, and resumed the defence

or apology for his profession. It was remarkable that he spoke as

earnestly, and with as much force, eloquence, and justness in this

address to two women--or to one and a half, because Mrs. Gambit,

thinking herself in church, was only half a listener--as if he had been

addressing a great congregation beneath the vast dome of St. Paul's.

The Doctor, I afterwards found, was always great; no mean or little

ways were his: he lived, he spoke, he moved, he thought like a bishop.

Had he been actually a bishop, I am sure that his stateliness, dignity,

and pomp would have been worthy of that exalted position, and that

he would have graced the bench by the exhibition of every Christian

virtue, except perhaps that of meekness. For the Doctor was never meek.

"Let us," said the Doctor, "argue the question. What is there contrary

to the Rubric in my calling? The Church hath wisely ordered that

marriage is a state to be entered upon only after sanctification by her

ministers or priests; I am one of those ministers. She hath provided

and strictly enjoined a rule of service; I read that service. She hath

recommended the faithful to marry as if to enter a holy and blessed

condition of life; I encourage and exhort the people to come to me with

the design of obeying the Church and entering upon that condition.

She hath, in deference to the laws of the land, required a stamped

certificate (at five shillings); I find that certificate in obedience

to the law. Further, for the credit of the cloth, and because people

must not think the ministers of the Church to be, like common hackney

coachmen, messengers, running lackeys, and such varlets, at the beck

and call of every prentice boy and ragamuffin wench with a yard-measure

and a dishclout for all their fortune; and because, further, it is

well to remind people of thrift, especially this common people of

London, who are grievously given to waste, prodigality, gluttony,

fine clothes, drinking, and all such extravagances--nay, how except

by thrift will they find money to pay their lawful tithes to Mother

Church?--wherefore it is my custom--nay, my undeviating rule--to charge

a fee of one guinea at least for every pair, with half-a-crown for the

services of the clerk. More may be given; more, I say, is generally

given by those who have money in pocket, and generous, grateful hearts.

What, indeed, is a present of ten guineas in return for such services

as mine? Child, know that I am a public benefactor; behold in me one

who promotes the happiness of his species; but for me maids would

languish, lovers groan, and cruel guardians triumph. I ask not if there

be any impediment; I inquire not if there be some to forbid the banns;

I do not concern myself with the lover's rent-roll; I care not what

his profession--I have even married a lady to her footman, since she

desired it, and a nobleman to his cook, since that was his lordship's

will. I ask not for consent of parents; the maiden leaves my doors a

wife: when she goes home, no parents or guardians can undo the knot

that I have tied. Doctors, learned in theology, casuistry, science,

and philosophy, have been called by divers names; there have been the

Subtle Doctor, the Golden Doctor, the Eloquent Doctor. For me there has

been reserved the title of the Benevolent Doctor; of me let it be said

that he loved even beyond his respect towards his diocesan, even beyond

obedience to his ecclesiastical superiors, even beyond consideration to

the parish clergy, who by his means were deprived of their fees, the

happiness of his fellow men and women."

His voice had dropped to the lower notes, and his last words were

spoken in deep but gentle thunder. When he had finished, Mrs. Gambit

dropped her chin and returned to practical business.

"And pray, sir, what will Miss Kitty do?"

Recalled to the facts of the case, the Doctor paused. His cheeks

retracted, his breadth and height became perceptibly smaller.

"What will she do? That is, indeed, a difficulty."

"If," said Mrs. Gambit, "your honour is a prisoner----"

"Woman!" he roared, "I enjoy the Liberties of the Fleet--the Liberties,

do you hear? Prate not to me of prisoners. Is Dr. Shovel a man, think

ye, to clap in a prison?"

"Well, then, is Miss Kitty to live here?" She looked round in disgust.

"Why, what a place is this for a young lady virtuously and godlily

reared! Your ceiling is black with smoke; the windows are black with

dirt; the walls are streaked with dirt; the floor is as thick with mud

as the road--faugh! If your honour is a bishop, as you say you are,

you can doubtless put the poor young lady, who is used to sweet air

and clean floors, where she will get such--and that without profane

swearing."

The last remark was caused by language used at that moment outside the

window by a man wheeling a barrow full of cabbages, which upset. While

picking up the vegetables, he swore loudly, administering rebuke in a

couple of oaths at least, and in some cases more, to every head of

cabbage in turn. An unreflecting wretch indeed, to break a commandment

upon a senseless vegetable!

"Nay," I said, "my uncle will do what is best for me."

"I will do for thee," he said, "what I can. This place is not fit for

a young girl. All the morning it is wanted for my occupation. In the

evening I am visited by gentlemen who seek me for certain merits,

graces, or beauties of conversation in which I am said (although I

boast not) to be endowed with gifts beyond those allotted to most men.

No, child, thou must not stay here."

While we stood waiting for his decision, we became aware of a most

dreadful noise outside. Men were shouting, women were screaming; of

course bad language and cursing formed a large part of what was said.

The air about the Fleet was always heavy with oaths, so that at last

the ear grew accustomed to them, and we noticed them no more than in

the quiet fields one notices the buzzing of the insects. But these

people, whoever they were, congregated outside the door of the house;

and after more oaths and loud talk, the door was opened and they all

tramped noisily into the room--a party of men and women, twelve in

all--and drew up in some sort of order, every man leading a woman by

the hand. As for the men, though I had never seen the sea, I knew

at once that monsters so uncouth and rough could be none other than

sailors. They were all dressed alike, and wore blue jackets with

flannel shirts and coloured silk neckties: every man carried round his

waist a rope, at the end of which was a knife; they wore three-cornered

hats without lace or any kind of trimming; they had no wigs, but wore

their own hair plastered with tallow, rolled up tightly and tied

behind; and one bore a great and grisly beard most terrible to behold.

Great boots covered their feet; their hands were smeared with tar;

their faces were weather-beaten, being burnt by the sun and blown by

the breeze; their eyes were clear and bright, but their cheeks were

bruised as if they had been fighting: they were all laughing, and their

countenances betokened the greatest satisfaction with everything.

As for the women, they were young, and some of them, I suppose,

were handsome, but they looked bold and rough. They were very finely

dressed, their frocks being of silk and satin, with flowered shawls,

and hats of a grandeur I had never before seen; immense hoops and great

patches. But the fight outside had torn their finery, and more than one

nymph had a black eye. However, these accidents had not diminished the

general joy, and they were laughing with the men.

"Why--why!" roared the Doctor, as he called them to attention by

banging the table with his fist, so that the windows rattled, the women

shrieked, and the plaster fell from the wall. "What is this? Who are

ye?"

The impudent fellow with the white apron who had brought us to the

place, here stepped in, bringing with him another couple. He, too,

had been fighting, for his face was bleeding and bruised. Fighting, I

presently found, was too common in Fleet Market to call for any notice.

"What is this, Roger?" repeated the Doctor. "These tarpaulins are

no cattle for my handling. Let them go to the Pen and Hand, or some

other pigsty where they can be irregularly and illegally married for

eighteenpence and a glass of rum."

"Please your reverence," said Roger, handling his nose, which was

swollen, tenderly, "they are honest gentlemen of the sea, paid off at

Wapping but yesternight, still in their sea-going clothes by reason

of their having as yet no time to buy long-shore rigging; not common

sailors, but mates by rating in the ship's books, and anxious to be

married by none other than your reverence."

"Ay--ay! honest Roger." The Doctor's voice dropped and became soft and

encouraging. "Ay--ay! this is as it should be. Know they of the fee?"

"They wish me to offer your reverence," said the clerk, "a guinea

apiece, and five guineas extra for your honour's trouble, if so be so

small a gift is worth your acceptance; with half-a-crown apiece for the

clerk, and a guinea for his nose, which I verily believe is broken in

the bridge. I have had great trouble, your reverence, in conveying so

large a party safe. And indeed I thought, at one time, the Rev. Mr.

Arkwell would have had them all. But the gallant gentlemen knew what

was best for them; and so, your honour, with a nose----"

The Doctor shook his head and interrupted any further explanation.

"That would indeed have been a misfortune for these brave fellows.

Come, Roger, collect the fees, and to business with what speed we may."

"Now then," said Roger roughly, "money first, business afterwards. No

fee, no marriage. Pay up, my lads!"

The men lugged out handfuls of gold from their pockets, and paid

without hesitation what they were told. But the women grumbled, saying

that for half-a-crown and a dram they would have been married quite as

well, and so much more to spend. When the Doctor had put the fees in

his pocket, he advanced to the table and took up the Prayer-book. What

would my father have said had he witnessed this sight?

Then Roger pulled out his greasy book, and put himself in place ready

to say the responses. All being ready, the Doctor again banged the

table with his fist so that they all jumped, and the women screamed

again, and more plaster fell off the wall.

"Now, all of you!" he roared, "listen to me. The first man who

interrupts, the first woman who laughs, the first who giggles, the

first who dares to misbehave or to bring contempt on this religious

ceremony, I will with my own clerical hands pitch headforemost into the

street. And _he shall remain unmarried_!"

Whether they were awed by his great voice and terrible aspect, the

men being short of stature as all sailors seem to be, or whether they

feared to be pitched through the window, or whether they trembled at

the prospect of remaining unmarried (perhaps for life) if the Doctor

refused to perform the ceremony, I know not. What is quite certain is

that they one and all, men and women, became suddenly as mute as mice,

and perfectly obedient to the commands of Roger the clerk, who told

them where to stand, when to kneel, what to say, and what to do. A

curtain ring acted as wedding-ring for all.

The Doctor would omit nothing from the service, which he read from

beginning to end in his loud musical voice. When he had married the

whole six, he shut the Prayer-book, produced six stamped certificates,

rapidly filled in the names and dates, which he also entered in his

"Register," a great book with parchment cover. Roger acted as witness.

Then the brides were presented by the Doctor with the certificates of

their marriage. The ceremony lasted altogether about half-an-hour.

"You are now, ladies and gentlemen," he said, smiling pleasantly,

"married fast and firm, one to the other. I congratulate you. Marriage

in the case of sailors and sailors' wives is a condition of peculiar

happiness, as you will all of you presently discover. The husband, at

the outset, is liable for the debts of his wife"--here the men looked

sheepishly at each other--"this no doubt will be brought home to all of

you. There are several brave gentlemen of the sea now languishing in

the Fleet Prison through inability to pay off these encumbrances. They

will continue to lie there for the whole term of their lives, these

unfortunate men. Husbands are also liable for the debts incurred by

their wives while they are abroad"--here one or two of the men murmured

something about London Port and giving it a wide berth, which I did not

understand. "As for the wives of seafaring men, their blessings and

privileges are also peculiar and numerous. They will have to remain at

home and pray for the safety of the husbands whom they will see perhaps

once every five years or so: they will, in this widowed state, be able

to practise many Christian virtues which those who enjoy the constant

presence of a husband are less often called upon to illustrate: such

are patience under privation, resignation, and hope. Most of them will

find the allowance made to them by their husbands insufficient or

irregularly paid. If any of them marry again, or be already married,

it is, let me tell you, a hanging matter. Yea, there are already in

Newgate hard by, several unfortunate women cast for execution who

have married again while their husbands were at sea. Lying in the

cells they are, waiting for the cart and the gallows!" Here the women

looked at one another and trembled, while their cheeks grew pale. "It

is too late now. Should there be any woman here who has committed the

crime of bigamy, let that woman know that it is too late for aught but

repentance. The gallows awaits her. You are now therefore, my friends,

bound to each other. I trust and hope that these marriages have not

been hastily or lightly entered upon. You have heard the duties of

husband to wife and wife to husband, in the words of the service duly

read to you by a clergyman of the Church of England. Go now, perform

those duties: be bright and shining examples of temperance, fidelity,

and virtue. Should any man among you find that his marriage hath led

him, through such a cause as I have indicated, to the King's Bench,

or the Fleet, or the Compter; should he have to exchange, against his

will, the free air of the sea for the confinement of a gaol, and the

rolling deck for the narrow courtyard; should he see himself reduced

(having never learned any handicraft or trade) to starvation through

these liabilities of his wife, or should any woman among you have

hereafter to stand her trial for bigamy either for this work newly

accomplished or for any future crime of the same nature, it will then

be your comfort to reflect that you were not married by an irregular,

self-constituted, self-styled Fleet parson, but by an ordained

clergyman and a Doctor of Divinity. Wherefore, I wish you well. Now go,

less noisily than you came. But the noise I impute to your ignorance,

as not knowing the quality of the man into whose presence you so rudely

pushed. As for the marriage feast, see that you enjoy it in moderation.

Above all, let your liquors be good. To which end--I speak it purely

out of my benevolence and for the good of head and stomach--you will

find the rum at the Bishop Blaize cheap and wholesome. Be not tempted

to prefer the Rainbow or the Naked Boy, where the liquor is deplorable;

and perhaps, in an hour or so, I may look in and drink your healths.

Roger, turn them out."

They went away sheepish and crestfallen, who had come noisy and

triumphant. I was ashamed, thinking of my father, and yet lost in

wonder, looking at my uncle who had so easily tamed this savage crew.

"I am glad," said the Doctor, when they had gone, "that this chance did

not become the windfall of an irregular and unlicensed practitioner.

They cannot say that I warned them not. Well, let them have their way.

A few days more and the men will be afloat again, all their money gone;

and the women----"

"Will they starve, sir?" I asked.

"I doubt it much," he replied. "Come, child, I have a thought of a plan

for thee. Follow me. And you, good woman, come with us that you may see

your charge in safety."

The thing that I had seen was like a dream--the appearance of the

disorderly sailors and the women whom they married; the words of the

service read solemnly in this unhallowed room; the exaction of the

money beforehand; the bleeding faces and marks of the recent fight;

the exhortation of the Doctor; the disappearance of the actors; the

swollen nose, black eye, and the importance of the clerk reading the

responses--what strange place was this whereunto I had been led? One

pitied, too, the poor fellows on whom Fate had bestowed such wives. I

thought, child as I was, how terrible must be life encumbered with such

women! Womanlike, I was harder on the women than the men. Yet truly,

women are what men make them.

"Follow me, child."

He led us out of the house, turning to the right. In the market was a

lot of country people who were standing about a stall. And we heard a

voice: "There's the Doctor--there goes the great Dr. Shovel."

My uncle drew himself up to his full height, and stalked grandly along

with the eyes of the people upon him. "See," he seemed to say, by the

swelling folds of his gown, "see my fame, how widespread it is--my

reputation, how great!"

He stopped at the corner of Fleet Lane, where the houses were no

longer taverns, and announcements of marriages were no longer to be

seen. It was a house of three stories high, with a door which, like all

the doors in that neighbourhood, stood ever open.

Here the Doctor stopped and addressed Mrs. Gambit--

"You spoke of safety. I am about to confide this child to the care of

two gentlewomen, poor, but of good birth and character, whom unjust

laws and the wickedness of men have condemned to imprisonment. I know

of no better guardians; but you shall satisfy yourself before you go

away. Wait a moment while I confer with the ladies."

We stayed below for ten minutes. Then my uncle came down the stairs,

and bade me return with him to be presented to the ladies, who had

kindly accepted the charge, on condition, he said, of my good conduct.

I followed him, Mrs. Gambit keeping close to me. We stopped at a door

on the first floor. The room was poor and shabby: the furniture, of

which there was not much, was old and worn: there was no carpet: a

white blind was half drawn over the window: the place, to judge by

the presence of a saucepan, a kettle, and a gridiron, was apparently

a kitchen as well as a sitting-room: all, except a great portrait of

a gentleman, in majestic wig and splendid gown, which hung over the

fireplace, was mean and pinched. Two ladies, of fifty or thereabouts,

stood before me, holding out hands of welcome.

They were both exactly alike, being small and thin, with hollow cheeks,

bright eyes, and pointed features like a pair of birds: they wore

white caps, a sort of grey frock in cheap stuff: their hair was white:

their hands were thin, with delicate fingers, transparent like the

fingers of those who have been long in bed with sickness: they were of

the same height, and appeared to be of the same age--namely, fifty or

thereabouts. My first thought, as I looked at them, was that they had

not enough to eat--which, indeed, like all first thoughts, was correct,

because that had generally been the case with these poor creatures.

"Kitty," said the Doctor, taking me by the hand, "I present you to

Mrs. Esther Pimpernel"--here the lady on the left dipped and curtsied,

and I also, mighty grave--"and to Mrs. Deborah Pimpernel"--here the

same ceremony with the lady on the right. "Ladies, this is my niece

Kitty Pleydell, daughter of my deceased sister Barbara and her husband

Lawrence Pleydell of pious memory. I trust that in consenting thus

generously to receive this child in your ward and keeping, you will

find a reward for your benevolence in her obedience, docility, and

gratitude."

"Doctor," murmured Mrs. Esther, in a voice like a turtledove's for

softness, "I am sure that a niece of yours must be all sensibility and

goodness."

"Goodness at least," said her sister, in sharper tones.

I saw that the difference between the sisters lay chiefly in their

voices.

"She will, I trust, be serviceable to you," said the Doctor, waving

his hand. "She hath been well and piously brought up to obedient ways.

Under your care, ladies, I look for a good account of her."

"Dear and reverend sir," Mrs. Esther cooed, "we are pleased and happy

to be of use to you in this matter. No doubt little miss, who is well

grown of her years, will repay your kindness with her prayers. As for

us, the memory of your past and present goodness----"

"Tut, tut!" he replied, shaking his great head till his cheeks waggled,

"let us hear no more of that. In this place"--here he laid his right

hand upon his heart, elevating his left, and leaning his head to one

side--"in this place, where infamy and well-deserved misery attend most

of those who dwell in it, it is yours, as it should be mine, to keep

burning continually the pure flame of a Christian life."

"How sweet! how noble!" murmured the sisters.

Was it possible? The man whom we had just seen reading the service of

Mother Church, which my father had taught me to regard as little less

sacred than the words of the Bible itself, in a squalid room, reeking

with the fumes of rum and stale tobacco, before a gang of half-drunken

sailors, assumed naturally and easily, as if _it belonged to him_, the

attitude and language of one devoted entirely to the contemplation and

practice of virtue and good works. Why, his face glowed with goodness

like the sun at noonday, or the sun after a shower, or, say, the sun

after a good action. The Doctor, indeed, as I learned later, could

assume almost any character he pleased. It pleased him, not out of

hypocrisy, but because for a time it was a return to the promise of his

youth, to be with these ladies the devout Christian priest. In that

character he felt, I am convinced, the words which came spontaneously

to his lips: for the moment he _was_ that character. Outside, in the

Fleet Market, he was the great Dr. Shovel--great, because among the

Fleet parsons he was the most successful, the most learned, the most

eloquent, the most important. In his own room he married all comers,

after the manner we have seen; and it raised the envy of his rivals

to see how the crowd flocked to him. But in the evening he received

his friends, and drank and talked with them in such fashion as I

never saw, but of which I have heard. Again, it raised their envy to

witness how men came from all quarters to drink with the Doctor. At

that time he was no longer the Christian advocate, nor the clergyman;

he was a rollicking, jovial, boon companion, who delighted to tell

better stories, sing better songs, and hold better talk--meaning more

witty, not more spiritual talk--than any of those who sat with him. I

have never been able to comprehend what pleasure men, especially men

of mature years, can find in telling stories, and laughing, drinking,

smoking tobacco, and singing with one another. Women find their

pleasures in more sober guise: they may lie in small things, but they

are innocent. Think what this world would be were the women to live

like the men, as disorderly, as wastefully, as noisily!

"Now, good woman," said my uncle to Mrs. Gambit, "are you satisfied

that my niece is in safe hands?"

"The hands are good enough," replied the woman, looking round her; "but

the place----"

"The place is what it is," said the Doctor sharply; "we cannot alter

the place."

"Then I will go, sir."

With that she gave me my parcel of money, kissed me and bade me

farewell, curtsied to the ladies, and left us.

"I shall send up, ladies," said the Doctor, "a few trifles of

additional furniture: a couple of chairs, one of them an arm-chair--but

not for this great, strong girl, if you please--a bed, a shelf for

books; some cups and saucers we shall provide for you. And now, ladies,

I wish you good-morning. And for your present wants--I mean the wants

of this hungry country maid, who looks as if mutton hung in toothsome

legs on every verdant hedge--this will, I think, suffice;" he placed

money in Mrs. Esther's hand--I could not but think how he had earned

that money--and left us.

When he was gone the two ladies looked at each other with a strange,

sad, and wistful expression, and Mrs. Esther, with the guineas in her

hand, burst into tears.

CHAPTER VI.

HOW KITTY BEGAN TO ENJOY THE LIBERTIES OF THE FLEET.

Her tears disconcerted me extremely. What did she cry for? But

she presently recovered and dried her eyes. Then she looked at me

thoughtfully, and said--

"Sister, I suppose this child has been accustomed to have a dinner

every day?"

"Surely," replied Mrs. Deborah. "And to-day we shall dine."

To-day we should all dine? Were there, then, days when we should all go

hungry?

"You must know, my dear," Mrs. Esther explained in a soft, sad

voice, "that we are very poor. We have, therefore, on many days in a

week to go without meat. Otherwise we should have to do worse"--she

looked round the room and shuddered--"we should have to give up the

independence of our solitude. Hunger, my child, is not the worst thing

to bear."

"A piece of roasting-beef, sister," said Mrs. Deborah, who had now

assumed a hat and a cloak, "with a summer cabbage, and a pudding in the

gravy."

"And I think, sister," said Mrs. Esther, her eyes lighting up eagerly,

"that we might take our dinner--the child might like to take her

dinner--at twelve to-day."

While Mrs. Deborah went into the market, I learned that the two sisters

had taken no food except bread and water for a week, and that their

whole stock now amounted to two shillings in money and part of a loaf.

What a strange world was this of London, in which gentlewomen had their

lodging in so foul a place and starved on bread and water!

"But," she repeated with a wan smile, "there are worse things than

hunger. First, we must pay our rent. And here we are at least alone;

here we may continue to remember our breeding."

Before Mrs. Deborah returned, I also learned that they were chiefly

dependent on a cousin for supplies of money, which were made to them

grudgingly (and indeed he was not rich), and that the Doctor had

provided for my maintenance with the offer of so large a weekly sum

that it promised to suffice for the wants of all.

"We are," said Mrs. Esther, "but small eaters; a little will suffice

for us. But you, child, are young; eat without fear, eat your fill; the

money is for you, and we shall grudge you nothing."

While the beef was roasting I noticed how their eyes from time to time,

in spite of themselves, would be fixed upon the meat with a hungry and

eager look. Nor had I any enjoyment of the meal till I had seen their

pangs appeased. After the plenty of the Vicarage and the Hall, to think

of bread and water, and not too much bread, for days together! Yet,

hungry as they were, they ate but little; it shamed me to go on eating,

being always a girl of a vigorous appetite and hard-set about the hour

of noon; it shamed me at first, also, to observe their ways of thrift,

so that not the least crumb should be wasted. Mrs. Deborah read my

thoughts.

"In this place," she said, "we learn to value what it takes money to

procure. Yet there are some here poorer than ourselves. Eat, child,

eat. For us this has been, indeed, a feast of Belteshazzar."

Dinner over, we unpacked my box, and they asked me questions. I found

that they were proud of their birth and breeding; the portrait over

the fire was, they told me, that of their father, once Lord Mayor of

London, and they congratulated me upon being myself a Pleydell, which,

they said, was a name very well known in the country, although many

great city families might be ignorant of it.

"No gift, my dear," said Mrs. Esther, "is so precious as gentle blood.

Everything else may be won, but birth never."

All day long there went on the same dreadful noise of shouting, crying,

calling, bawling, rolling of carts, cracking of whips, and trampling of

horses' feet. In the evening I asked, when the sun went down, but the

noise decreased not, if it was always thus.

"Always," they replied. "There is no cessation, day or night. It is

part," said Mrs. Deborah, "of our punishment. We are condemned, child;

for the sin of having a negligent trustee, we go in captivity, shame,

and degradation all our lives."

"Nay," said her sister, "not degradation, sister. No one but herself

can degrade a gentlewoman."

Truly, the noise was terrible. When I read in the "Paradise Lost," of

fallen angels in their dark abode, I think of Fleet Market and the

Fleet Rules. It began in the early morning with the rolling of the

carts: all day long in the market there was a continual crying of the

butchers: "Buy, buy, ladies--buy! Rally up, ladies--rally up!" There

were quarrels unceasing and ever beginning, with fights, shouting and

cursing: the fish-women quarrelled at their stalls; the poultry-wives

quarrelled over their baskets; the porters quarrelled over their

burdens; the carters over the right of way; the ragamuffin boys over

stolen fruit. There was nothing pleasant, nothing quiet, nothing to

refresh; nothing but noise, brawling, and contention. And if any signs

of joy, these only drunken laughter from open tavern-doors.

Thus I began to live, being then a maid of sixteen years and seven

months, in the Rules and Liberties of the Fleet Prison; surely as bad

a place, outside Newgate Prison, as could be found for a girl brought

up in innocence and virtue. For, let one consider the situation

of the Rules. They include all those houses which lie between the

ditch, or rather the market, on the west, and the Old Bailey on the

east--fit boundaries for such a place, the filthy, turbid ditch and

the criminal's gaol--and Fleet Lane on the north to Ludgate Hill

on the south. These streets are beyond and between the abodes of

respectability and industry. On the east was the great and wealthy City

with the merchants' houses; on the west the streets and squares where

the families of the country had their town residence; on the south, the

river; on the north, the dark and gloomy streets of Clerkenwell, where

thieves lay in hiding and the robbers of the road had their customary

quarters. Why, Jonathan Wyld himself, the greatest of villains, lived

hard by in Ship Court. Is there, anywhere, in any town, an acre more

thickly covered with infamy, misery, starvation, and wretchedness?

If we walked abroad, we could not go north because of Clerkenwell,

where no honest woman may trust herself: if we went south we had to

walk the whole length of the market, past the marrying taverns, so that

shame fell upon my heart to think how my uncle was one of those who

thus disgraced his cloth: when we got to the end, we might walk over

the Fleet Bridge, among the noisy sellers of quack medicines, pills,

powders, hot furmety, pies, flounders, mackerel, and oysters; or on

Ludgate Hill, where the touts of the Fleet parsons ran up and down,

inviting couples to be married, and the Morocco men went about, book in

hand, to sell their lottery shares. The most quiet way when we took the

air was to cross Holborn Bridge, and so up the hill past St. Andrew's

Church, where, if the weather were fine, we might go as far as the

gardens of Gray's Inn, and there sit down among the trees and feel for

a little the joy of silence.

Said Mrs. Deborah, one day, when we two had sat there, under the trees,

for half an hour, listening to the cawing of the rooks--

"Child, the place"--meaning the Rules--"is the City of Destruction

after Christian and Christiana, and the boys, and Mercy, were all gone

away."

We lived in one room, which was both kitchen and parlour. We had no

servant; the Doctor's provision kept us in simple plenty; we cleaned

and dusted the place for ourselves; we cooked our dinners, and washed

our dishes; we made our dresses; we did for ourselves all those things

which are generally done by a servant. Mrs. Esther said that there

was no shame in doing things which, if left undone, would cause a

gentlewoman to lose her self-respect. 'Twas all, except the portrait of

her father, that she had left of her former life, and to this she would

cling as something dearer than life.

There were other lodgers in the house. All who lodged there were, of

course, prisoners "enjoying" the Rules--who else would live in the

place? On the ground-floor was Sir Miles Lackington, Baronet. He was

not yet thirty, yet he had already got rid of a great and noble estate

by means of gambling, and now was compelled to hide his head in this

refuge, and to live upon an allowance of two guineas made weekly to him

by a cousin. This, one would have thought, was a disgrace enough to

overwhelm a gentleman of his rank and age with shame. But it touched

him not, for he was ever gay, cheerful, and ready to laugh. He was kind

to my ladies and to me; his manners, when he was sober, were gentle;

though his face was always flushed and cheeks swollen by reason of his

midnight potations, he was still a handsome fellow; he was careless

of his appearance as of his fortune; he would go with waistcoat

unbuttoned, wig awry, neckcloth loose, ruffles limp; but however he

went it was with a laugh. When he received his two guineas he generally

gave away the half among his friends. In the evening they used to carry

him home to his room on the ground-floor, too drunk to stand.

I soon got to know him, and we had frequent talks. He seemed to be

ever meeting me on the stairs when I went a-marketing; he called upon

us often, and would sit with me during the warm summer afternoons,

when the sisters dropped off to sleep. I grew to like him, and he

encouraged me to say freely what I thought, even to the extent of

rating him for his profligate practices.

"Why," he would say, laughing, "I am at the lowest--I can go no lower;

yet I have my two guineas a week. I have enough to eat, I drink freely:

what more can I want?"

I told him what his life seemed to me.

He laughed again at this, but perhaps uneasily.

"Does it seem so terrible a thing," he said, leaning against the

window with his hands in his pockets, "to have no cares? Believe me,

Kitty, Fortune has brought me into a harbour where winds and tempests

never blow. While I had my estate, my conscience plagued me night and

morning. And yet I knew that all this must fly. Hazard doth always

serve her children so, and leaves them naked. Well--it is gone. So can

I play no more. But he who plays should keep sober if he would win.

Now that I cannot play, I may drink. And again, when, formerly, I was

rich and a prodigal, friend and enemy came to me with advice. I believe

they thought the Book of Proverbs had been written specially to meet my

case, so much did they quote the words of Solomon, Agar, and Lemuel.

But, no doubt, there have been fools before, and truly it helpeth a

fool no whit to show him his folly. 'As a thorn goeth up into the hand

of a drunkard, so is a parable in the mouth of fools.' I remember that

proverb. Now that Hazard hath taken all, there is no longer occasion

for advice. Child, you look upon one who hath thrown away his life,

and yet is happier in his fall and repents not. For I make no doubt

but that, had I my fortune back, 'twould fly away again in the same

fashion."

He concluded with an allusion to the Enemy of Mankind, for which I

rebuked him, and he laughed, saying--

"Pretty Puritan, I will offend no more."

Had I been older and more experienced, I should have known or suspected

why he came so often and met me daily. Kitty had found favour in the

sight of this dethroned king. He loved the maid: her freshness, her

rosy cheeks, her youth, her innocence pleased him, I suppose. We know

not, we women, for what qualities there are in us that we are loved by

men, so that they will commit so many follies for our sake.

"Thou art such a girl, sweet Kitty," he said to me, one day, "so pretty

and so good, as would tempt a man wallowing contentedly in the pigsties

of the world, to get up, wash himself, and go cleanly, for thy sake.

Yet what a miserable wretch should I be did I thus learn to feel my own

downfall!"

And again he told me once that he was too far gone to love me; and not

far enough gone to do me an injury.

"Wherefore," he added, "I must worship at thy shrine in silent

admiration."

It was kindly done of Sir Miles to spare an ignorant girl. For so

ignorant was Kitty, and so brotherly did he seem, that had he asked

her to become his wife, I think she would have consented. Oh, the fine

state, to be my Lady Lackington, and to live in the Rules of the Fleet!

Another lodger in our house, a man whose face inspired me with horror,

so full of selfish passion was it, was a Captain Dunquerque. With him

were his wife and children. It was of the children, poor things, that

our Esther spoke when she said there were some in the place poorer

than themselves; for the wife and children starved, while the captain,

their father, ate and drank his fill. A gloomy man, as well as selfish,

who reviled the fate which he had brought upon himself. Yet for all

his reviling, he spared himself nothing so that his children might

have something. I am glad that this bad man has little to do with my

history. Another lodger, who had the garret at the top, was Solomon

Stallabras, the poet.

It is very well known that the profession of letters, of all the

trades, callings, and conditions of men, is the most precarious and

the most miserable. I doubt, indeed, whether that ought to be called

a profession which requires no training, no colleges or schools, no

degree, and no diploma. Other professions are, in a way, independent:

the barrister doth not court, though he may depend upon, the favour

of attorneys; the rector of the parish doth not ask the farmers to

support him, but takes the tithes to which he is entitled; the poor

author, however, is obliged to receive of his publisher whatever is

offered, nor is there any corporate body or guild of authors by whom

the situation of the poet may be considered and his condition improved.

Alone among learned men, the author is doomed to perpetual dependence

and poverty. Indeed, when one considers it, scarce anything else is

to be expected, for, in becoming an author, a man is so vain as to

expect that to him will be granted what has been given to no man except

Shakespeare--a continual flow of strength, spirits, ingenuity, wit,

and dexterity, so as to sustain, without diminution or relaxation, the

rapid production of works for the delight of the world. I say rapid,

because the books are bought by publishers at a low rate, though they

are sold to the public at large sums. And, if we think of it, scarce

any author produces more than one or two books which please the world.

Therefore, when the fountain runs dry, whither is that poor author to

turn? The public will have none of him; his publisher will have none

of him; there remains, it is true, one hope, and that unworthy, to get

subscriptions for a volume which he will never produce, because he will

have eaten up beforehand the money paid for it before it is written.

The Fleet Prison and its Rules have always been a favourite resort and

refuge for poets and men of letters. Robert Lloyd died there, but long

after I went away; Richard Savage died there; Churchill was married

in the place, and would have died there, had he not anticipated his

certain fate by dying early; Samuel Boyce died there; Sir Richard Baker

died there; William Oldys, who died, to be sure, outside the Rules,

yet drank every night within them; lastly, within a stone's throw of

the Rules, though he was never a prisoner, died the great John Bunyan

himself.

I heard my ladies, from time to time, talk of a certain Mr. Stallabras.

They wondered why he did not call as usual, and laid the blame upon

me; little madam had made him shy. One day, however, Mrs. Esther

being called out by one of Captain Dunquerque's children, came back

presently, saying that Mr. Stallabras was starving to death in his room.

Mrs. Deborah made no reply, but instantly hurried to the cupboard, when

she took down the cold beef which was to be our dinner, and cut off

three or four goodly slices; these she laid on a plate, with bread and

salt, and put the whole upon a napkin, and then she disappeared swiftly.

"The poor young man! the dear young man!" cried Mrs. Esther, wringing

her hands. "What can we do? My dear, the sweetest and most mellifluous

of poets! The pride and glory of his age! It was he who wrote 'Hours

of the Night,' the 'Pleasures of Solitude,' the 'Loves of Amoret and

Amoretta,' and other delightful verses; yet they let him languish in

the Fleet! What are my countrymen thinking of? Would it not be better

to rescue (while still living) so ingenious and charming a writer from

his poverty, than to give him (as they must), after his death, a grave

in Westminster Abbey?"

I asked her if we should read together these delightful poems.

"We have no copy," she said. "Mr. Stallabras, who is all sensibility,

insists, from time to time, upon our having copies, so that we may read

them aloud to him. Yet his necessities are such that he is fain to

take them away again and sell them. As for his manners, my dear, they

are very fine, being such as to confer distinction upon the Rules. He

has not the easy bearing of Sir Miles Lackington, of course, which one

would not expect save in a man born to good breeding; but he possesses

in full measure the courtesy which comes from study and self-dignity.

Yet he is but a hosier's son."

Mrs. Deborah here returned, bearing an empty plate.

She had trouble at first, she said, to persuade him to eat. His

prejudices as a gentleman and a scholar were offended by the absence of

horse-radish; but, as he had eaten nothing for two days, he was induced

to waive this scruple, and presently made a hearty meal. She had also

persuaded him to come downstairs in the evening, and take a dish of

tea.

Thanks to the Doctor's liberality in the matter of my weekly board, tea

was now a luxury in which we could sometimes indulge. Nothing gave Mrs.

Esther more gratification than the return, after long deprivation, to

that polite beverage.

At about five o'clock the poet made his appearance. He was short of

stature, with a turned-up nose, and was dressed in a drab-coloured

coat, with bag-wig, and shoes with steel buckles. Everything that he

wore had once been fine, but their splendour was faded now; his linen

was in rags, his shoes in holes; but he carried himself with pride. His

dignity did not depend upon his purse; he bore his head high, because

he thought of his fame. It inflicted no wound to his pride to remember

that he had that day been on the eve of starvation, and was still

without a farthing.

"Miss Kitty," he said, bowing very low, "you see before you one who,

though a favourite of the Muses, is no favourite of Fortune:

''Gainst hostile fate his heart is calm the while,

Though Fortune frown, the tuneful sisters smile.'

Poetry, ladies, brings with it the truest consolation."

"And religion," said Mrs. Esther.

"There lives not--be sure--the wretch," cried the poet, "who would

dissociate religion and the Muse."

This was very grand, and pleased us all. We had our dish of tea, with

bread and butter. I went on cutting it for the poet till the loaf was

quite gone.

During the evening he gave utterance to many noble sentiments--so

noble, indeed, that they seemed to me taken out of books. And before he

went away he laid down his views as to the profession of letters, of

which I have already spoken, perhaps, too severely.

"It is the mission of the poet and author," he said, "to delight, and

to improve while delighting. The man of science may instruct; the

poet embodies the knowledge, and dresses it up in a captivating way

to attract the people: the divine teaches the dogmas of the Church;

the poet conveys, in more pleasing form, the lessons and instructions

of religion: the philosopher and moralist lay down the laws of our

being; the author, by tropes and figures, by fiction, by poetry, shows

the proper conduct of life, and teaches how the way of virtue leads to

happiness. Is not this a noble and elevating career? Does not a man do

well who says to himself, 'This shall be my life; this my lot?'"

He paused, and we murmured assent to his enthusiasm.

"It is true," he went on, "that the ungrateful world thinks little

of its best friends; that it allows me--_me_, Solomon Stallabras,

to languish in the Rules of the Fleet. Even that, however, has its

consolation; because, ladies, it has brought me the honour and

happiness of your friendship."

He rose, saluted us all three in turn, and sat down again.

"Art," he went on, "so inspires a man with great thoughts, that it

makes more than a gentleman--it makes a nobleman--of him. Who, I would

ask, when he reads the sorrows of Clarissa, thinks of the trade--the

mere mechanical trade--in which the author's money was earned? I cannot

but believe that the time will come when the Court itself, unfriendly

as it now is to men of letters, will confer titles and place upon that

poor poet whose very name cannot now reach the walls of the palace."

My ladies' good fortune (I mean in receiving the weekly stipend for

my maintenance) was thus shared by the starving poet, whom they no

longer saw, helpless to relieve him, suffering the privation of hunger.

Often have I observed one or other of the sisters willingly go without

her dinner, pleading a headache, in order that her portion might be

reserved for Mr. Stallabras.

"For sensibility," said Mrs. Esther, "is like walking up a hill: it

promotes appetite."

"So does youth," said Mrs. Deborah, more practical. "Mr. Stallabras is

still a young man, Kitty; though you think thirty old."

That he was a very great poet we all agreed, and the more so when,

after a lucky letter, he secured a subscriber or two for his next

volume, and was able to present us once more with a book of his own

poetry. I do not know whether he more enjoyed hearing me read them

aloud (for then he bowed, spread his hands, and inclined his head

this way and that, in appreciation of the melody and delicacy of the

sentiments), or whether he preferred to read them himself; for then he

could stop when he pleased, with, "This idea, ladies, was conceived

while wandering amid the fields near Bagnigge Wells;" "This came to me

while watching the gay throng in the Mall;" "This, I confess, was an

inspiration caught in church."

"Kitty should enter these confessions in a book," said Mrs. Esther.

"Surely they will become valuable in the day--far distant, I

trust--when your life has to be written, Mr. Stallabras."

"Oh, madam!" He bowed again, and lifted his hands in deprecation. But

he was pleased. "Perhaps," he said, "meaner bards have found a place in

the Abbey, and a volume dedicated to their lives. If Miss Kitty will

condescend to thus preserve recollections of me, I shall be greatly

flattered."

I did keep a book, and entered in it all that dropped from his lips

about himself, his opinions, his maxims, his thoughts, and so forth. He

gradually got possessed of the idea that I would myself some day write

his life, and he began insensibly to direct his conversation mainly to

me.

Sometimes he met me in the market, or on the stairs, when he would tell

me more.

"I always knew," he said, "from the very first, that I was born to

greatness. It was in me as a child, when, like Pope, I lisped in

numbers. My station, originally, was not lofty, Miss Kitty." He spoke

as if he had risen to a dazzling height. "I was but the son of a

hosier, born in Fetter Lane, and taught at the school, or academy, kept

by one Jacob Crooks, who was handier with the rod than with the Gradus

ad Parnassum. But I read, and taught myself; became at first the hack

of Mr. Dodsley, and gradually rose to eminence."

He had, indeed, risen; he was the occupant of a garret; his fame lay in

his own imagination; and he had not a guinea in the world.

"Miss Kitty," he said, one day, "there is only one thing that

disqualifies you from being my biographer."

I asked him what that was.

"You are not, as you should be, my wife. If virtue and beauty fitted

you for the station of a poet's wife, the thing were easy. Alas, child!

the poet is poor, and his mistress would be poorer. Nevertheless,

believe that the means, and not the will, are wanting to make thee my

Laura, my Stella, and me thy Petrarch, or thy Sidney."

It was not till later that I understood how this starveling poet, as

well as the broken baronet, had both expressed their desire (under more

favourable circumstances) to make love to me. Grand would have been my

lot as Lady Lackington, but grander still as Mistress Stallabras, wife

of the illustrious poet, who lived, like the sparrows, from hand to

mouth.

CHAPTER VII.

HOW KITTY LEARNED TO KNOW THE DOCTOR.

Those evenings of riot from which Sir Miles was so often carried home

speechless, were spent in no other place than that very room where I

had seen the marriage of the sailors; and the president of the rabble

rout was no other than the Doctor himself.

I learned this of Sir Miles. If my ladies knew it, of which I am not

certain, they were content to shut their eyes to it, and to think of

the thing as one of the faults which women, in contempt and pity,

ascribe to the strange nature of man. I cannot, being now of ripe

years, believe that Heaven hath created in man a special aptitude for

debauchery, sin, and profligacy, while women have been designed for the

illustration of virtues which are the opposite to them. So that, when

I hear it said that it is the way of men, I am apt to think that way

sinful.

It was Sir Miles himself who told me of it one morning. I found him

leaning against the doorpost with a tankard of ale in his hand.

"Fie, Sir Miles!" I said. "Is it not shameful for a gentleman to be

carried home at night, like a pig?"

"It is," he replied. "Kitty, the morning is the time for repentance. I

repent until I have cleared my brain with this draught of cool October."

"It is as if a man should drag a napkin in the mud of the Fleet Ditch

to clean it," I said.

He drank off his tankard, and said he felt better.

"Pretty Miss Kitty," he said, "it is a fine morning; shall we abroad?

Will you trust yourself with me to view the shops in Cheapside or the

beaux in the Mall? I am at thy service, though, for a Norfolk baronet,

my ruffles are of the shabbiest."

I told him that I would ask Mrs. Esther for permission. He said he

wanted first a second pint, as the evening had been long and the drink

abundant, after which his brain would be perfectly clear and his hand

steady.

I told him it was a shame that a gentleman of his rank should mate with

men whose proper place was among the thieves of Turnmill Street, or the

porters of Chick Lane, and that I would not walk with a man whose brain

required a quart of strong ale in the morning to clear it.

"As for my companions," he said, taking the second pint which the boy

brought him and turning it about in his hands, "we have very good

company in the Liberties--quite as good as your friend Christian, in

that story you love so much, might have had in Vanity Fair, had he been

a lad of mettle and a toper. There are gentlemen of good family, like

myself; poets like Solomon Stallabras; merchants, half-pay captains

and broke lieutenants; clerks, tradesmen, lawyers, parsons, farmers,

men of all degrees. It is like the outside world, except that here all

are equal who can pay their shot. Why, with the Doctor at the head of

the table, and a bowl of punch just begun, hang me if I know any place

where a man may feel more comfortable or drink more at his ease."

"The Doctor," I asked. Now I had seen so little of my uncle that I had

almost forgotten the marriage of the sailors, and was beginning again

to think of him as the pious and serious minister who spoke of sacred

things to my guardians. "The Doctor?"

"Ay;" Sir Miles drank off the whole of his second pint. "Who else?"

His voice became suddenly thick, and his eyes fixed, with a strange

light in them. "Who else but the Doctor? Why, what would the Rules be

without the Doctor? He is our prince, our bishop, our chaplain--what

you will--the right reverend his most gracious majesty the King of the

Rules." Sir Miles waved his hand dramatically. "He keeps us sweet; he

polishes our wits; but for him we should be wallowing swine: he brings

strangers and visitors to enliven us; drinks with us, sings with us,

makes wit for us from the treasures of his learning; condescends to

call us his friends; pays our shot for us; lends us money; gives food

to the starving, and drink--yes, drink, by gad! to the thirsty, and

clothes to the naked. Ah, poor girl! you can never see the Doctor in

his glory, with all his admirers round him, and every man a glass of

punch in his hand and a clean tobacco-pipe in his mouth. The Doctor?

he is our boast; a most complete and perfect doctor; the pride of

Cambridge; the crown and sum of all doctors in divinity!"

He had forgotten, I suppose, his invitation to take me for a walk, for

he left me here, staggering off in the direction of the Hand and Pen,

where, I doubt not, he spent the rest of his idle and wasted day.

It would have been useless and cruel to talk to my guardian about this

discovery. It was another thing to be ashamed of. Sir Miles told me

less than the truth. In fact the Doctor's house was the nightly resort

of all those residents in the Rules whom he would admit to his society.

Hither, too, came, attracted by his reputation for eloquence, wit, and

curious knowledge, gentlemen from the Temple, Lincoln's Inn, and other

places, who were expected, as a contribution to the evening, to send

for bowls of punch. But of this presently.

I saw my uncle seldom. He visited the sisters from time to time, and

never failed to ask particularly after my progress in knowledge,

and especially in the doctrines of the Church of England. On these

occasions he generally left behind him, as a present, some maxim or

precept tending to virtue, which we could repeat after his departure

and turn over in our minds at leisure. Once he found me alone, Mrs.

Deborah being indisposed and confined to her room, where her sister was

nursing her. He took advantage of their absence to impress upon me the

necessity of circumspection in my manner of life.

"Heaven knows, child," he said, "what thy future will be. Hither come

none but profligates and spendthrifts. Yet what else can I do with

thee? Where bestow thee?"

"Oh, sir!" I said, "let me not be taken from my dear ladies."

"Thou shalt not, child; at least for the present. But it is bad for

thee to live here; it is bad for thee to have as an uncle one whose

life is sadly inconsistent with his Christian profession, and who might

despair, were it not for the example of Solomon (methinks from his

history may be sucked consolation by all elderly and reverend sinners).

Like him, what I lack in practice I partly make up with precept. He

who, like me, is a Fleet parson, should be judged differently from

his fellows: he is without the license, and therefore hath forfeited

paternal affection of his bishop; he is exposed to temptations which

beset not other folk; among those who flock to him for marriage are

some who would fain commute their fees for brandy and strong drinks,

or even bilk the clergyman altogether--a sin which it is difficult to

believe can be forgiven. Hence arise strifes and wraths, unseemly for

one who wears a cassock. Hither come those who seek good fellowship

and think to find it in the Rules; Templars, young bloods, and wits.

Hence arise drinking and brawling; and as one is outside the law,

so to speak, so one is tempted to neglect the law. I say nothing of

the temptations of an empty purse. These I felt, with many prickings

and instigations of the Evil One, while I was yet curate of St.

Martin's-in-the-Fields, before I escaped my creditors by coming here.

Then I was poor, and found, as the Wise Man says, that 'The poor is

hated even of his own neighbour.'"

He went on, half preaching, half talking.

A man who sinned greatly, yet preached much; who daily fell, yet daily

exhorted his neighbour to stand upright; who knew and loved, as one

loves a thing impossible to attain, the life of virtue; who drank,

laughed, and bawled songs of an evening with his boon companions; who

married all comers, no questions asked, without scruple and without

remorse; a priest whose life was a disgrace to his profession; who did

kind and generous things, and paid that homage to Virtue which becomes

one who knows her loveliness.

It pleased him to talk, but only with me, about himself. He was always

excusing himself to me, ashamed of his life, yet boasting of it and

glorying in it; conscious of his infamy, and yet proud of his success;

always thinking by what plea he could justify himself, and maintain his

self-respect.

"I am a man," he said, "who is the best of a bad profession. My work is

inglorious, but I am glorious; my rivals, who would rob me of my very

practice, do not hate me, but esteem and envy me. I have, yea, outside

these Rules, friends who love me still; some of them pity me, and some

would see me (which is impossible) restored to the fold and bosom of

the Church; some who drink with me, talk with me, borrow of me, walk

with me, smoke with me, and are honoured by my friendship. There is no

man living who would wish me harm. Surely, I am one of those who do

good to themselves, whom, therefore, their fellow-men respect."

I have said that he was generous. Sir Miles spoke the truth when he

declared that the Doctor fed the starving and clothed the naked. Truly

it seems to me natural to believe that these good deeds of his must be

a set-off to the great wickedness of his life. There were no occupants

of the prison and its Liberties who were rich. Some there were who

would have starved but for the charity of their friends. The poor

prisoners were allowed to beg, but how could poor gentlewomen like my

guardians bear to beg for daily bread? Rather would they starve. As

for the prison, I know nothing of it; I never saw the inside; it was

enough for me to see its long and dreary wall. I used to think at night

of the poor creatures shut up there in hopeless misery, as I thought,

though Sir Miles declared that most of them were happier in the prison

than out; and beside the latticed gate there stood every day a man

behind bars begging with a plate and crying: "Pity the poor prisoners."

Is it not sad that the same punishment of imprisonment must be meted

out to the rogue and the debtor, save that we let the rogue go free

while we keep the debtor locked up? Truly, the Vicar of St Bride's or

even the Dean of St. Paul's himself could preach no better sermon,

could use no words more fitted to arrest the profligate and bring the

thoughtless to reason, than that doleful cry behind the bars. Nor could

any more salutary lesson be impressed upon young spendthrifts than to

take them from house to house in the Rules and show them the end of

graceless ways.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW KITTY SPENT HER TIME.

As soon as they were settled together, and the ladies had decided in

their own minds that the girl would lighten their lives, they resolved

that Kitty's education must not be neglected, and for this end began to

devise such a comprehensive scheme as would have required the staff of

a whole university to carry it through. Everything was set down (upon

a slate) which it behoved a girl to know. Unfortunately the means at

their disposal did not allow of this great scheme. Thus it was fitting

that music should be taught: Mrs. Deborah had once been a proficient

on the spinnet, but there was no spinnet to be had; the French tongue

forms part of polite education, but though both ladies had learned it

of old, their memory was defective, and they had neither dictionary nor

grammar nor any book in the language; limning, both with pencil and

in water-colours, should be taught, but the sisters could neither of

them draw, and hardly knew a curve from a straight line. Calligraphy is

almost a necessary, but the handwriting of both ladies was tremulous,

and of antiquated fashion; they knew not the modern Italian hand. There

was in the Rules a professor in the art, and an attempt was made to get

lessons from him. But he was already old and hastening to the grave,

which speedily closed over him; his hand shook, because he drank strong

waters; his coat was stained with beer and punch; his wig smelt always

of tobacco.

Mrs. Deborah undertook, as a beginning, to teach the girl book-keeping

by single and double entry. How or why she ever came to learn this

science has never been understood. Yet she knew it, and was proud of it.

"It is a science," she said, "which controls the commerce of the world.

By its means are we made rich: by the aid of book-keeping we apportion

the profit and the loss which are the rewards of the prudent or the

punishment of the thriftless. Without book-keeping, my dear, the

mysteries and methods of which I am about to impart to you, neither a

Whittington, nor a Gresham, nor even a Pimpernel, would have risen to

be Lord Mayor of London."

Kitty only imperfectly grasped the rudiments of this science. No doubt,

had she been placed in a position of life where it was required, she

would have found it eminently useful. Mrs. Esther, for her part, taught

her embroidery and sampler work. As for preserving, pickling, making of

pastry and home-made wines, cookery, distilling, and so forth, although

the sisters had been in their younger days notable, it was impossible

to teach these arts, because, even if there had been anything to

pickle or preserve, there was only one sitting-room in which to do it.

Therefore, to her present sorrow, Kitty speedily forgot all that she

had formerly learned in the still-room at Lady Levett's. For there is

no station so exalted in which a lady is not the better for knowing

the way in which such things should be done, if it is only that she

may keep her maids in order. And if, as the learned Dr. Johnson hath

informed us, a lady means one who dispenses gifts of hospitality and

kindness, there is another reason why she should know the value of her

gifts. There is something divine in the contemplation of the allotment

of duty to the two sexes; man must work, build up, invent, and

acquire, for woman to distribute, administer, and divide.

As for reading, they had a book on the history of England, with the

cover off, and wanting the title-page with several chapters. There was

one of those still remaining in which the author exhorted his readers

(her teachers told the girl that the admonition belonged to women as

well as men) never to grow faint or to weary in the defence of their

Liberties. She ignorantly confounded the Liberties of the country with

the Liberties of the Fleet, and could not avoid the reflection that a

woman would certainly put more heart into her defence of the Liberties

if these were cleaner, and if there were fewer men who swore and got

drunk. There were also a Bible and a Church Prayer-book; there were

three odd volumes of "Sermons;" and there were besides odd volumes of

romances, poems, and other works which Mr. Solomon Stallabras was able

to lend.

Mrs. Deborah added to her knowledge of book-keeping some mastery over

the sublime science of astronomy. By standing on chairs at the window

when the west wind blew the fogs away and the sky was clear, it was

possible to learn nearly everything that she had to teach. The moon

was sometimes visible, and a great many of the stars, because, looking

over the market, the space was wide. Among them were the Pole Star, the

Great Bear, Orion's belt, and Cassiopeia's chair. It was elevating to

the soul on such occasions to watch the heavenly bodies, and to listen

while Mrs. Deborah discoursed on the motions of the planets and the

courses of the stars.

"The moon, my dear," she would say, "originally hung in the heavens

by the hand of the Creator, goes regularly every four weeks round the

sun, while the sun goeth daily round the earth: when the sun is between

the earth and the moon (which happens accidentally once a month or

thereabouts), part of the latter body is eclipsed: wherefore it is then

of a crescent-shape: the earth itself goes round something--I forget

what--every year: while the planets, according to Addison's hymn, go

once a year, or perhaps he meant once a month, round the moon. This

is the reason why they are seen in different positions in the sky. And

I believe I am right in saying that if you look steadily at the Great

Bear, you may plainly see that every night it travels once about the

earth at least, or it may be oftener at different seasons. When we

reflect"--here she quoted from recollection--"that these bodies are so

far distant from us, that we cannot measure the space between; that

some of them are supposed to be actually greater than our own world;

that they are probably inhabited by men and women like ourselves;

that all their movements round each other are regular, uniform, never

intermittent--how ought we to admire the wisdom and strength of the

Almighty Hand which placed them there!"

Then she repeated, with becoming reverence, the words of Mr. Addison,

the Christian poet, beginning:

"Soon as the evening shades prevail

The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly to the listening earth

Repeats the story of her birth.

While all the stars that round her burn,

And all the planets in their turn,

Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole."

In such meditations and exercises did these imprisoned ladies seek to

raise their souls above the miseries of their lot. Indeed, one may

think there is nothing which more tends to make the mind contented and

to prevent repining, than to feel the vastness of nature, the depth

and height of knowledge open to man's intellect, the smallness of

one's self, and the wisdom of God. And although poor Mrs. Deborah's

astronomy was, as has been seen, a jumble; although she knew so little,

indeed, of constellations or of planets, that the child did not learn

to distinguish Jupiter from the Pole Star, and never could understand

(until that ingenious gentleman, who lately exhibited an orrery in

Piccadilly, taught her) how the planets and stars could go round the

moon, and the moon round the sun, and the sun round the earth, without

knocking against and destroying one another, she must be, and is,

deeply grateful for the thoughts which the good lady awakened.

In all things the sisters endeavoured to keep up the habits and manners

of gentlefolk. The dinner was at times scanty, yet was it served on a

fair white cloth, with plates and knives orderly placed: a grace before

the meat, and a grace after.

In the afternoon, when the dinner was eaten, the cloth removed, and

the plates washed, they were able sometimes to sally forth and take

a walk. In the summer afternoons it was, it has been said, pleasant

to walk to the gardens of Gray's Inn. But when they ventured to pass

through the market there was great choice for them. The daily service

in the afternoons at St. Paul's was close at hand: here, while the body

was refreshed with the coolness of the air, the mind was calmed with

the peace of the church, and the soul elevated by the chanting of the

white-robed choristers and the canons, while the organ echoed in the

roof. After the service they would linger among the tombs, of which

there are not many; and read the famous Latin inscription over the door

of the cathedral, "_Si monumentum requiris, circumspice_."

"I knew him," Mrs. Esther would whisper, standing before the great

man's monument. "He was a friend of my father's, and he often came and

talked, my sister and myself being then but little, on the greatness

of astronomy, geometry, and architecture. In the latter years of his

life he would sit in the sunshine, gazing on the noble cathedral he

had built. Yet, grand as he is, he would still lament that his earlier

plans, which were grander still, had not been accepted."

Then out into the noisy street again: back to the shouts of chairmen,

waggon-drivers, coachmen, the bawling of those who cried up and down

pavements, the cries of flying piemen, newsmen, boys with broadsheets,

dying confessions, and ballads--back to the clamour of Fleet Market.

Another excursion, which could only be undertaken when the days were

long, was that to Westminster Abbey.

The way lay along the Strand, which, when the crowded houses behind

St. Clement's and St. Mary's were passed, was a wide and pleasant

thoroughfare, convenient for walking, occupied by stately palaces like

Northumberland and Somerset Houses, and by great shops. At Charing

Cross one might cross over into Spring Gardens, where, Mrs. Esther

said, there was much idle talk among young people, with drinking of

Rhenish wine. Beyond the gardens was St. James's Park: Kitty saw it

once in those days, being taken by Sir Miles Lackington; but so crowded

was it with gallant gentlemen, whose wigs and silken coats were a

proper set-off to the hoops and satins of the ladies, that she was

ashamed of her poor stuff frock, and bade Sir Miles lead her away,

which he did, being that day sorrowful and in a repentant mood.

"I have myself worn those silk waistcoats and that silver lace," he

said with a sigh. "My place should be amongst them now, were it not for

Hazard. Thy own fit station, pretty pauper, is with those ladies. But

Heaven forbid you should learn what they know! Alas! I knew not when I

ought to stop in the path of pleasure."

"Fie!" said she. "Young men ought not to find their pleasure in

gambling."

"Humanity," said Sir Miles, becoming more cheerful when the Park was

left, "has with one consent resolved to follow pleasure. The reverend

divines bid us (on Sunday) be content to forego pleasure; in the week

they, too, get what pleasure they can out of a punch-bowl. I am content

to follow with other men. Come, little Puritan, what is thy idea of

pleasure?"

That seemed simple enough to answer.

"I would live in the country," said she readily, "away from this

dreadful town; I would have enough money to drink tea every day (of

course I would have a good dinner, too), and to buy books, to visit and

be visited, and make my ladies happy, and all be gentlewomen together."

"And never a man among you all?"

"No--we should want no man. You men do but eat, drink, devour,

and waste. The Rules are full of unhappy women, ruined by your

extravagances. Go live all together and carry each other home at night,

where no woman can see or hear."

He shook his head with a laugh, and answered nothing. That same night,

however, he was led home at midnight, bawling some drinking song at the

top of his voice; so that the girl's admonition had no effect upon him.

Perhaps profligate men feel a pleasure not only in their intemperance

but also in repentance. It always seemed to me as if Sir Miles enjoyed

the lamentations of a sinner the morning after a debauch.

On the few occasions when their journey was prolonged beyond Charing

Cross, the ladies were generally attended and protected by Mr. Solomon

Stallabras, who, though little in stature, was brave, and would have

cudgelled a porter, or cuffed a guardsman, in the defence of ladies, as

well as the strongest and biggest gentleman.

There are many other things to see in Westminster Abbey--the coronation

throne, Henry the Seventh's Chapel, the monuments of kings, queens,

great lords, and noble generals--but Mr. Stallabras had an eye to one

spot only.

"There," he said, "is the Poet's Corner: with Dryden, Ben Jonson, and

the glorious dead of this spot, shall, perhaps, my ashes be mixed.

Ladies, immortality is the poet's meed."

The poor man needed some solace in these days, when his poverty was

excessive. Later on he found a little success: obtained an order for

a volume of "Travels in Cashmere" (whither he had never been), which

brought him in eight guineas. He afterwards added "A Romantic Tale,"

the scene of which was laid in the same sweet abode of Sensibility.

It was interspersed with verses, as full of delicacy as the tale

itself. But the publisher, who gave him five guineas for it, complained

afterwards that he had lost by his bargain. Mr. Stallabras often

boasted of the great things he could do were there no publishers, and

regretted the invention of printing, which rendered this class, who

prey upon the very vitals of poor poets, a necessity.

These holidays, these after-hours of rest in the tranquil aisles of St.

Paul's, or the awful Gothic shades of Westminster, were far between.

Mostly the three sat together over their work, while the tumult raged

below.

"Patience, child," said Mrs. Deborah. "Patience, awhile. We have borne

it for nigh thirty years. Can you, who have hope, not bear it a little

longer?"

Said Mrs. Esther: "Providence wisely orders every event, so that each

year or each day shall add something to the education of the soul. It

is doubtless for some wise purpose we have been kept in scarceness

among runagates and spendthrifts."

On Sundays they generally went to the church of St. Giles, Cripplegate.

It was a long way from the Rules, but the ladies liked it because it

was the church where their father lay buried. From the place where they

sat in the seats of the poor, which have neither cushions nor backs,

they could read the tablet to the memory of the late Joshua Pimpernel,

once Lord Mayor of London, and Alderman of Portsoken Ward. The great

church was full of City memories, dear to them from their childhood:

when they were girls they used to sit in a stately pew with red serge

seats and hassocks; now, they worshipped in the same church, but on the

benches among the poor women and the children. Yet there was the same

service, with the rector and the clerk in their desks, the schoolboys

of the Charity along the left, and the schoolgirls of the Charity along

the right; the beadles and vergers, the old women who swept the church,

opened the pew doors, curtsied to the quality and remained behind for

doles--all brought back their childhood. They were as poor themselves

as these old trots, but they could not stay for doles. It is a large

and handsome church, filled with grave citizens, responsible men, whose

ventures are abroad on many seas, respected for wealth and upright

conduct, good men and true, such as was, in his day, my Lord Mayor

Pimpernel himself; with the citizens sit their wives bravely attired,

and their daughters making gallant show in hoops, patches, lace,

sarsnet, and muslin. Outside the church a graveyard, piled and full,

still with a tree or two upon it, whose boughs in June are covered with

bright green leaves, among which the sparrows twitter and fly about.

There is also a great round tower of antique look, which once had been

part of the Roman wall of London.

Here they went to worship. When the minister came to the words in the

Litany--

"Lord have mercy upon all prisoners and captives,"

the sisters would catch each other by the hand, and audibly follow the

reader in prayer as well as response. For thirty years, for fifty-two

Sundays in each year, they had made that prayer in the same words, for

most of the time in the same church. Yet what answer?

Kitty took the prayer, presently, for herself as well. If these ladies

were prisoners, why, what was she? If they might not sleep abroad, and

only walk in the streets by permission and licence of the law, how

was she different from them, since she could not, being but a maid,

and young and penniless, go abroad at all without them or some other

protection?

The sight of the leaves on the trees outside; the fluttering and flying

of the sparrows, now and then the buzzing of a foolish bee who had

found his way into the church, carried the girl's thoughts away to

the quiet place in the country where, between Hall and Vicarage, she

had been brought up. Would the sweet country never more be seen? Was

her life to be, like that of these poor ladies, one long prison among

reprobates and profligates?

The summer came on apace: it grew hot in June; in July it was so

hot that they were fain to sit all day and to sleep all night, with

open windows. The air was cooler, perhaps, at night, but it was

laden with the odours of decaying cabbages, trodden peas and beans,

rotten strawberries, bruised cherries, broken gooseberries, with the

nauseous breath of the butcher's stall, and the pestilential smell

of the poulterer's shop. Moreover, they could not but hear the oaths

and ribaldries of those who sat and lounged about the market, staying

in the open air because it was warm and because it was cheap. The

bulkheads, bunks, booths, stalls, and counters of the market were free

and open to the world: a log of wood for a pillow, a hard plank for a

bed; this was the reward of a free and lawless life. On most nights

it seemed best to lie with windows closed and endure the heat. Yet

closed windows could not altogether keep out the noise, for on these

summer nights all the knaves and thieves unhung in this great town

seemed to be gathered here, pleased to be all together, a Parliament of

rogues, under the pent-houses and on the stalls of the market. And as

in some Roman Catholic countries nuns and monks maintain a perpetual

adoration to the Blessed Virgin, whom they ignorantly worship, so did

these reprobates maintain a perpetual litany of ribaldry and foul

conversation. It never ceased. When one grew tired he lay down and

slept: his friends carried on the talk; the drinking booths were open

all night long, so that those who talked might slake their thirst, and

if any waked and felt thirsty he too might have a drain and so lie down

again. Day and night there was a never-ending riot: the ladies, as the

hot days continued, grew thinner and paler, but they bore it patiently;

they had borne it for thirty years.

Between two and three in the morning there generally came a little

respite; most of the brawlers were then asleep, drunk, or tired out;

only at corners, where there was drink to be had, men and women still

gathered together, talking and joking. At four, or thereabouts, the

market-carts began to arrive, and noise of another kind began.

One morning in July Kitty awoke--it was a hot and close night--just

when all the City clocks were striking three; it was broad daylight;

she sprang from bed, and drawing the blind aside a little, looked out

upon the market below and the City around. In the clear and cloudless

air, before the new day had charged it with a fresh covering or

headpiece of smoke, she saw the beautiful spires of St. Bride's, St.

Dunstan's, St. Andrew's, St. Mary's, and St. Clement's rising one

beyond the other into the clear blue sky, their weather-cocks touched

by the morning sun; on the south, over the river, were visible the

green hills of Surrey, the sun shining on their hanging woods, as plain

as if they were half a mile away. On the north there were the low hills

of Highgate, Hampstead, and Hornsey, the paradise of cits, and yet

places most beautiful, wooded and retired. Everywhere, north, west,

and south, spires of churches rising up to the heavens, as if praying

for the folk beneath. And under her eyes, the folk themselves!

They were human ruins of the past, the present, and the future.

Old men were among them who lay with curled up limbs, shaking with

cold, warm though the night was, and old women, huddled up in scanty

petticoats, lying with tremulous lips and clasped hands. The cheeks

both of the old men and the old women were swollen with drink. What was

the record of their lives? Some of them had been rogues and vagabonds

from the very first, though how they managed to scape the gallows would

be hard to tell. Doubtless their backs were well scarred with the

fustigations of the alderman's whip, and they could remember the slow

tread of the cart behind which they had marched from Newgate to Tyburn,

the cruel cat falling at every step upon their naked and bleeding

shoulders. Yet what help? They must starve or they must steal; and,

being taken, they must be hanged or must be flogged.

Why, these poor old men and poor old women should, had they not missed

the meaning of their lives, have been sitting in high places, with the

state and reverence due to honoured age, with the memory of a life well

fought, hung with chains of gold, draped with cloth of silver and lace.

Yet they were here, crouched in this filthy, evil-smelling place, eyes

shut, backs bent, lips trembling, cheeks twitching, and minds hardened

to iniquity. Did any of them, perchance, remember how one who knew

declared that never had he seen the righteous forsaken or the good man

beg his bread?

A dreadful shivering seized the girl. What plank of safety, what

harbour of refuge was open to her that she too might escape this fate?

What assurance had she that her end might not be like unto the end of

these? Truly none, save that faith by which, as Paul hath taught, the

only way to heaven itself is opened.

Then there were young men with red and swollen faces, thieves and

vagabonds by profession, who found the air of the market more pleasant

than that of Turnmill or Chick Street. Yet it was an ominous and

suspicious place to sleep in; a place full of bad dreams for thieves,

criminals, and debtors, since close at hand was the Fleet Prison,

its wards crowded with the careless, who lounged and jested, and the

hopeless, who sat in despair; since but a hundred yards from them stood

the black and gloomy Newgate, its condemned cells full of wretches, no

worse than themselves, waiting to be hanged, its courts full of other

wretches, no worse than themselves, waiting to be tried, sentenced,

and cast for execution, and its gaol-fever hanging over all alike,

delivering the wards from their prisoners, cheating the hangman,

hurrying to death judge, jury, counsel, prisoner, and warders together.

But they never think upon such things, these poor rogues; each hopes

that while his neighbour is hanged, he will escape. They cannot stop

to think, they cannot turn back: behind them is the devil driving them

downwards; before them, if they dare to lift their eyes, the horrid

machinery of justice with pillory, whip, and gallows. Among them, here

and there, pretty boys and girls, lying asleep side by side upon the

hard wooden stalls; boys with curly hair and rosy faces, girls with

long eyelashes, parted lips, and ruddy cheeks--pity, pity, that when

they woke they should begin again the only trade they knew: to thieve,

filch, and pick pockets, with the reward of ducking, pumping, flogging,

and hanging.

So clear was the air, so bright the morning, that what she saw was

impressed upon her memory clearly, so that she can never forget it.

The old men and old women are dead; the young men and women are, one

supposes, hanged; what else could be their fate? And as for the boys

and girls, the little rogues and thieves, who had no conscience and

took all, except the whippings, for frolic, are any left still to sleep

on hot nights in that foul place, or are all hanged, whipped at the

cart-tail, burnt in the hand, or at best, transported to labour under

the lash in the plantations?

Sinner succeeds unto sinner as the year follows year; the crop of

gallows fruit increases day by day; but the criminals do not seem to

become fewer.

CHAPTER IX.

HOW THE SOUTH SEA BUBBLE MADE TWO WOMEN PRISONERS.

One Sunday evening in the autumn, the market being then quiet, the two

ladies and the girl sat round a fire of coal, talking together by its

light. The memories of the sisters, by some accident, were carried back

to the past, and they told the child the story, of which she already

knew a part, how by a great and crying injustice of the law, they had

been shut up in prison, for no fault of their own, for nearly thirty

years.

"My father's eyes," said Mrs. Deborah, looking at the portrait over the

fireplace, "seem to rest upon me to-night."

Mrs. Esther shuddered.

"It is a sign, sister," she said, "that something will happen to us."

Mrs. Deborah laughed a little bitterly. I thought afterwards that the

laugh was like that of Sarai, because a thing did happen to her, as

will presently be seen.

"Nothing," she said, "will happen to you and to me any more, Esther,

except more pain and more starvation."

"Patience, Deborah," sighed Mrs. Esther. "We who have borne our

captivity for nine-and-twenty years----"

"And seven months," said her sister.

"Can surely bear it a little longer."

"We were girls when we came here," said Mrs. Deborah; "girls who might

have had lovers and become mothers of brave sons--not that you, Kitty,

should let your thoughts run on such matters. But there are no honest

lovers for honest girls in the Rules of the Fleet."

"Lovers!" echoed Mrs. Esther, with a heavy sigh. "Mothers! with sons!

Ah, no! not for us."

"We are old women now, sister. Well, everything is short that hath an

end. Let us take comfort. To earthly prison is a certain end appointed."

"We came to the gaol, sister," continued Mrs. Esther, "two girls,

weeping, hand-in-hand. Poor girls! poor girls! My heart bleeds to think

of them, so young and so innocent."

"We shall go out of it," said her sister, "with tears of joy. They

shall write upon our tombstones, 'These sisters thank God for death.'"

"What fault, we asked--ah! Deborah, how often we asked it!--what fault

had we committed? For what sin or crime of ours did this ruin fall upon

us?"

"I ask it still," said Deborah the impatient, "I ask it every day. How

can they call this a land of justice, when two innocent women can be

locked up for life?"

"My sister, we may not kick against the pricks. If laws are unjust they

must be changed, not disobeyed."

Mrs. Deborah replied by a gesture of impatience.

"We were blessed with parents," said Mrs. Esther, half talking to

herself, half to me, "whose worth and piety were as eminent as their

lofty positions in the City. Our respected father was Lord Mayor in the

year 1716, when, with our esteemed mother, who was by birth a Balchin,

and the granddaughter of Sir Rowland Balchin, also once Lord Mayor, he

had the honour of entertaining his Highness Prince George of Denmark.

We were present at that royal banquet in the gallery. Our father was

also, of course, an alderman----"

"Of Portsoken Ward," said Mrs. Deborah.

"And Worshipful Master of the Company of Armour Scourers."

"And churchwarden of St. Dionis Backchurch," said Mrs. Deborah.

"Which he beautified, adding a gallery at his own expense."

"And where, in 1718, a tablet was placed in the wall to his memory,"

added Mrs. Deborah.

"And one to the memory of Esther, his wife," continued the elder

sister, "who died in the year 1719, so that we, being still minors,

unfortunately became wards of a merchant, an old and trusted friend of

our father."

"A costly friend he proved to us," said Mrs. Deborah.

"Nay, sister, blame him not. Perhaps he thought to multiply our

fortunes tenfold. Then came the year of 1720, when, by visitation of

the Lord, all orders and conditions of men went mad, and we, like

thousands of others, lost our little all, and from rich heiresses of

twenty thousand pounds apiece--such, Kitty, was then our enviable

condition--became mere beggar-girls."

"Worse," said Mrs. Deborah grimly. "Beggar-wenches are not in debt;

they may go and lay their heads where they please."

"We were debtors, but to whom I know not; we owed a large sum of money,

but how much I know not; nor have ever been able to understand how

our guardian ruined us, with himself. I was twenty-two, and my sister

twenty-one; we were of age; no one could do anything for us; needs must

we come to the Fleet and be lodged in prison."

"Esther!" cried her sister, shuddering; "must we tell her all?"

"My child," continued Mrs. Esther, "we suffered at first more than we

dare to tell you. There was then in charge of the prison a wretch,

a murderer, a man whose sins towards me I have, I hope, forgiven,

as is my Christian duty. But his sins towards my sister I can never

forgive; no, never. It is not, I believe," she said with more asperity

than I had ever before remarked in her--"it cannot be expected of any

Christian woman that she should forgive in a wicked man his wickedness

to others."

"That is my case," said Mrs. Deborah. "The dreadful cruelties of

Bambridge, so far as I am concerned, are forgiven. I cannot, however,

forgive those he inflicted upon you, Esther. And I never mean to."

This seemed at the moment an edifying example of obedience to the

divine law. Afterwards the girl wondered whether any person was

justified in nourishing hatred against another. And as to that,

Bambridge was dead; he had committed suicide; he had gone where no

human hate could harm him.

Every one knows that this man must have been a most dreadful monster.

He was the tenant, so to speak, of the prison, and paid so much a year

for the privilege of extorting what money he could from the unfortunate

debtors. He made them pay commitment fees, lodging fees, and fees of

all kinds, so that the very entrance to the prison cost a poor wretch

sometimes more than forty pounds. He took from the two ladies all the

money they had, to the last guinea; he threatened them with the same

punishment which he (illegally) inflicted on the unfortunate men; he

would, he said, clap them in irons, set them in tubs, put them in the

strong-room, which was a damp and dark and filthy dungeon, not fit for

a Turk; he kept their lives in continual terror of some new misery:

they had ever before their eyes the spectacle of his cruelties to

Captain MacPheadrid, whom he lamed; Captain Sinclair, whom he confined

until his memory was lost and the use of his limbs; Jacob Mendez,

whom he kept locked up till he gave up his uttermost farthing; and

Sir William Rich, whom he slashed with a hanger and beat with sticks

because he could not pay his lodging.

And as every one knows, Bambridge was at last turned out through the

exertions of General Oglethorpe.

"And how can I forget the generous band,

Who, touched with human woe, redressive searched

Into the horrors of the gloomy gaol!"

"We endured these miseries," continued Mrs. Esther, "for four years,

when our cousin was able to go security and pay the fees for us to

leave the dreadful place and enjoy the Rules. Here, at least, we have

some liberty, though we must live among scenes of rudeness, and see

and hear daily a thousand things which a gentlewoman should be able to

escape and forget. Our cousin," she went on, after a pause, "is not

rich, and is able to do little for us: he sends us from time to time,

out of his poverty, something for our necessities: out of this we have

paid our rent, and being able sometimes to do some sewing work, we

have lived, though but poorly. Two women want but little: a penny will

purchase a dish of broth."

"It is not the poverty we lament," said Mrs. Deborah, "it is the place

wherein we live."

"Then," Mrs. Esther went on, "Heaven sent us a friend. My dear, be it

known to you, that had it not been for the Doctor, we had, ere now,

been starved. He it was who found us in hunger and cold; he fed us,

clothed us, and warmed us."

"To us, at least, he will always be the best of men," said Mrs. Deborah.

"More than that, sister; he hath brought us this child to be our joy

and comfort: though God in His mercy forbid that your young days should

all be wasted in this wicked place, which surely is the very mouth----"

Here they were interrupted by an uproar in the street below us: a

bawling and bellowing of many men: they were bringing home the baronet,

who was already drunk. Among the voices Kitty heard, and hung her head

with shame, the tones of her uncle, as clear and sonorous as the great

bell of St. Paul's.

They said nothing for a space. When all was quiet again, and the

brawlers had withdrawn, Mrs. Esther spoke in her gentle way.

"A man's life doth, doubtless, seem to himself different from what he

seems to the women who know him. We know not his moments of repentance,

his secret prayers, or his temptations. Men are stronger than women,

and they are also weaker: their virtues are nobler: their vices are

more conspicuous. We must not judge, but continue to think the best.

I was saying, my dear, when we were interrupted by the brawling of

Sabbath-breakers, that your uncle, the worthy Doctor, is the most

kind-hearted and generous of men. For all that he has done to us,

three poor and defenceless women, we have nothing to give in return

but our prayers. Let us give him these, at least. May the Lord of all

goodness and mercy reward him, strengthen him, and forgive him whatever

frailties do beset him!"

CHAPTER X.

HOW THE DOCTOR WAS AT HOME TO HIS FRIENDS.

If it be true (which doubtless will be denied by no one) that women are

fond of changing their fashions and of pranking themselves continually

in some new finery, it is certainly no less true that men--I mean young

ones--are for ever changing their follies as well as their fashions.

The follies of old men--who ought to be grave, in contemplation of the

next world--seem to remain the same: some of them practise gluttony:

some love the bottle: some of them the green table: some, even more

foolish, pretend to renew their youth and counterfeit a passion for our

sex. As for the fashions of the young men, one year it is the cocking

of a hat, the next it is the colour of a waistcoat, the cut of a skirt,

the dressing of a wig; the ribbon behind must be lengthened or reduced,

the foretop must stick up like a horn one year and lie flat the next,

the curls must be amplified till a man looks like a monstrous ram, or

reduced till he resembles a monkey who has been shaved; the sword must

have hilt and scabbard of the fashionable shape which changes every

year; it must be worn at a certain angle; the rule about the breadth of

the ruffle or the length of the skirt must be observed. So that, even

as regards their fashions, the men are even with the women. Where we

cannot vie with them is in the fashion of their amusements, in which

they change for ever, and more rapidly than we change the colour of a

ribbon. One season Ranelagh is the vogue, the next Vauxhall; the men

were, for a year or two, bitten by that strange madness of scouring

the streets by night, upsetting constables, throwing pence against

window-panes, chasing belated and peaceful passengers, shouting and

bellowing, waking from sleep timid and helpless women and children.

Could one devise a braver and more noble amusement? Another time there

was the mischievous practice of man-hunting. It was thought the work

of a fine fellow, a lad of spirit, to lie hidden, with other lads of

spirit, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, or some such quiet place, behind the

bushes, until there might pass by some unfortunate wretch, alone and

unprotected. Then would they spring to their feet, shouting, "That's

he! that's he! after him, boys!" and pursue the poor man through the

streets with drawn swords and horrid cries, until, half dead, he

rushed into some tavern or place of refuge. As for actors, singers,

or dancers, they take them up for a season, and then abandon them for

no merit or fault in them whatever; one day they are all for Church,

and the next they applaud Orator Henley; one day they shout for Nancy

Dawson, and the next for Garrick; one day they are Whig, and the next

Tory; one year they brandish thick clubs, wear heavy greatcoats with

triple capes, swear, drink porter, and go like common coachmen; the

next, with amber canes, scented gloves, lace ruffles, flowered silk

waistcoats, skirts, extended like a woman's hooped petticoat, they

amble along as if the common air was too coarse for them, mince their

words, are shocked at coarse language, and can drink nothing less fine

than Rhenish or Champagne, though the latter be seven shillings and

sixpence a flask; and as for their walk, they go on tip-toe like a

city madam trying to look like a gentlewoman. The next year, again,

they are all for Hockley-in-the-Hole and bear-baiting. This year, the

fashion was for a short space, and among such as could get taken there,

to spend the evenings in the Rules of the Fleet, where, the bloods of

the town had discovered, was to be found excellent company for such as

liked to pay for it, among those who had been spent and ruined in the

service of fashion, gaming, and gallantry.

There are plenty of taverns and houses of call in London where a

gentleman may not only call for what he pleases to order, but may also

be diverted by the jests and songs of some debauched, idle fellow

who lies and lops about all day, doing no work and earning no money,

but in the evening is ready to sing and make merriment for a bowl of

punch. This rollicking, roaring blade, the lad of mettle, was once

a gentleman, perhaps, or a companion to gentlemen. To him nature,

intending her worst, hath given a reckless temperament, an improvident

brain, a merry laugh, a musical voice, a genius for mimicry, of which

gifts he makes such excellent use that they generally lead him to end

his days in such a position. Men need not, for certain, go to Fleet

Market to find these buffoons.

Yet, within the Rules, there was an extraordinary number of these

careless vagabonds always ready to enjoy the present hour could some

friend be found to pay the shot. In the morning they roamed the place,

leaned against bulkheads, sat in doorways, or hid themselves within

doors, dejected, repentant, full of gloomy anticipations; in the

evening their old courage came back to them, they were again jocund,

light-hearted, the oracle of the tavern, the jester and Jack-pudding of

the feast, pouring out songs from the collections of Tom D'Urfey, and

jokes from Browne and Ned Ward.

Many of the taverns, the Bishop Blaize, for example, and the Rainbow,

kept one or two of these fellows in their regular employ. They gave

them dinner, with, as soon as the guests arrived in the evening,

liberty to call for what they pleased. If the visitors treated them,

so much the better for the house; but there were, however, conditions,

unwritten but understood: they were never to be sad, never grave,

never to show the least signs of repentance, reflection or shame; and

they were not to get drunk early in the evening, or before the better

sort of visitors, whose entertainment they were to provide. Shameful

condition! shameful servitude, for man (who hath a soul to think of) to

obey!

One has to confess with shame that among the tavern buffoons, the

Professional Tom Fools of the Fleet, were several of those clergymen

whose trade it was to make rash couples wretched for life. This

peculiarity, not to be found elsewhere, provided, perhaps, a novelty in

vice which for a time made the Rules a favourite resort of men about

town: the knowledge that the man who, without a rag left of the gravity

belonging to his profession, laughed, sang and acted for the amusement

of all comers, should have borne himself as a grave and reverend

divine, gave point to his jest and added music to his song. It is not

every day that one sees a merry-andrew in full-bottomed wig, bands, and

flowing gown; it is not in every tavern that one finds the Reverend

James Lands dancing a hornpipe in clogs, or the Reverend William Flood

bawling a comic song while he grins through a horse-collar. Nor could

the wits find at the coffee-houses of St. James's or Covent Garden,

or at any ordinary place of amusement, a clergyman at the head of the

table ruffling it with the best--albeit with tattered gown and shabby

wig--ready with jest more profane, wit more irreverent, song and story

more profligate, than any of the rest.

As for Doctor Shovel, it must not be supposed that he was to be found

in any of these places.

"What!" he was wont to cry, "should a man of reputation, a scholar,

whose Latin verses have been the delight of bishops and the pride

of his college, a clergyman of dignity and eloquence, condescend to

take the pay of a common vintner, make merriment for the company of a

mug-house, hobnob with a tradesmen's club, play buffoon for a troop of

Templars, and crack jests for any ragamuffin prentice with half-a-crown

to call for a bottle? No, sir! The man who would know Doctor Gregory

Shovel must seek him in his own house, where, as a gentleman and a

scholar, he receives such as may be properly introduced on every night

of the year--Sundays excepted, when he takes his drink, for the most

part, alone."

In fact, his house was the chief attraction of the Rules; but access

was only granted to those who were brought by his friends. Once

introduced, however, a man was free of the house, and might not only

come again as often as he pleased, but bring other friends. Now, as men

prize most that which is least easy to procure, whether they want it or

not, it became a distinction to have this right of spending the evening

in the Fleet Market. A fine distinction, truly!

Those, however, who went there were not unlikely to find themselves

among a goodly assemblage of wits and men of fashion. The Doctor

played the host with the dignity of a bishop, and the hospitality of

a nobleman; chairs were set around the table, in that room where he

performed his daily marriages; those who came late could stand or send

for a bench from the market; Roger and William, the two clerks, were

in attendance to go and fetch the punch which the Doctor or his guests

provided for the entertainment of all. Tobacco was on the table; the

Doctor was in the chair, his long pipe in his mouth, his great head

leaning back, his eyes rolling as he talked, before him his glass of

punch. He was no buffoon; he did not cut capers, nor did he dance, nor

did he sing Tom D'Urfey's songs, nor did he quote Ned Ward's jokes.

If the company laughed, it was at one of his own stories, and when he

sang, the words were such as might have been heard in any gentlewoman's

parlour, and the music was Arne's, Bull's, Lilly's, or Carey's. Round

him were poets, authors, scholars, lawyers, country gentlemen, and

even grave merchants; some of them were out at elbows, threadbare, and

sometimes hungry, but they were as welcome as the richer sort who paid

for the punch. The younger men came to listen to one who was notorious

for his impudent defiance of the law, and was reported to possess

excellent gifts of conversation and of manner. The elder men came to

look upon a man unabashed in his disgrace, whom they had known the

favourite of the town.

"All the world," Sir Miles Lackington told me, "ran after Doctor

Shovel when he was a young man and evening lecturer at St.

Martin's-in-the-Fields; never was clergyman more popular in the world

or in the pulpit; what was to be looked for when such a young man spent

his morning with great ladies, who cried, 'Oh, sweet sir! oh, reverend

sir! how eloquent, how gracious are your words!' but that he should see

within reach promise of preferment, and run into debt to maintain a

fine appearance and a fine lodging?"

The fine ladies had gone off after other favourite divines; their

promises were forgotten; they had listened to other voices as musical,

and bowed their heads before other divines as pious. The debts were

unpaid--the Doctor in the Rules. He possessed no longer the wonderful

comeliness with which he had stolen away the hearts of women, he

preached no more in any pulpit; but his old dignity was left, with his

eloquence and his wit. He who had charmed women now attracted men.

"Fie!" he would say; "remind me not of that time. I was once the pet

and plaything of ladies, a sort of lapdog to be carried in their

coaches: a lackey in a cassock, with my little store of compliments,

pretty sayings, and polite maxims: my advice on patches, powder, and

Eau de Chypre: my family prayers: my grace before meat: my sermons on

divine right and the authority of the Church; and my anecdotes to make

my lady laugh and take the cross looks out of little miss's dimpled

cheeks. And, gentlemen, withal a needy curate, a poor starveling,

a pauper with never a guinea, and a troop of debts which would not

disgrace a peer.

"Whereas," he would continue, "here I live free of duns and debt:

the countesses may go hang: I look for no more patrons: I expect no

beggarly preferment; I laugh at my ease, while my creditors bark but

cannot bite."

To those who objected that in former times he preached to the flock,

and that his eloquence was now as good as lost to the Church, he

replied that, as Chaplain of the Fleet, he preached daily, whereas

formerly he had preached but once a week, which was a clear gain for

righteousness.

"What! would you have me send forth my newly married lambs without a

word of exhortation beyond the rubric? Nay, sir; that were to throw

away the gift of speech, and to lose a golden occasion. None leave

my chapel-of-ease unless fortified and exhorted to virtue by such an

admonition as they have never before enjoyed."

One evening in October, when the summer was over and the autumn already

set in, the Doctor sat as usual in his arm-chair. Before him stood his

tobacco-box, and beside it lay his pipe. As yet, for it was but eight

o'clock, there was no punch. Four great wax candles stood lighted on

the table, and in the doorway were the two impudent varlets, whom he

called his clerks, leaning against the posts, one on either hand.

There was but one visitor as yet. He was a young Templar, almost a

boy, pale and thin because of his late hours and his excesses. And the

Doctor was admonishing him, being at the time in a mood of repentance,

or rather of virtue.

"Young man," he said, "I have observed thee, and made inquiry among thy

friends regarding thy conduct, which resembles, at present, that of

the prodigal son while revelling in his prodigality. Learn from this

place and the wretches who are condemned to live in it, the end of

profligacy. What the words of Solomon have hitherto been powerless to

teach, let the Chaplain of the Fleet enforce. The wellspring of wisdom

is as a flowing brook, says the Wise Man. Yet ye drink not of that

stream. Also he saith that Wisdom crieth at the gates, at the entry of

the city. But ye regard not. He hath told ye how the young man, void of

understanding, falls continually into the pit of destruction. But ye

heed not. The drunkard and the glutton, he hath declared, shall come to

poverty. Ye listen not, but continue to eat and to drink. Wherefore,

young man, look around thee and behold this place. We who are here sit

among wine-bibbers and spendthrifts: we have not in our comings and

goings--but, alas! we never go--any gracious paths of pleasantness:

we go never among the meadows to breathe the air of buttercups and to

ponder on the divine wisdom: we listen perpetually to the cackle of

fools, the braying of asses, whom we could indeed wish to be wild and

on their native Asiatic plains; and the merriment of madmen, which is

like unto the crackling of thorns beneath the pot: we have--though our

sins are multitudinous as the moments--no time nor opportunity for

repentance: and even if we did repent, there is no way out for us, no

escape at all, but still we must remain among the wicked until we die.

Even the Christian priest, who finds himself (through thoughtlessness

over money matters, being continually occupied with higher things)

brought hither, must leave the ways which are right, and cleave unto

those which are wrong. It is only by lying, bullying, and swearing,

that money (by which we live) is drawn here out of the purses of silly

and unwary people. Granted that we draw it. What boots it if one's

rogues bring in a hundred couples in a month? The guineas melt away

like snow in the sunshine, and nothing remains but the evil memory of

the sins by which they were gotten."

The Templar, astonished at such a sermon from such a man, hung his

head abashed. He came to drink and be merry, and lo! an exhortation

to virtue. While the Doctor was yet speaking, there came a second

visitor--no other than Mr. Stallabras, the poet, who came, his head

erect, his hand thrust in his bosom, as if fresh from an interview with

the Muses. The Doctor regarded him for a moment, as one in a pulpit

might regard a late-comer who disturbed his sermon, and went on with

his discourse:

"This is a place, young man, where gnashing of teeth may be heard day

and night by him who has ears to hear, and who knows that the sound

of riot and merriment are but raised to drown despair: to him every

song is a throb of agony, every jest rings in his ears like a cry of

remorse: we are in a prison, though we seem to be free; we are laid by

the heels, though we are said to enjoy the Liberties of the Fleet; we

live and breathe like our fellows, but we have no hope for the rest of

our lives; we go not forth, though the doors are open; we are living

monuments, that foolish youth may learn by our luckless fate to avoid

the courses which have brought us hither. Wherefore, young man, beware!

_Discite justitiam moniti._"

He paused awhile, and then continued:

"Yet we should not be pitied, because, forsooth, we do but lie in the

beds that we have chosen. No other paradise save a heaven of gluttony

would serve our turn. In the Garden of Eden, should we peradventure

and by some singular grace win thither, we should instantly take to

wallowing in the mud and enjoying the sunshine: some of us would sit

among the pigsties in happy conversation and friendship with the swine:

some would creep downstairs and bask among the saucepans before the

kitchen fire: some would lie among the bottles and casks in the cellar.

Not for such as have come here are the gardens, the streams, the

meadows, and the hilltops."

Then came two more guests, whom he saluted gravely. These were

accustomed to the Doctor's moods, and sat down to the table, waiting

in silence. He, too, became silent, sitting with his head upon his

hand. Then came others, who also found the Doctor indisposed for mirth.

Presently, however, he banged the table with his fist, and cried out in

those deep tones which he could use so well:

"Come, life is short. Lamenting lengthens not our days. Brothers, let

us drink and sing. Roger, go bring the bowl. Gentlemen all, be welcome

to this poor house. Here is tobacco. Punch is coming. The night is

young. Let every man be merry."

The room was half full: there were, besides the residents and lodgers

of the place, young lawyers from the Temple, Gray's Inn, and Lincoln's

Inn; poets not yet in limbo; authors who were still able to pay for

their lodgings; young fellows whose creditors were still forbearing;

and a few whose rich coats and lace betokened their rank and wealth.

The evening began, the Doctor's voice loud above all the rest. Half

an hour afterwards, when the air of the room was already heavy with

tobacco-smoke, Sir Miles Lackington who usually came with the earliest,

arrived, bringing with him a young gentleman of twenty-two years or

thereabouts, who was bravely dressed in a crimson coat, lined with

white silk: he had also a flowered silk waistcoat, and the hilt of his

sword was set with jewels. He was, in fact, one of those gentlemen who

were curious to see this jovial priest, self-styled Chaplain of the

place where there were so many parsons, who set the laws of the country

at defiance with an audacity so splendid. He looked surprised, as if he

had not expected so large an assembly.

"Follow me, my lord," said the baronet, whose jolly face was already

flushed, and his voice already thick with wine. "Come, my lord, let us

get nearer the Doctor. Gentlemen, by your leave: will you make place

for his lordship? Doctor, this gentleman is none other than the young

Lord Chudleigh, who hath heard of your eloquence and your learning, and

greatly desires your better acquaintance. Rascal Roger, chairs for my

lord and myself!"

He pushed his way through the crowd, followed by his guest. The doctor

turned his head, half rose; his melancholy mood had passed away: he

was in happy vein: he had sung one or two songs in a voice which might

have been heard at Temple Bar: he had taken two or three glasses of

punch, and smoked a pipe and a half of the best Virginian; he was in

the paradise which he loved. Yet when Sir Miles Lackington spoke, when

he named his guest, the Doctor's face became suddenly pale, he seemed

to totter, his eyes glared, and he caught at the arm of his chair, as

if about to be stricken with some kind of fit. His friends, who had

never seen those ample and rubicund cheeks other than of a glowing

ruddiness, were greatly terrified at this phenomenon.

"The Doctor is ill," cried Solomon Stallabras, starting to his feet.

"Give air--open the windows--let us carry the Doctor into the street!"

But he recovered.

"It is nothing," he said. "A sudden faintness. The day has been close.

Let no one move." He drank off his glass of punch: the colour came back

to his face and the firmness to his legs. "I am well again. Sir Miles,

you are always welcome. Were the Liberties peopled with such as you,

we should be well sped indeed. Quick with the chairs, Roger. I rejoice

to see your lordship in this poor house of mine. Had other noblemen

of your lordship's rank but kept their word, I should this day have

welcomed you in the palace of a bishop. Forget, my lord, that I am not

a bishop: be assured that if I cannot bestow the episcopal absolution

and benediction which he of London hath ever ready for a nobleman,

my welcome is worthy of a prelate, and the punch not to be surpassed

even at Lambeth Palace. Sir Miles, you forgot, I think, to make me

acquainted with his lordship's noble name."

"I am the Lord Chudleigh," said the young man doubtfully, and with a

pleasing blush.

"Again, your lordship is welcome," said the Doctor. "In the old days

when I was young and able to stir abroad in the world, without a

creditor in every street and a vindictive dun in every shop (whose

revenge in this my confinement has only brought lamentation on every

mother's son, because they remain all unpaid), it was my privilege to

be much with your noble father. In truth, I knew not that he was dead."

"My father died two years ago at his country house."

"Indeed!" The Doctor gravely gazed in his guest's face, both still

standing. "Is that really so? But we who live in this retirement hear

little news. So Lord Chudleigh is dead! I went upon the Grand Tour with

him. I was his tutor, his companion, his friend, as he was kind enough

to call me; he was two years younger than myself, but our tastes were

common, and what he bought I enjoyed and often chose. There came a

time when--but your lordship is young--you know not yet how rank and

class separate friends, how the man of low birth may trust his noble

friend too much, and he of rank may think the decalogue written for the

vulgar. Your father is dead! I had hoped to see him if but once more,

before he died: it was not to be. I would have written to him upon his

deathbed had I known: I owed him much--very much more than I could hope

to repay, yet would I have repaid something. Your father died suddenly,

my lord, or after painful illness?"

"He died, Doctor Shovel, after a long and very painful illness."

"Why, there," cried the Doctor, as if disappointed. "Had I only known

there would have been time for half-a-dozen letters. I would I had been

with him myself."

"It is kind of you, sir," said his lordship, "thus to speak of my

father."

"Did he--but I suppose he had forgotten--did he condescend to speak of

me?"

"Never," replied Lord Chudleigh; "at least not to me."

"There were certain passages in his life," the Doctor went on

thoughtfully, "of such a kind as recur to the memory of sick and dying

men, when the good and evil deeds of our lives stand arrayed before us

like ministering spirits and threatening demons. Certain passages, I

say, which were intimately associated with myself. Indeed, it cannot be

that they entirely perished from his lordship's memory. Since he spoke

not of them, let me not speak. I am sorry, my lord, to have saddened

you by thus recalling the thought of your dead father."

"Nay, sir," said Lord Chudleigh, "to have met so old a friend of my

father's is a pleasure I did not expect. I humbly desire, sir, your

better acquaintance."

The company during this long talk were mostly standing. It was no new

thing to meet a man of rank at the Doctor's, but altogether new to have

the conversation assume so serious a tone. Every one felt, however,

that the dignity of the Doctor was greatly increased by this event.

Then the Doctor waved his hand, and resumed his cheerful expression.

"Gentlemen," he said, "be seated all, I pray. My lord, your chair is

at my right. Enough of the past. We are here to enjoy the present

hour, which is always with us and always flying from us. We crown it

with flowers and honour it with libations: we sing its presence with

us: we welcome its coming, and speed its parting with wine and song.

So far are we pagans: join with us in these heathen rites wherein

we rejoice in our life and forget our mortality. None but poets are

immortal. Solomon--Solomon Stallabras, the modern Apollo, the favourite

of the Nine, we drink your health and wish the long deferring of your

immortality. Let us drink, let us talk, let us be merry, let us while

away the rosy hours." He banged the table with his fist and set the

glasses clinking. Then he filled a glass with punch and handed it

to Lord Chudleigh. "As for you, Sir Miles," he said, "you may help

yourself. Ah, tippler! the blush of the bottle is already on thy cheeks

and its light is in thy eyes. Wherefore, be moderate at the outset.

Roger, thou villain, go order another bowl, and after that more bowls,

and still more bowls. I am athirst: I shall drink continually: I shall

become this night a mere hogshead of punch. So will all this honourable

company; bid the vintner beware the lemon and be sparing of the sugar,

but liberal with the clove and the nutmeg. This night shall be such a

night as the Rules have never before seen. Run, rogue, run!" Roger

vanished. "Let me sing you, my lord, a song of my youth when nymphs and

shepherdesses ran in my head more than Hebrew and theology."

He sang in his rich, full, and musical voice, the following ditty:

"Cried the nymph, while her swain

Sought for phrases in vain,

'Ah, Corydon, let me a shy lover teach;

Your flowers and rings,

Your verses and things,

Are pretty, but dumb, and I love a bold speech.

"'To dangle and sigh,

To stammer and cry,

Such foolishness angers us maidens in time:

And if you would please,

Neither tremble nor tease,

But remember to woo us with laughter and rhyme.

"'Go, hang up thy crook,

Change that sorrowful look

And seek merry rhymes and glad sayings in verse:

Remember that Kitty

Rhymes still unto pity,

And Polly takes folly for better or worse.

"'Come jocund and gay,

As the roses in May,

With a rolling leg and a conquering smile:

Forget not that mirth

Ever rhymes unto worth,

And lucky the lover who laughs all the while.'"

"I wrote the song," said the Doctor, "when it was the fashion to be

sighing at the feet of Chloe. Not that my song produced any impression

on the fashion. Pray, my lord, is it the custom, nowadays, to woo with

a long face and a mournful sigh?"

Lord Chudleigh laughed and put the question by.

"What do women care for lovers' sighs? I believe, gentlemen, they like

to be carried by assault. Who can resist a brave fellow, all fire and

passion, who marches to the attack with a confident laugh and a gallant

bearing? It is the nature of the sex to admire gallantry. Therefore,

gentlemen, put on your best ruffles, cock your hats, tie your wigs,

settle the angle of your swords, and on with a hearty countenance.

"I remember, being then in Constantinople, and at a slave-market where

Circassians were to be bought, there came into the place as handsome a

young Turk as ever you might wish to set eyes upon. Perhaps he was a

poet, because when he had the slaves brought out for his inspection,

at sight of the prettiest and youngest of them all, he fell to sighing

just like an English gentleman in love. Presently there came in an old

ruffler of fifty, who, without any sighs or protestations, tugged out

his purse and bought the slave, and she went off delighted at having

fetched so good a price and pleased so resolute a fellow."

The Doctor continued to pour forth stories of adventure and experience,

interspersed with philosophical maxims. He told of courts and cities as

he saw them in the year 1720, which was the year in which he made the

Grand Tour with the late Lord Chudleigh. He told old tales of Cambridge

life. While he talked the company listened, drank, and smoked; no one

interrupted him. Meanwhile he sent the punch about, gave toasts--with

every glass a toast, with every toast a full glass--and swore that on

such a night no one should pay but himself, wherefore let every man

fill up.

"Come, gentlemen, we let the glasses flag. I will sing you another

song, written for the good old days of Tom D'Urfey, when men were

giants, and such humble topers as ourselves would have met with scant

respect.

"Come, all ye honest topers, lend an ear, lend an ear,

While we drain the bowl and push the bottle round, bottle round;

We are merry lads, and cosy, cosy here, cosy here;

Though outside the toil and moil may resound, may resound.

"Let us drink reformation to mankind, to mankind;

Example may they follow from our ways, from our ways:

And whereas to their follies they are blind, they are blind,

Their eyes may they open to their craze, to their craze.

"For the miser all day long hugs his gold, hugs his gold;

And the lover for his mistress ever sighs, ever sighs:

And the parson wastes his words upon his fold, upon his fold;

And the merchant to the ledger glues his eyes, glues his eyes.

"But we wrangle not, but laugh, while we drink, while we drink;

And we envy no man's happiness or wealth, or his wealth;

We rest from toil and cease from pen and ink, pen and ink;

And we only pray for liquor and for health, and for health.

"Then the miser shall, like us, call for wine, call for wine:

And the lover cry for lemon and the bowl, and the bowl:

And the merchant send his clerks for brandy fine, brandy fine;

And the parson with a bottle soothe his soul, soothe his soul.

"And the rogue shall honest grow, o'er a glass, o'er a glass;

And the thief shall repent beside a keg, beside a keg:

And enmity to friendship quickly pass, quickly pass;

While good fellows each to others drink a peg, drink a peg.

"All kill-joy envies then shall disappear, disappear;

Contented shall we push the bottle round, bottle round;

For 'tis cosy, topers all, cosy here, cosy here;

Though outside the toil and moil may resound, may resound."

Thus did the Doctor stimulate his guests to drink. As the night wore

on, one by one dropped away: some, among whom were Sir Miles, dropped

asleep; a few lay upon the floor. As for Lord Chudleigh, the fiery

liquor and the fumes of the tobacco were mounting to his brain, but

he was not, like the rest, overpowered. He would have got up and gone

away, but that the Doctor's voice, or his eyes, held him to his place.

"I am thinking," said the Doctor with a strange smile, "how your father

at one time might have rejoiced to think that you should come here. The

recollection of his services to me must have soothed his last moments.

Would that I could repay them!"

Lord Chudleigh assured him that, so far as he knew, there was nothing

to repay, and that, if there had been, his father's wish would

certainly have been to forgive the debt.

"He could not forgive the debt," said the Doctor, laughing. "It was not

in his power. He would have owned the debt. It was not money, however,

but a kindness of quite another sort."

"Then," said Lord Chudleigh, prettily bowing, "let me thank you

beforehand, and assure you that I shall be proud to receive any

kindness in return that you may have an opportunity to show me."

"Believe me, my lord," said the Doctor, "I have the will if not the

power: and I shall not forget the will, at least."

"It is strange," he continued, "that he never spoke about his younger

days. Lord Chudleigh attracted to himself, between the age of

five-and-twenty and thirty, the friendship and respect of many men,

like myself, of scholarship and taste, without fortune. He with his

friends was going to supply that defect, a promise which circumstances

prevented him from fulfilling. The earthen vessel swims merrily, in

smooth water, beside the vessel of brass; when a storm rises it breaks

to atoms. We were the earthen vessels, he the brazen; we are all broken

to atoms and ground beneath the heel. I, who almost alone survive,

though sunk as low as any, am yet not the least miserable, and can

yet enjoy the three great blessings of humanity in this age--I mean

tobacco, punch, and the Protestant religion. Yet one or two of the

earthenware pots survive: Judge Tester, for instance, a fellow whose

impudence has carried him upwards. He began by being a clown born and

bred. First he was sent to the Inns of Court, where he fell into a red

waistcoat and velvet breeches, and so into vanity. Impudence, I take

it, is the daughter of vanity. As for the rest, a few found their way

to this classic region, on which Queen Elizabeth from the Gate of Lud

looks down with royal benignity; but these are gone and dead. One,

I know, took to the road, and is now engaged in healthful work upon

a Plantation of Maryland; two were said to have joined the Waltham

Blacks, and lived like Robin Hood, on venison shot in the forest, and

other luxuries demanded of wayfarers pistol in hand; one I saw not

long ago equipped as a smallcoal man in blue surplice, his shoulder

laden with his wooden tinder, and his measure twisted into the mouth of

his sack; another, a light-weight and a younger son, became a jockey,

and wore the leathern cap, the cut bob, the buff breeches, and the

fustian frock, till he was thrown and broke his neck. I laugh when I

think of what an end hath come to all the greatness of those days.

To be sure, my lord paid for all and promised future favours; but we

were fine gentlemen on nothing, connoisseurs with never a guinea,

dilettanti who could not pay for the very eye-glasses we carried. In

the province of love and gallantry every man, beggar as he was, thought

himself a perfect Oroondates. We sang with taste; we were charming

men, nonpareils. We had the tastes of men of fortune; we talked as if

the things we loved were within our reach; we dreamed of pictures,

bronzes, busts, intaglios, old china, or Etruscan pateræ. And we had

the vices of the great as well as their tastes. Like them we drank;

like them we diced; like them we played all night at brag, all-fours,

teetotum, hussle-cup, chuck-farthing, hazard, lansquenet. So we lived,

and so we presently found the fate of earthen vessels. Heaven hath

been kinder to some of us than we deserve. Wherefore, gentlemen, drink

about." Here the Doctor looked round him. "Gentlemen, I perceive that

I have been for some time talking to a sleeping audience. Roger, pour

me out another glass. Swine of Circe, I drink to your headaches in the

morning. Now, lads, turn all out."

CHAPTER XI.

HOW THE DOCTOR DISMISSED HIS FRIENDS.

Those of the guests who had not already departed, were sitting or lying

asleep upon the floor or on the chairs. The last to succumb had been

Lord Chudleigh, not because his was the strongest head, but because he

had drunk the least and struggled the hardest not to fall a victim to

the punch. Sir Miles had long since sunk peacefully upon the floor,

where he lay in oblivion, one of the men having loosened his cravat to

prevent the danger of apoplexy. Solomon Stallabras, among whose vices

was not included the love of strong drink, was one of the earliest to

depart; the young Templar whom the Doctor exhorted to virtue early in

the evening, was now lying curled up like a child in the corner, his

virtuous resolutions, if he had ever formed any, forgotten. Others

there were, but all were crapulous, stupid, senseless, or asleep.

The Doctor stood over his victims, victorious. He had taken, singly,

more punch than any three of them together; yet there they all lay

helpless, while he was steady of head and speech; it was past two

o'clock in the morning; the candles, low now, and nearly spent, burned

dim in the thick, tobacco-laden air; the walls were streaming with the

heat generated by the presence of so many men and so much drink. Roger,

with the red nose and pale cheeks, still stood stolidly at the door,

waiting for the half-finished bowl and the last orders; beside him, his

fellow-lackey and clerk William.

"Turn all out, Roger," said the Doctor.

"Aye, sir," said Roger.

Both men addressed themselves to the task. They were accustomed to

turn out their master's guests in this fashion. First, they lifted the

fallen form of Sir Miles, and bore him carefully to his lodging; then

they carried out the young Templar and the others who lay snoring upon

the floor, and deposited them upon the stalls of the market outside,

where the fresh air of the night might be expected to restore them

speedily.

Meanwhile, Roger and William, for their better protection, would

themselves watch over them until such time as they should awake, rise,

and be ready to be led home with tottering step and rolling gait, for

such reward as the varlets might demand.

The Doctor's clerks had a hard life. They began to tout on Ludgate Hill

and the Fleet Bridge at eight; they fought for their couples all the

morning with other touts; in the evening, they waited on the Doctor's

guests; at midnight, they bore them into the market; there they watched

over them till they could be taken home. A hard and difficult service.

But there were few of the men about the Fleet who did not envy a

situation so well paid; indeed, one cannot but admire the hardness of

men to whom a daily fight, with constant black eyes, broken teeth, and

bleeding nose, appears of such slight importance in the day's work, as

not to be taken into account.

There remained Lord Chudleigh, who had fallen asleep in his chair, and

was the last.

"As for this young gentleman, Roger," said the Doctor, "carry him

upstairs and lay him upon my bed; he is of different stuff. Do not wake

him, if you can help it."

Nothing but an earthquake or an explosion of gunpowder could have

awakened the young man, so senseless and heavy was he. They bore him up

the stairs, the Doctor following; they took off his boots, his coat,

and waistcoat, put on him the Doctor's nightcap, and laid him in the

bed.

All finished, the Doctor bade them drink off the rest of the punch, and

begone.

The Doctor, left quite alone, opened the windows and doors, and stepped

out into the market. At two o'clock on a cold October morning, even

that noisy place is quiet; a west wind had driven away the smoke, and

the sky was clear, glittering with innumerable stars. The Doctor threw

open his arms and took a deep breath of the cold air, standing with his

wig off, so that the wind might freshen his brain. Before him he saw,

but he took no heed, the helpless forms of his guests, lying on the

stalls; beside them sat, wrapped in heavy coats, his two serving-men,

looking like vultures ready to devour their prey, but for fear of their

master, who would infallibly cause them to be hanged.

After a few minutes in the open air, the Doctor returned to his room;

he was sober, although he had taken enough punch to make ten men drunk;

and steady of hand, although he had smoked so much tobacco; but the

veins on his face stood out like purple cords, his eyes were bloodshot,

his great lips were trembling.

He did not go to bed, but lit a fresh pair of candles, and sat in his

chair thinking.

His thoughts carried him back to some time of trouble, for he presently

reached out his hand, seized his tobacco-pipe, and crushed it in

fragments; then he took the glass from which he had been drinking, and

crushed that, too, in his great strong fingers.

"I knew not," he murmured, "that the villain was dead. If I had known

that he was ill, I should have gone to see him, if only to remind him,

with a curse, of the past. He is dead; I can never curse him face to

face, as I hoped to do. I did not think that he would die before me; he

seemed stronger, and he was younger. I looked to seek him out at any

time, when I wanted a holiday, or when I wanted a diversion. I thought

I would take him in his own house, and show him, in such words as only

I can command, how mean a creature he was, and what a treacherous cur.

Now he is dead. He actually never will be punished at all."

This reflection caused him the greatest sadness. He shook his head as

he thought it over.

"It is not," he said to himself, "that I wished to be revenged on him

(though doubtless, as men are but frail, that desire entered somewhat

into my hopes), so much as that I saw in him a man who, above most

men, deserved to be punished. I break the law daily, incurring thereby

the penalty of a hundred pounds, which I never pay, for each offence.

Yet truly am I less burdened in my conscience than should have been

this Lord Chudleigh. And he hath died in honour. In this world one

man steals a pig, and receives the approbation of his kind; another

looks over a wall, and is clapped in gaol for it; one man slaughters

a thousand, and is made a duke; another kills one, and is hanged. I

am in prison, who never did anything against the law until I came

here, nor harmed any except my creditors. My lord, who thought the

ten commandments made for creatures of baser blood, and the round

world, with all that therein is, only created for his own insatiable

appetite, lives in honour and dies--what can I tell?--perhaps in grace;

fortified, at least, with the consolations of the Church and the

benedictions of his chaplain. So all things seem matter of chance. As

Solomon Stallabras says, in one of his fables:

"'We little flies who buzz and die,

Should never ask the reason why.'"

He yawned; then, struck with a sudden thought, he took one of the

candles and softly mounted the stairs. Shading the light with his

hand, he looked upon the face of the young man sleeping on his bed. A

handsome young man, with regular features strongly marked, delicate

lips, and pointed chin.

"Truly," said the Doctor, "a youth of great beauty. Another David. He

is more handsome than his father, even in those young days when he

caressed me to my ruin, and led me on with promises to my undoing.

Yet he hath the trick of the Chudleigh lip, and he hath his father's

nose. Would that his father were alive, and that it was he and not

his son lying here at my mercy! The son is something; out of regard

to his father's memory, he shall not get off scot-free. But what is

to be done? There is nothing, I think, that I would not do"--his red

face grew purple as he thought of his wrongs--"were his father living,

and could I make him feel through his son. Nothing, I believe. As I

am a Christian man, if my lord were alive this day, I think I could

tie a stone round the boy's neck and chuck him into the Fleet Ditch

at Holborn Bridge. And yet, what a poor and miserable thing to do! A

moment of brutal satisfaction in thinking of the father's agony--an

eternity of remorse. But his father is dead; he cannot feel at all any

more, whatever I do. If I could"--his face grew dark again, and he

ground his teeth--"I believe I could drag the boy downwards, little by

little, and destroy his very soul, to make his father suffer the more."

He gasped and caught his breath.

"Why," he murmured, "what is this? It is well for men that they are

not led into temptation. This young lord hath fallen into my hands.

Good. What shall I do with him? He knows nothing. Yet he must suffer

something. It is the law. We are all under the law. For the third and

fourth generation--and he is only the first generation. His children

and his grandchildren will have to suffer after him. It is not my

fault. I am clearly carrying out the law. He is providentially led

here, not that I may take revenge upon the son of my enemy for his

father's wrong, but that he might receive chastisement at my hands,

being those of the fittest person, even as Solomon was chosen to slay

both Joab and Shimei. What then shall I do? The Reverend Gregory

Shovel cannot murder the boy; that would be the common, vulgar thought

of a Fleet Market butcher or a hodman. Murder? A nauseous thought."

He took up the candle and stole noiselessly down the stairs, as if the

thought had driven him from the place.

When he was back in his own room he began to walk up and down, thinking.

"He is but a boy," he said, "a handsome boy; 'twould be a sin to harm

him. Yet, being sent here as he is, in a way that can be no other than

providential, 'twould be a sin to let him go. How if I make him pay all

my debts, and so leave the Liberties and live respectably ever after?

Respectably!" he laughed a little. "Why, who would believe that the

great Doctor Shovel could be respectable? The mud of this place, this

dwelling beside a ditch, hath entered into my soul as the iron of the

chains entereth into the soul of the prisoner. My name is too deeply

daubed with the Fleet mud; it cannot be cleansed. And should I give

up my place? Should I leave to another the honour I have won and the

income I make therefrom? Shall there be another Chaplain of the Fleet

while I survive? No; that will never do. How could I live away from

this room wherein I wallow day and night? Here am I at mine ease; here

I get wealth; I cannot leave this place."

He was in great perplexity. He wandered up and down; he was torn

between his wrath against the father and his consciousness that it

would be a mean and dreadful villainy to take revenge upon the son.

"I must have taken too much punch," he said, "thus to be agitated.

Punch, like wine, 'is a mocker, strong drink is raging.' The Christian

should forgive; the father is dead; the lad is a handsome lad and may

be good. Besides, whatever I do to the boy, his sire will neither know

nor feel. I might as well suppose that the legs and heads on Temple

Bar feel what is said about them below. I am a fool; yet am I but a

man. For such a crime even a saint would feel a righteous wrath. Yet it

is cowardly to take revenge upon the son, the committer of the crime

having gone to his own place. Yet he _is_ that man's son. What then to

do?"

He turned the question over a thousand times, yet found no answer.

At last a thought came to him. He nodded his head and laughed aloud.

Then he sought his arm-chair, adjusted his ample gown so as to get the

greatest amount of comfort out of it, placed his feet upon a stool, and

folded his arms.

"I have taken at least a quart of punch more than is good for me. That

is most certain. Otherwise I should have known at once what I should

do. I have actually forgotten the peculiarities of my own position.

Which shows that I am neither so young nor so strong as I have been.

Perhaps the system wants a fillip. I will take a dose of Norway

tar-water to-morrow. But first, my lord, you shall find out, early in

the morning, why I am called the Chaplain of the Fleet."

CHAPTER XII.

HOW KITTY EXECUTED THE DOCTOR'S REVENGE.

The Doctor seldom transacted business before nine o'clock in the

morning, unless, as sometimes happened, a spirited apprentice, a lad

of mettle, came with his master's daughter, both stealing away at

seven, before the master and mistress were up, when she was supposed

to be attending morning prayers at church, or helping Molly the maid

with the mop, and he was expected to be cleaning out the shop and

dressing the window. The ceremony over, they would go home again, but

separately, young miss carrying her Prayer-book before her as demure as

a kitten, looking as if she had never heard of a Fleet marriage, and

was ignorant of the great Doctor Shovel, chaplain, yea, bishop of that

place; while the boy, with brush and broom and watering-can, would be

zealously about his master's work when that poor man--his morning dish

of chocolate or pint of small ale despatched--appeared in the shop for

the conduct of the day's affairs. Afterwards they could choose their

own time for declaring what had been done. Thus did the Doctor make or

mar the fortunes of many a bold prentice-boy.

This morning the Doctor awoke from sleep at seven or thereabouts,

having in four hours slept off the punch and tobacco in his arm-chair.

His face became almost benign in its thoughtful kindliness as he

remembered the guest lying asleep upstairs, and what he was about to do

for him. He rose, shook himself, opened the windows and doors, and went

out into the market, still in his nightcap, carrying his wig in one

hand and his silk handkerchief in the other.

The market was already crowded with purchasers, principally those who

buy a barrowful of fruit and vegetables, and bawl through the streets

until all is sold. But there was a good sprinkling of maids and

housewives buying provisions for the day. The morning was fresh, with a

little autumn fog, and the sun shining through it like a great yellow

disk; the waggons stood about with their loads of cabbages, carrots,

parsnips, potatoes, apples, plums, and sloes, waiting till they could

be discharged; on the heaped-up pile of fruits and vegetables you could

see hanging still the slender threads and cobwebs which are spun every

night in autumn time by invisible spiders, and appear in the morning

strung with beads of dew.

"Stand aside!" cried the stall-keepers, one and all. "Make way for the

Doctor! Don't you see the Doctor? Room for the Doctor!"

He walked magisterially to the pump, under which he held his bare head

for a few moments while a boy pumped the cold water over him. This

done, he shook his head, mopped his poll with his silk handkerchief,

clapped on his wig, and returned to his own house, his robes

majestically floating around him.

The market, proud of its Doctor, made way for him with salutations and

inquiries after his reverence's health.

At the house he found his two runners waiting for him, as fresh--if

pale cheeks and red noses can look fresh--as if they had not been up

until two o'clock in the morning.

He sent for a pint of small ale, and began to consider what next.

"Roger," he said, "canst thou, at the present moment, lay thy hand upon

a woman willing to be a bride, either in the prison or elsewhere?"

Roger hesitated.

"It depends, your reverence, on the bridegroom. About Tower steps, for

instance, and down Wapping way, there are brides in plenty to be picked

up for the asking."

"Not brides for me, Roger. Think again. I want a bride who wants a

husband, and not a sailor's money; who will stick to her husband and

make him as happy in his wedded life as you and the rest of mankind are

or have been."

Roger grinned. He was himself a widower, and could be tickled with the

joke.

"I think I know the very woman," he said. "A young widow----"

"Good," said the Doctor.

"She has been extravagant, and is in debt----"

"Very good," said the Doctor.

"A prisoner in the Fleet; but I can fetch her out in a twinkling, for

half-a-crown."

"Ay--ay," said the Doctor. "Go on, honest Roger. A widow, extravagant,

and in debt. That promises well."

"Her husband was an honest draper in Gracechurch Street, who lately

died of smallpox, leaving her a good business and a thousand pounds in

money. She hath already squandered the thousand, wasted the business,

and brought herself to ruin. She is comely, and is but thirty years of

age; to get out of the Fleet, I think she would marry the----"

"She shall marry better than that, Roger. Go fetch her here: tell

her to come and talk with me, and that if she pleases me in her

conversation and appearance, she may shortly marry a gentleman."

"This," said the Doctor, when his man was gone, "will be a good stroke

of business. This shall be his punishment. My lord shall marry this

extravagant slut. No paltry common revenge this. Just punishment for

the first generation. He will gain a pocketful of debts and a wife

who will stick to him like a leech. Aha!--a city wench--none of

your proud city madams, grand enough to be a countess--but a plain

tradesman's widow, with no ideas beyond a dish of tea, Bagnigge Wells,

strawberries at Bayswater, cakes at Chelsea, or at the best, a night

of wonder-gaping at the quality at Vauxhall; a wife of whom he will be

ashamed from the very first. This is good business. What a pity! what a

thousand pities that his noble father is no more!"

The Doctor laughed and rubbed his hands. Then he mounted the stairs

again, and entered his bedroom. The lad was still sound asleep; his

cheeks less red, and his breathing lighter.

"His head will ache," said the Doctor. "I fear he is unaccustomed

to punch. When he wakes his limbs will feel like lead: his throat

will feel like a limekiln; his tongue will be furred like the back

of a squirrel; his eyes will be hot and heavy, as if he had a fever;

his hand will shake like the hand of a palsied man; he will totter

when he tries to walk. Ah! cursed drink! Time was when I, who am now

as seasoned as a port-wine cask, or a keg of Nantz, would feel the

same when I awoke after such a night. Age brings its consolations."

He rubbed his hands, thinking that he could now drink without these

symptoms. "I will marry him," he continued, "while he is yet half

drunk. When he recovers, it will be time to explain the position of

things. Should I explain, or should his wife? Ho! ho! A draper's widow,

of Gracechurch Street, to marry the heir of all the Chudleighs!"

He stood over the bed again, and passed his hand lightly over the

sleeping boy's cheeks. Something in his looks touched the Doctor, and

his eyes softened.

"Poor lad! I never had a son. Perhaps, if there had been one, things

would have been different. He is a very handsome boy. Pity, after all,

that he must marry this jade, this extravagant wench who will waste

and scatter his patrimony, and likely bring him to shame, when, being

so young, so handsome, and so rich, he might have had the prettiest

girl in the country"--here he started--"might have had--might have

had--can he not have? Is there a prettier girl or a better-bred girl

anywhere in the land than Kitty Pleydell? What more can any man want?

she is of gentle blood--on one side at least, for the Shovels, it is

very certain, do somewhat smack of the soil. Never a Shovel, except

the Reverend Gregory Shovel, Doctor of Divinity, who hath risen to

greatness. Clods all. Here is a great chance for such a revenge as

would have driven the old lord mad, and will be a blessing and a

boon to the young lord. Ho! ho! my Lord Breaker of Promises, my Lord

Trampler of Dependents, my Lord Villain and Rogue, how likes your

lordship that your son should marry my niece? As for you, young spark,

I will give you a bride so sweet, so fair, so fresh, that by heavens!

you ought to woo her for a twelvemonth, and then go and hang your

foolish neck by a garter because she would not say yea. Well, well!

let us return good for evil--let us still be Christians. Yet no Lord

Chudleigh hath deserved to have any benefit at my hands."

He rubbed his hands: he laughed to himself, his shoulders rolling from

side to side: he nodded his head pleasantly at his victim, then he went

downstairs again, with grave and thoughtful mien. He was thinking how

best to bring about his purpose.

He found, however, waiting below, Roger, his man. With him there came

a woman dressed in shabby finery. She was a woman of about thirty-two

years of age, stout, and still comely; she looked about the room as if

in search of some one; her face was eager and anxious. When she saw the

Doctor, she put her handkerchief to her eyes and burst, or pretended to

burst, into tears.

"Alas, Doctor!" she cried, "I am truly ashamed to come in such a

plight. But I have nothing else to put on. And Roger, good man, says

that the gentleman will not wait. Who is the gentleman? Surely not

Thomas Humpage, the mercer, who always promised to marry me when my

husband should die, and now refuses because, although a warm man, he

will not take upon him the burden of my poor debts. Alas! men are ever

thus towards us poor women. Pray, Doctor, who is the gentleman? Far

be it from me to keep the poor man waiting; and indeed, I was ever a

pitiful woman, and----"

"You are under a little mistake, madam," said the Doctor, interrupting

her. "There is no gentleman here asking for you. Roger is an ass, and a

pig."

Roger made no reply. Excess of zeal frequently led him into mistakes.

He stared straight before him, and modestly edged away in the direction

of the door, so as to be out of reach both of the Doctor's fist, the

weight of which he knew already, and the lady's nails.

The poor woman's face fell, and real tears crowded into her eyes. Now

the Doctor was a man who could not bear the sight of a woman crying, so

he hastened to soothe her.

"Your case, madam," he said, "hath awakened my commiseration. I have

sent for you to know whether, should Roger be able to find a suitable

husband, you would be willing to take him."

"O Doctor!" she sobbed; "best of men! If only you can find me a

husband, I should be grateful to the end of my days. I would marry any

one--any one--even Roger."

Roger swiftly vanished through the door.

"He may be as old as Methusalem, and as ugly as a foreign Frenchman,

but I would marry him--to take my place in the prison and go free once

more."

"Roger," said the Doctor, "is a great match-maker. He hath persuaded

many couples into this room that never thought, when they went out to

take the air and see the shops, of coming here. See, now, would the

skipper of a merchantman serve your turn?"

"Doctor, I love a sailor. They make confiding husbands, and they bring

home money."

"Once married, you are free. And then your creditors would have to

catch your husband, who, if he is the handy tarpaulin that deserves

you, will show them a clean pair of heels off the Nore. Madam, I will

do my best. Meanwhile, perhaps a guinea would be of use to you."

She cried in earnest as she took it.

"O Doctor! the debts are not much altogether; a poor two hundred

pounds. And a man may always be happy in the prison. There are

skittles and beer. But a woman never can. And I would go to see him

sometimes--say twice a year."

She went away weeping. But she stopped when she saw Roger outside the

door, and held a few minutes' eager conversation with him before she

returned to her prison. Perhaps he found some simple country lad or

sailor who was beguiled into marrying her, only to take upon him her

debts, and to lie within four walls instead of her. But indeed I know

not.

We had finished our breakfast and were tidying the room: my thoughts

were full of the country that morning, because I had dreamed of the

old place and the garden with its yellow leaves, the trailing cobwebs,

banks covered with branches of mignonette, nasturtium eight feet long,

pinks now mostly over, bending their faded heads, and the larkspur,

foxglove, Venus's looking-glass, bachelors' buttons, mournful widow,

boys' love, stocks, their glory over now, their leaves withering and

all run to seed. I was talking about these sweet things with my ladies,

when I heard the Doctor's voice at the bottom of the stairs, bidding me

quickly take my hat and hood and run down to him, for that he needed me

for half an hour.

I obeyed, little thinking what was to follow. He said nothing, but, by

a gesture, bade me follow him.

When we came to his house, Roger and William, his two runners, were

waiting outside the door, and the room was set out in the usual

fashion, in readiness for any who might chance to call.

"You," said the Doctor to the men, "wait outside until I call you.

Stay, fetch a quart of ale at once."

The ale brought, the men retired and shut the door.

"Kitty," said my uncle, "I have long intended to bestow upon thee the

greatest good fortune which it is in my power to procure. Thou art a

good girl: thou art my sister's child: thou hast shown a spirit of

obedience. I have reflected that it is not well for thee to remain

much longer in the Rules, and the only way to provide thee with a home

elsewhere, is to provide thee with a husband."

"But, sir," I said, beginning to be extremely terrified, "I do not want

a husband."

"So say all young maids. We, child, know what is best for them. I could

have found thee a husband among my friends. Sir Miles Lackington,

indeed, spoke to me concerning the matter; he is a baronet. The

Lackingtons are an old family; but he hath squandered his fortune, and

I cannot learn that any more money will come to him. Besides, he drinks

more than is befitting even in a gentleman of title."

"Oh, sir!" I cried, "not Sir Miles."

"No, Kitty"--the Doctor smiled benevolently upon me--"I regard thy

happiness first. No drunkard shall marry my niece. Mr. Stallabras hath

also opened his mind upon thee; he is an ingenious man, with a pretty

wit, and if verses were guineas, would be a great catch for thee. But

alas! he hath no money, so I dismissed him."

Poor Solomon! That, then, was the reason of a late melancholy which we

had remarked in him. Mrs. Esther took it as caused by the wrestling of

genius, and said that the soul within him was too great for the bodily

strength.

"But, Kitty," here the Doctor beamed upon me like the sun in splendour,

"I have here--yea, even in this house, the husband of my choice, the

man who will make thee happy. Start not--it is resolved. Child, _obey

me_."

I declare that I was so terrified by the Doctor's words, so amazed by

his announcement, so spellbound by his words and manner, that I did not

dare resist. Had he told me that I was to be hanged, I could not have

made an effort to save myself.

"_Obey me_," he repeated, bending his eyebrows, and looking upon me no

longer as a sun in splendour, but as an angry judge might look upon

a criminal. "Stand here--so--do not move; keep thy face covered with

thy hood, all but thine eyes. Give me your hand when I ask it, and be

silent, save when I bid thee speak. Be not afraid, girl; I do this for

thine own good. I give thee a gentleman for thy husband. Thou shalt not

leave this place yet awhile, but needs must that thou be married. I

return in five minutes."

He took the jug of beer and climbed the stairs. I meanwhile stood where

he had placed me, my hood over my head, in the most dreadful terror

that ever assailed the heart of any girl.

Upstairs the Doctor awakened Lord Chudleigh with some difficulty. He

sat up on the bed and looked round him, wondering where he was.

"I know now," he murmured, "you are Doctor Shovel, and this is----"

"Your lordship is in the Liberties of the Fleet."

"My head is like a lump of lead," said the young man.

"Your lordship was very merry last night, as, indeed, befits the happy

occasion."

"Was I merry? Indeed, I think I was very drunk. What occasion?"

"Drink a little small ale," said the Doctor; "it will revive you."

He took a long drink of the beer, and tried to stand.

"So," he said, "I am better already; but my head reels, Doctor, and my

legs are unsteady. It serves me right. It is the first time, and it

shall be the last."

"I hope so, since your lordship is about to undertake so important a

charge."

"What charge?" asked Lord Chudleigh, still dazed and unsteady.

"Is it possible that your lordship hath forgotten your mistress of

whom you would still be talking last night? 'The sweetest girl in

England--the prettiest girl in all the world--the fairest, kindest

nymph'--I quote your lordship."

Lord Chudleigh stared in amazement.

"The sweetest girl?--what girl?"

"Oh, your lordship is pleased to jest with me."

"I remember you, Doctor Shovel, whom I came to see last night with Sir

Miles Lackington; I remember the punch and the songs; but I remember

nothing about any girl."

"Why, she is downstairs now, waiting for your lordship. You will come

downstairs and keep your appointment."

He spoke in a peremptory manner, as if ordering and expecting

obedience.

"My appointment? Have I gone mad? It is this cursed punch of yours. My

appointment?"

The Doctor gave him his coat and wig, and helped him to put them on.

"I attend your lordship. She is downstairs. Take a little more ale to

clear your head: you will remember then."

The young man drank again. The beer mounted to his brain, I suppose,

because he laughed and straightened himself.

"Why, I am a man again. An appointment? No, Doctor, hang me if all the

beer in your cellar will make me remember any appointment! Where is Sir

Miles? He might tell me something about it. Curse all punch, I say.

Yet, if the lady be downstairs, as you say, I suppose I must have made

some sort of appointment. Let me see her, at any rate. It will be easy

to--to----" here he reeled, and caught hold of the Doctor's hand.

What a crime! What a terrible wicked thing was this which we did--my

uncle and I! I heard the steps on the stairs; I might have run away;

the door was before me; but I was afraid. Yes, I was afraid. My uncle

had made me fear him more than I feared the laws of my God; or, since

that is hardly true, he made me fear him so much that I forgot the laws

of my God, I did not run away, but I waited with a dreadful fluttering

of my heart.

I held my hood, drawn over my head, with my left hand, so that only my

eyes were visible, and so I kept it all the time.

I saw in the door the most splendid young man I had ever seen; he was

richly dressed, though his coat and ruffles showed some disorder, in

crimson coat and sash, with flowered silk waistcoat, and sword whose

hilt gleamed with jewels. His cheek was flushed and his eyes had a

fixed and glassy look; the Doctor led him, or rather half supported

him. Was this young man to be my husband?

Roger must have been watching outside, for now he came in and locked

the door behind him. Then he drew out his greasy Prayer-book, standing

by his lordship, ready to support him if necessary.

"So," he said, "this is the sweetest girl in all England--hang me if I

remember! Look up, my girl: let me see thy face. How can I tell unless

I see thy face?"

"Silence!" said the Doctor in a voice of command.

I know not what strange power he possessed, but at the sound of his

voice the young man became suddenly silent and looked about the room,

as if wondering. For myself, I knew that I was to be married to him;

but why? what did it mean?

The Doctor had begun the service. My bridegroom seemed to understand

nothing, looking stupidly before him.

Roger read the responses.

The Doctor did not hurry; he read the exhortation, the prayers,

the Psalms, through slowly and with reverence; other Fleet parsons

scrambled through the service; the Doctor alone knew what was due to

the Church; he read the service as a clergyman who respects the service

ought to read.

"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?"

The man Roger gave the dazed bridegroom a jog in the ribs.

"Say 'I will,'" he whispered loudly.

"I will," said the young man.

"Wilt thou," the Doctor turned to me, "have this man to thy wedded

husband?"

Roger nodded to me. "Say 'I will,'" he admonished me.

I obeyed; yet I knew not what I said, so frightened was I.

"Who giveth," the Doctor went on, "this woman to be married to this

man?"

The dirty, battered rogue, the clerk, took my hand and laid it in that

of the Doctor. I was given away by the villain Roger. Then the service

went on.

"With this ring"--the man's hand was holding mine, and it was dry and

hot; his face was red and his eyes were staring--"with this ring I thee

wed; with my body I thee worship; with all my worldly goods I thee

endow."

* * * * *

Consider--pray consider--that when I took part in this great

wickedness, I was but a young girl, not yet seventeen years old;

that the thing came upon me so suddenly that I had not the sense to

remember what it meant; that my uncle was a man of whom any girl would

have been afraid. Yet I knew that I ought to have fled.

When my bridegroom held my hand in his I observed that it was hot and

trembling; his eyes did not meet mine; he gazed upon the Doctor as if

asking what all this meant. I took him, in my innocence, for a madman,

and wondered all the more what this freak of the Doctor's could mean.

For ring, the Doctor drew from his guest's little finger a diamond

ring, which was full large for my third finger.

When the service was finished, bride and bridegroom stood stupidly

staring at each other (only that still I wore my hood drawn over my

face), while Roger placed upon the table a great volume bound in

parchment with brass clasps.

"This, my lord, is our Register," said the Doctor, opening it at a

clean page. "Sign there, if you please, in your usual hand. I will fill

in the page afterwards."

He took the pen and signed, still looking with wondering eyes.

"Now, child," said the Doctor, "do you sign here, after your husband.

The certificate you shall have later. For the present, I will take

care of it. Other practitioners of the Fleet, my lord," he said, with

professional pride, as he looked at his great volume, "would enter

your name in a greasy pocket-book and give your wife a certificate on

unstamped paper. Here you have a register fit for a cathedral, and a

certificate stamped with no less illustrious a name than the Archbishop

of Canterbury. Your lordship hath signed your name in a steady and

workmanlike fashion, so that none henceforth shall be able to malign

your conduct on this day; they shall not say that you were terrified,

or bribed, or were in a state of liquor on the day of your marriage;

all is free and above suspicion. I congratulate your lordship on this

auspicious occasion. Roger, your mark here as witness. So. It is

customary, my lord, to present the officiating clergyman, myself, with

a fee, from a guinea upwards, proportionate to the rank and station

of the happy bridegroom. From your lordship will I take nothing for

myself; for the witness I will take a guinea."

Here the bridegroom pulled out his purse and threw it on the table. He

spoke not a word, however; I think his brain was wandering, and he knew

not what he did. Yet he obeyed the voice of the Doctor, and fell into

the trap that was set for him, like a silly bird allured by the whistle

of the fowler. I am certain that he knew not what he did.

The Doctor pulled one guinea from the purse, and handed it back to the

owner.

"Roger," he said, "go drink his lordship's health; and hark

ye--silence. If I hear that you have told of this morning's doings, it

shall be the worst day in all your life. I threaten not in vain. Go!"

Then the Doctor took up the tankard of ale which stood in the

window-seat.

"Your health, my lord;" he drank a little and passed it to his

lordship, who drained it; and then, with a strange, wild look, he

reeled to the Doctor's arm-chair and instantly fell fast asleep.

"Your husband is not a drunkard, Kitty, though this morning he appears

in that light."

"But am I married?" I asked.

"You are really married. You are no longer Kitty Pleydell; you are

Catherine, Lady Chudleigh. I wish your ladyship joy."

I stared at him.

"But he does not know me; he never saw me," I remonstrated.

"That he does not know you yet is very true," replied the Doctor. "When

the fitting time comes for him to know you, be sure that I will remind

him. For the present he shall not know whom he has married.

"I perceive," he went on, seeing that I made no reply, "that thou art

a good and obedient child. Ask no questions of me. Say not one word to

any one of this day's work. Be silent, and thou shalt have thy reward.

Remember--_be silent_. Now go, child. Go, Lady Chudleigh."

CHAPTER XIII.

HOW LORD CHUDLEIGH WOKE OUT OF SLEEP.

Alas! there was small pride in that thought. What joy of being Lady

Chudleigh, when I had to pick my way home through the dirty and crowded

market, thinking of the pain and grief this wicked thing would cause

my ladies when they learned it, of the shame with which my father's

soul would have been filled had he known it, and the wrath of Lady

Levett when she should hear it! "Oh, Kitty!" I thought, "how miserably

art thou changed in four short months! In the happy fields at home,

everything (save when the rustics swore at their cattle) breathed

of religion and virtue; in this dreadful place, everything leads to

profligacy and crime. And what a crime! And the poor young gentleman!

Did ever any one hear the like, that a young girl, not yet quite

seventeen, should thus consent to marry a man whom she had never

seen! Oh, shame and disgrace! And that young man, so handsome and so

gallant, albeit so tipsy that he could scarcely stand. Who would have

thought, four months ago, that Kitty would be that wicked creature?"

Afterwards, I thought of the dreadful wickedness of marrying while

still in mourning for a father not yet six months dead. But I confess

that at first, so confused was I, that this thought did not oppress me.

Indeed, there was almost too much to think about. Suppose I was, by a

careless word, to reveal the secret! Suppose the rascal Roger were to

tell it abroad in the market! Suppose the young man (whose name I did

not dare to pronounce) were to see me, and find my name! Suppose the

Doctor were at once to reveal to my--husband, I suppose I ought to call

him--who and what I was! All these thoughts, I say, crowded into my

mind together, and filled me with repentant terrors.

I went straight home, because there was no other place to go to.

Mrs. Deborah reminded me, when I had taken off my hood, that we were

still engaged upon the long-outstanding account between Richard Roe,

gentleman, and Robert Doe, draper. It was one of the problems of

the Book-keeping Treatise, how rightly to state this account to the

satisfaction both of Doe (who wanted all he could get), and of Roe (who

wanted to pay as little as possible). I remember that Richard Roe had

not only bought extraordinary things (for a gentleman), such as ladies'

hoops and paniers, but had bought them in immense quantities, to be

explained, perhaps, by the supposition that he was a benefactor to

the female sex, or perhaps that he was shipping things to Madagascar,

where I believe a sarsnet pinner, if in scarlet, is considered worth a

diamond as big as a pigeon's egg; and a few bottles of eau de Chypre

are thought a bargain, if purchased by a ruby weighing a pound or so.

We had been engaged for a month upon a statement of the account showing

the exact liabilities of Richard Roe (who used to pay in odd sums, with

pence and farthings, at unexpected times); we never got it right, and

then we began again. Fortunately, it costs nothing to clean a slate.

I sat down to this task with listless brain. What girl, after being

so suddenly hurled into matrimony, with the possession of so great

a secret, could take any interest in the debts of Richard Roe? The

figures got mixed; presently, I was fain to lay the slate aside, and to

declare that I could do no more that day.

Nor, indeed, could I do anything--not even hear what was said, so

that my ladies thought I was sickening for some fever; which was not

improbable, fever being rife at this time, owing to the smell from the

vegetables, and one of the little Dunquerques in our own house down

with it. Ah! could they only have guessed the truth, what sorrow and

pity would have been theirs, with what righteous wrath at the sin.

* * * * *

When I was gone, the Doctor called back Roger, and they carried the

unhappy bridegroom again to the bedroom, where they laid him on the bed

and then left him to himself.

"He will sleep," said the Doctor, experienced in these cases, "until

the afternoon. Have a cup of mutton-broth for him when he wakes, with a

pint of small ale."

Then he returned, and the ordinary business of the day began. The

couples came in--half-a-dozen of them. One pair gave him five guineas.

They were an Irishman, who thought he was marrying a rich widow; and a

woman head over ears in debt, who thought she was marrying a wealthy

squire. A week afterwards the unhappy bridegroom came to the Doctor to

undo the match, which was impossible. He escaped his wife's creditors,

however, and took to the road, where, after many gallant exploits, he

was caught, tried, and hanged at Tyburn, making a gallant and edifying

end, and ruffling it bravely to the very foot of the ladder. The day,

therefore, was profitable to the Doctor.

"Well begun, Roger," he said, "is well done. The morning's work is

worth ten guineas. I would rest this afternoon; wherefore, bring no

more couples. Yet one would fain not disappoint the poor creatures. Let

them come, then, Roger. We may not weary in well-doing. And, hark ye,

take this guinea to Mistress Dunquerque--not the captain, mind--and

bid her spend it for the children; and inquire whether Mr. Stallabras

hath paid his rent lately; if not, pay it; and buy me, on Ludgate Hill,

a hat and feathers for Miss Kitty; and, varlet! if thou so much as

breathe of what was done here this morning--I threaten not, but I know

the history of thy life. Think of the past; think of Newgate, close by;

and be silent as the grave."

At three o'clock in the afternoon, when the Doctor, after his dinner,

sat over a cool pipe of Virginia, Lord Chudleigh came downstairs. He

was dressed and in his right mind, although somewhat flushed of cheek

and his hand shaky.

"Doctor Shovel," he said, "I thank you for your hospitality, and am

sorry that I have abused it. I am ashamed to have fallen into so

drunken and helpless a condition."

"Your lordship," said the Doctor, rising and bowing, "is welcome to

such hospitality as this poor house of a prisoner in the Liberties of

the Fleet can show a nobleman of your rank. I am the more bound to show

this welcome to your lordship, because, for such as is my condition, I

am beholden to the late Lord Chudleigh."

This was a speech which might have more than one meaning. His lordship

made no answer, staring in some perplexity, and fearful that the punch

might still be in his head.

"It was in this room," he said presently, "that we drank last night. I

remember your chair, and these walls; but I remember little more. Fie,

Doctor! your way of treating guests is too generous. Yet I have had a

curious and uneasy dream. Those books"--he pointed to the Register and

the Prayer-book--"were those upon the table last night? They were in my

dream--a very vivid and real dream. I thought I was standing here. Your

man was beside me. Opposite to me was a girl, or woman, her face and

figure covered with a hood, so that I knew not what she was like. Then

you read the marriage-service, drew the ring from off my finger, and

placed it upon hers. And you pronounced us man and wife. A strange and

interesting dream!"

"What was the ring, my lord?"

"A diamond ring, set round with seven pearls; within, the crest of my

house, and my initials."

"Let me see the ring, my lord."

He changed colour.

"I cannot find it."

"My lord, I know where is that ring."

The Doctor spoke gravely, bending his great eyebrows. Lord Chudleigh

was a man of fine presence, being at least five feet ten inches in

height, without counting the heels of his boots and the foretop of his

wig. Yet the Doctor, whose heels were thicker and his toupee higher,

was six feet two without those advantages. Therefore he towered over

his guest as he repeated--

"I know where to find that ring!"

"You cannot mean, Doctor----" cried Lord Chudleigh, all the blood

flying to his face.

"I mean, my lord, simply this, that at eight o'clock this morning,

or thereabouts, you rose, came downstairs, met a young lady who was

waiting for you, and were by me, in presence of trustworthy witnesses,

duly and properly married."

"But it was a dream!" he cried, catching at the table.

"No dream at all, my lord. A fact, which you will find it difficult to

contradict. Your marriage is entered in my Register; I have the lines

on a five-shilling stamp. I am an ordained minister of the Church of

England; the hours were canonical. It is true that I may be fined a

hundred pounds for consenting to perform the ceremony; but it will be

hard to collect that money. Meanwhile, those who would inflict the fine

would be the last to maintain that sacerdotal powers, conferred upon

me at ordination, can suffer any loss by residence in the Rules of the

Fleet. Ponder this, my lord."

"Married!" cried Lord Chudleigh. "Married? It is impossible."

"Your dream, my lord, was no dream at all, but sober truth, believe me."

"Married?" he repeated.

"Married," said Doctor Shovel. "I fear that your state of mind, during

the performance of the ceremony, was not such as a clergyman could

altogether wish to see. Still who am I, to decide when a gentleman is

too drunk to marry?"

"Married! Oh, this is some dreadful dream! Where is my bride? Show me

my wife!"

"She is gone, Lord Chudleigh."

"Gone! Where is she gone?"

The Doctor shook his head for an answer.

"Who is she? What is her name? How came she here?"

"I am sorry that I cannot answer your lordship in these particulars.

She came--she was married--she went away! In her own good time she will

doubtless appear again."

"But who is she?" he repeated. "What is she like? Why did she marry me?"

"Why did your lordship marry her? That, methinks, would be the proper

question."

"Show me your Register, man!" Lord Chudleigh was sober enough now, and

brought his fist down upon the table in peremptory fashion. "Show me

your Register and your certificate!"

"Ta! ta! ta!" cried the Doctor. "Softly, young man, softly! We are not

used to threats in this chapel-of-ease, where I am archbishop, bishop,

and chaplain, all in one. For the Register, it is securely locked up;

for the certificate, it is perhaps in the hands of Lady Chudleigh."

"Lady Chudleigh!"

"Perhaps her ladyship hath consigned it to my keeping. In either case,

you shall not see it."

"This is a conspiracy," cried Lord Chudleigh. "I have been deceived by

rogues and knaves! This is no true marriage."

"You would say that I am lying. Say so, but, at your peril, _think_ so.

You are as truly married as if you had been united in your own parish

church, by your own bishop. Believe that, for your own safety, if you

believe nothing else. At the right time, her ladyship will be revealed

to you. And remember, my lord"--here the Doctor, towering over him,

shook his great forefinger in warning or menace--"should you attempt

another marriage in the lifetime of your present wife, you shall be

brought to your trial for bigamy as sure as my name is Gregory Shovel.

Laws, in this country, are not altogether made for the punishment of

the poor, and even a peer may not marry more than one woman."

"I will have this wickedness exposed," cried his lordship hotly.

"Alas! my lord," said the Doctor, "the name of Gregory Shovel is

already well known. I am but what your father caused me to be."

"My father! Then there is revenge.... The benefits which my father

conferred upon you----"

"They were greater than any I can confer upon you. He kept me with him

as his private jester. I found him wit: he fed me upon promises. He

turned me forth, to be flung into a debtor's prison. That, however, was

nothing. Your lordship will own"--here the Doctor laughed, but without

merriment--"that I have returned good for evil; for, whereas your

father robbed me of a wife, I have presented you with one."

"O villain!" cried my lord. "To revenge the wrongs of the father upon

the son--and this wretch continues to wear the gown of a clergyman!"

"Say what you please. So rejoiced am I with this day's work that I

allow you to cast at me what names come readiest to your tongue. But

remember that curses sometimes come home."

"Where is my wife, then?" he demanded furiously.

"I shall not tell you. Meantime, choose. Either let this matter be

known to all the world, or let it remain, for the present, a secret

between you and me. As for the lady, she will be silent. As for

the rogue, my clerk, if he so much as breathes the secret to the

cabbage-stalks, I have that which will hang him."

"I want to see the woman who calls herself my wife," he persisted.

"That shall you not. But perhaps, my lord, you would like to go home to

St. James's Square with such a wedding-party as we could provide for

you: a dozen of Fleet parsons fuddled; the bride's friends, who might

be called from their stalls in the market; the music of the butchers,

with salt-boxes, marrow-bones, and cleavers; the bride herself. Look

out of the window, my lord. Which of the ragged baggages and trollops

among the market-women most takes your lordship's fancy?"

Lord Chudleigh looked and shuddered.

"Go your way," the Doctor went on, "and always remember you have a

spouse. Some day, for the better glorifying of your noble name, I will

produce her. But not yet. Be under no immediate apprehension. Not yet.

At some future time, when you are happy in the applause of a nation

and the honours of a sovereign, when your way is clear before you and

your conscience gives you the sweet balm of approbation, when you have

forgotten this morning, we shall come, your wife and I, with 'Room for

my Lady Chudleigh! Way there for her ladyship and Doctor Gregory Shovel

from the Rules of the Fleet!'"

"Man," replied Lord Chudleigh, "I believe you are a devil. Do what you

will; do your worst. Yet know that the woman may proclaim her infamy

and your own; as for me, I will not speak to her, nor listen to her,

nor own her."

"Good!" said the Doctor, rubbing his hands. "We talk in vain. I now bid

farewell to your lordship. Those convivial evenings which you desired

to witness will still continue. Let me hope to welcome your lordship

again on the scene of your unexpected triumphs. Many, indeed, is the

man who hath come to this house single and gone out of it double; but

none for whom awaits a future of such golden promise. My most hearty

congratulations on this auspicious and joyful event! What can come out

of this place but youth, beauty, birth, and virtue? And yet, my lord,

there is one singularity in the case. One moment, I pray"--for Lord

Chudleigh was already outside the door--"you are the only man I ever

knew who spent his honeymoon--alone!"

CHAPTER XIV.

HOW MRS. DEBORAH WAS RELEASED.

No one would be interested to read more of my shame and repentance at

that time; nor does it help to tell how the Doctor was asked by my

ladies if I was subject to any kind of illness for which I might be

sickening. The reply of the Doctor to them, and his private admonitions

to myself, may be partly passed over; it was true, no doubt, as he said

while I trembled before him, that a young girl, ignorant and untaught,

would do well to trust her conscience into the spiritual direction of

a regularly-ordained clergyman of the Church of England like himself.

As for the marriage, I was to remember that it was done and could not

be undone. He hung round my neck by a black ribbon the diamond ring, my

wedding-ring, by which to keep my condition ever before myself; to be

sure it was not likely that I should forget it, without the glitter and

sparkle of the brilliants, which I used to look at night and morning in

secret. What did he think of me, this husband of mine, the young man

with the handsome face, the white hands, and the fixed, strange eyes?

Did he, night and morning, every day curse his unknown wife?

"Let him curse," said the Doctor. "Words break no bones; curses go home

again; deeds cannot be undone. Patience, Kitty! before long thou shalt

be confessed by all the world, the Lady Chudleigh. Come, cheer up,

child!" he concluded kindly. "As for what is done, it is done. Partly

I did it to clear off an old score, whereof I may perhaps tell thee at

another time, and partly for thy honour and glory. Thy father, Kitty,

was proud of his name and family, though he married my sister, the

daughter of a tenant farmer; but never a Pleydell yet has been lifted

up so high as thou shalt be: while as to the Shovels, I am myself the

only great man they have yet sent into the world, and they are not

likely to go beyond the Chaplain of the Fleet."

Then he held up his great forefinger, as long and thick as a school

ruler, bent his shaggy eyebrows, and pushed out his lips.

"Remember, child, silence! And go no more moping and sorrowful,

because thou shalt soon sit in thine own coach, with the world at thy

feet, singing the praises of the beautiful Lady Chudleigh. Such a

girl as my Kitty for Sir Miles Lackington? Why, he hath eyes for the

beauty of a glass of Bordeaux--he hath sense to rejoice over a bowl

of punch; but from Helen of Troy or Cleopatra of Egypt he would turn

away for a bottle of port. Or Stallabras, now--should such a creature

as he presume to think of such a woman? Let poets sing of women at a

distance--the farther off the better they sing--that is right. Why,

child, such curls as thine, such roses of red and white, such brown

eyes, such lips and cheek and chin, such a figure as thou canst show to

dazzle the eyes of foolish boys--Lord Chudleigh should go on his knees

before me in gratitude and transport. And, believe me, some day he

will."

We are all alike, we women. Call us beautiful, and you please us. It

was almost the first time that any one had called me beautiful save

Sir Miles Lackington when in his cups, or Solomon Stallabras in his

poetic way. Yet every pretty girl knows that she is pretty. There are

a thousand things to tell her: the whispers of the women, the sidelong

looks of the folk in the streets, the envy of envious girls, the praise

of kindly girls, her glass, the deference paid by men of all classes

and all ages to beauty, the warnings of teachers, nurses, governesses,

and matrons that beauty is but skin-deep, virtue is better than looks,

handsome is as handsome does, 'tis better to be good than pretty,

comeliness lasts but a year, while goodness lasts for ever, and so

on--all these things make a girl on whom heaven has bestowed this most

excellent gift of beauty know quite as well as other people what she

possesses, though she knows not yet the power of the gift.

"You are pretty, child," said Mrs. Esther to me on the very same day as

the Doctor. "You will be a beautiful woman."

"Which is no good to a girl in the Rules," said Mrs. Deborah, "but

rather a snare and a danger."

"Nay, sister," said Mrs. Esther, "it is a consolation to be beautiful.

You, dear, when we were thirty years younger, were beautiful enough to

melt the heart even of the monster Bambridge."

"A beautiful face and person," Mrs. Deborah added with a smile on her

poor face as she thought of the past, "should belong to a good and

virtuous soul. In the better world I have no doubt that the spirits of

the just will arise in such beauty of face and form as shall be unto

themselves and their friends an abiding joy."

Let us think so: when I die it may be a consolation to me that a return

to the beauty of my youth is nigh at hand. I am but a woman, and

there is nothing in the world--except the love of my husband and my

children--that I think more precious than my past beauty.

Soothed, then, by my uncle's flatteries, comforted by his promises,

and terrified by his admonitions, I fell in a very few days into the

dreams by which youth beguiles the cares of the present. My husband,

Lord Chudleigh, would go his own way and never ask after me; I should

go mine as if he did not exist; some time or other we should leave the

Liberties of the Fleet, and go to live near Lady Levett and my dear

Nancy. As for the coronet and the rank, I was too ignorant to think

much about them. They were so high above me, I knew so little what

they meant, that I no more thought of getting them than of getting

David's harp and crown. I waited, therefore, being a wife and yet no

wife, married and yet never seen by my husband; sacrificed to the wrath

of the Doctor, as that poor Greek maiden in the story told me by my

father, murdered at Aulis to appease the wrath of a goddess.

Two events happened which, between them, quite drove the marriage out

of my mind, and for awhile made me forget it altogether.

The first of these was the illness of Mrs. Deborah.

There was fever about the market, as I have said; one of the little

girls of Mrs. Dunquerque, in our house, was laid down with it. In

autumn there was always fever in the place, caused, my ladies said, by

the chill and fog of the season, by the stench of the vegetables and

fruit of the market, and perhaps by the proximity of Newgate, where

gaol fever was always cheating the gallows. One day, therefore, Mrs.

Deborah lay down, and said she would rather not get up again any more.

She would not eat, nor would she have any medicine except a little

tar-water which seemed to do her no good. When she got very ill indeed,

she consented to see an apothecary; he prescribed blood-letting, which,

contrary to expectation, made her only weaker. Then we went to the

old woman who kept a herb shop at the other end of Fleet Lane, and

was more skilful than any physician. She gave us feverfew, camomile,

and dandelion, of which we made hot drinks. As the patient grew

worse instead of better, she made an infusion of shepherd's-purse,

pennycress, and pepperwort, to stimulate the system; she brought a

tansy-pudding, which poor Mrs. Deborah refused to eat; and when gentian

water failed, the old woman could do no more.

On the fifth day, Mrs. Deborah gave herself up, and contemplated her

end in a becoming spirit of cheerfulness. She comforted her sister

with the hope that she, too, would before long join her in a world

"where there is no noise, my dear, no fighting, no profane swearing,

no dirt, no confusion, no bawling, no starving, no humiliation. There

shall we sit in peace and quiet, enjoying the dignity and respect which

will be no doubt paid to two Christian gentlewomen."

"I might have known it," sighed poor Mrs. Esther in her tears. "Only a

week ago a strange dog howled all night below our window. I should have

known it for a warning, sent for you, my dear, or me, or for Kitty. It

cannot have been meant for Sir Miles, for the poor gentleman, being in

his cups, would not notice it: nor to Mr. Stallabras, for he sets no

store by such warnings."

"It was for me," said Mrs. Deborah with resignation, while Mrs. Esther

went on recollecting omens.

"Last night I heard the death-watch. Then, indeed, sister, I gave you

up."

"It was a message for me," said the sick woman, as if she had been

Christiana in the story.

"And this morning I heard a hen crow in the market--a hen in a basket.

Alas! who can have any doubt?"

"It is but six weeks," said Mrs. Deborah, feebly, "since a hearse on

its way to a funeral stopped before our door. I remember now, but we

little thought then, what _that_ meant."

"I saw, only a fortnight ago," continued Mrs. Esther, "a winding-sheet

in the tallow. I thought it pointed at Kitty, but would not frighten

the child. Sister, we are but purblind mortals."

Far be it from me to laugh at beliefs which have so deep a root in

Englishwomen's hearts: nor is it incredible to those who believe in the

divine interference, that signs and warnings of death should be sent

beforehand, if only to turn the thoughts heavenward and lead sinners to

repent. But this I think, that if poor Mrs. Deborah had not accepted

these warnings for herself, she might have lived on to a green old age,

as did her sister. Being, therefore, convinced in her mind that her

time was come, she was only anxious to make due preparation. She would

have been disappointed at getting well, as one who has packed her

boxes for a long journey, but is told at the last moment that she must

wait.

As she grew weaker, her brain began to wander. She talked of Bagnigge

Wells, of Cupid's Garden, the entertainments of her father's company,

and the childish days when everything was hopeful. While she talked,

Mrs. Esther wept and whispered to me--

"She was so pretty and merry! Oh! child, if you could have seen us both

in our young days--if you could have seen my Deborah with her pretty

saucy ways; her roguish smile, her ready wit made all to love her! Ah!

me--me--those happy days! and now! My dear Deborah, it is well that

thou shouldst go."

This was on the morning of Mrs. Deborah's last day in life. In the

afternoon her senses returned to her, and we propped her up, pale and

weak, and listened while she spoke words of love and farewell to be

kept sacred in the memory of those who had to go on living.

"For thirty years, dear sister," she murmured, while their two thin

hands were held in each other's clasp--"for thirty years we have prayed

daily unto the Lord to have pity upon all prisoners and captives,

meaning more especially, ourselves. Now, unto me hath He shown this

most excellent mercy, and calleth me away to a much better place than

we can imagine or deserve. I had thought it would be well if He would

lead us out of this ward to some place where, in green lanes and

fields, we might meditate for a space in quiet before we died. I should

like to have heard the song of the lark and seen the daisies. But God

thinks otherwise."

"Oh, sister--sister!" cried Mrs. Esther.

"'There shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither

shall there be any more pain,'" said Mrs. Deborah. "Kitty, child," she

turned her pale face to me, "be kind to my sister."

We wept together. Outside there was the usual tumult of the market--men

buying and selling, with shouts and cries; within, three women weeping,

and one dying.

"Go, dear," said she who was dying; "call the Doctor. He hath been

very generous to us. Tell him I would receive the last offices from his

hands."

The Doctor came. He read the appointed service in that deep voice of

his, which was surely given him for the conversion of the wicked. The

tears streamed down his face as he bent over the bed, saying in the

words of the Epistle appointed--"'My daughter, despise not thou the

chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of Him. For

whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth; and scourgeth every child whom He

receiveth.'"

In the evening the poor lady died, being released from her long

imprisonment by that Royal Mandate, the Will of God.

We buried her in the green and pleasant churchyard of Islington. It is

a sweet spot, far removed from the noise of London; and though her poor

remains feel nothing, nor can hear any more the tumult of crowds, it is

good to think that round her are no streets, only the few houses of the

village. She lies surrounded by fields and trees; the daisies grow over

her grave, the lark sings above the church; she is at rest and in peace.

CHAPTER XV.

HOW MRS. ESTHER WAS DISCHARGED.

After poor Mrs. Deborah's death my lessons came to a sudden stop, and

have never been resumed. Some of that perspicacity of style which I

have often admired in our modern divines might have fallen to my lot,

to enrich this narrative, had I continued in my course of single and

double book-keeping.

"I am not clever," said Mrs. Esther, "like Deborah. She was always the

clever one as well as the beauty. That gave her a right to her little

temper, poor dear. I cannot teach astronomy, because one star is to me

exactly like another. Nor do I know aught about book-keeping, except

that it is a very useful and necessary science. Therefore, Kitty, thou

must go untaught. For that matter, I think you know as much as a woman

need ever know, which is to read, to write--but one ought not to expect

of a woman such exactness in spelling as of a scholar--and to cipher

to such a moderate degree as may enable her to add up her bills. But

it grieves me to think you are growing up so tall and straight without

learning how to make so much as a single cordial, or any strong waters.

And with our means, what chance of teaching you to toss a pancake, fold

an omelette, or dish a Yorkshire pudding?"

It was then that we began to console ourselves for my ignorance,

our troubles, and even, I bear mind, for our late loss, by reading

"Clarissa," a book which the Doctor, ever watchful in the interests

of virtue, presented to Mrs. Esther with a speech of condolence. He

said that it was a work whose perusal could not fail most strongly to

console her spirit and to dispose her for resignation; while for purity

of morals, for justice of observation, and for knowledge of the human

heart, it was unequalled in any language. He then made a digression,

and compared the work with the ancient Greek romances. Adventure, he

said, was to be found in Heliodorus, and the story told by Apuleius

of Cupid and Psyche was exquisitely pathetic; yet none of the earlier

writers could be compared, or even named in the same breath, with Mr.

Richardson, who reminded him especially of Sophocles, in the tenderness

with which he prepared the minds of his audience for the impending

tragedy which he could not alter or abate, seeing that it was the will

of Necessity. There was nothing, he went on to say, more calculated

to inspire or to strengthen sentiments of virtue in the breasts of

the young--and especially in the young of the feminine sex--than a

contemplation of Clarissa's virtue and Lovelace's wickedness. We were

greatly edified by these praises, coming from so great a scholar and

one so eminently fitted to discourse on virtue. We received the work,

prepared (so far as I was concerned) to partake of food for reflection

of the satisfying kind (so that the reader quickly lays aside the

work while he meditates for a few days on what he has read) which is

supplied by the pious "Drelincourt on Death." Hervey's "Meditations

among the Tombs," or Young's "Night Thoughts."

"After dinner, my dear," said Mrs. Esther, "you shall read it aloud to

me. Do not stop if I shut my eyes in order to hear the better. These

good books should be carefully listened to, and read very slowly.

Otherwise their lessons may be overlooked, and this would be a sad pity

after all the good Doctor's trouble in first reading the book for us.

What scholarship, Kitty! and what a passion, nay, what an ardour, for

virtue animates that reverend heart!"

I cannot but pause here to ask whether if Mr. Richardson had chosen to

depict to the life the character of a clergyman, who had fallen into

such ways as my uncle, with his sins, his follies, his degradation, the

Doctor would himself have laid it to heart? Alas! I fear not. We know

not ourselves as we are: we still go dreaming we are something better

than we seem to others: we have a second and unreal self: the shafts

of the satirist seem to pierce the hearts of others. I am sure that

many a Lovelace, fresh from the ruin of another Clarissa (if, indeed,

there could be another creature so incomparable), must have read this

great romance with tears of pity and indignation. Otherwise the race of

Lovelaces would long since have become extinct.

We received, therefore, "Clarissa," expecting edification, but not

joy. We even put it aside for a week, because Mrs. Esther hardly felt

herself, at first, strong enough to begin a new book, which might flood

her mind with new ideas and make her unsettled. At last, however, she

felt that we must no longer postpone obeying the Doctor.

"Only a short chapter, my dear, to begin with. Heavens! how shall we

struggle through eight long volumes?"

I shall be ever thankful that it was my duty to read these dear

delightful pages of this great romance. You may judge of our joy when

we read on, day after day, hurrying over household work in the morning,

neglecting our walks abroad, and wasting candlelight in the evening the

more to enjoy it. We laid aside the book from time to time while we

wept over the author's pathetic scenes. Oh, the horrid usage of poor

Clarissa! Was ever girl more barbarously served? Was ever man so wicked

as her lover? Were parents ever so blinded by prejudice? Had girl ever

so unkind a brother--ever so perverse a sister? I thought of her all

day long, and at night I dreamed of her: the image of Clarissa was

never absent from my brain.

Everything in the book was as real to me as the adventures of Robinson

Crusoe, or those of Christian on his pilgrimage from the City of

Destruction. So long as the reading of this immortal book lasted--we

read page after page twice, thrice, or four times over, to get out of

them the fullest measure of sympathy, sorrow, and delight--we loved

with Clarissa: her sorrows were ours: we breathed and talked Clarissa:

Mrs. Esther even prayed, I believe--though the book was already

printed, and therefore it was too late for prayer--that the poor, sweet

innocent, might escape the clutches of her wicked lover, who, sure, was

more a demon than a man: we carried the thought of Clarissa even to

church with us.

We invited our friends to share with us this new-found joy. Solomon

Stallabras was always ready to weep with us over a dish of tea. Never

any man had a heart more formed for the tenderest sensibility. Pity

that his nose was so broad and so much turned up, otherwise this

natural tenderness might have been manifested in his countenance. While

I read he gazed upon my face, and was fain, from time to time, to draw

forth his handkerchief and wipe the tears from his streaming eyes.

"Stop, Miss Kitty!" he would say: "let us pause awhile: let us come

back to virtue and ourselves. It is too much: the spectacle of so

much youth and beauty, so much innocence--the fate of our poor

Clarissa--read by a nymph whose lot is so below her merits--it is too

much, Mrs. Pimpernel--it is indeed!"

In some way, while I read, this poet, whose imagination, as became his

profession, was strong, mixed up Clarissa with myself, and imagined

that my ending might be in some way similar to that of the heroine.

Now, with Solomon Stallabras, to think was to believe. Nothing was

wanting but a Lovelace. I believe that he waited about the market in

hopes of finding him lurking in some corner. Perhaps he even suspected

poor Sir Miles. Had he found him, he assured Mrs. Esther, he fully

intended to pierce him to the heart with a spit or skewer from one of

the butcher's stalls; adding that it would be sweet for him to die,

even from the cart at Tyburn, for my sake. But no Lovelace was trying

to make me leave my shelter with Mrs. Esther.

Sometimes Sir Miles Lackington came to join in the reading, but we

found him wanting in sensibility. Without that quality, Richardson's

novels cannot be enjoyed. He inclined rather to the low humour which

makes men enjoy Fielding's "Tom Jones," or Smollett's "Peregrine

Pickle"--works full, no doubt, of a coarse vitality which some men

like, but quite wanting in the delicate shades of feeling that commend

an author to the delicacy of gentlewomen. And to think that old Samuel

Richardson was nothing but a printer by trade! Heaven, which denied

this most precious gift of creation to such tender and poetic souls as

that of Solomon Stallabras, vouchsafed to bestow it upon a printer--a

mechanical printer, who, if he was not paid for setting up type

himself, yet employed common workmen, superintended their labours, paid

them their wages, and put profits into his purse. It seems incredible,

but then Shakespeare was only an actor.

"The sunshine of genius," said Solomon, "falls upon the children of the

lowly as well as those of the rich. I am myself a scion of Fetter Lane."

Sometimes, indeed, Sir Miles Lackington was so wanting in delicacy and

so rude as to laugh at us for our tears.

"You cry over Richardson," he said; "but if I were to bring you 'Tom

Jones' I warrant you would laugh."

"'Tom Jones,'" said Mrs. Esther, "is clearly a work of coarseness.

Ladies do not wish to laugh. The laws of decorum forbid unrestrained

mirth to females of good breeding. Fielding may suit the pewter pots

of the tavern; Richardson goes best with the silver service of the

mansion."

We looked about us as if our room was the mansion and our cupboard was

lined with silver dishes.

Sir Miles laughed again.

"Give me a pewter mug well filled and often filled," he said, "with

'Tom Jones' to bear it company, and I ask no more. 'Clarissa,' and the

silver service may remain with you, ladies. Strange, however, that

folk should prefer a printer to a gentleman. Why, Fielding comes of an

honourable house."

"Gentle blood," replied Mrs. Esther, "does not, unfortunately, always

bring the gifts of poetry and sensibility. You are yourself of gentle

birth, Sir Miles, yet you own that you love not Richardson. Many great

authors have been of lowly extraction, and Mr. Stallabras was saying

finely but yesterday, that the sunshine of genius falls upon the

children of the poor as often as upon those of the rich."

Solomon inclined his head and coloured; Sir Miles laughed again in his

easy fashion.

"But," he said, "Mr. Richardson knows nothing about the polite _ton_.

His men are master tradesmen disguised in swords and scarlet coats;

they are religious tradesmen, wicked tradesmen, and so forth; but they

are not gentlemen; they cannot talk, think, or walk, write, or act like

gentlemen. If we want to read about polite society, let us at least ask

gentlemen to write for us."

Sir Miles read little, yet his judgment was generally right, and since

I have seen the society of which Richardson wrote, I have learned

that he was right in this case; for Richardson, pathetic and powerful

as he is, had certainly never been among the class whose manners and

conversation he attempted to portray.

Presently we finished "Clarissa," with floods of tears. I believe that

no book was ever written which has caused so many tears as this work.

Just then it was about the end of the year: we had already eaten our

Christmas plum porridge in the darkest and deadest time of the year,

the time when fogs fall over the town by day and stop all work: when

nights are long and days short: when the market was quiet at night

because it was too cold to stand about or to lie in the open: when

all the fighting and brawling were over before five o'clock, and the

evenings were tranquil though they were long. It was just after we

ended our book, and were still tearful under its influence, that our

deliverance came to us.

I think it was on the 31st of December in that same year of grace,

seventeen hundred and fifty, in which I had come to the Liberties, and

twenty-nine full years with some eleven months since the poor ladies

had been incarcerated. I well remember the day, though not certain of

the date. It was evening: we had finished work: supper was on the table

when we should care to take it--bread and an excellent Dutch cheese;

the candle was extinguished, and we were sitting before the fire. Mrs.

Esther was talking, as women love sometimes to talk, about the little

things they remember: she was telling me--not for the first time--of

the great frost of 1714, when she was a young girl, and of the fair

which they held upon the ice; of the dreadful scare there was in 1718

from the number of highwaymen and footpads, for whose apprehension

the Government offered as much as £100 a head; of Orator Henley, who

began to preach in Clare Market shortly after the ladies came to the

Fleet; of the dreadful storm in 1739, which killed the famous colony

of sparrows in the Mile End Road; of the long frost of 1739, when from

Christmas unto February the poor watermen and fishermen could not earn

a single penny; of the fever of 1741; of the banishment of papists

before the Pretender's landing, in 1744; of the great Rebellion of

1745, when the city so nobly did its duty.

"My dear," she said, "we, that is the citizens, because the prisoners

of the Fleet and the persons who enjoy the Liberties could hardly be

expected to contribute money or aught but prayers--and most of the poor

creatures but little used to praying!--raised twelve thousand shirts

with as many garments to correspond, ten thousand woollen caps (to

serve, I suppose, as nightcaps for our brave fellows when they slept in

the open air), ten thousand pairs of stockings, twelve thousand gloves,

a thousand blankets--which only makes one blanket for twelve men, but

I hope they took turns about--and nine thousand spatterdashes. There

was a camp on Finchley Common, of which we heard but did not visit;

the militia were kept in readiness--a double watch was set at every

one of the city gates; there were some in the Liberties, who thought

that a successful invasion of England might lead to the burning of

account-books, registers, ledgers, and warrants, in which case we might

all get out and keep out. For my own part, my dear, and for my sister

Deborah's part, I am happy to say that we preferred the Protestant

succession even to our own freedom, and wished for no such lawless

ending to a captivity however unjust, but prayed night and day for the

confusion of the young Pretender. Happily our prayers were answered,

and great George preserved."

Then we talked of the past year, how it had brought Mrs. Esther a

daughter--as she was good enough to say--and taken away a sister. She

cried a little over her loss, but presently recovered, and taking my

hand in hers, said many kind and undeserved things to me, who had been

often petulant and troublesome: as that we must not part, who had

been so strangely brought together, unless my happiness should take

me away from the Fleet (I thought, then, of my husband, and wondered

if he would ever come to take me away), and then said that as we were

at New Year's Eve, we should make good resolutions for the next year,

which were to be kept resolutely, not broken and thrown away; that for

her part, she designed, if I agreed and consented to the change, to

call me niece, and I should call her aunt, by which mutual adoption

of each other our affection and duty one towards the other would be

strengthened and founded, as it were, on a sure and stable basis.

"Not, my dear," she added, "that you can ever call yourself a

Pimpernel--an honour granted to few--or that you should ever wish to

change your name; but in all other respects you shall be the same as

if you were indeed my own niece, the daughter of my brother (but I

never had one) or sister (but I had only one, and she was as myself).

Truly the Pleydells are a worthy family, of whom we have no need to be

ashamed."

I was assuring her that nothing could alter my love and gratitude for

her exceeding kindness, when we heard footsteps and voices on the

stairs, and presently a knock at the door, and the Doctor stood before

us. Behind him were Sir Miles Lackington and Solomon Stallabras.

"Madam," said the Doctor, "I wish you a good evening, with the

compliments of the season. Merry as well as happy may you be next year."

I declare that directly I saw his face, my heart leaped into my mouth.

I _knew_ that he was come with great and glorious news. For his eyes

glowed with the light of some suppressed knowledge, and a capacious

smile began with his lips and glowed over the vast expanse of his ruddy

cheeks.

"Merry, Doctor--no. But happy if God will."

"Ta! ta! ta! we shall see," he replied. "Now, madam, I have a thing

to say which will take some time to say. I have taken the liberty of

bringing with me a bottle of good old port, the best to be procured,

which strengthens the nerves and acts as a sovereign cordial in cases

of sudden excitement. Besides, it is to-night New Year's Eve, when all

should rejoice." He produced the bottle from under his gown and placed

it on the table. "I have also taken the liberty to bring with me our

friends and well-wishers, Sir Miles Lackington and Mr. Stallabras,

partly to--to--" here he remembered that a corkscrew was not likely

to be among our possessions--"to draw the cork of the bottle, a thing

which Sir Miles does with zeal and propriety." The Baronet with great

gravity advanced and performed the operation by a dexterous handling of

the poker, which detached the upper part of the neck. "So," continued

the Doctor; "and partly that they too, who have been so long our true

and faithful friends, may hear what I have to say, and so that we may

all rejoice together, and if need be, sing psalms with merry hearts."

Merry hearts? Were we to sing psalms with merry hearts in the place

where for thirty years every day had brought with it its own suffering

and disgrace to this poor lady?

Yet, what news could the Doctor have which made his purple face so

glad, as if the sunlight instead of our fire of cannel coal was shining

full upon it?

"Kitty child," he went on, "light candles: not one candle--two candles,

three candles, four candles--all the candles you have in the place;

we will have an illumination. Sir Miles, will you please to sit? Mr.

Stallabras, will you take Kitty's chair? She will be occupied in

serving. Glasses, child, for this honourable company. Why"--he banged

his fist upon the table, but with consideration, for it was not so

strong as his own great table--"why, I am happier this night than ever

I have been before, I think, in all my life. Such a story as I have to

tell!"

I placed on the table the three candlesticks which formed all our

stock, and set candles in them and lit them. I put out such glasses

as we had, and then I stood beside Mrs. Esther's chair and took her

hand in mine. I knew not what to expect, yet I was certain that it was

something very good for Mrs. Esther. Had it been for me, the Doctor

would have sent for me; or for himself, he would have told it without

this prodigality of joy. Surely it must be for my good patron and

protector! My pulses were bounding, and I could see that Mrs. Esther,

too, was rapidly rising to the same excitement.

"Certain I am," said Sir Miles, "that something has happened. Doctor,

let us quickly congratulate you. Let us drink your health. I burn to

drink some one's health."

"Should something have happened," said the poet, "I would it were

something good for ladies who shall be nameless."

"Stay," said the Doctor. He stood while the rest were sitting. He thus

increased the natural advantage of his great proportions. "We are not

yet come to the drinking of healths. But, Mrs. Pimpernel, I must first

invite you, before I go on with what I have to say, to take a glass of

this most generous vintage. The grapes which produced it grew fat and

strong in thinking of the noble part they were about to fulfil: the

sunshine of Spain passed into their juices and filled them with the

spirit of strength and confidence: that spirit lies imprisoned in the

bottle before us----"

"It does--it does!" murmured Sir Miles, gazing thoughtfully at the

bottle.

"He ought to have been a poet!" whispered Solomon.

The Doctor looked round impatiently, and swept the folds of his gown

behind him with a large gesture.

"For what did the grapes rejoice? Why was the vintage more than

commonly rich? Because in the fulness of time it was destined to

comfort the heart and to strengthen the courage of a most worthy and

cruelly tried lady. Indeed, Mrs. Pimpernel, wonderful are the decrees

of heaven! Drink, madam."

He poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her. She stared in his

face almost stupidly: she was trying to repress a wild thought which

seized her: her lips were parted, her gaze fixed, her hands trembling.

"Drink it, madam," ordered the Doctor.

"What is it? oh! what is it?" she cried.

"Drink the wine, madam," said Sir Miles kindly. "Believe me, the wine

will give you courage."

I took the glass and held it to her lips, while she drank submissively.

"With a bottle of port before him," said Sir Miles encouragingly, "a

man may have patience for anything. With the help of such a friend,

would I receive with resignation and joy, good fortune for myself or

disasters to all my cousins, male and female. Go on, Doctor. The lady

hath taken one glass to prepare her palate for the next."

"Patience, now," said the Doctor, "and silence, all of you. Solomon

Stallabras, if you liken me again to a poet, you shall leave this room,

and lose the joy of hearing what I have to tell."

"It is now some three months that the thought came into my mind of

investigating the case of certain prisoners lying forgotten in the

prison or dragging along a wretched existence in the Rules. It matters

not what these cases were, or how I have sped in my search. One

case, however, has filled me with gratitude and joy because--madam,"

he turned suddenly on poor Mrs. Esther, "you will please to listen

patiently. This case concerns the unhappy fate of two poor ladies.

Their history, gentlemen"--oh! why could he not get on faster?--"is

partly known to you. They were daughters of a most worthy and respected

city merchant who, in his time, served many civic offices with dignity

and usefulness, including the highest. He was a benefactor to his

parish, beautified his church, and died leaving behind him two young

daughters, the youngest of whom came of age in the year 1720. To

each of them he left a large fortune, no less than twenty thousand

pounds. Alas! gentlemen, this money, placed in the hands of their

guardian and trustee, a friend as honourable as the late Lord Mayor

himself, the ladies' father, namely, Alderman Medlicott, was in the

year 1720 shamefully pillaged and stolen by the alderman's clerk,

one Christopher March, insomuch that (the alderman having gone mad

by reason of his losses) the poor girls had no longer any fortune

or any friends to help, for in that bad time most all the merchants

were hit, and every one had to look after himself as best he could.

Also this plundering villain had so invested part of their money, in

their own name by forgeries, as to make them liable for large sums

which they had not the means of paying. They were therefore arrested

and confined in the prison hard by, where under the rule of the rogue

Bambridge they suffered many things which it is painful to recall or

to think about. Presently, however, that tormentor and plague of the

human race--_captivorum flagellum_--scourge of innocent captives and

languishing debtors, having been mercifully removed and having hung

himself like Judas and so gone to his own place, these ladies found the

necessary security which ensures for all of us this partial liberty,

with the opportunity, should we embrace it, of improving the golden

hours. In other words, gentlemen, they came out of the prison, and have

ever since dwelt amongst us in this place.

"Gentlemen, we have with us here many improvident and foolish

persons who have mostly by their own misconduct reduced themselves

to our unhappy condition. It needs not that in this place, which is

not a pulpit, I should speak of those who have gambled away their

property"--Sir Miles shook his head--"or drank it away"--Sir Miles

stared straight at the ceiling--"or have missed their chances, or been

forgotten by Fortune"--Mr. Stallabras groaned. "Of these things I will

not speak. But it is a thing notorious to all of us that the Liberties

are not the chosen home of virtue. Here temperance, sobriety, morality,

gentle words, courteous bearing, truth, honour, kindness of thought,

and charity--which seeketh not her own--are rarely illustrated and

discourteously entreated. Wherefore, I say, that for two ladies to have

steadfastly resisted all the temptations of this place, and to have

exhibited, so that all might copy, the exemplar of a perfect Christian

life during thirty years, is a fact which calls for the gratitude as

well as the astonishment of the wondering Rules."

"He _ought_ to have been a----" began Solomon Stallabras, wiping a

sympathetic tear, but caught the Doctor's frowning eye and stopped;

"an--an Archbishop," he added presently, with a little hesitation.

"Sir," said the Doctor, "you are right. I ought to have been an

archbishop. Many an archbishop's Latin verses have been poor indeed

compared with mine. But to proceed. Madam, I would fain not be tedious."

"Oh, sir," said Mrs. Esther, whose brain seemed confused with this

strange exordium.

"After thirty years or thereabouts of most undeserved captivity and

forced retirement from the polite world--which they were born to

adorn--these ladies found themselves by the will of Providence forced

to separate. One of them winged her glad flight to heaven, the other

was permitted to remain awhile below. It was then that I began to

investigate the conditions of their imprisonment. Madam," he turned

suddenly to Mrs. Esther, so that she started in her chair and trembled

violently, "think of what you would most wish: name no trifling matter;

it is not a gift of a guinea or two, the bettering of a meal, the

purchase of a blanket, the helping of a poor family; no boon or benefit

of a day or two. Let your imagination rove, set her free, think boldly,

aim high, think of the best and most desirable thing of all."

She tried to speak, her lips parted; she half rose, catching at my

hand: but her words were refused utterance; her cheek grew so pale and

white that I thought she would have swooned and seized her in my arms,

being so much stronger and bigger. Then I ventured to speak, being

moved myself to a flood of tears.

"Oh, madam! dear madam! the Doctor is not jesting with you; he hath

in his hands the thing that we desire most of all. He brings you, I

am sure, great news--the greatest. Oh, sir"--I spoke now for her who

was struck dumb with hope, fear, and astonishment--"what can this poor

lady want but her release from this dreadful place? What can she pray

for, what can she ask, morning and night, after all these years of

companionship with profligates, spendthrifts, rogues, and villains, the

noisy market people, the poor suffering women and children of this den

of infamy, but her deliverance? Sir, if you have brought her that, tell

her so at once, to ease her mind."

"Well said, Kitty," cried Sir Miles. "Doctor, speak out."

"No poet--not even Alexander Pope--could have spoken more eloquently,"

cried Solomon Stallabras.

As for Mrs. Esther, she drew herself gently from me, and stood with her

handkerchief in her hand, and tears in her eyes, her poor thin figure

trembling.

"I have brought with me," said the Doctor, taking her hand and kissing

it, "the release of the most innocent prisoner in the world."

She steadied herself for a few moments. Then she spoke clearly and

calmly.

"That," she said, "has ever been the utmost of my desire. I have

desired it so long and so vehemently (with my sister Deborah, to whom

it has been granted) that it has become part of my very being. I have

desired it, I think, even more than my sister. Thirty years have I

been a prisoner in the Fleet, though for twenty-six in the enjoyment

of these (so-called) Liberties. Gentlemen, you know full well what

manner of life has been ours; you know the sights, the sounds, the

wickednesses of this place." Here Sir Miles hung his head. "I am, as

the Doctor most kindly hath told you, a gentlewoman born; my father,

besides being a great and honourable merchant of this most noble

city of London, once Lord Mayor, an Alderman of Portsoken Ward, and

Worshipful Master of the Company of Armour Scourers, was also a true

Christian man, and taught us early the doctrines and virtues of the

true faith. We were educated as heiresses; we were delicately brought

up in the love of duty and religion; too delicately for women fated

to herd with the worst and bear the worst. It is, therefore, no merit

of ours if we have behaved, according to our lights, as Christian

gentlewomen. Yet, sirs, kind friends, it has been great unhappiness to

us; bear with me a little, for when I think of my sister's sufferings,

and my own, I fain must weep. It has been, believe me, great, great

unhappiness."

I think we all wept with her. Yet it was astonishing to see with what

quiet dignity she spoke, resuming, at a moment's notice, the air not

only of a gentlewoman, which she had never lost, but of one who is no

longer troubled by being in a false position, and can command, as well

as receive, respect. I saw before me a great city lady, as she had been

trained and brought up to be. Small though she was, her dignity made

her tall--as her unmerited sufferings and patience made her great.

Sir Miles laid his hand on the poet's shoulder.

"Great heaven!" he cried. "Canst thou weep any more over the

misfortunes of Clarissa, with this poor lady's sorrows in thy

recollection?"

The Doctor wiped his eyes. But for those backslidings which we have

already lamented, what an admirable character, how full of generosity,

how full of sympathy, how kind of heart, was my uncle!

"Pray, madam," he said, "be seated again. Will you take another glass

of wine?"

"No, Doctor," she replied. "This is now no case for the help of wine.

Pray finish the story of your benevolent care."

"Why, madam, as for benevolence," he said, "I have but done what Sir

Miles Lackington or Solomon Stallabras"--the poet spread his arms and

tapped his breast--"would have done, had they possessed the power of

doing; what, indeed, this crying slip of a girl would have done had she

known how. Benevolence! Are we, then, Old Bailey prisoners, chained by

the leg until the time comes for us to go forth to Tyburn Tree? Are we

common rogues and vagabonds, that have no bowels? Can such a life as

yours be contemplated with unmoved eyes? Is Sir Miles a Lovelace for

hardness of heart? or Solomon Stallabras a salamander? Am I a Nero?

Nay, madam, speak no more of benevolence. Know, then, that of all the

people whom the conduct of the villain Christopher March with regard to

your affairs injured, but two are left alive. The heirs of the rest are

scattered and dispersed. These two have prospered, and are generous as

well as old; their hearts melted at the tale of suffering; they have

agreed together to give back to you, not only the security which keeps

you here, but also a formal release of your debt to them; you can go

whenever you please."

"Why, then," shouted Sir Miles, grasping the bottle, "we can drink

her----"

"Stay," said the Doctor. "There is one thing more. This generous gift

restores to you, not only liberty, but also your father's country

estate in Hertfordshire, worth six hundred pounds a year. And here,

madam, are the papers which vouch for all. You have now your own

estate, and are once more a gentlewoman of fortune and position."

She took the papers, and held them grasped tightly in her lap.

"And now, gentlemen," said the Doctor, gently taking the bottle from

the baronet's hand, "we will drink--you, too, Kitty, my dear, must

join--a happy new year to Mrs. Esther Pimpernel."

They drank it with no more words; and Sir Miles fell on his knees and

kissed her hand, but without speaking aught.

Mrs. Esther sat still and quiet, trying to recover herself; but the

first eloquence would not return, and she could not speak for crying

and sobbing. In broken words she said, while she caught the Doctor's

great hand and held it, that he had been, in very sooth, her guardian

angel; that it was he who had rescued her sister and herself from the

monster Bambridge and the horrors of the prison; that, but for him,

they would long ago have starved: that, but for him, she should have

languished for the rest of her days in the Rules. Then she prayed that

God would reward the protector and defender of the poor.

The Doctor drew away his hand, and, without a word, walked out of the

room with hanging head, followed by Sir Miles and Mr. Stallabras.

"We shall go, my sweet Kitty; together we shall leave this dreadful

place," she murmured when we were alone. "What is mine is yours, my

child. Let us humbly to our knees."

Part II.

_THE QUEEN OF THE WELLS._

CHAPTER I.

HOW WE RETURNED TO THE POLITE WORLD.

We love those places most where we lived when we were young, and where

we were wooed and won, and where we had those sweet dreams, which can

only come to the very young, of a happy future, impossible in this

transitory and fleeting life. Dear to me and romantic are the scenes

which to many are associated with disease and infirmity, or at best

with the mad riot of the race, the assembly, and the ball.

Truly there is no time, for a woman, like the time when she is young

and beautiful, and is courted by a troop of lovers. She feels her

power, though she does not understand it; she remembers it long after

the power has gone, with the witchery of bright eyes, soft cheeks, and

blooming youth. I think there can never be any faith or hope in the

future so strong as to resist the sigh over the past, the feeling that

it is better to be young than to be old: to blossom than to wither.

When we went to Epsom Wells we had managed between us, by silence as

to the past and a tacit understanding, to forget the Rules altogether.

Forgetting, indeed, is easy. Surely the butterfly forgets the days when

it was a mere crawling grub; Cophetua's queen no doubt soon learned

to believe that she had royal blood, or blue blood at least, in her

peasant veins (for my own part, I think the king should have mated

with one nearer his own rank). There is little difficulty in putting

out of sight what we wish forgotten. There was a man, for instance,

about the Fleet market, running odd jobs, who actually had forgotten

that he was once hanged. The people used to go there on purpose to

see the wretch, who was, I remember, bow-legged and long-armed, with

broad shoulders; his face was marked with smallpox; he squinted; he had

a great scar upon his cheek; the bridge of his nose was broken; he

had no forehead visible; his ears projected on either side, and were

long, like the ears of a mule; his eye-teeth were like tusks; and as

for his expression, it was that which John Bunyan may have had in his

mind when he wrote about the mob in Vanity Fair, or the ill-favoured

ones who got over the wall and accosted Christiana--an expression which

one may briefly describe as indicating a mind not set upon spiritual

things. Now this man had actually once been hanged, but being taken

away after the hanging to Barber Surgeons' Hall, near St. Giles's

Church, Cripplegate, was then restored to life by one who thought to

dissect him. That was why everybody looked after him, and would have

asked him questions if they had dared accost such a ruffian. For it

seemed to the unthinking as if he, alone among living men, had, like

Dante and Virgil, gone into the regions of the dead, conversed with the

spirits of the unjust (being himself a monstrous criminal), and, after

witnessing their tortures, had returned to the living. To those who

bribed him with rum and then put questions, he replied that as for the

hanging, it might be as the gentleman said, but he had forgotten it. As

for what he saw between his hanging and his restoration to life, he had

forgotten that too. Now if a man can forget having been hung, it stands

to reason that he can forget anything.

At all events, without the insensibility of this wretch, we speedily

agreed to forget the Fleet Rules, and in all our conversations to make

as if we had never been there at all, and knew of the place, if at all,

then only by hearsay and common bruit and rumour. As for the Chaplain

of the Fleet, the great promoter of those marriages which made the

place infamous and the chief performer of them notorious, we agreed

that we were only to think of him as our benefactor.

Not that we put these resolutions into words, but we arrived at them

in the manner common among women, with whom a smile or a glance is as

intelligible as many words (with a bottle of wine) among men.

It was due to this desire to forget the past that we never even read

through the "Farewell to the Fleet," presented to us by Mr. Solomon

Stallabras on the morning of our departure. The first four lines, which

was as far as I got, ran as follows:

"With easy air of conscious worth expressed,

Fair Pimpernel her sorrows oft addressed;

The listening echoes poured her sighs abroad,

Which all unheard by men, were heard by God."

He handed the verses to us with a low bow as we stepped into the coach,

leaving him behind still--poor wretch!--"enjoying" the Liberties.

We first repaired, with the view of spending a period of retirement, to

a convenient lodging in Red Lion Street, where Mrs. Esther set herself

seriously to resume the dress, manner, language, and feelings of a

gentlewoman.

"We have been," she said, "like the sun in eclipse. It is true that one

does not cease to enjoy, under all circumstances, the pride of gentle

birth, which has been my chief consolation during all our troubles.

But if one cannot illustrate to the eyes of the world the dignified

deportment and genteel appearance due to that position, the possession

of the privilege is a mere private grace, like the gift of good temper,

patience, or hope."

At first and for some weeks we held daily conversations and

consultations on the subject of dress. We were, as may be guessed,

somewhat like Pocahontas, of Virginia, when she left the savages and

came into the polite world--because we had to begin from the very

first, having hardly anything in which a lady could go abroad, and

very little in which she could sit at home. Truly delightful was it

to receive every day the packages of brocades, lace, satins, silks,

sarsnets, besides chintzes, muslins, woollen things, and fine linen

wherewith to deck ourselves, and to talk with the dressmaker over the

latest fashion, the most proper style for madam, a lady no longer

young, and for me, who, as a girl, should be dressed modestly and yet

fashionably.

"We must go fine, child," said Mrs. Esther. "I, for my part, because a

fine appearance is due to my position: you, because you are young and

beautiful. The gallants, to do them justice, are never slow in running

after a pretty face; but they are only fixed by a pretty face in a

pretty setting."

Alas! to think that my face, pretty or not, already belonged,

willy-nilly, to a man who had never run after it.

Mrs. Esther found that not only the fashions of dress, but those of

furniture, of language, of manners, and of thought, were changed since

her long imprisonment began. We therefore made it our endeavour by

reading papers, by watching people, and by going to such places as the

Mall, the Park, and even the fashionable churches, to catch as far as

possible, the mode. Mrs. Esther never quite succeeded, retaining to the

last a touch of antiquated manners, an old-fashioned bearing and trick

of speech, which greatly became her, though she knew it not. Meanwhile

we held long and serious talk about the rust of thirty years, and the

best way to wear it off.

In one of the sermons of the Reverend Melchior Smallbrook, a divine

now forgotten, but formerly much read, the learned clergyman states

that the sunshine of prosperity is only dangerous to that soul in

which tares are as ready to spring as wheat: adducing as a remarkable

example and proof of this opinion, the modern prelates of the Church

of England, whose lives (he said) are always models to less fortunate

Christians, although their fortunes are so great. Now in Mrs. Esther's

soul were no tares at all, so that the sunshine of prosperity caused

no decrease or diminution of her virtues. She only changed for the

better, and especially in point of cheerfulness and confidence. For

instance, whereas we were formerly wont, being poorly clad, to creep

humbly to church, sit in the seats reserved for the poor (which have

no backs to them, because the bishops consider the backs of the poor

to be specially strengthened by Providence, which hath laid such heavy

burdens upon them), and afterwards spend the day sadly over Hervey's

"Meditations among the Tombs," we now went in hoops, laces, mantles, or

cardinals, with faces patched, to the new church in Queen Square, where

we had front seats in the gallery, and after church we dined off roast

meat, with pudding, and after dinner read such discourses as presented,

instead of penitential meditations, a thankful, nay, a cheerful view

of life. I am sure, for my own part, I found the change greatly for

the better. But we made no new friends, because Mrs. Esther wished to

remain in strict retirement until she had recovered what she called the

Pimpernel Manner.

"It is a Manner, my dear, as you will perceive when I recover it, at

once dignified and modest. My father and my grandfather, both Lord

Mayors, possessed it to an eminent degree, and were justly celebrated

for it. My poor sister would never have acquired it, being by nature

too sprightly. I was gradually learning it when our misfortunes came.

Naturally afterwards it would have been absurd to cultivate its

further development. The Pimpernel Manner would have been thrown

away in----such a place as that to which we retired."

I am so stupid that I never clearly understood the Pimpernel Manner,

even when Mrs. Esther afterwards assured me that she had now fully

recovered it.

Meantime, my education was resumed in the lighter departments. No girl

who had once tackled book-keeping, by single and double entry, could

want any more solid instruction. My guardian played the harpsichord

for me, while my dancing-master gave me lessons in the minuet; or she

personated a duchess, a countess, or even the most exalted lady in the

land, while the master, a pink of courtesy, who had once danced on the

boards of Drury Lane, presented me dressed in hoops and a train. I was

so diligent in dancing that I was soon ready, he assured me, to make

a figure at any assembly, whether at Bath, Epsom, Tunbridge Wells,

Vauxhall, or Ranelagh. But for the present these gaieties had to be

postponed, partly because the Pimpernel Manner was slow in developing,

and without it my guardian would not stir abroad, partly because we

had no gentleman to go with us. Sir Miles Lackington would, I am sure,

have gone with us, had we asked him to take us. But he was not to be

depended upon if a bottle of wine came in the way. Solomon Stallabras

would have gone, but the poor poet had no clothes fit for a polite

assembly. Moreover, there was an objection, Mrs. Esther said, to both

those gentlemen, that the fact of their being in the enjoyment of the

Liberties of the Fleet might have been thrown in our teeth at a polite

assembly.

It seemed to me then, being ignorant of the extreme wickedness of men,

a grievous thing that gentlewomen cannot go whithersoever they please

without the protection of a man. What sort of an age, I asked, is

this, which pretends to have cast aside Gothic barbarism, yet cannot

suffer its ladies to go unprotected for fear of insult or damage to

their reputation? Scourers and Mohocks, I said, no longer infest the

streets, which are for the most part secure even from footpads and

purse-cutters. I was as yet, however, unacquainted with that class of

man which loves to follow a woman, to stare at her, and to make her

tremble with fear, being no better, but rather worse, than so many

highwaymen, common bullies, and professed rogues.

Sir Miles Lackington did not desert us. Neither my cruelty, he said,

nor his own unworthiness could persuade him to do that; he must needs

follow and worship at the shrine of his unattainable sun and shining

star--with such nonsense as men will still be talking even when they

know that the woman is not for them.

On the occasion of the first visit I privately informed him that

we wished to have no mention made of the place where we were once

residing. He very kindly agreed to silence on this point, and we

sustained between us a conversation after the manner of polite circles.

Sir Miles would ask us, with a pinch of snuff, if we liked our present

lodging--which was, as I have said, in Red Lion Street, not far from

the fields and the Foundling Hospital--better than those to be obtained

in Hill Street and Bruton Street, or some other place frequented by

the best families. Madam, with a fashionable bow, would reply that we

were favourably placed as regards air, that of Bloomsbury being good

for persons like herself, of delicate chests; and that concerning

educational conveniences for miss, she found the quarter superior to

that mentioned by Sir Miles. Then the honest baronet would relate,

without yawning or showing any signs of fatigue, such stories of

fashionable life as he had learned from those who had lately come to

the Fleet, or remembered from his short career among the world of

fashion. We agreed, always without unnecessary waste of words, to

consider him as a gentleman about town, familiar with the Great.

The Doctor came but rarely. He brought wise counsel. He was a miracle

of wisdom. No one is ever so wise in the conduct of his friends'

affairs as he who has wrecked his own. Have we not seen far-seeing and

prudent ministers of state, who have conducted the business of the

nation with skill and success, yet cannot manage their own far more

simple business?

Mrs. Esther talked to no one but to him about the past. She had no

secrets from him. She even wished him, if possible, to share in her

good fortune, and wanted him to appease his creditors with half of all

that was hers. But he refused.

"My imprisonment," he said, "is also my freedom. While I am lying in

the Fleet I can go abroad as I please; I fear no arrest: my conscience

does not reproach me when I pass a shop and think of what I owe the

tradesman who keeps it, because my creditors have paid themselves by

capture of my body. Your purse, dear madam, were it ten times as long,

would not appease the hungry maw of all my creditors and lawyers.

Of old, before I took refuge among the offal and off-scouring of

humanity, the prodigal sons, and the swine, there was no street west of

Temple Bar where I did not fear the voice of a creditor or expect the

unfriendly shoulder-tap of a bailiff. Besides, were I free, what course

would be open to me? Now I live in state, with the income of a dean:

outside I should live in meanness, with the income of a curate. I will

retire from my present position--call it cure of souls, madam--when

the Church recognises merit by translating me from the Fleet market to

a fat prebendal stall. And, believe me, Virtue may find a home even

beside those stalls, and among those grunting swine."

I understand now, being much older and abler to take a just view of

things, that if my uncle could have obtained his discharge he would

have been unwilling to take it. For, granted that he was a learned and

eloquent man, that he would have attracted multitudes to hear him,

learning and eloquence, in the Church, do not always obtain for a

clergyman the highest preferment; the Doctor, who was no longer young,

might have had to languish as a curate on forty or perhaps sixty pounds

_per annum_, even though it became the fashion to attend his sermons.

And, besides, his character was for ever gone, among his brethren of

the cloth. A man who has been a Fleet parson is like one who has passed

a morning in hedging and ditching. He must needs wash all over. Truly,

I think that the Doctor was right. To exercise the functions of his

sacred calling all the morning for profit, to drink with his friends

all the evening, to spend a large portion of his gains in deeds of

charity and generosity among a poor, necessitous, prodigal, greedy,

spendthrift, hungry, thirsty, and shameful folk, who rewarded his

liberality by a profusion of thanks, blessings, and good wishes, was

more in accordance with the Doctor's habits of thought. He persuaded

himself, or tried to persuade others, that he was doing a good work in

the morning; in the afternoon he performed works of charity; in the

evening he abandoned himself to the tempter who led him to sing, drink,

and jest among the rabble rout of Comus.

One morning he bade me put on my hat and walk with him, because he had

a thing to say. I obeyed with fear, being certain he was going to speak

about my unknown husband.

"Girl!" he said, as we walked past the last house in Red Lion Street

and along the pathway which leads to the Foundling Hospital. "Girl, I

have to remind you and to warn you."

I knew well what was to be the warning.

"Remember, you are now seventeen and more; you are no longer a young

and silly girl, you are a young woman; thanks to your friends, you have

taken the position of a young gentlewoman, even an heiress. You will

soon leave this quiet lodging and go where you will meet society and

the great world; you are pretty and well-mannered; you will have beaux

and gallants dangling their clouded canes at your heels and asking your

favours. But you are married. Remember that: you are married. You must

be careful not to let a single stain rest upon your reputation."

"Oh, sir!" I cried, "I have endeavoured to forget that morning. Was

that marriage real? The poor young gentleman was tipsy. Can a tipsy man

be married?"

"Real?" The Doctor stood and gazed at me with angry eyes and puffed

cheeks, so that the old terror seized me in spite of my fine frock

and hoop. "Real? Is the girl mad? Am I not Gregory Shovel, Doctor of

Divinity of Christ's College, Cambridge? Not even the King's most

sacred Majesty is married in more workmanlike fashion. Let your husband

try to escape the bond. Know that he shall be watched: let him try to

set it aside: he shall learn by the intervention of learned lawyers,

if he do not trust my word, that he is as much married as St. Peter

himself."

"Alas!" I said. "But how shall my husband love me?"

"Tut! tut! what is love? You young people think of nothing but

love--the fond inclination of one person for another. Are you a pin

the worse, supposing he never loves you? Love or no love, make up thy

mind, child, that happy shall be thy lot. Be contented, patient, and

silent. When the right day comes, thou shalt step forth to the world as

Catherine, Lady Chudleigh."

That day he said no more to me. But he showed that the subject was not

out of his thoughts by inquiries into the direction and progress of my

studies, which, he hinted, should be such as would befit my rank and

position. Madam thought he meant my rank as her heiress, a position

which could not be illustrated with too much assiduity.

Soon after we went to Red Lion Street, my uncle gave madam my bag of

guineas.

"Here is the child's fortune," he said. "Let her spend it, but with

moderation, in buying the frocks, fal-lals, and trifles which a young

gentlewoman of fortune should wear. Grudge not the spending. Should

more be wanting, more shall be found. In everything, my dear lady, make

my niece an accomplished woman, a woman of _ton_, a woman who can hold

her own, a woman who can go into any society, a woman fit to become the

wife--well--the wife of a lord."

It was on New Year's Day that we left the Fleet; it was in the summer,

at the end of June, when we decided that enough had been done to rub

off the rust of that unfashionable place.

"You, my dear," said Mrs. Esther, "have the sprightly graces of a

well-born and well-bred young woman: I can present you in any society.

I, for my part, have recovered the Pimpernel Manner. I can now make an

appearance worthy of my father."

I assured my kind lady that although, to be sure, I had never been able

to witness the great original and model from which the Pimpernel Manner

was derived, yet that no lady had so fine an air as herself; which was

certainly true, madam being at once dignified and gifted with a formal

condescension very pretty and uncommon.