The Orange Girl

A CITY FUNERAL

Thus we lived—humble folk if you please—far from the world of wealth or of fashion.

This happiness was too great to last. We were to be stricken down, yet not unto death.

The troubles began with the death of my father.

One morning, when he ought to have been at his desk, my old friend Ramage came to see me.

'Master Will,' he said, the tears running down his cheeks, 'Master Will—'tis now too late. You will never be reconciled now.'

'What has happened?' I asked. But his troubled face told me.

'My master fell down in a fit last night, coming home from the Company's feast. They carried him home and put him to bed. But in the night he died.'

In such a case as mine one always hopes vaguely for reconciliation, so long as there is life: without taking any steps, one thinks that a reconciliation will come of its own accord. I now believe that if I had gone to my father and put the case plainly: my manifest vocation: my incapacity for business; if I had asked his permission to continue in the musical profession: if I had, further, humbled myself so far as to admit that I deserved at his hands nothing less than to be cut off without a shilling: he might have given way. It is a terrible thing to know that your father has died with bitterness in his heart against his only son. Or, I might have sent Alice, with the child. Surely the sight of that sweet girl, the sight of the helpless child, would have moved him. I reproached myself, in a word, when it was too late.

'Sir,' said the clerk, 'I do not believe that Mr. Matthew, or his father, will send you word of this event, or of the funeral.'

'They do not know where I live.'

'Excuse me, Sir, Mr. Matthew knows where you live and everything that you have done since you left your home. Believe me, Mr. Will, you have no greater enemy than your cousin. He has constantly inflamed your father's mind against you. It was he who told my master that you were playing for sailors at a common tavern with a red blind and a sanded floor. He told him that you were playing in the orchestra at the Dog and Duck for all the 'prentices and the demireps of town: he told him that you had married—a——'

'Stop, Ramage, lest I do my cousin a mischief. How do you know all this?'

'I listen,' he replied. 'From my desk, I can hear plainly what is said in the counting-house. I listen. I can do no good. But sometimes it is well to know what goes on.'

'It may be useful—but to listen—well—Ramage, is there more to tell?'

'This. They do not intend to invite you to the funeral. Mr. Matthew will assume the place of the heir, and his father will be chief mourner.'

'Oh! Do you tell me, old friend, when it is to take place, and I will be there.'

So he promised, though it was worth his situation if he were found out to have held any intercourse with me. In the end it proved useful to have a friend in the enemy's camp. At the time, I laughed at danger. What had I to fear from Matthew's enmity?

The manner of my father's death is common among Merchants of the City of London. Their very success makes them liable to it: the City customs favour feasting and the drinking of wine: the richer sort ride in a coach when they should be walking for health: it is seldom, indeed, that one may meet a citizen of Quality walking in the fields of which there are so many and of such a wholesome air round London, whether we go East to the fields of Mile End and Bow: or North where, not to speak of Moorfields, there are the fields this side of Islington: or on the West where are the fields of Westminster and Chelsea: or South where the whole country is a verdant meadow with orchards. I say that among the crowds who flock out on a summer evening to take the air (and other refreshments) in these fields, one may look in vain for the substantial merchant. He takes the air lolling in his coach: he feasts every day, drinking quantities of rich and strong wine such as Port or Lisbon: he stays too much indoors: the counting-house is too often but a step from the parlour.

The consequence is natural: at thirty-five the successful merchant begins to swell and to expand: his figure becomes arched or rounded: perhaps his nose grows red: at forty-five his circumference is great: his neck is swollen; his cheek is red: perhaps his nose has become what is called a Bottle. Soon after fifty, he is seized with an apoplexy. It is whispered on Change that such an one fell down stepping out of his Company's Hall, after a Feast, into the road: that he never recovered consciousness: and that he is dead. The age of fifty, I take it, is the grand Climacteric of the London Merchant.

On the day of the funeral, then, I presented myself, with Alice, properly habited, to take my place as chief Mourner. The house, within, was all hung with black cloth. The hall and the stairs were thus covered: it was evening at eight o'clock: candles placed in sconces feebly lit up the place: at the door and on the stairs stood the undertaker's men, mutes, bearing black staves with black plumes: within, the undertaker himself was busy serving out black cloaks, tying the weepers on the hats, distributing the gloves and the rosemary, and getting ready the torches.

Upstairs, the room in which my father's body lay had been prepared for the ceremony. All the furniture—bed, chairs, everything—had been taken out: there was nothing at all in the room but the coffin on trestles: the wainscotted walls had been hung with black velvet, which looked indeed funereal as it absorbed the light of fifty or sixty wax tapers and reflected none. The tapers stood in silver sconces on the walls: they showed up the coffin, the lid of which, not yet screwed down, was laid so as to expose the white face of the deceased, grave, set, serious and full of dignity. I remembered how it looked, fiery and passionate, when my father drove me from his presence. The candles also lit up the faces of the mourners: in the midst of so much blackness their faces were white and deathlike. On the breast of the dead man lay branches of rosemary: on the lid of the coffin were branches of rosemary, of which every person present carried a sprig. On the lid of the coffin was also a large and capacious silver cup with two handles.

Only one thing relieved the blackness of the walls. It was a hatchment with the family shield. Everyone would believe, so splendid is this coat of arms, that our family must rank among the noblest in the land. But the time has passed when the City Fathers were closely connected by blood with the gentry and the aristocracy of the country: of our family one could only point to the shield: where we came from, I know not: nor how we obtained so fine a shield: nor to what station of life my ancestors originally belonged. Family pride, however, is a harmless superstition: not one of us, I am sure, would surrender that coat of arms, or acknowledge that we were anything but a very ancient and honourable House.

When I entered the house, accompanied by Alice, I found the hall and the steps, and even the street itself, which is but narrow, crowded with the humbler class of mourners. There was a whisper of surprise, and more than one honest hand furtively grasped mine. Well: there would be few such hands to welcome Matthew.

I did not need to be told where the coffin lay. I led my wife up the stairs and so into my father's room, which was the best bedroom, on the first floor. I found the various members of the family already assembled, my Uncle Paul as I expected, with Matthew, usurping my place at the head of the coffin. My cousins, of whom there were five-and-twenty at least, including my Uncle Paul's wife and two daughters, showed signs of profound astonishment at the sight of the banished son. The Alderman, for his part, held up his hands in amazement, and looked up to Heaven as if to protest against this assertion of filial rights. The girls, who were as amiable as their brother Matthew, stared with more rudeness than one would expect even from a Wappineer, at Alice. They knew not, perhaps, that I had taken a wife: to a natural curiosity on such a subject they affected a contempt which they took no pains to disguise.

There was a man standing behind my cousin whom I knew not: nor did I understand by what right he stood among us at all: a tall thin figure somewhat bowed with years: a lean and wrinkled face: his appearance filled me with distrust at the outset—let no one deny that first thoughts are best thoughts. He stooped and whispered something to my cousin—whose face seemed to show trouble of some kind, but not grief. Matthew started, and looked at me with astonishment.

I stepped forward, drawing Alice with me. 'Uncle Paul,' I said, 'I take my place as my father's chief mourner.'

My cousin glared at me, as if threatening to dispute the point, but he gave way and retired to my left hand. Thus, Alice beside me, my Uncle Paul at my right, and Matthew at my left, I waited the arrival of the funeral guests.

Meantime, the ladies moaned and wailed. Outside, the women-servants on the stairs lifted up their lamentation. The crying of the women at a funeral hath in it little reality of grief: yet it penetrates to the soul of those who hear it. As each new guest arrived, the wail was raised anew: the louder in proportion to the rank of the arrival, in so much that when the Lord Mayor himself walked up the stairs the lament became a shriek.

The undertaker whispered in my ear that all were present.

I looked about me. 'Twas not in human nature to avoid a sense of honour and glory in looking upon so honourable a company. They proclaimed by their presence the respect with which they regarded my father. Here, beside our cousins, were the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, the Sheriffs, the Town Clerk, the Recorder, the Common Sergeant, the Remembrancer, the Dean of St. Paul's, the Master and Wardens of his Company and many of the greatest merchants on Change. They were there to do honour to my father's memory, and I was there to receive them, as my father's son, despite the respect in which I had failed.

It was not a time, however, for regrets.

I lifted the great cup, I say, and looked around. The wailing ceased. All eyes were turned to me as I drank from the cup—it was hypocras, a drink much loved at City feasts. Then I handed it to Alice, who drank and gave it back to me. Then to my uncle the Alderman, after whom it went round. Down below, in the hall, there was the solemn drinking of wine. We drank thus to the memory of the dead: in old times, I am assured, the mourners drank to the repose of the soul just gone out of the body. For memory or for repose, it is an old custom which one would not willingly neglect.

After the ceremony the ladies began once more their wailing and groaning. They make too much of this custom. It is not in reason that girls like my cousins Amelia and Sophia should be so torn and lacerated by grief as their wails betokened. Indeed, I saw them after the funeral talking and laughing as they went away.

We then descended the stairs and waited below while the men went up to finish their work and to shut out the face of the dead man for ever from the world.

They brought out the coffin. The housekeeper with one last wail of grief—one hopes there was some sincerity in it—locked the door of the death chamber: she locked it noisily, so that all might hear: she turned the handle loudly so that all might be sure that the door was shut: she had before put out the wax candles: out of respect for the late occupant the room would not be opened or used again for years: it would remain as it was with the black velvet hangings and the silver sconces. This is one of the privileges accorded to wealth—an empty honour, but one that is envied by those who cannot afford to spare a room. What can the dead man know or feel or care while the black velvet grows brown and shabby, and the silver sconces become yellow, and the sunbeams through the shutters slowly steal round the room, and except for the dancing of the motes in the sunlight there is no motion or sound or touch of life or light in the solitude and silence of the chamber? It is giving Death to Death—not the Life for which we pray, for which we hope and trust.

The pall was of velvet with a gold fringe and gold embroidery. I knew it for the parish pall bequeathed by some pious person for the use of parishioners. When all was ready the undertaker marshalled the procession. First marched two conductors with staves and plumes: then followed six men in long black coats, two and two; then one bearing the Standard, with black plumes: then, eighteen men in long black cloaks as before, all being servants to the Deceased: then the Minister of the Parish: after him an officer of Arms carrying a knight's sword and target, helm and crest: with him another officer of Arms carrying the shield, both in their tabards or embroidered coats: then the Body, the pall being borne by six Merchants between men carrying the Shields of the City: of the Company: and of Bridewell, Christ's Hospital, St. Bartholomew's and St. Thomas's, of which the Deceased was a Governor. Then I followed as chief mourner with my wife: after me the Alderman my uncle and his lady. Then came Matthew. With him should have walked one of his sisters: but there stepped out of the crowd a woman in black holding a handkerchief to her face. Who she was I knew not. After them came the rest of the cousins. Then followed the Lord Mayor and the City Fathers; and, lastly, the clerks, porters, stevedores, bargemen, and others in the service of the House. In our hands we carried, as we went, lighted torches: a considerable number of people came out to see the funeral: they lined the street which by the flames of the torches was lit up as if by daylight. The faces at the windows: the crowds in the street: the length of the procession filled my soul with pride, though well I knew that I was but a castaway from the affections of the dead man whom these people honoured.

The procession had not far to go: the parish church, that of St. Michael Paternoster Royal, is but a short distance down the street: it is the church in which Whittington was buried, his tomb and his ashes being destroyed in the Great Fire a hundred years ago. The Church, like the house, was hung with black and lit by wax candles and our torches. The Rector read the service with a solemnity which, I believe, affected all hearts. After the reading of that part which belongs to the Church we carried the body to the churchyard at the back—a very small churchyard: there we lowered the coffin into the grave—I observed that the mould seemed to consist entirely of skulls and bones—and when dust was given to dust and ashes to ashes, we dashed our torches upon the ground and extinguished the flames. Then in darkness we separated and went each his own way. I observed that the lady who walked with Matthew left him when the ceremony was over. The weeping of the women ceased and the whispers of the men: everybody talked aloud and cheerfully. No more mourning for my father: pity and regret were buried in the grave with him: they became the dust and ashes which were strewed upon the coffin. He had gone hence to be no more seen: to be no more wept over. But, as you shall shortly hear, the dead man still retained in his hands the power of doing good or evil.

Matthew spoke to me as we left the Churchyard.

'Cousin,' he said, with more civility than I expected, 'if you can come to the counting-house to-morrow morning you will learn your father's testamentary dispositions. The will is to be opened and read at ten o'clock.'

THE READING OF THE WILL

'We will make him sell his Reversionary interest'—the voice was curiously harsh and grating—'and you will then be able to take the whole.'

You know how, sometimes, one hears things in a mysterious way which one could not hear under ordinary circumstances. I was standing in the outer counting-house in the room assigned to the accountants. In the inner counting-house, I knew, my cousin was sitting. Without being told any thing more, I guessed that the voice belonged to the tall lean man who was present at the funeral, and that he was addressing Matthew, and that he was talking about me. And, without any reason, I assumed a mental attitude of caution. They were going to make me sell something, were they?

When I was called into the room I found that I was so far right, inasmuch as the only two persons in the room were my cousin and the lean man who by his black dress I perceived to be an attorney.

Now, I daresay that there are attorneys in the City of London whose lives are as holy as that of any Bishop or Divine. At the same time it is a matter of common notoriety that the City contains a swarm of vermin—if I may speak plainly—who are versed in every kind of chicanery: who know how to catch hold of every possible objection: and who spend the whole of their creeping lives in wresting, twisting, and turning the letter of the law to their own advantage, under the pretense of advantage to their clients. These are the attorneys who suggest and encourage disputes and lawsuits between persons who would otherwise remain friends: there are those who keep cases running on for years, eating up the estates: when they fasten upon a man, it is the spider fastening on a big fat fly: they never leave him until they land him in a debtor's prison, naked and destitute. I have observed that a course of life, such as that indicated above, presently stamps the face with a look which cannot be mistaken: the eyes draw together: the mouth grows straight and hard: the lips become thin: the nose insensibly, even if it be originally a snub, becomes like the beak of a crow—the creature which devours the offal in the street: the cheeks are no longer flesh and skin, but wrinkled parchment: the aspect of the man becomes, in a word, such as that of the man who sat at the table, a bundle of papers before him.

I knew, I say, that Mr. Probus—which was his name—was an attorney at the outset. His black coat: his wig: his general aspect: left no doubt upon my mind. And from the outset I disliked and distrusted the man.

The last time I had entered this room was to make my choice between my father and my music. The memory of the dignified figure in the great chair behind the table: his voice of austerity: his expectation of immediate obedience made my eyes dim for a moment. Not for long, because one would not show any tenderness before Matthew.

With some merchants the counting-house is furnished with no more than what is wanted: in this wharf it was a substantial house of brick in which certain persons slept every night for the better security of the strong-room in the cellars below. The principal room, that which had been my father's, had two windows looking out upon the river: the room was carpeted: family portraits hung upon the walls: the furniture was solid mahogany: no one who worked in such a room could be anything but a substantial merchant.

My cousin looked up and sulkily pointed to a chair.

At this time Matthew Halliday presented the appearance of a responsible City Merchant. His dress was sober yet of the best: nobody had whiter ruffles at his wrist or at his shirt-front: nobody wore a neck-cloth of more costly lace: his gold buttons, gold buckles, and gold laced hat proclaimed him an independent person: he carried a large gold watch and a gold snuff-box: he wore a large signet-ring on his right thumb, his face was grave beyond his years: this morning it presented an appearance which in lesser men is called sulky. I knew the look well, from old experience. It meant that something had gone wrong. All my life long I had experienced at the hands of this cousin an animosity which I can only explain by supposing a resentment against one who stood between himself and a rich man's estate. As a boy—I was four or five years younger than himself—he would take from me, and destroy, things I cherished: he invented lies and brought false accusations against me; he teased, pinched, bullied me when no one was looking. When I grew big enough I fought him. At first I got beaten: but I went on growing and presently I beat him. Then, if he attempted any more false accusations he knew that he would have to fight me again; a consideration which made him virtuous.

'Cousin,' he said coldly, 'this gentleman is Mr. Probus, the new attorney of the House. Mr. Littleton, his late attorney, is dead. Mr. Probus will henceforth conduct our affairs.'

'Unworthily,' said Mr. Probus.

'That is my concern,' Matthew replied with great dignity. 'I hope I know how to choose and to appoint my agents.'

'Sir'—Mr. Probus turned to me—'it has ever been the business of my life to study the good of my fellow man. My motto is one taken from an ancient source—you will allow one of the learned profession to have some tincture of Latin. The words are—ahem!—Integer vitæ scelerisque Probus. That is to say: Probus—Probus, Attorney-at-Law; vitæ, lived; integer, respected; scelerisque, and trusted. Such, Sir, should your affairs ever require the nice conduct of one who is both guide and friend to his clients, you will ever find me. Now, Mr. Matthew, Sir, my honoured patron, I await your commands.'

'We are waiting, cousin,' said Matthew, 'for my father. As soon as he arrives Mr. Probus will read the Will. The contents are known to me—in general terms—such was the confidence reposed in me by my honoured uncle—in general terms. I believe you will find that any expectations you may have formed—'

'Pardon me, Sir,' interrupted the attorney. 'Not before the reading of the Will—'

'Will be frustrated. That is all I intended to say. Of course there may be a trifle. Indeed I hope there may prove to be some trifling legacy.

'Perhaps a shilling. Ha, ha!' The attorney looked more forbidding when he became mirthful than when he was serious.

Then some of my cousins arrived and sat down. We waited a few minutes in silence, until the arrival of my uncle the Alderman with his wife and daughters.

The ladies stared at me without any kind of salutation. The Alderman shook his head.

'Nephew,' he said, 'I am sorry to see you here. I fear you will go away with a sorrowful heart—'

'I am sorrowful already, because my father was not reconciled to me. I shall not be any the more sorrowful to find that I have nothing. It is what I expect. Now, sir, you may read my father's will as soon as you please.'

In spite of my brave words I confess that, for Alice's sake, I did hope that something would be left me.

Then all took chairs and sat down with a cough of expectation. There was no more wailing from the ladies.

Mr. Probus took up from the table a parchment tied with red tape and sealed. He solemnly opened it.

'This,' he said, 'is the last will and testament of Peter Halliday, Knight, and Alderman, late Lord Mayor, Citizen and Lorimer.'

My uncle interposed. 'One moment, sir.' Then he turned to me. 'Repentance, nephew, though too late to change a parent's testamentary dispositions, may be quickened by the consequences of a parent's resentment. It may therefore be the means of leading to the forgiveness—ahem—and the remission—ahem—of more painful consequences—ahem—at the hands of Providence.'

I inclined my head. 'Now, sir, once more.'

'This will was made four years ago when the late Mr. Littleton was the deceased gentleman's attorney. It was opened three months ago in order to add a trifling codicil, which was entrusted to my care. I will now read the will.'

There is no such cumbrous and verbose document in the world as the will of a wealthy man. It was read by Mr. Probus in a harsh voice without stops in a sing-song, monotonous delivery, which composed the senses and made one feel as if all the words in the Dictionary were being read aloud.

At last he finished.

'Perhaps,' I said, 'someone will tell me in plain English what it means?'

'Plain English, Sir? Let me tell you,' Mr. Probus replied, 'that there is no plainer English in the world than that employed by lawyers.'

I turned to my uncle. 'Will you, Sir, have the goodness to explain to me?'

'I cannot recite the whole. As for the main points—Mr. Probus will correct me if I am wrong—my lamented brother leaves bequests to found an almshouse for eight poor men and eight poor widows, to bear his name; he also founds at his Parish Church an annual Lecture, to bear his name: he establishes a New Year's dole, to bear his name, of coals and bread, for twenty widows of the Parish. He has founded a school, for twelve poor boys, to bear his name. He has ordered his executors to effect the release of thirty poor prisoners for debt, in his name. Is there more, Mr. Probus?'

'He also founds a scholarship for a poor and deserving lad, to assist him at Cambridge. The same scholarship to bear his name and to be in the gift of his Company.'

'What does he say about me?'

'I am coming to that,' Mr. Probus replied. 'He devises many bequests to his nephews and nieces, his cousins and his personal friends, with mourning rings to all: there are, I believe, two hundred thus honoured: two hundred—I think, Mr. Paul, that it is a long time since the City lost one so rich and so richly provided with friends.'

'But what does he say about me?' I insisted.

'Patience. He then devises the whole of his remaining estate: all his houses, investments, shares, stocks: all his furniture and plate: to his nephew Matthew.'

'I expected it. And nothing said about me at all.'

'It is estimated that the remainder, after deducting the monies already disposed of, will not amount to more than £100,000, because there is a reservation——'

'Oh!'

'It is provided that the sum of £100,000 be set aside: that it be placed in the hands of trustees whom he names—the Master of his Company and the Clerk of the Company. This money is to accumulate at compound interest until one of two events shall happen—either the death of his son, in which case Mr. Matthew will have it all: or the death of Mr. Matthew, in which case the son is to have it all. In other words, this vast sum of money with accumulations will go to the survivor of the two.'

I received this intelligence in silence. At first I could not understand what it meant.

'I think, Sir,' Mr. Probus addressed the Alderman, 'we have now set forth the terms of this most important document in plain language. We ought perhaps to warn Mr. William against building any hopes upon the very slender chance of succeeding to this money. We have here'—he indicated Matthew—'health, strength, an abstemious life: on the other hand we have'—he indicated me—'what we see.'

I laughed. At all events I was a more healthy subject, to look at, than my cousin, who this morning looked yellow instead of pale.

'The span of life,' the attorney went on, 'accorded to my justly esteemed client, will probably be that usually assigned to those who honour their parents—say eighty, or even ninety. You, sir, will probably be cut off at forty. I believe that it is the common lot in your class. Above all things, do not build upon the chances of this reversion.'

Suddenly the words I had heard came back to me. What were they? 'We will make him sell his reversion.' 'Sell his reversion.' Then the reversion must not be sold.

Mr. Probus went on too long. You may destroy the effect of your words by too much repetition.

'A shadowy chance,' he said, 'a shadowy chance.'

'I don't know. Why should not my cousin die before me? Besides, it means that my father in cutting me off would leave a door for restitution.'

'Only an imaginary door, sir—not a real door.'

'A very real door. I shall live as long as I can. My cousin will do as he pleases. Mr. Probus, the "shadowy chance," as you call it, is a chance that is worth a large sum of money if I would sell my reversion.' Mr. Probus started and looked suspicious. 'But I shall not sell it. I shall wait. Matthew might die to-morrow—to-day, even—'

'Fie, Sir—oh, fie!—to desire the death of your cousin! This indeed betokens a bad heart—a bad heart. How dreadful is the passion of envy! How soul-destroying is the thirst for gold!'

I rose. I knew the worst.

'Do not,' Mr. Probus went on, 'give, I entreat you, one thought to the thing. Before your cousin's life lies stretched what I may call a charming landskip with daisies in the grass, and—and—the pretty warblers of the grove. It is a life, I see very plainly, full of goodness, which is Heavenly Wealth, stored up for future use; and of success on Change, which is worldly wealth. Happy is the City which owns the possessor of both!'

The moralist ceased and began to tie up his papers. When his strident voice dropped, the air became musical again, so to speak. However, the harsh voice suited the sham piety.

'Cousin Matthew,' I rose, since there was nothing to keep me longer. 'Could I remember, in your seven-and-twenty years of life, one single generous act or one single worthy sentiment, then I could believe this fustian about the length of days and the Heavenly Wealth. Live as long as you can. I desire never to see you again, and never to hear from you again. Go your own way, and leave me to go mine.'

The whole company rose: they parted right and left to let me pass: as the saying is, they gave me the cold shoulder with a wonderful unanimity. There was a common consent among them that the man who had become a fiddler had disgraced the family. As for Matthew, he made no reply even with looks. He did not, however, present the appearance of joy at this great accession to wealth. Something was on his mind that troubled him.

My uncle the Alderman spoke for the family.

'Nephew,' he said, 'believe me, it is with great sorrow that we see thee thus cast out: yet we cannot but believe the acts of my brother to be righteous. I rejoice not that my son has taken thine inheritance. I lament that thou hast justly been deprived. The will cuts thee off from the family.' He looked round. A murmur of approval greeted him. A disinherited son who is also a fiddler by profession cannot be said to belong to a respectable City family. 'We wish thee well—in thy lower sphere—among thy humble companions. Farewell.' I passed through them all with as much dignity as I could assume. 'Alas!' I heard him saying as I stepped out. 'Alas! that cousins should so differ from each other in grain—in grain!'