The Orange Girl

HOW I GOT A NEW PLACE

So I was free. For twenty-four hours I was like a boy on the first day of his holidays. I exulted in my liberty: I ran about the meadows and along the Embankment: I got into a boat and rowed up and down the river. But when the first rapture of freedom was spent I remembered that free or within stone walls, I had still to earn a living. I had but one way: I must find a place in an Orchestra. At the Dog and Duck, where my brother-in-law still led, there was no place for me.

There are, however, a great many taverns with gardens and dancing and singing places and bands of music. I set off to find one where they wanted a fiddle. I went, I believe, the whole round of them—from the Temple of Flora to the White Conduit House, and from Bermondsey Spa to the Assembly Rooms at Hampstead. Had all the world turned fiddler? Everywhere the same reply—'No vacancy.' Meantime we were living on the bounty of my brother-in-law whose earnings were scanty for his own modest house.

Then I thought of the organ. Of course my place at St. George's Borough was filled up. There are about a hundred churches in London, however: most of them have organs. I tried every one: and always with the same result: the place was filled. I thought of my old trade of fiddling to the sailors. Would you believe it? There was not even a tavern parlour where they wanted a fiddle to make the sailors dance and drink. Had Mr. Probus been able to keep me out of everything?

Alice did her best to sustain my courage. She preserved a cheerful countenance: she brushed my coat and hat in the morning with a word of encouragement: she welcomed me home when I returned footsore and with an aching heart. Why, even in the far darker time that presently followed she preserved the outward form of cheerfulness and the inner heart of faith.

The weeks passed on: my bad luck remained: I could hear of no work, not even temporary work: I began to think that even the Prison where I could at least earn my two or three shillings a day was better than freedom: I began also to think that Mr. Probus must have all the orchestras and music-galleries in his own power, together with all the churches that had organs. My shoes wore out and could not be replaced: my appearance was such as might be expected when for most of the time I had nothing between bread and cheese and beer for breakfast, and bread and cheese and beer for supper. And I think that the miserable figure I presented was often the cause of rejection.

Chance—say Providence—helped me. I was walking, sadly enough, by Charing Cross, one afternoon, being weary, hungry, and dejected, when I heard a voice cry out, 'Will Halliday! Will Halliday! Are you deaf?'

I turned round. It was Madame, my benefactress, my patroness. She was in a hackney coach.

"I TURNED AROUND; IT WAS MADAM."

'Come in,' she cried, stopping her driver. 'Come in with me.'

I obeyed, nothing loth.

'Why,' she said looking at me. 'What is the matter? Your cheeks are hollow: your face is pale: your limbs are shaking: worse still—you are shabby. What has happened?'

I could make no reply.

'Your sweet wife—and the lovely boy. They are well?'

When a man has been living for many weeks on insufficient food: when he has been turned away at every application, he may be forgiven if he loses, on small provocation, his self-control. I am not ashamed to say that her kind words and her kind looks were too much for me in my weak condition. I burst into tears.

She laid her hand on my arm, 'Will,' she said, as if she were a sister, 'you shall tell me all—but you shall go home with me and we will talk.'

I observed that the coachman drove up St. Martin's Lane and through a collection of streets which I had never seen before. It was the part called St. Giles's; a place which is a kind of laystall into which are shot every day quantities of the scum, dirt, and refuse of this huge and overgrown city. I looked out of the window upon a crowd of faces more villainous than one could conceive possible, stamped with the brand of Cain. They were lying about in the doorways, at the open windows, for it was the month of September and a warm day and on the doorsteps and in the unpaved, unlit, squalid streets. Never did I see so many ragged and naked brats; never did I see so many cripples, so many hunchbacks, so many deformed people: they were of all kinds—bandy-legged, knock-kneed, those whose shins curve outward like a bow, round-backed, one-eyed, blind, lame.

'They are the beggars,' said my companion. 'Their deformities mean drink: they mean the mothers who drink and drop the babies about. Beggars and thieves—they are the people of St. Giles's.'

'I wonder you come this way. Are you not afraid?'

'They will not hurt me. I wish they would,' she added with a sigh.

A strange wish. I was soon, however, to understand what she meant.

Certainly, no one molested us, or stopped the coach: we passed through these streets into High Street, Holborn, and to St. Giles's Church where the criminal on his way to Tyburn receives his last drink. Then, by another turn, into a noble square with a garden surrounded by great houses, of which the greatest was built for the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth. The coachman stopped before one of these houses on the East side of the Square. It was a very fine and noble mansion indeed.

I threw open the door of the coach and handed Madame down the steps.

'This is my house,' she said. 'Will you come in with me?'

I followed marvelling how an actress could be so great a lady: but still I remembered how she spoke familiarly to those two villains in the King's Bench Prison. The doors flew open. Within, a row of a dozen tall hulking fellows in livery stood up to receive Madame. She walked through them with an air that belonged to a Duchess. Then she turned into a small room on the left hand and threw herself into a chair. 'So,' she said, 'with these varlets I am a great lady. Here, and in your company, Will, I am nothing but....' She paused and sighed. 'I will tell you another time.'

I think I was more surprised at the familiarity with which she addressed me than with the splendour of the place. This room, for instance, though but little, was lofty and its walls were painted with flowers and birds: silver candlesticks each with two branches, stood on the mantelshelf which was a marvel of fine carving: a rich carpet covered the floor: there were two or three chairs and a table in white and gold. A portrait of Madame hung over the fireplace.

'Forgive me, my friend,' She sprang from the chair and pulled the bell rope. 'Before we talk you must take some dinner.'

She gave her orders in a quick peremptory tone as one accustomed to be obeyed. In a few minutes the table was spread with a white cloth and laid out with a cold chicken, a noble ham, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of Madeira. You may imagine that I made very little delay in sitting down to these good things. Heavens! How good they were after the prolonged diet of bread and cheese!

Madame looked on and waited, her chin in her hand. When I desisted at length, she poured out another glass of Madeira. 'Tell me,' she said. 'Your sweet wife and the lovely boy—are they as hungry as you?'

I shook my head sadly.

'We shall see, presently, what we can do. Meantime, tell me the whole story.'

I told her, briefly, that my story was nothing at all but the story of a man out of employment who could not find any and was slowly dropping into shabbiness of appearance and weakness of body.

'No work? Why, I supposed you would go back to—to—to something in the City.'

'Though my father was a Knight and a Lord Mayor, I am a simple musician by trade. I am not a gentleman.'

'I like you all the better,' she replied, smiling. 'I am not a gentlewoman either. The actress is a rogue and a vagabond. So is the musician I suppose.'

I stared. Was she, then, still an actress—and living in this stately Palace?

'You are a musician. Do you, then, want to find work as a fiddler?'

'That is what I am looking for.'

'Let us consider. Do you play like a—a—gentleman or like one of the calling?'

'I am one of the calling. When I tell you that I used to live by fiddling for sailors to dance——'

'Say no more—say no more. They are the finest critics in the world. If you please them it is enough. Why should I not engage you, myself?'

'You—engage—me? You—Madame?'

'Friend Will,' she laid her hand on mine, 'there are reasons why I wish you well and would stand by you if I could. I will tell you, another day, what those reasons are. Let me treat you as a friend. When we are alone, I am not Madame: I am Jenny.'

There are some women who if they said such a thing as this, would be taken as declaring the passion of love. No one could look at Jenny's face which was all simplicity and candour and entertain the least suspicion of such a thing.

'Nay, I can only marvel,' I said. For I still thought that I was talking to some great lady. 'I think that I must be dreaming.'

'Since you know not where you are, this is the Soho Assembly and I am Madame Vallance.'

I seemed to have heard of Madame Vallance.

'You know nothing. That is because you have been in the King's Bench. I will now tell you, what nobody else knows, that Madame Vallance is Jenny Wilmot. I have left the stage, for a time, to avoid a certain person. Here, if I go among the company, I can wear a domino and remain unknown. Do you know nothing about us? We have masquerades, galas, routs—everything. Come with me. I will show you my Ball Room.'

She led me up the grand staircase from the Hall into a most noble room. On the walls were hung many mirrors: between the mirrors were painted Cupids and flowers: rout seats were placed all round the room: the hanging candelabra contained hundreds of candles: at one end stood a music gallery.

'Will,' she said, 'go upstairs and play me something.'

I obeyed.

I found an instrument, which I tuned. Then I stood up in the gallery and played.

She stood below listening. 'Well played!' she cried. 'Now play me a dance tune. See if you can make me dance.'

I played a tune which I had often played to the jolly sailors. I know not what it is called. It is one of those tunes which run in at the ears and down to the heels which it makes as light as a feather and as quick silver for nimbleness. In a minute she was dancing—with such grace, such spirit, such quickness of motion, as if every limb was without weight. And her fair face smiling and her blue eyes dancing!—never was there such a figure of grace: as for the step, it was as if invented on the spot, but I believe that she had learned it. Afraid of tiring her, I laid down the violin and descended into the hall.

She gave me both her hands. 'Will,' she said. 'You will make my fortune if you consent to join my orchestra. There never was such playing. Those sailors! How could they let you go? Now listen. I can pay you thirty shillings. Will you come? The Treasury pays every Saturday morning. You shall have, besides, four weeks in advance. Spend it in generous food after your long Lent. Say—Will you accept?'

'It is too much, Jenny.' I took her hand and kissed it. 'First you take me out of prison: then you give me the means of living. How can I thank you sufficiently? How repay——'

'There is nothing to repay. I will tell you another time why I take an interest in you.'

'When the most beautiful woman in the world——'

'Stop, Will. I warn you. There must be no love-making.' I suppose she saw the irresistible admiration in my eyes. 'Oh! I am not angry. But compliments of that kind generally lead to love-making. They all try it, but it is quite useless—now,' she added with a sigh. 'And you, of all men, must not.'

I made no reply, not knowing what to say.

'There is another face in your home, Will, that is far more beautiful than mine. Think of that face. Enough said.'

'I protest——' I began.

She laid her hand upon my lips. 'There must be no compliments,' she said. Her voice was severe but her smiling eyes forgave.

I left her and hastened home with dancing feet.

I was returning with an engagement of thirty shillings a week: I had four weeks' pay in my pocket: Fortune once more smiled upon me: I ran in and kissed my wife with an alacrity and a cheerfulness which rejoiced her as much as it astonished her. I threw down the money. 'Take it, my dear,' I said. 'There is more to come. We are saved again. Oh! Alice—we are saved—and by the same hand as before.'

'I have heard of Madame Vallance,' said Tom, presently. 'She comes from no one knows where: she keeps herself secluded: at the Assemblies she always wears a mask: the people say she is generous: some think she is rich: others that the expense of the place must break her.'

'I hope she is another Crœsus,' I said. 'I hope that the River of Pactolus will flow into her lap. I hope she will inherit the mines of Golgonda. I hope she will live a thousand years and marry a Prince. And we will drink her health in a bowl of punch this very night.'

THE MASQUERADE

I commenced my duties in the music gallery on one of the nights devoted to the amusement called the Masquerade. It was an amusement new to me and to all except those who can afford to spend five guineas, besides the purchase of a dress, on the pleasure of a single night. I understand the Masquerade has taken a great hold upon the fashionable world and upon those who have money to spend and are eager for the excitement of a new pleasure. 'Give—give' is the cry of those who live, day by day, for the pleasure of the moment.

Truly in a Masquerade there is everything; the novelty or the beauty of the disguise: the music: the dancing: the revelry after supper: the gambling: the pursuit of beauty in disguise—it is wonderful to reflect, in the quiet corner of the earth in which I write, that, across the Atlantic, in London City, there are thousands who are never happy save when they are crowded together, seeking such excitement as is afforded by the masquerade, the assembly, the promenade and the pleasure garden. Here we have no such excitements and we want none: life for us flows in a tranquil stream: for them it flows away in waterfalls and cataracts, leaping to the sea.

Madame managed her masquerades as she did everything, with the greatest care: she arranged everything: the selection of the music: the decorations: the supper: even the chalking of the floor. The doors were thrown open at eleven. Long before that hour the Square was filled with people, some were come to see the fashionable throng arrive—the fine dresses of the ladies and the masquerading of the men. Some were come to pick the pockets of the others. There was no confusion: the hackney coaches and the chairs were directed by Madame's servants, who stood outside, to arrive by one road and to depart by another. Thus, one after the other, without quarrelling or fighting, drove to the doors, deposited their company and departed. The same order was observed in the departure.

For my own part, as there was nothing to do before eleven, I amused myself by going round and seeing the rooms all lit up with candles in sconces or by candelabra and painted with flowers and fruit and Cupids even to the ceiling, and hung with costly curtains. It is a large and spacious house, of commanding appearance, built by an Earl of Carlisle. There is a grand staircase, broad and stately: when a well-dressed Company are going up and down it looks like the staircase of a Palace: on the landing I found flowers in pots and bushes in tubs which gave the place a rural appearance and so might lead the thoughts of the visitor insensibly into the country. There are a great many rooms in the original House which has been very handsomely increased by the addition of two large chambers, one above the other, built out at the back, over part of the garden. One of these new rooms was the Ball Room which I have already mentioned. The other room below it, equally large but not so high, was used as the supper-room. It had its walls painted with dancing Satyrs and Fauns: gilded pilasters, raised an inch or so, relieved the flatness of the wall. This was the supper-room: for the moment it had nothing in it but long narrow tables arranged down the room in rows: the servants were already beginning to spread upon them the napery and lay the knives and forks for supper.

On the ground-floor on the right hand of the entrance hall was a large room used as a card room. Here stood a long table covered with a green cloth for the players of those games which require a Bank or a large company. They are Hazard, Lansquenet, Loo, Faro, and I know not how many more. But, whatever their names, they all mean the same thing and only one thing, viz., gambling. Along the wall on either side were small tables for parties of two or four, who came to play Quadrille, Whist, Piquet, Ecarté, and the like—games more dangerous to the young and the beginner than the more noisy gambling of the crowd. Candles stood on all the small tables and down the middle of the great table: there were also candles in sconces on the wall. As yet none of them were lit.

While I was looking round the empty room, Madame herself came in dressed in white satin, and carrying her domino in her hand.

'I look into every room,' she said, 'before the doors are open: but into this room I look two or three times every evening.'

'You come to look at the players?'

'I have a particular reason for coming here. I will tell you some time or other—perhaps to-night, Will. If so, it will be the greatest surprise of your life—the very greatest surprise. Yes—I watch the players. Their faces amuse me. When I see a man losing time after time, and remaining calm and unmoved, I say to myself, "There is a gentleman." Play is the finest test of good breeding. When a man curses his luck; curses his neighbour for bringing him bad luck; bangs the table with his fist; and calls upon all the Gods to smite him dead, I say to myself, "That is a city spark."'

'I fear I am a city spark.'

'When I see two sitting together at a table quiet and alone I ask myself which is the sharper and which is the flat. By watching them for a few minutes I can always find out—one of them always is the sharper, you see, and the other always the flat. And if you watch them for a few minutes you can always find out. Beware of this room, Will. Be neither sharper nor flat.'

She turned and went off to see some other room.

Looking out at the back I saw that the garden had been hung with coloured lamps, and looked gay and bright. It was a warm fine evening: there would be many who would choose the garden for a promenade. Other rooms there were: the Blue Room: the Star Room: the Red Room: the Chinese Room: I know not what, nor for what they were all used.

But the time approached. I climbed up the steep stairs and took my place in the music gallery, where already most of the orchestra were assembled: like them I tuned my violin, and then waited the arrival of the Company.

They came by tickets which included supper. Each ticket cost five guineas, and admitted one gentleman or two ladies including supper. It seems a monstrous price for a single evening; but the cost of the entertainment was enormous. The ticket itself was a beautiful thing representing Venus with Cupids. They were gazing with interest upon a Nymph lying beside a fountain. She had, as yet, nothing upon her, and she was apparently engaged in thinking what she would wear for the evening. A pretty thing, prettily drawn. But five guineas for a single evening!

As soon as the doors were thrown open, a line of footmen received the company, took their tickets and showed them into the tea-room where that refreshment was offered before the ball commenced. When this room was full, the doors leading to the ball-rooms and the other rooms were also thrown open, and the company streamed along the great gallery which was lined with flowering shrubs. Here was stationed a small string band playing soft and pleasing music. Then they crowded up the Grand staircase. When most of the masqueraders were within the Ball-room, and before they had done looking about them and crying out for astonishment at the mirrors and the candelabra and the lights, we struck up the music in the gallery, and as soon as order was a little restored, the minuets began.

For my own part I love to look upon dancing. The country-dance expresses the happiness of youth and the gladness of life. The hey and jig are rustic joys which cannot keep still, but must needs jump about to show their pleasure. But the minuet expresses the refinement, the courtesies, the politeness of life. It is artificial, but the politeness of Fashion in the Civilized world must be acknowledged to be an improvement on mere Nature, which is too often barbarous in its expression and coarse in its treatment. I know not any of our music which could be played to such a dance of savages as the Guinea Traders report from the West Coast and the Bight of Benin.

The company flowed in fast. All, except a few who kept about the doors and did not venture in the crowd, were in masquerade dress, and even those who were not carried dominoes in their hands. One would have thought the whole world had sent representatives to the ball. There were pig-tailed Chinese; Dervishes in turbans; American Indians with tomahawks; Arabs in long silken robes; negroes and negresses; proud Castilians; Scots in plaid; Monks and Romish Priests; Nuns and Sisters; milkmaids in dowlass; ploughboys in smocks; lawyers; soldiers and sailors: there were gods and goddesses; Venus came clad much like her figure in the books; Diana carried her bow; the Graces endeavoured to appear as they are commonly represented: Apollo came with his lyre; Mars with his shield and spear: Vulcan with his lame leg: Hercules with his club. There were dozens of Cupids: there were dozens of Queens; Cleopatra; Dido; Mary, Queen of Scots: and Queen Elizabeth. There were famous kings as Henry the Fifth; Henry the Eighth: Charles the First; and Charles the Second. There were potentates, as the Pope, the Sultan, the Grand Cham, Prester John, and the Emperor of China: there were famous women, mostly kings' favourites, as the Fair-Haired Editha: Fair Rosamund: Jane Shore, the most beautiful of London maidens: and merry Nell Gwynne, once an Orange Girl: there were half a dozen ladies representing Joan of Arc in armour: there was a bear-ward leading a man dressed as a bear who made as if he would hug the women (at which they screamed in pretended affright) and danced to the music of a crowd: there were gipsies and fortune-tellers: there were two girls—nobody knew who they were—one of whom danced on a tight-rope, while the other turned somersaults. There were Harlequin, Columbine, Pantaloon and clown, as if straight from Drury Lane: there was the showman who put his show in a corner and loudly proclaimed the wonders that were within: there was the Cheap Jack in another corner, who pretended to sell everything: there was the itinerant Quack who bawled his nostrums for prolonging life and restoring youth and arresting beauty: there was the orange girl, of Drury Lane, impudent and ready with an answer and a joke to anything: there were dancing-girls who ran in and out, cleared a space; danced: then ran to another place and danced again. I learned, afterwards, that the dancers and tumblers, with many of the masks, were actors, actresses, and dancing-girls, hired from the Theatre by Madame herself, in order to ensure vivacity and activity and movement in the evening. If these things were neglected or left to the masquers themselves, the assembly would fall quite flat, very few persons having the least power to play any part or keep up any character. Punchinello, for instance, trod the floor with a face like a physician for solemnity: the clown could not dance or laugh or make other people laugh: and so with the women: they thought their part was played as soon as they were dressed.

Meantime, the music played on without stopping. After the minuets, we proceeded to the country dance. But you must not think that at the Masquerade we conducted our dancing with the same order and form as an ordinary assembly. I looked down upon a scene which was quite unlike the ordinary assembly, and yet was the most beautiful, the most animated, the most entrancing that I had ever witnessed. The room was like a flower-bed in July filled with flowers of every colour. It was enough, at first, to look at the whole company, as one might look upon a garden filled with flowers. Presently I began to detach couples or small groups. First, I observed the fair domino who lured on the amorous youth—dressed, perhaps, as a monk—by running away and yet looking back—a Parthian Amazon of Love. She must be young, he thought, with such a sprightly air and so easy a step: she must be beautiful, with such a figure, to match her face: she must be rich, with such a habit—with those gold chains and bracelets and pearls. Presently the young fellow caught his goddess: he spoke to her and he led her to a seat among the plants where they could sit a little retired and apart. But from the gallery I could see them. He took her hand: he pressed her, saying I know not what: presently she took off her domino: and disclosed loveliness: the youth fell into raptures: she held him off: she put on her domino again: she rose: he begged for a little more discourse—it was a pretty pantomime—she refused: she went back to the general company: they remained together all the night: when they went away in the morning he led her out whispering, and one hopes that this was the beginning of a happy match. The removal of the domino to let the gentleman see the masked face was, I observed, very common, yet it was not always that the little comedy ended, as they say, happily. Sometimes the lady, after showing her face, would run away and exchange a kerchief, or a mantle, with a friend so as to mystify and bewilder her pursuer who could not tell what had become of his lovely partner.

Such were the little comedies performed before the eyes of the spectators from the music gallery. As for the rest, the mountebanks pranced, and the dancing-girls and the tumbling-girls capered, and they all laughed and sang and gave themselves wholly to the mirth and merriment of the moment.

Some of the men I observed were drunk when they arrived: others pretended to be drunk in order that they might roll about and catch hold of the girls. It has always been to me a marvel that women do not mark their displeasure, at the intrusion upon their pleasures, of men who are drunk. They mar all the enjoyment of society whether at the theatre, or at such assemblies as this, or in the drawing-room. Ladies of fashion have it in their power to put an end to the habit at a stroke of the pen, so to speak: namely, by forbidding the presence at their assemblies of gentlemen in liquor: they should be refused admission however great their position, even if their breast is ablaze with stars.

There were many stars present, and with them ladies whose head-dresses were covered with diamonds. It was rumoured that Madame retained in her service for these occasions, a body of stout fellows on the watch for any attempt upon the jewels. It was also rumoured that there were R—l P—s present at the Masquerade: the young D— of Y—k, for instance, it was said positively, was among the company, but so disguised that none could recognise him. Some of the ladies wore no dominoes; but these persons, I observed, did not leave their partners and took no share in the merriment. Indeed, they seemed, for the most part, not to laugh at the fun: I suppose they found it somewhat low and vulgar. In our gallery they were well known. 'That is the Duchess of Q— with the rubies: the lady with the diamond spray in her hair is Lady H—: the lady with the strings of pearls round her neck and arms is the Lady Florence D—,' and so forth—with scandalous stories and gossip which belonged, I thought, more to the footmen in the hall than to the music gallery. We had no such talk at the Dog and Duck. Perhaps, however, the reason for our reticence in that favourite retreat and rendezvous of the aristocracy was that there were no women at the Dog and Duck whose lives were not scandalous. The stories, therefore, would become monotonous.

At one, a procession was formed for supper. There was no order or rank observed because there were plenty of persons who masqueraded as noblemen, and it would take too long to examine into their claims. The small band of stringed instruments, of which I have spoken, headed the procession, played the company into the supper-room, and played while they were taking supper. There was not room for more than half in the supper-room: the rest waited their turn.

'It is a rest for us,' said the First violin, 'we shall get some supper downstairs. Eat and drink plenty, for what we have done already is a flea-bite compared with what we have to do.'

It was, indeed. They came back, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright with wine. Some of them too tipsy to stand, rolled upon the rout seats, and so fell fast asleep.

I observed that the great ladies and the gentlemen with them did not return after supper: their absence removed some restraint: and the gentlemen who had arrived without a masquerade dress did not come back after supper. The company was thinner, but it was much louder: there was no longer any pretence of keeping up a character: the Quack left off bawling his wares: the showman deserted his show: the fortune-tellers left their tents: the Hermit left his cell: the dancing and tumbling girls joined in the general throng: there were many sets formed but little regular dancing: all were broken up by rushes of young men more than half drunk: they caught the girls and kissed them—nothing loth, though they shrieked: it was a proof that the gentlewomen had all gone, that no one resented this rudeness—either a partner or the girl herself: the scene became an orgy: all together were romping, touzling, laughing, shrieking, and quarrelling.

Still the music kept up: still we played with unflinching arm and all the spirit which can be put into them, the most stirring dance tunes. At last they left off trying to dance: some of the women lay back on the rout seats partly with liquor overcome and partly with fatigue: men were sprawling unable to get up: bottles of wine were brought up from the supper-room and handed round. The men grew every minute noisier: the women shrieked louder and more shrilly—perhaps with cause. And every minute some slipped away and the crowd grew thinner, till there were left little more than a heap of drunken men and weary women.

At last word came up that it was five o'clock, the time for closing.

The conductor laid down his violin: the night's work was over: we would go.

The people below clamoured for more music, but in vain. Then they, too, began to stream out noisily.

As I passed the supper-room I saw that half a dozen young fellows had got in and were noisily clamouring for champagne. The waiters who were clearing the supper took no notice. Then one of them with a bludgeon set to work and began to smash plates, glasses, dishes, bottles, windows, in a kind of a frenzy of madness or mischief. Half a dozen stout fellows rushed at him: carried him out of the supper-room and so into the Square outside. It was a fitting end for the Masquerade.

While I was looking on, I was touched on the arm by a mask. I knew her by her white satin dress for Madame.

I had seen her from time to time flitting about the room, sometimes with a partner, sometimes alone. She was conversing one moment with a gentleman whose star betokened his rank, and the next with one of her paid actors or actresses, directing the sports. I had seen her dancing two minuets in succession each with a grace and dignity which no other woman in the room could equal.

'A noisy end, Will, is it not? We always finish this way. The young fellow who smashed the glass is Lord St. Osyth. To-morrow morning he will have to pay the bill. 'Tis a good-natured fool. See: they are carrying out the last of the drunken hogs. Faugh! How drunk they are!'

'I have watched you all the evening, Madame. Believe me, there were none of the ladies who approached you in the minuet.'

'Naturally, Will. For I have danced it on the stage, where we can at least surpass the minuet of the Assembly. What do they understand of action and carriage, and how to bear the body and how to use the arms and how to handle the fan? But it was not to talk about my dancing—Will—I said that perhaps I should be able to show you something or to tell you something—that might astonish you. Come with me: but first—I would not have you recognised, put on this domino'—there were a good many lying about—'So—Now follow me and prepare for the greatest surprise of your whole life.'

In the hall there were still many waiting for their carriages and chairs. Outside, there was a crowd now closing in upon the carriages, and now beaten back by Madame's men who were armed with clubs and kept the pickpockets and thieves at bay. And there was a good deal of bawling, cursing, and noise.

Madame led the way into the card-room. Play had apparently been going on all night: the candles on the table were burning low: the players had nearly all gone: the servants were taking the shillings from under the candlesticks: at the long table, two or three were still left: they were not playing: they were settling up their accounts.

A young fellow got up as we came in. 'What's the good of crying, Harry?' he said, to his companion. 'I've dropped five hundred. Well—better luck to-morrow.'

'Poor lad!' said Madame. 'That morrow will never come. 'Tis a pretty lad: I am sorry for him. He will end in a Debtors' Prison or he will carry a musket in the ranks.'

They were settling, one by one, with the player who had held the Bank for the evening. There were no disputes: they had some system by means of which their loses or gains were represented by counters. The business of the conclusion was the paying or receiving of money as shown by their counters which were accepted as money. For instance, if a person took so many counters he incurred so much liability. But, I do not understand what were the rules. The man who held the Bank was, I heard afterwards, one of those who live by keeping the Bank against all comers. He was an elderly man of fine manners, extremely courtly in his behaviour and his dress. One by one he received the players, of whom there were a dozen or so, and examined their liabilities or their claims. There was left but one of the players, a man whose back was turned to me.

'Sir,' he said politely, 'I am grieved indeed to keep a gentleman waiting so long. Let me now release you. I hope, Sir, that the balance will prove in your favour. It pleases me, believe me, that a gentleman should leave my table the winner. So, Sir, thank you. I perceive, Sir, that your good fortune has deserted you for this evening. I trust it is but a temporary cloud. After all it is a trifle—a bagatelle—a mere matter of one hundred and fifty-five guineas—one hundred and fifty-five. Your Honour is not, perhaps, good at figures, but, should you choose to verify——'

The other man whose back and shoulders were still the only part of him presented to my view, snatched the paper and looked at it and threw it on the table.

'It is right, Sir?'

'I suppose it is right. The luck was against me, as usual; the luck never is for me.'

I knew the voice and started.

Madame whispered in my ear softly. 'The greatest surprise of your life.'

'One hundred and fifty-five guineas,' said the gentleman who kept the Bank. 'If you are not able to discharge the liability to-night, Sir, I shall be pleased to wait upon you to-morrow.'

'No! No! I can pay my way still—pay my way,' He pulled out a long purse filled with guineas.

'Your luck will certainly turn, Sir, before long. Why I have seen instances——'

'Damn it, Sir, leave me and my affairs alone. My luck never will turn. Don't I know my own affairs?'

The voice could be none other than my cousin Matthew's. I was startled. My head which had been filled with the noise of the music and the excitement of the revelry became clear at once and attentive and serious. My cousin Matthew. Impossible not to know that voice!

He poured out the guineas on the table and began to count them, dividing them into heaps of ten. Then he counted them over again, very slowly, and, at last, with greatest reluctance passed them over to the other player, who in his turn counted them over, taking up the pieces and biting them in order to see if they were good.

'I thank you, Sir,' he said, gravely. 'I trust that on a future occasion——'

Matthew waved his hand impatiently. The other turned and walked down the room. The candles were mostly out by this time; only two or three were left on the point of expiring: the room was in a kind of twilight. Matthew turned his head—it was my cousin: he seemed not to see us: he sank into a chair and laid his head in his hands groaning.

No one was left in the room except Madame, Matthew and myself.

Madame stepped forward: the table was between her and my cousin. As for me I kept in the background watching and listening. What might this thing mean? Matthew, the sober, upright, religious London citizen! Matthew the worthy descendant of the great Puritan preacher! Matthew the denouncer of wicked musicians! Matthew the scourge of frivolity and vice! Matthew, my supplanter! Matthew in a gaming room! Matthew playing all night long and losing a hundred and fifty-five guineas in a single night! What was one to believe next?

Jenny bent over the table: she still kept on her domino.

'Mr. Matthew Halliday,' she said.

He lifted his head, stupidly.

'I congratulate you, Mr. Matthew Halliday,' she went on. 'You have passed a most pleasant and profitable evening. A hundred and fifty-five guineas! It is nothing, of course, to a rich merchant like yourself.'

'Who are you?' he asked. 'What concern is it of yours?'

'I am one who knows you. One who knows you already, and too well.'

He stood up. 'I am going, Mistress,' he said—'unless you have something else to say.'

'Mr. Halliday—you lost two hundred guineas last night, and on Sunday you lost four hundred.'

'Zounds, Miss or Mistress, how do you know?'

'I know because I am told. You are a very rich man, Mr. Halliday, are you not? You must be to lose so much every night. You must be very rich indeed. You have whole fleets of your own, and Quays and Warehouses filled with goods—and you inherited a great fortune only two years ago.'

He sank back in a chair and gazed stupidly upon her. 'How speeds your noble trade? How fares it with your fleets? How much is left of your great fortune?' He growled, but made no reply. Curiosity and wonder seized him and held him. Besides, what reply could he make?

'Who are you?' he asked.

'I will tell you, perhaps. How do you stand with Mr. Probus?'

He sprang to his feet again. 'This is too much. How dare you speak of my private affairs? What do you know about Mr. Probus?'

'How long is it, Mr. Halliday, since you agreed with Mr. Probus that your cousin should be locked up in a Debtors' Prison there to remain till he died, or sold his birthright?'

He answered with a kind of roar, as if he had no words left. He stood before her—the table between—half in terror—half in rage. Who was this woman? Besides, he was already very nearly beside himself over the long continuance of his bad luck.

'Who are you?' he asked again. 'What do you know about my cousin?'

'I will tell you, directly, who I am. About your cousin, Matthew, I warn you solemnly. The next attempt you make upon his life and liberty will bring upon your head—yours—not to speak of the others—the greatest disaster that you can imagine, or can dread. The greatest disaster,' she repeated solemnly, 'that you can imagine or can dread.' She looked like a Prophetess, standing before him with hand raised and with solemn voice.

'This is fooling. What do you know? Who are you?'

'I cannot tell what kind of disaster it will be—the greatest—the worst possible—it will be. Be warned. Keep Mr. Probus at arm's length or he will ruin you—he will ruin you, unless he has ruined you already.'

'You cannot frighten me with bugaboo stories. If you will not tell me who you are. I shall go.'

She tore off her glove. 'Does this hand,' she said, 'remind you of nothing?'

On the third finger of the white hand was a wedding-ring which I had never seen there before.

He stared at the hand. Perhaps he suspected. I think he did. No one who had once seen that hand could possibly forget it.

She tore off her domino. 'You have doubtless forgotten, Matthew, by this time, the face—of your wife.'

He cursed her. He stood up and cursed her in round terms. I don't know why. He accused her of nothing. But he cursed her. She was the origin and cause of his bad luck.

I would have interfered. 'Let be—let be,' she said. 'The time will surely come when the ruin which I have foretold will fall upon him. Let us wait till then. That will be sufficient punishment for him. I see it coming—I know not when. I see it coming. Let him curse.'

He desisted. He ran out of the room without another word.

She looked after him with a deep sigh.

'I told you, Will, that I had a surprise for you—the greatest surprise of your life. I will tell you more to-morrow if you will come in the afternoon. You shall hear more about Matthew, my husband Matthew. Get you gone now and home to bed with all the speed you may. Good-night, cousin Will—cousin Will.'

I left her as I was bidden. I walked home through the deserted streets of early morning. My brain was burning. Matthew the gambler! Matthew the husband of Jenny! Matthew the gambler. Why—everything shouted the word as I passed: the narrow streets of Soho: the water lapping the arches of Westminster Bridge: the keen air blowing over the Bank; all shouted the words—'Matthew the gambler! Matthew the husband of Jenny! Matthew the gambler!' And when I lay down to sleep the words that rang in my ear were 'Matthew my husband—Cousin Will!—Cousin Will!'

WHO SHE WAS

'You now know, Will,' said Jenny, when I called next day, 'why I have been interested in you, since I first saw you. Not on account of your good looks, Sir, though I confess you are a very pretty fellow: nor on account of your playing, which is spirited and true; but because you are my first cousin by marriage.'

She received me, sitting in the small room on the left of the Hall. The great house was quite empty, save for the servants, who were always clearing away the remains of one fête and arranging for another. Their footsteps resounded in the vacant corridors and their voices echoed in the vacant chambers.

'Jenny, I have been able to think of nothing else. I could not sleep for thinking of it. I am more and more amazed.'

'I knew you would be. Well, Will, I wanted to have a long talk with you. I have a great deal to say. First, I shall give you some tea—believe me, it is far better for clearing the head after a night such as last night, than Madeira. I have a great deal to tell you—I fear you will despise me—but I will hide nothing. I am resolved to hide nothing from you.'

Meantime the words kept ringing in my ears. 'Matthew a gambler! The religious Matthew! To whom music was a snare of the Devil and the musician a servant of the Devil! The steady Matthew! The irreproachable Matthew!'

Yet, since I had always known him to be a violator of truth; a slanderer and a backbiter, why not, also, a gambler? Why not also a murderer—a forger—anything? I was to find out before long that he was quite ready to become the former of these also, upon temptation. Yet the thing was wonderful, even after I had actually seen it and proved it. And again, Matthew married! Not to a sober and godly citizen's daughter, but to an actress of Drury Lane Theatre! Matthew, to whom the theatre was as the mouth of the Bottomless Pit! Who could believe such a thing?

As for what follows, Jenny did not tell me the whole in this one afternoon. I have put together, as if it was all one conversation, what took several days or perhaps several weeks.

'You think it so wonderful, Will,' Jenny said, reading my thoughts in my face. 'For my own part it is never wonderful that a man should gamble, or drink, or throw himself away upon an unworthy mistress. Every man may go mad: it is part of man's nature: women, never, save for love and jealousy and the like. Men are so made: madness seizes them: down they go to ruin and the grave. It is strong drink with some: and avarice with some: and gaming with some. Your cousin Matthew is as mad as an Abram man.'

She was silent for a while. Then she went on again. I have written it down much as if all that follows was a single speech. It was broken up by my interruptions and by her pauses and movements. For she was too quick and restless to sit down while she was speaking. She would spring from her chair and walk about the room; she would stand at the window, and drum at the panes of glass: she would stand over the fireplace; she would look in the round mirror hanging on the wall. She had a thousand restless ways. Sometimes she stood behind me and laid a hand on my shoulder as if she was ashamed for me to look upon her.

It was a wonderful tale she told me: more wonderful that a woman who had gone through that companionship should come out of it, filled through and through, like a sponge, with the knowledge of wickedness and found in childhood with those who practise wickedness, yet should be herself so free from all apparent stain or taint of it. Surely, unless the face, the eyes, the voice, the language, the thoughts, can all lie together, this woman was one of the purest and most innocent of Heaven's creatures.

It is not always the knowledge of evil that makes a woman wicked. Else, if you think of it, there would be no good woman at all among us. Consider: it is only a question of degree. A child born in the Mint; or in Fullwood's Rents; or in St. Giles's: or in Turnmill Street learns, one would think, everything that is vile. But children do not always inquire into the meaning of what they hear: most things that they see or hear may pass off them like water from a duck's back. Their best safe-guard is their want of curiosity. Besides, it is not only in St. Giles's that children hear things that are kept from them: in the respectable part of the city, in Cheapside itself, they can hear the low language and the vile sayings and the blasphemous oaths of the common sort. Children are absorbed by their own pursuits and thoughts. The grown-up world: the working world, does not belong to them; they see and see not; they hear and hear not; they cannot choose, but see and hear: yet they inquire not into the meaning.

'Will,' she said, 'I would I had never heard your name. It has been an unlucky name to me—and perhaps it will be more unlucky still.' I know not if she was here foretelling what certainly happened, afterwards. 'Your cousin, Matthew, is no common player, who carries a few guineas in his pocket and watches them depart with a certain interest and even anxiety and then goes away. This man is a fierce, thirsty, insatiable gambler. There is a play called 'The Gamester' in which the hero is such an one. He plays like this hero with a thirst that cannot be assuaged. He plays every night: he has, I believe, already ruined himself: yet he cannot stop: he would play away the whole world and then would stake his soul, unless he had first sold his soul for money to play with. Soul? If he has any soul—but I know not.'

'You amaze me, Jenny. Indeed, I am overwhelmed with amazement. I cannot get the words out of my head, "Matthew a gambler! Matthew a gambler!"'

'Yes—Matthew a gambler. He has been a gambler in a small way for many years. When he got possession of your father's money and the management of that House, he became a gambler in a large way. I say that I believe he is already well-nigh ruined. You have seen him on one night, Will; he is at the same game every night. I have had him watched—I know. His luck is such as the luck of men like that always is—against him continually. He never wins: or if ever, then only small sums as will serve to encourage him. There is no evening in the week, not even Sunday, when he does not play. I have reason to know—I will tell you why, presently—that he has already lost a great fortune.'

'The fortune that my father left to him. It should have been mine.'

'Then, my poor Will, it never will be yours. For it is gone. I learned, six months ago, that his business is impaired: the credit of the House is shaken. Worse than this, Will'—she laid her hand on my arm—'he had then, already, borrowed large sums of Mr. Probus, and as he could not pay he was borrowing more. There is the danger for you!'

'What danger?'

'You musicians live in the clouds. Why does Matthew continue to borrow money? He pretends that he wants to put it into the business. Really, he gambles with it. Why does Probus continue to lend him money? Probus does not suspect the truth. In the hope that he will presently have such a hold over Matthew that he will get possession of the business, become a partner and turn out Matthew and your uncle. It looks splendid. All these ships: the wharf covered with goods: but the ships are mortgaged and their cargoes are mortgaged: and the interest on Probus's loans can only be paid by borrowing more. In a very short time, Will, the bubble will burst. The situation is already dangerous; it will then become full of peril.'

'Why dangerous to me? I have borrowed no money.'

'You are a very simple person, Will. They put you into the King's Bench. Yet you don't understand. I do. Matthew wanted to borrow money on the security of that succession. Probus would have lent him money on that security. Probus would have had another finger in the pie. He did not know, then, what he will very soon find out, that all the money he has already advanced to his rich client is lost. Then it was a mere temptation to Matthew to put you under pressure: now it will become a necessity to make you submit: a necessity for both, and they are a pair of equal villains.'

'Last night you warned Matthew. Jenny, your words seemed to be no common warning. You know something or you would not have pronounced that solemn warning.'

'Every woman is a prophetess,' she replied, gravely. 'Oh! I can sometimes foretell things. Not always: not when I wish: not as I wish. The prophecy comes to me. I know not how it comes: and I cannot expect it or wait for it. Last night, suddenly, I saw a vision of villainy, I know not what. It was directed against you and Alice—and the villains—among them was Matthew—were driven back with whips. They fled howling. Will, this Vision makes me speak.'

This kind of talk was new to me: I confess it made me uneasy.

'Well, you now know the truth. Your cousin has defamed and slandered you: without relenting and without ceasing. So long as it was possible to do you a mischief with your father he did it: he has robbed you of your inheritance: well: you can now, if you please, revenge yourself.'

'Revenge myself? How?'

'You will not only revenge yourself: you may make it impossible for your cousin to do you any further injury.'

'Does he wish to do me any further injury?'

'Will, I suppose that you are a fool because you are a musician. Wish? A man like that who has injured you as much as he could and as often as he could will go on: it is the nature of such a man to injure others: his delight and his nature: he craves for mischief almost as he craves for gambling.'

'You are bitter against—your husband, Jenny.'

'I am very bitter against him. I have reason.'

'But about the revenge. Of what kind is it?'

'You may do this. His father, the Alderman, has withdrawn from any active partnership in the business, which is conducted entirely by Matthew. He passes now an idle life beside Clapham Common, with his gardens and his greenhouses. Go to this poor gentleman: tell him the truth. Let him learn that his son is a gambler: that he is wasting all that is left to waste: that his losses have been very heavy already: and that the end is certain bankruptcy. You can tell your uncle that you saw yourself with your own eyes Matthew losing a hundred and fifty-five guineas in the card-room of a Masquerade: this will terrify him, though at first he will not believe it: then he will cause the affairs of the House to be examined, and he will find out, if accountants are any use, how much has been already wasted. Mind, Will, I invent nothing. All this I know. The House is well-nigh ruined.'

'How do you know all this, Jenny?'

'Not by visions, certainly. I know it from information. It is, I assure you, the bare truth. The House is already well-nigh ruined.'

'I fear I cannot tell my uncle these things.'

'It would be a kindness to him in the end, Will. Let him learn the truth before the worst happens.'

I shook my head. Revenge is not a pleasing task. To go to my uncle with such a tale seemed a mean way of returning Matthew's injuries.

'I do not counsel revenge, then,' she went on, again divining my thoughts. 'Call it your safety. When you have alarmed your uncle into calling for an explanation, go and see the man Probus.'

'See Probus? Why?'

'I would separate Probus from his client. Go and tell the man—go and tell him without reference to his past villainies that his client Matthew is an incurable gambler, and that all the money Probus has lent to him has been lost over the gaming table.'

'Tell Probus?' The thought of speaking to Probus except as to a viper was not pleasant.

'I have made inquiries about Probus,' She knew everything, this woman! 'He is of the tribe they call blood-suckers: they fasten upon their victim, and they never let go till such time as there is no more blood to suck. There is some blood left. Probus will never think of you while he is saving what he can of his own. Tell the money-lender this, I say, and what with Probus on the one hand, maddened by his loss, and his own father on the other, well-nigh terrified to death, Matthew will have enough to do.'

'Would you like me to do this, Jenny?'

'I should like it done,' she replied, turning away her face.

'Would you like to do it yourself, Jenny?'

'I am a woman. Women must not do violent things.'

'Jenny, there is more revenge than precaution in this.'

'There may be some revenge, but there is also a good deal of prudence.'

'I cannot do it, Jenny.'

'Are you afraid, Will? To be sure, a musician is not a sold—so—no—Will, forgive me. You are not afraid. Forgive me.'

'I shall leave them to work out their destruction in their own way, whatever way that may be.'

'But that way may be hurtful to you, my poor Will—even fatal to you,'

'I shall leave them alone: their punishment will surely fall upon them, they will dig a trap to their own undoing.'

'Will, I have heard that kind of talk before. I have used those words myself upon the stage.' She threw herself into an attitude and declaimed with fire.