His daughters, my dear cousins, turned up their noses, coughed and flattened themselves against the wall so that I should not touch so much as a hoop—and I saw these affectionate creatures no more, until—many things had happened.
One morning, about six weeks after the funeral, I was sitting at the harpsichord, picking out an anthem of my own composition. The theme was one of thanksgiving and praise, and my heart was lifted to the level of the words. All around was peace and tranquillity: on the river bank outside Alice walked up and down carrying our child, now nearly a year and a half old: the boy crowed and laughed: the mother would have been singing, but she would not disturb me at work. Can mortal man desire greater happiness than to have the work of his own choice; the wife who is to him the only woman in the world: a strong and lovely child: and a sufficiency earned by his own work? As for my chance of ever getting that huge fortune by my cousin's death, I can safely aver that I never so much as thought of it. We never spoke of it: we put it out of our minds altogether.
I heard steps outside: steps which disturbed me: I turned my head. It was Mr. Probus the attorney. He stood hat in hand before Alice.
'Mr. William's wife I believe,' he was saying. 'And his child? A lovely boy indeed, Madam. I bring you news—nothing less in short than a fortune—a fortune—for this lovely boy.'
'Indeed, Sir? Are you a friend of my husband?'
'A better friend, I warrant, Madam, than many who call him friend.'
'He is within, Sir. Will you honour our poor cottage?' He stood in the open door.
'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have your permission to enter?'
At sight of him the whole of the anthem vanished: harmony, melody, solo, chorus. It was as if someone was singing false: as if all were singing false. I put down my pen. 'Sir,' I said, 'I know not if there is any business of mine which can concern you.'
'Dear Sir,' he tried to make his grating voice mellifluous: he tried to smile pleasantly. 'Do not, pray, treat me as if I was an adviser of the will by which your father deprived you of your inheritance.'
'I do not say that you were. Nevertheless, I cannot understand what business you have with me.'
'I come from your cousin. You have never, I fear, regarded your cousin with kindly feelings'—this was indeed reversing the position—'but of that we will not speak. I come at the present moment as a messenger of peace—a messenger of peace. There is Scripture in praise of the messenger of peace. I forget it at the moment: but you will know it. Your good lady will certainly know it.' Alice, who had followed him, placed a chair for him and stood beside him. 'I bear the olive-branch like the turtle-dove,' he continued, smiling. 'I bring you good tidings of peace and wealth. They should go together, wealth and peace.'
'Pray, Sir, proceed with your good tidings.'
Alice laid her hand on my shoulder. 'Husband,' she said, 'it would be no good tidings which would deprive us of the happiness which we now enjoy. Think well before you agree to anything that this gentleman, or your cousin, may offer.' So she left us, and carried the boy out again into the fresh air.
'Now, Sir, we are alone.'
He looked about him curiously. 'A pretty room,' he said, 'but small. One would take it for the cottage of a fisherman. I believe there are some of these people in the neighbourhood. The prospect either over the river or over the marsh is agreeable: the trees are pleasant in the summer. The Dog and Duck, which is, I believe, easily accessible, is a cheerful place, and the company is polite and refined, especially that of the ladies. No one, however, would think that a son of the great Sir Peter Halliday, ex-Lord Mayor and Alderman, West India Merchant, was living in this humble place.'
'Your good tidings, Sir?'
'At the same time the position has its drawbacks. You are almost within the Rules. And though not yourself a prisoner, you are in the company of prisoners.'
'Again, Sir, your good tidings?'
'I come to them. Scelerisque Probus is my motto. Probus, attorney at law, trusted by all. Now, Sir, you shall hear what your cousin proposes. Listen to me for a moment. You can hardly get on, I imagine, even in so small a way as this appears to be, under fifty pounds a year.'
'It would be difficult.'
'And in your profession, improperly hard and unjustly despised, it is difficult, I believe, to make much more.'
'It is difficult to make much more.'
'Ha! As your cousin said: "They must be pinched—this unfortunate couple—pinched at times."'
'Did my cousin say that?'
'Assuredly. He was thinking especially of your good lady, whom he remarked at the funeral. Well, your cousin will change all that. A heart of gold, Mr. William, all pure gold'—I coughed, doubtfully—'concealed, I admit, by a reserved nature which often goes with our best and most truly pious men, especially in the City of London. I do assure you, a heart of gold.'
He played his part badly. His cunning eyes, his harsh voice, the words of praise so out of keeping with his appearance and manner—as if such a man with such a face could be in sympathy with hearts of gold—struck a note of warning. Besides, Matthew with a heart of gold?
'Well, Sir,' I interrupted him, 'what have you come to say?'
'In plain words, then, this. Mr. Matthew has discovered a way of serving you. Now, my dear Sir, I pray your attention.' He leaned back and crossed his legs. 'Your father showed a certain relenting—a disposition to consider you as still a member of the family by that provision as to survival which you doubtless remember.'
'So I interpret that clause in the will.'
'And with this view has put you in as the possible heir to the money which is now accumulating in the hands of trustees. Mr. Matthew, now a partner in the business, will, it is assumed, provide for his heirs out of the business. On his death your father's fortune will come to you if you are living. If you die first it will go to your cousin. In the latter event there will be no question of your son getting aught.'
'So I understand.'
'Your cousin, therefore, argues in this way. First, he is only a year or two older than yourself: next, he is in full possession of his health and strength. There is nothing to prevent his living to eighty: I believe a great-grandmother of his, not yours, lived to ninety-six. It is very likely that he may reach as great an age. You will allow that.'
'Perhaps.'
'Why then, we are agreed. As for you, musicians, I am told, seldom get past forty: they gradually waste away and—and wither like the blasted sprig in July. Oh! you will certainly leave this world at forty—enviable person!—would that I could have done so!—you will exchange your fiddle for a harp—the superior instrument—and your three-cornered hat for a crown—the external sign of promotion—long before your cousin has been passed the Chair.'
'All this is very likely, Mr. Probus. Yet——'
'I am coming to my proposal. What Mr. Matthew says is this. "My cousin is cut out of the will. It is not for me to dispute my uncle's decision. Still, what he wants just now is ready money—a supplement—a supplement—to what he earns."'
'Well?' For he stopped here and looked about the room with an air of contempt.
'A pleasant room,' he said, going back, 'but is it the room which your father's son should have for a lodging? Rush-bottomed chairs: no carpet ... dear me, Mr. William, it is well to be a philosopher. However, we shall change all that.'
I waited for him to go on without further interruption.
'In a word, Sir, I am the happy ambassador—privileged if ever there was one—charged to bring about reconciliation and cousinly friendship.' Again he overdid it. 'Your cousin sent me, in a word, to propose that you should sell him your chances of inheritance. That is why I am here. I say, Mr. William, that you may if you please sell him your chance of the inheritance. He proposes to offer you £3,000 down—£3,000, I say—the enormous sum of three—thousand—pounds—for your bare chance of succeeding. Well, Sir? What do you say to this amazing, this astounding piece of generosity?'
I said nothing. Only suddenly there returned to my mind the words I had overheard in the outer counting-house.
'We will make him sell his reversion.'
What connection had these words with me? There was no proof of any connection: no proof except that jumping of the wits which wants no proof.
'With £3,000,' Mr. Probus continued, 'you can take a more convenient residence of your own—here, or elsewhere: near the Dog and Duck, or further removed: you can live where you please: with the interest, which would amount to £150 a year at least, and what you make by your honest labour, you will be, for one of your profession, rich. It will be a noble inheritance for your children. Why, Sir, you are a made man!'
He threw himself back in his chair and puffed his cheeks with the satisfaction that naturally follows on the making of a man.
I was tempted: I saw before me a life of comparative ease: with £150 a year there would be little or no anxiety for the future.
Mr. Probus perceived that I was wavering. He pulled a paper out of his pocket—he slapped it on the table and unrolled it: he looked about for ink and pen.
'You agree?' he asked with an unholy joy lighting up his eyes. 'Why—there—I knew you would! I told Mr. Matthew that you would. Happy man! Three thousand pounds! And all your own! And all for nothing! Where is the ink? Because, Sir—I can be your witness—that cousin of yours, I may now tell you, is stronger than any bull—sign here, then, Sir—here—he will live for ever.'
His eagerness, which he could not conceal, to obtain my signature startled me. Again I remembered the words:
'We will make him sell his reversion.'
'Stop, Mr. Probus,' I said. 'Not so quick, if you please.'
'Not so quick! Why, dear Sir, you have acceded. You have acceded. Where is the ink?'
'Not at all.'
'If you would like better terms I might raise it another fifty pounds.'
'Not even another fifty will persuade me.' At that moment I heard Alice singing,
'The Lord my pasture shall prepare,And lead me with a shepherd's care.'
'The Lord my pasture shall prepare,And lead me with a shepherd's care.'
The Lord—not Mr. Probus. I took the words for a warning.
'We shall not want any ink,' I said, 'nor any witness. Because I shall not sign.'
'Not sign? Not sign? But Mr. William—Sir—surely—have a care—such an offer is not made every day. You will never again receive such an offer.'
'Hark ye, Mr. Probus. By that clause in his will my father signified his desire, although he would punish me for giving up the City—to show that he was not implacable and that if it be Heaven's will that I should survive my cousin I should then receive his forgiveness and once more be considered as one of the family. Sir, I will not, for any offer that you may make, act against my father's wish. I am to wait, God knows I desire not the death of my cousin—I wait: it is my father's sentence upon me. I shall obey my father. He forgives me after a term of years—long or short—I know not. He forgives me by that clause. I am not cursed with my father's resentment.'
'Oh! He talks like a madman. With £3,000 waiting for him to pick up!'
'I repeat, Sir. In this matter I shall leave the event to Providence, in obedience to my father's wishes. Inform my cousin, if you please, of my resolution.'
More he said, because he was one of those tenacious and obstinate persons who will not take 'No,' for an answer. Besides, as I learned afterwards, he was most deeply concerned in the success of his mission. He passed from the stage of entreaty to that of remonstrance and finally to that of wrath.
'Sir,' he said, 'I perceive that you are one of those crack-brained and conceited persons who will not allow anyone to do them good: you throw away every chance that offers, you stand in your own light, you bring ruin upon your family.'
'Very well,' I said, 'very well indeed.'
'I waste my words upon you.'
'Why then waste more?'
'You are unworthy of the name you bear. You are only fit for the beggarly trade you follow. Well, Sir, when misery and starvation fall upon you and yours, remember what you have thrown away.'
I laughed. His cunning face became twisted with passion.
'Sir,' he said, 'all this talk is beside the mark. There are ways. Do not think that we are without ways and means.' Then he swore a great round oath. 'We shall find a way, somehow, to bring you to reason.'
'Well Mr.Integer Vitæ scelerisque Probus,' I said. 'If you contemplate rascality you will have to change your motto.'
He smoothed out his face instantly, and repressed the outward signs of wrath. 'Mr. Will,' he said, 'forgive this burst of honest indignation. You will do, of course, what you think fit. Sir, I wish you a return to better sense. I think I may promise you'—he paused and clapped his forefinger to his nose, 'I am sure that I can so far trespass on the forbearance of your cousin as to promise that this offer shall be kept open for three weeks. Any day within the next three weeks you shall find at my office the paper ready for your signature. After that time the chance will be gone—gone—gone for ever,' he threw the chance across the river with a theatrical gesture and walked away.
What did it mean? Why did Matthew want to buy my share? We might both live for forty years or even more. Neither could touch that money till the other's death. He might desire my early death in which case all would be his. But to buy my share—it meant that if I died first he would have paid a needless sum of money for it: and that if he died first it would not be in his power to enjoy that wealth. I asked Ramage on the Sunday why Matthew wanted it. He said that merchants sometimes desire credit and that perhaps it would strengthen Matthew if it were known that this great sum of money would be added to his estate whenever either his cousin or he himself should die. And with this explanation I must be content. There was another possibility but that I learned afterwards.
'We will make him sell his reversion.' What was the meaning of those words? Perhaps they did not apply to me. But I was sure that they did. Like a woman I was certain that they did: and for a woman's reason—which is none.
You have heard how my old friend David Camlet, musical instrument maker, of Dowgate Street, presented me—or my wife—on our marriage, with a handsome harpsichord. Shortly after my father's death, this good old gentleman also went the way of all flesh: a melancholy event which I only learned by receiving a letter from Mr. Probus. Imagine, if you can, my amazement when I read the following:
'Sir,'I have to call your immediate attention to your debt of fifty-five pounds for a harpsichord supplied to you by David Camlet of Dowgate Street, deceased. I shall be obliged if you will without delay discharge this liability to me as attorney for the executors—'And Remain Sir,'Your obedient humble Servant,'Ezekiel Probus'
'Sir,
'I have to call your immediate attention to your debt of fifty-five pounds for a harpsichord supplied to you by David Camlet of Dowgate Street, deceased. I shall be obliged if you will without delay discharge this liability to me as attorney for the executors—
'And Remain Sir,
'Your obedient humble Servant,
'Ezekiel Probus'
'Why,' said Alice. 'Mr. Camlet gave us the instrument. It was a free gift.'
'It was. If Mr. Probus will acknowledge the fact.'
'Mr. Probus? Is it that man with the harsh voice who talked lies to you?'
'The same. And much I fear, wife, that he means no good by this letter.'
'But Mr. Camlet gave us the harpsichord.'
Had the letter been received from any other person I should have considered it as of no importance; but the thought that it came from Mr. Probus filled me with uneasiness. What had that worthy attorney said? 'There are ways—we shall find a way to bring you to reason.'
'My dear,' said Alice, 'since we have had the instrument for two years without any demand for payment, we ought to be safe. Better go and see the man.'
It was with very little hope that I sallied forth. Not only was this man a personal enemy but he was an attorney. What must be the true nature of that profession which so fills the world with shuddering and loathing? Is it, one asks, impossible to be an honest attorney? This one, at all events, was as great a villain as ever walked. They are a race without pity, without scruple, without turning either to the right or to the left when they are in pursuit of their prey. They are like the weasel who singles out his rabbit and runs it down, being turned neither to one side nor the other. Their prey is always money: they run down the man who has money: when they have stripped him naked they leave him, whether it is in a debtor's prison or in the street: when he is once stripped they regard him no longer. Other men take revenge for human motives, for wrongs done and endured: these men know neither revenge nor wrath: they do not complain of wrongs: you may kick them: you may cuff them: it is nothing: they want your money: and that they will have by one way or another.
I took boat from St. Mary Overies stairs. As I crossed the river a dreadful foreboding of evil seized me. For I perceived suddenly that, somehow or other, Mr. Probus was personally interested in getting me to sell my reversion. How could he be interested? I could not understand. But he was. I remembered the persuasion of his manner: his anxiety to get my signature: his sudden manifestation of disappointment when I refused. Why? Matthew was now a partner with a large income and the fortune which my father left him. Matthew had no expensive tastes. Why should Mr. Probus be interested in his affairs?
Next, asked the silent reasoner in my brain, what will happen when you declare that you cannot pay this debt? This man will show no mercy. You will be arrested—you will be taken to Prison. At this thought I shivered, and a cold trembling seized all my limbs. 'And you will stay in the Prison till you consent to sell your reversion.' At which I resumed my firmness. Never—never—would I yield whatever an accursed attorney might say or do to me.
Mr. Probus wrote from a house in White Hart Street. It is a small street, mostly inhabited by poulterers, which leads from Warwick Lane to Newgate market: a confined place at best: with the rows of birds dangling on the hooks, not always of the sweetest, and the smell of the meat market close by and the proximity of the shambles, it is a dark and noisome place. The house, which had a silver Pen for its sign, was narrow, and of three stories: none of the windows had been cleaned for a long time, and the door and doorposts wanted paint.
As I stood on the doorstep the words again came back to me, 'We will make him sell his reversionary interest.'
The door was opened by an old man much bent and bowed with years: his thin legs, his thin arms, his body—all were bent: on his head he wore a small scratch wig: he covered his eyes with his hand on account of the blinding light, yet the court was darkened by the height of the houses above and the dangling birds below.
He received my name and opened the door of the front room. I observed that he opened it a very little way and entered sliding, as if afraid that I should see something. He returned immediately and beckoned me to follow him. He led the way into a small room at the back, not much bigger than a cupboard, which had for furniture a high desk and a high stool placed at a window so begrimed with dirt that nothing could be seen through it.
There was no other furniture. The old man climbed upon his stool with some difficulty and took up his pen. He looked very old and shrivelled: his brown coat was frayed: his worsted stockings were in holes: his shoes were tied with leather instead of buckles: there was no show of shirt either at the wrist or the throat. He looked, in fact, what he was, a decayed clerk of the kind with which, as a boy, I had been quite familiar. It is a miserable calling, only redeemed from despair—because the wages are never much above starvation-point—by the chance and the hope of winning a prize in the lottery. No clerk is ever so poor that he cannot afford at least a sixteenth share in this annual bid for fortune. I never heard that any clerk within my knowledge had ever won a prize: but the chance was theirs: once a year the chance returns—a chance of fortune without work or desert.
Presently the old man turned round and whispered, 'I know your face. I have seen you before—but I forget where. Are you in trade? Have you got a shop?'
'No. I have no shop,'
'You come from the country? No? A bankrupt, perhaps? No? Going to make him your attorney?' He shook his head with some vehemence and pointed to the door with his pen. 'Fly,' he said. 'There is still time.'
'I am not going to make him or anyone else my attorney,'
'You come to borrow money? If so'—again he pointed to the door with the feathery end of the quill. 'Fly! There is still time.'
'Then you owe him money. Young man—there is still time. Buy a stone at the pavior's—spend your last penny upon it; then tie it round your neck and drop into the river. Ah! It is too late—too late—' For just then Mr. Probus rang a bell. 'Follow me, Sir. Follow me. Ah! That paving stone!'
Mr. Probus sat at a table covered with papers. He did not rise when I appeared, but pointed to a chair.
'You wish to see me, Mr. William,' he began. 'May I ask with what object?'
'I come in reply to your letter, Mr. Probus,'
'My letter? My letter?' He pretended to have forgotten the letter. 'I write so many, and sometimes—ay—ay—surely. The letter about the trifling debt due to the estate of David Camlet Deceased. Yes—yes, I am administering the worthy man's estate. One of many—very many—who have honoured me with their confidence.'
'That letter, Mr. Probus, is the reason why I have called.'
'You are come to discharge your obligation. It is what I expected. You are not looking well, Mr. William. I am sorry to observe marks—are they of privation?—on your face. Our worthy cousin, on the other hand, has a frame of iron. He will live, I verily believe, to ninety.'
'Never mind my cousin, Mr. Probus. He will live as long as the Lord permits.'
'When last I saw you Sir, you foolishly rejected a most liberal offer. Well: youth is ignorant. We live and learn. Some day, too late, you will be sorry. Now, Sir, for this debt. Fifty-five pounds. Ay. Fifty-five pounds. And my costs, which are trifling.'
'I have come to tell you, Mr. Probus, that your letter was written under a misapprehension.'
'Truly? Under a misapprehension? Of what kind, pray?'
The harpsichord was a gift made by Mr. David Camlet. I did not buy it.'
Mr. Probus lifted his eyebrows. 'A gift? Really? You have proof, no doubt, of this assertion?'
'Certainly.'
'Well, produce your proofs. If you have proofs, as you say, I shall be the first to withdraw my client's claim. But makers of musical instruments do not usually give away their wares. What are your proofs, Sir?'
'My word, first.'
'Ta—ta—ta. Your word. By such proof every debtor would clear himself. What next?'
'The word of my wife who with me received the instrument from Mr. Camlet.'
'Receiving the instrument does not clear you of liability—what else?'
'The fact that Mr. Camlet never asked me for the money.'
'An oversight. Had he, in a word, intended the instrument for a gift, he would have said so. Now, Sir, what other proofs have you?'
I was silent. I had no other proof.
He turned again to the book he had before consulted. It was the ledger, and there, in Mr. Camlet's own handwriting, firm and square, was an entry:
'To Will Halliday—a Harpsichord, £55.
In another book was an entry to the office that the instrument had been delivered.
Of course, I understand now what the old man meant by the entry. He wanted to note the gift and the value: and unfortunately he entered it as if it was a business transaction.
'Well, Sir?' asked Mr. Probus.
I said nothing. My heart felt as heavy as lead. I was indeed in the power of this man.
'There are such things as conspiracy,' he went on, severely. 'You have told me, for instance, that you and your wife are prepared to swear that the instrument was a gift. I might have indicted you both for a conspiracy, in which case Tyburn would have been your lot. For the sake of your excellent cousin and the worthy Mr. Peter, your uncle, Sir, I refrain from the indictment, though I fear I might be charged with compounding a felony. But mercy before all things: charity, mercy, and long suffering. These are the things that chiefly nourish the human soul, not guineas.'
I remained still silent, not knowing what to do or to say, and seeing this abyss yawning before me.
'Come Sir,' he said with changed voice, 'you owe fifty pounds and costs. If it were to myself I would give you time: I would treat you tenderly: but an Attorney must protect his clients. Therefore I must have that money at once.'
'Give me time to consult my friends.' Alas! All my friends could not raise fifty pounds between them.
'You have none. You have lost your friends. Pay me fifty pounds and costs.'
'Let me see the executors. Perhaps they will hear reason.'
'For what purpose? They must have their own. The long and the short of it, Mr. William Halliday, is that you must pay me this money.'
'Man! I have not got so much money in the world.'
He smiled—he could not disguise his satisfaction.
'Then, Mr. William Halliday'—he shut the ledger with a slam—'I fear that my clients must adopt—most unwillingly, I am sure—the measures sanctioned by the law.' His eyes gleamed with a malicious satisfaction. 'I only trust that the steps we shall have to take will not disturb the mind of my much-respected client, your cousin. You will have to choose your prison, and you will remain in the—the Paradise of your choice until this money, with costs, is paid. As for your choice, the situation of the Fleet is more central: that of the Bench is more rural: beyond the new Prison there are green fields. The smell of the hay perhaps comes over the wall. Should you find a lengthened residence necessary, I believe that the rooms, though small, are comfortable. Ah! how useful would have been that three thousand pounds which you refused—at such a juncture as this.'
'If there is nothing more to be said——' I got up, not knowing what I said, and bewildered with the prospect before me.
'Heaven forbid, Sir,' he continued sweetly, 'that I should press you unduly. I will even, considering the tender heart of your cousin, extend to you the term. I will grant you twenty-four hours in which to find the money.'
'You may as well give me five minutes. I have no means of raising the sum.'
'I am sorry to hear that for the sake of my clients. However, I can only hope'—he pushed back the papers and rose with a horrible grin of malice on his face—'that you will find the air of the Prison salubrious. There have been cases of infectious fever—gaol fever, lately: perhaps the King's Bench and the Fleet are equal in this respect. Small-pox, also, is prevalent in one: but I forget which. Many persons live for years in a Prison. I hope, I am sure, that you will pass—many—many—happy years in that seclusion.'
I listened to none of this ill-omened croaking, but hastened to leave him. At the door I passed the old clerk.
'Go to the King's Bench,' he whispered. 'Not to the Fleet where he'll call every day to learn whether you are dead. There is still time,' he pointed to his throat while he noisily opened the door. 'Round the neck. At the bottom of the River: the lying is more comfortable than in the King's Bench.'
I had entered the house with very little hope. I left it with despair. I walked home as one in a dream, running against people, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. When I reached home I sat down in a kind of stupor.
'My dear,' I said, presently recovering, 'we are lost—we are ruined. I shall starve in a Prison. Thou wilt beg thy bread. The boy will be a gutter brat.'
'Tell me,' Alice took my hand. 'Oh! tell me all—my dear. Can we be lost if we are together?'
'We shall not be together. To-morrow I shall be in the Prison. For how long God only knows.'
'SinceHeknows, my dear, keep up your heart. When was the righteous man forsaken? Come, let us talk. There may be some means found. If we were to pay—though we owe nothing—so much a week.'
'Alice, it is not the debt. There is no debt. It is revenge, and the hope——'
I did not finish—what I would have added was, 'The hope that I may die of gaol fever or something.' 'My dear, be brave and let us arrange. First, I lose my situation in the Church and at the Gardens. Next, we must provide for the child and for thyself outside the prison. No, my dear, if the Lord permits us to live any other way the child shall not be brought up a prison bird.'
In this distress I again consulted Tom, who knew already the whole case.
'In my opinion, Will,' he said, 'the best thing for you is to run away. Let Alice and the boy come here. Run away.'
'Whither could I run?'
'Go for a few days into hiding. They will come here in search of you. Cross the river—seek a lodging somewhere about Aldgate, which is on the other side of the river. They will not look for you there. Meantime I shall inquire—Oh! I shall hear of something to carry on with for a time. You might travel with a show. Probus does not go to country fairs. Or you might go to Dublin or to York, or to Bath, and play in the orchestra of the theatre. We will settle for you afterwards—what to do. Meantime pack thy things and take boat down the river.'
This seemed good advice. I promised I would think of it and perhaps act upon it. Some might think it cowardly to run away: but if an enemy plays dishonest tricks and underhand practices, there is no better way, perhaps, than to run away.
Now had I been acquainted with these tricks I should have remained where I was, in Tom's house, where no sheriff's officer could serve me with a writ. I should have remained there, I say, until midnight, when I could safely attempt the flight. Unfortunately I thought there was plenty of time: I would go home and discuss the matter with Alice. I left the house, therefore, and proceeded across the fields without any fear or suspicion. As I approached the Bank, I saw two fellows waiting about. Still I had no suspicion, and without the least attempt to escape or to avoid them I fell into the clutches of my enemy.
'Mr. William Halliday?' said one stepping forward and tapping my shoulder. 'You are my prisoner, Sir, at the suit of Mr. Ezekiel Probus, for the debt of fifty-five pounds and costs.'
As I made no resistance, the fellows were fairly civil. I was to be taken, it appeared, first to the Borough Compter. They advised me to leave all my necessaries behind and to have them sent on to the King's Bench as soon as I should be removed there.
And so I took leave of my poor Alice and was marched off to the prison where they take debtors first before they are removed to the larger prison.
The Borough Compter is surely the most loathsome, fetid, narrow place that was ever used for a prison. Criminals and Debtors are confined together: rogues and innocent girls: the most depraved and the most virtuous: there is a yard for exercise which is only about twenty feet square for fifty prisoners: at night the men are turned into a room where they have to lie edgeways for want of space: there is no ventilation, and the air in the morning is more horrible than I can describe. My heart aches when I think of the cruelty of that place: it is a cruel place, because no one ever visits it, no righteous Justice of the Peace, no godly clergyman: there is no one to restrain the warder: and he goes on in the same way, not because he is cruel by nature, but because he is hardened by daily use and custom.
I stayed in that terrible place for two nights, paying dues and garnish most exorbitant. At the end of that time I was informed that I could be removed to King's Bench at once. So I was taken to the Court and my business was quickly despatched. As a fine for being poor, I had to pay dues which ought not to be demanded of any prisoner for debt—at least we ought to assume that a debtor wants all the money he has for his maintenance. Thus, the Marshal demanded four shillings and sixpence on admission: the turnkey eighteen-pence: the Deputy Marshal a shilling: the Clerk of the Papers, a shilling: four tipstaffs ten shillings between them: and the tipstaff for bringing the prisoner from the Court, six shillings.
These dues paid, I was assigned a room, on the ground-floor of the Great Building (it was shared with another), and my imprisonment began. It was Matthew's revenge and Mr. Probus's first plan of reduction to submission. But I did not submit.
Thus I was trapped by the cunning of a man whom I believe to have been veritably possessed of a Devil. That there are such men we know very well from Holy Writ: their signs are a wickedness which shrinks from nothing: a pitiless nature: a constant desire for things of this world: and lastly, as happens always to such men, the transformation of what they desire, when they do get it, into dust and ashes; or its vanishing quite away never to be seen, touched, or enjoyed any more. These signs were all visible in the history of Mr. Probus, as you shall hear. Possessed, beyond a doubt, by a foul fiend, was this man whom then I had every reason to hate and fear. Now, I cannot but feel a mingled terror and pity when exemplary punishment overtakes and overwhelms one who commits crimes which make even the convicts in the condemned cell to shake and shudder. His end was horrible and terrible, but it was a fitting end to such a life.
Tom Shirley came, with Alice, to visit me in my new lodging.
He looked about him cheerfully. 'The new place,' he said, 'is more airy and spacious than the old prison on the other side of the road, where I spent a year or two. This is quite a handsome court: the Building is a Palace: the Recreation ground is a Park, but without trees or grass: the three passages painted green remind me somehow of Spring Gardens: the numbers of people make me think of Cheapside or Ludgate Hill: the shops, no doubt contain every luxury: the society, if mixed, is harmonious....'
'In a word, Tom, I am very lucky to get here.'
'There might be worse places. And hark ye, lad, if there is not another fiddler in the Bench, you will make in a week twice as much in the Prison as you can make out of it. Nothing cheers a prisoner more than the strains of a fiddle.
This gave me hope. I began to see that I might live, even in this place.
'There are one or two objections to the place,' this optimist philosopher went on. 'I have observed, for instance, a certain languor which steals over mind and body in a Prison. Some have compared it with the growth they call mildew. Have a care, Will. Practise daily. I have known a musician leave this place fit for nothing but to play for Jack in the Green. Look at the people as they pass. Yonder pretty fellow is too lazy to get his stockings darned: that fellow slouching after him cannot stoop to pull up his stockings: that other thrusts his feet into his slippers without pulling up the heels: there goes one who has worn, I warrant you, his morning gown all day for years: he cannot even get the elbows darned: keep up thy heart, lad. Before long we will get thee into the Rules.'
He visited my room. 'Ha!' he said, 'neat, clean, commodious. With a fine view of the Parade; with life and activity before one's eyes.' He forgot that he had just remarked on the languor and the mildew of the Prison. 'Observe the racquet players: there are finer players here than anywhere else, I believe. And those who do not play at racquets may find recreation at fives: and those who are not active enough for fives may choose to play at Bumble puppy. Well, Will, Alice will come back to me, with the boy. She can come here every morning if you wish. Patience, lad, patience. We will get thee, before long, within the Rules.'
It is possible, by the Warder's permission, to go into the Rules. But the prisoner must pay down £10 for the first £100 of his debts, and £5 for every subsequent £100. Now I had not ten shillings in the world. When I look back upon the memory of that time: when I think of the treatment of prisoners: and of the conduct of the prison: and when I reflect that nothing is altered at the present day I am amazed at the wonderful apathy of people as regards the sufferings of others—it may become at any time their own case: at their carelessness as concerns injustice and oppression—yet subject every one to the same oppression and cruelty.
What, for instance, is more monstrous than the fact that a man who has been arrested by writ, has to pay fees to the prison for every separate writ? If he has no money he is still held liable, so that even if his friends are willing to pay his debts with the exorbitant costs of the attorney, there are still the fees to be paid. And even if the prisoner's friends are willing to release him there is still the warden who must be satisfied before he suffers his prisoner to go.
Again what can be more iniquitous than the license allowed to attorneys in the matter of their costs? Many a prisoner, originally arrested for a debt of four or five pounds or even less, finds after a while that the attorney's costs amount to twenty or thirty pounds more. He might be able to discharge the debt alone: the costs make it impossible: the creditor might let him go: the attorney will never let him go: the friends might club together to pay the debt: they cannot pay the costs: the attorney abates nothing, hoping that compassion will induce the man's friends to release him. In some cases they do: in others, the attorney finds that he has overreached himself and that the prisoner dies of that incurable disease which we call captivity.
At first sight the Parade and the open court of the Prison present an appearance of animation. The men playing racquets have a little crowd gathered round them, there are others playing skittles: children run about shouting: there are the shrill voices of women quarrelling or arguing: the crowd is always moving about: there are men at tables smoking and drinking: the tapsters run about with bottles of wine and jugs of beer. There are women admitted to see their friends, husbands and brothers, and to bring them gifts. Alas! when I remember—the sight comes back to me in dreams—the sadness and the earnestness in their faces and the compassion and the love—the woman's love which endures all and survives all and conquers all—I wish that I had the purse of Crœsus to set these captives free, even though it would enrich the attorney, whose wiles have brought them to this place.
One has not to look long before the misery of it is too plainly apparent above the show of cheerful carelessness. One sees the wives of the prisoners: their husbands play racquets and drink about and of an evening sit in the tavern bawling songs; the poor women, ragged and draggled, come forth carrying their babes to get a little air: their faces are stamped with the traces of days and weeks and years of privation. The Prison has destroyed the husband's sense of duty to his wife: he will not, if he can, work for his family; he lives upon such doles as he can extract from his family or hers. Worse still, men lose their sense of shame: they say what they please and care not who hears: they introduce companions and care not what is said or thought about them: things are said openly that no Christian should hear: things are done openly that no Christian should witness or should know. There are many hundreds of children within these accursed walls. God help them, if they understand what they hear and what they see!
In the prison there are many kinds of debtors: there is the debtor who is always angry at the undeserved misery of his lot: sometimes his wrongs drive him mad in earnest: then the poor wretch is removed to Bedlam where he remains until his death. There is, next, the despairing debtor who sits as one in a dream and will never be comforted. There is the philosophical debtor who accepts his fate and makes the best of it: there is the meek and miserable debtor—generally some small tradesman who has been taught that the greatest disgrace possible is that which has actually fallen upon him; there is the debtor who affects the Beau and carries his snuff-box with an air. There is the debtor who was a gentleman and can tell of balls at St. James's; there is the ruffler who swaggers on the Parade, looking out for newcomers and inviting those who have money to play with him. As for the women they are like the men: there are the wives of the prisoners who fall, for the most part, into a draggled condition like their husbands; there are ladies who put on sumptuous array and flaunt it daily on the Parade: stories are whispered about them; there are others about whom it is unnecessary to tell stories; in a word it is a place where the same wickedness goes on as one may find outside.
There is a chapel in the middle of the great Building. Service is held once a week but the attendance is thin; there is a taproom which is crowded all day long: here men sit over their cups from morning till evening; there is a coffee-room where tea and coffee can be procured and where the newspapers are read; this is a great place for the politicians of whom there are many in the Prison. Indeed, I know not where politics are so eagerly debated as in the King's Bench.
The King's Bench Prison is a wonderful place for the observation of Fortune and her caprices. There was a society—call it not a club—consisting entirely of gentlemen who had been born to good estates and had suffered ruin through no fault of their own. These gentlemen admitted me to their company. We dined together at the Ordinary and conversed after dinner. One of them, born to an easy fortune, was ruined by the discovery of a parchment entitling him to another estate. There was a lawsuit lasting for twenty years. He then lost it and found that the whole of his own estate had gone too. Another, a gentleman of large estate, married an heiress. Her extravagancies ran through both her own fortune and her husband's. She lived with him in the Prison and daily, being now a shrew as well as a slattern, reproached him with the ruin she herself had caused. There was a young fellow who had fallen among lawyers and been ruined by them. He now studied law intending as soon as he got out to commence attorney and to practise the tricks and rogueries he had learned from his former friends. Another had bought a seat in the House of Commons and a place with it. But at the next election he lost his seat and his place, too. And another was a great scholar in Arabic. His captivity affected him not one whit because he had his books and could work in the Prison as well as out.
With such companions, I endeavoured to keep aloof from the drinking and roystering crew which made the Prison disorderly and noisy. Yet, as I will show you directly, I was the nightly servant of the roysterers.
You have heard of Tom Shirley's judgment that in every debtors' prison the collegians, if they do not, as many do, go about in filthy rags and tatters, are all slatterns: some can afford to dress with decency and cleanliness, not to speak of fashion, which would be, indeed, out of place in the King's Bench; even those care not to observe the customs of the outside world; the ruffles are no longer white or no longer visible; the waistcoat is unbuttoned; the coat is powdered; the wig is uncurled; those who wear their own hair leave it hanging over the ears instead of tying it neatly with a black ribbon behind. This general neglect of dress corresponds with the universal neglect of morals which prevails throughout the Prison. Everything conspires to drag down and to degrade the unfortunate prisoner: the hopelessness of his lot; the persecution of his enemies; the uncertainty about the daily bread; the freedom with which drink is offered about by those who 'coll it,'i.e., in the language of the place who have money; the temptation to do as others do and forget his sorrows over a bowl of punch; speedily contaminate the prisoner and make him in all respects like unto those around him. I have said already that if it is bad for men it is worse for women. Let me draw a veil over this side of the King's Bench. Suffice it to say that one who has written on the Prisons has declared that if Diana herself and her nymphs were to be imprisoned for twelve months in the King's Bench, at the end of that time they would all be fit companions for Messalina.
It is not only from their rags that the poverty of the prisoners is betrayed; one may learn from their hollow cheeks, their eager eyes, their feeble gait, that many—too many—are suffering from want of food. It is true that the law of the land gives to every prisoner a groat—four-pence a day—to be paid by the detaining creditor: yet the groat is not always paid, and can only be obtained if the creditor refuses it by legal steps, which a man destitute of money cannot take. What attorney will take up the case of a man without a farthing? If the debtor wins his case how is he to pay the attorney and costs out of four-pence a day? If he wishes to plead informâ pauperis, the law allows the warder to charge six shillings and eight-pence for leave to go to the Court and half a crown for the turnkey to take him there—what prisoner on the poor side can pay these fees? So that when a prisoner is really poor he cannot get his groats at all, for the creditor will not pay them unless he is obliged. Again there are other ways of evading the law. If a debtor surrenders in June there is no Court till November and the creditor need not pay anything till the order of the Court is issued. There are a few doles and charities; but these amount to no more than about £100 a year, say, two pounds a week or six shillings a day. Now there are 600 prisoners as a rule. How many of these are on the poor side? And how far will six shillings a day go among these starving wretches? There are also the boxes into which a few shillings a day are dropped. But how far will these go among so many? It is within my certain knowledge that many would die of sheer starvation every week were it not for the kindness of those but one step above them.
If, for instance, one would understand what poverty may mean he must visit the Common side of the King's Bench Prison. Those who have visited the courts and narrow lanes of Wapping report terrible stories of rags and filth, but the people, by hook or by crook, get food. In the Prison there is neither hook nor crook: the prisoner unless he knows a trade which may be useful in that place: unless he can repair shoes and clothes: unless he can shave and dress the hair, cannot earn a penny. Look at these poor wretches, slinking about the courts, hoping to attract the compassion of some visitor; see them uncombed, unwashed, unshaven; their long hair hanging over their ears; a horrid bristling beard upon their chin; their faces wan with insufficient food, their eyes eagerly glancing here and there to catch a look of pity, a dole or a loan. If you follow them to the misery of the Common side where they are thrust at night you will see creatures more wretched still. These can go abroad even though skewers take the place of buttons; these have shoes—which once had toes; these have beds, of a kind; there are others who have no beds, but lie on the floor; who have no blankets and never take off their rags; who go bare-footed and bare-headed. Remember that their life-long imprisonment was imposed upon them because they could not pay a debt of a pound or two. Their pound or two, by reason of the attorney's costs and the warden's fees, has grown and swelled till it has reached the amount of £20 or £40 or anything you will. No one can release them; the only thing to be hoped is that cold and starvation may speedily bring them to the end—the long sleep in the graveyard of St. George's Church.
I speedily found that I could manage to live pretty well by means of my fiddle. Almost every evening there was some drinking party which engaged my services. I played for them the old tunes to which they sang their songs about wine and women—bawling them at the top of their voices; they paid me as much as I could expect. By good luck there was no other fiddler in the place; a harpist there was; and a flute-player; we sometimes agreed together to give a concert in the coffee-room.
I continued this life for about six months, making enough money every week to pay my way at the Ordinary. Perhaps—I know not—the prison was already beginning to work its way with me and to reduce me, as Tom Shirley said, to the condition of a fiddler to Jack in the Green.
I had a visit, after some three months, from Mr. Probus. He came one day into the prison. I saw him standing on the pavement looking round him. Some of the collegians knew him: they whispered and looked at him with the face that means death if that were possible. One man stepped forward and cursed him. 'Dog!' he said, 'if I had you outside this accursed place, I would make an end of you.'
'Sir,' said Mr. Probus, at whose heels marched a turnkey, 'you do me an injustice for which you will one day be sorry. Am I your detaining creditor?'
The man cursed him again, I know not why, and turned on his heel.
Then I stepped forward. 'Did you come here to gloat over your work, Mr. Probus?'
'Mr. William? I hope you are well, Sir. The prison air, I find, is fresh from the fields. You look better than I expected. To be sure it is early days. You are only just beginning.'
'You will be sorry to hear that I am very well.'
'I would have speech in a retired place, Mr. William.'
'You want once more to dangle your bribe before me. I understand, sir, very well, what you would say.'
'Then let me say it here. Your cousin, I may say, deplores deeply this new disgrace to the family. He earnestly desires to remove it. I am again empowered to purchase an imaginary reversion. Mr. William, he will now make it £4,000. Will that content you?'
'Nothing will content me. There is some secret reason for this persecution. You want—you—not my cousin—to get access to this great sum of money. Well, Mr. Probus, my opinion is that my cousin will die before me. And since I am firmly persuaded upon that point, and since I believe that you think so too, my answer is the same as before.'
'Then,' he said, 'stay here and rot.' He looked round the prison. 'It is a pleasant place for a young man to spend his days, is it not? All his days—till an attack of gaol fever or small-pox visits the place. Eh? Eh? Eh? Then you will be sorry.'
'I shall never be sorry, Mr. Probus, to have frustrated any plots and designs of yours. Be assured of that—and for the rest, do your worst.'
He slowly walked away without a word. But all the devil in his soul flared in his eyes as he turned.
'You do wrong,' said the turnkey who had accompanied him. 'Tis the keenest of his kind. Not another attorney in all London has brought us, not to speak of the Fleet and Newgate, more prisoners than Mr. Probus. For hunting up detainers and running up the costs he has no equal.'
'He is my detaining creditor,' I said.
The turnkey shrugged his shoulders.
'Young gentleman,' he said, 'I see that you are a gentleman, although you are a fiddler—take advice. Agree with his terms quickly, whatever they are. He made you an offer—take it, before he lands you in another court with new writs and more costs.'
In fact, the very next day, I heard that there was another writ in the name of one John Merridew, Sheriff's officer, for fifty pounds alleged to have been lent to me by him. As for Mr. John Merridew, I knew not even the name of the man, and I had never borrowed sixpence of anyone.
I showed the writ to my friend the turnkey. He read it with admiration.
'I told you so,' he said, 'what a man he is! And Merridew, too—Merridew! And you never borrowed the money, and never saw the man! What a man! What a man! Merridew, too, under his thumb! There's ability for you! There's resource!'
I murmured something not complimentary. Indeed, I knew nothing, at that time, of Merridew.
'Ah! He means to keep you here until you accept his offer. Better take it now, then he'll let you go for his costs. He won't give up the costs. What a man it is! And you've never set eyes on John Merridew, have you? What a man! He knows John Merridew, you see. Why, between them—'He looked at me meaningly, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. 'Take my advice, Sir. Take my advice, and accept that offer of his. Else—I don't say, mind, but Merridew—Merridew——'He placed his thumb upon the left side of my neck, and pressed it. 'Many—many—have gone that way—through Merridew. And Probus rules Merridew.'
You have read how a certain lady came to the Prison: how she spoke with two prisoners of the baser sort in a manner familiar and yet scornful: and how she addressed me and appeared moved and astonished on hearing my name. I thought little more about her, save as an agreeable vision in the midst of the rags and sordidness of the Prison, now growing daily—alas!—more familiar and less repulsive. For this is the way in the King's Bench.
She came, however, a second time, and this time she came to visit me. It was in the morning. Alice was in my room; with her the boy, now in his second year, so strong that he could not be kept from pulling himself up by the help of a chair. She was showing me his ways and his tricks, rejoicing in the wilfulness and strength of the child. I was watching and listening, my pride and happiness in the boy dashed by the thought that he must grow up to be ashamed of his father as a prison bird. Prison has no greater sting than the thought of your children's shame. For the time went on and day after day only made release appear more impossible. How could I get out who had no friends and could save no money? I had now been in prison for nearly a year: I began to look for nothing more than to remain there for all my life.
While I was looking at the boy and sadly thinking of these things, I heard a quick, light step outside, followed by a gentle tap at the door. And lo! there entered the lady who had spoken with those two sons of Belial and with me.
'I said I would come again.' She smiled, and it was as if the sunshine poured into the room. She gave me her hand and it was like a hand dragging me out of the Slough of Despond. 'Your room,' she said, 'is not so bad, considering the place. This lady is your wife? Madam, your most respectful.'
So she curtseyed low and Alice did the like. Then she saw the child.
'Oh!' she cried. 'The pretty boy! The lovely boy!' She snatched him and tossed him crowing and laughing, and covered him with kisses. 'Oh! The light, soft, silky hair!' she cried. 'Oh! the sweet blue eyes! Oh! the pretty face. Master Will Halliday, you are to be envied even in this place. Your cousin Matthew hath no such blessing as this.'
'Matthew is not even married.'
'Indeed? Perhaps, if he is, this, as well as other blessings, has been denied him,' she replied, with a little change in her face as if a cloud had suddenly fallen. But it quickly passed.
I could observe that Alice regarded her visitor with admiration and curiosity. This was a kind of woman unknown to my girl, who knew nothing of the world or of fine ladies: they were outside her own experience. The two women wore a strange contrast to each other. Alice with her serious air of meditation, and her grave eyes, might have sat to a painter for the Spirit of Music, or for St. Cecilia herself: or indeed for any saint, or muse, or heathen goddess who must show in her face a heavenly sweetness of thought, with holy meditation. All the purity and tenderness of religion lay always in the face of Alice. Our visitor, on the other hand, would have sat more fitly for the Queen of Love, or the Spirit of Earthly Love. Truly she was more beautiful than any other woman whom I had ever seen, or imagined. I thought her beautiful on the stage, but then her face was covered with the crimson paint by which actresses have to spoil their cheeks. Off the stage, it was the beauty of Venus herself: a beauty which invited love: a beauty altogether soft: in every point soft and sweet and caressing: eyes that were limpid and soft: a blooming cheek which needed no paint, which was as soft as velvet and as delicately coloured as a peach: lips smiling, rosy red and soft: her hands: her voice: her laugh: everything about this heavenly creature, I say, invited and compelled and created love.
You think that as one already sworn to love and comfort another woman, I speak with reprehensible praise. Well, I have already confessed—it is not a confession of shame—that I loved her from the very first: from the time when she spoke to me first. I am not ashamed of loving her: Alice knows that I have always loved her: you shall hear, presently, why I need not be ashamed and why I loved her, if I may say so, as a sister. It is possible to love a woman without thoughts of earthly love: to admire her loveliness: to respect her: to worship her: yet not as an earthly lover. Such love as Petrarch felt for Laura I felt for this sweet and lovely woman.
She gave back the child to his mother. 'Mr. Will Halliday,' she said. 'It is not only for the child that thou art blessed above other men'—looking so intently upon Alice that the poor girl blushed and was confused. 'Sure,' she said, 'it is a face which I have seen in a picture.'
She was a witch: she drew all hearts to her: yet not, like Circe, to their ruin and undoing. And if she was soft and kind of speech, she was also generous of heart. She was always, as I was afterwards to find out, helping others. How she helped me you shall hear. Meantime I must not forget that her face showed a most remarkable virginal innocence. It seemed natural to her face: a part of it, that it should proclaim a perfect maidenly innocence of soul. I know that many things have been said about her; for my own part I care to know nothing more about her than she herself has been pleased to tell me. I choose to believe that the innocence in her face proclaimed the innocence of her life. And, with this innocence, a face which was always changing with every mood that crossed her mind: moved by every touch of passion: sensitive as an Aeolian harp to every breath of wind.
She sat down on the bed. 'I told you that I would come again,' she said. 'Do not take me for a curious and meddlesome person. Madam,' she turned to Alice, 'I come because I know something about your husband's cousin, Matthew. If you will favour me, I should like to know the meaning of this imprisonment, and what Matthew has to do with it.'
So I told the whole story: the clause in my father's will: the attempt made to persuade me to sell my chance of the succession: the threats used by Mr. Probus: the alleged debt for his harpsichord: and the alleged debt to one John Merridew.
She heard the whole patiently. Then she nodded her head.
'Probus I know, though he does not, happily, know me. Of the man Merridew also I know something. He is a sheriff's officer by trade; but he has more trades than one. Probus is an attorney; but he, too, has more trades than one. My friends, this is the work of Probus. I see Probus in it from the beginning. I conjecture that Merridew, for some consideration, has borrowed money from Probus more than he can repay. Therefore, he has to do whatever Probus orders.'
'Mr. Probus is Matthew's attorney.'
'Yes. An attorney does not commit crimes for his client, unless he is well paid for it. I do not know what it means except that Matthew wants money, which does not surprise me——'
'Matthew is a partner in the House of Halliday Brothers. He has beside a large fortune which should have been mine.'
'Yet Matthew may want money. I am not a lawyer, but I suppose that if you sell your chance to him, he can raise money on the succession.'
'I suppose so.'
'Probus must want money too. Else he would not have committed the crime of imprisoning you on a false charge of debt. Well, we need not waste time in asking why. The question is, first of all, how to get you out.'
Alice clutched her little one to her heart and her colour vanished, by which I understood the longing that was in her.
'To get me out? Madam; I have no friends in the world who could raise ten pounds.'
'Nevertheless, Mr. Will, a body may ask how much is wanted to get you out.'
'There is the alleged debt for the harpsichord of fifty-five pounds: there is also the alleged debt due to Mr. John Merridew of fifty pounds: there are the costs: and there are the fines or garnish without which one cannot leave the place.'
'Say, perhaps in all, a hundred and fifty pounds. It is not much. I think I can find a man'—she laughed—'who, out of his singular love to you, will give the money to take you out.'
'You know a man? Madame, I protest—there is no one, in the whole world—who would do such a thing.'
'Yet if I assure you——'
'Oh! Madame! Will!' Alice fell on her knees and clasped her hand. 'See! It is herself! herself!'