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Walter Besant
The Orange Girl

I could do nothing more. I left the poor shell in the shed and passed over to the other side. If my uncle could understand anything I had to communicate the sad news to him. His only son was dead – What a son! What a life! What a death!

The alderman was sitting before the fire. With him sat his two daughters. The guinea a week which was meant for him alone procured food for the two girls as well. They passed the whole day, I believe, sitting thus before the fire in gloom and bitterness; their bitterness was mostly directed against myself as the supposed cause of all their troubles.

'Cousin,' said one of them looking up, 'you are not wanted here.'

'Perhaps not. I have come, however, to bring you news. It is not good news, I am sorry to say.'

'That one can see by the joy expressed in your face.' Yet I did not feel joyful.

'Sir,' I addressed my uncle. 'I bring you bad news.'

He looked up and smiled vacuously. 'You will find my brother, sir, on Change, I believe.'

'Yes, Sir. I would speak to you of Matthew.'

'He is in the counting-house, or perhaps on board one of the ships. Or on the Quay.'

I turned to the daughters. 'I see that he understands nothing.'

'No. He eats and sleeps. He talks nonsense. It is no use speaking to him. You have seen us in our shame and misery. Give us your news and go.'

'It is about Matthew.'

'Matthew? Where is he? We heard he had escaped.'

'You do not know? Matthew has been in this prison for some weeks.'

'Here? In this prison? And we have not see him?'

'He has been on the Common side; on the Poor side. Perhaps that is the reason; perhaps he did not know that.

They looked at each other. Then they burst into tears. I thought they were natural tears such as a sister might shed over the loss of her brother. But they were not. 'Oh!' they cried. 'Oh! Oh! Oh! And now you will have the whole of that great fortune. And we thought that you would die and that Matthew would have it. What a misfortune! What a dreadful thing!' They wept and lamented, capping each other in lamentations all to the effect that the fortune had fallen to the undeserving one. 'And after all his plots and after his shameful trial before all the world! And after his highway robbery! And after the things that have been done to us! and now that people will say that Matthew died a Pauper – on the Common side! On the Poor side! We can never hold up our heads again.'

So I left these dear creatures. Never could I understand why they attributed any one of their misfortunes to me; nor of what nature were the plots to which they referred; nor why my trial was shameful.

However, I left these poor ladies. The reduction in their circumstances; their precarious condition; their having nothing but the guinea a week given by the Alderman's old friend; the uncertainty of his life; all should be considered when we think of their bitterness.

For my own part it was not until my cousins reminded me that I understood the great difference which the event made to me.

I was the survivor: and my succession came to me in less than three years after my father's death.

I was the survivor. At a single step I rose from the condition of a simple fiddler, at twenty-five or thirty shillings a week, to the possession of a fortune of over a hundred thousand pounds.

I hastened to our trusty attorney, Mr. Dewberry. I apprised him of what had happened; he undertook to present my claims and to transfer the money to my name, which he faithfully effected, and without difficulty.

Then I went on to Newgate.

'What is the matter, Will?' cried Jenny, 'you look strangely agitated.'

'Jenny' – I took her hand and held it – 'you told me the other day that you were in no anxiety about money.'

'I never am, Will. For people of parts there is always plenty of money.'

'You are a Prophetess, Jenny. You will never want for money so long as you live. For all that I have is yours, and I am rich.'

'You are rich?' Over her face, so quick to change, there passed a cloud. 'You are rich? Then – Will … then … if you are rich – I must be – a widow. Is Matthew dead?'

'He is dead, Jenny.'

She sank into a chair. She shed no tears: she expressed no sorrow.

'Matthew is dead. I wish I had never met him – Matthew is dead.'

'He is dead, Jenny. He died in the prison.'

'And I am a widow. I am free again. I am a widow who never was a wife. Will, I would not speak ill of the dead – of the unburied: but … alas! I can find no good words to speak of him. He can do no more harm – either to you or to me.'

'Let us not speak of him, then.'

'No – we must forget him. As for this money, Will, it is yours – your own – yours and Alice's – and the lovely boy's.'

'Jenny – all that we have is yours: all that we have and more … more … gratitude and love and devotion – which are more than gold.'

CHAPTER XXIV
COMMUTATION

At that very moment, while we were trying to find words befitting the occasion which would not admit of grief yet demanded the respect due to Death, arrived the news so long expected.

The Governor of the Prison, accompanied by our friend the Counsel for the Prosecution, stood at the door, followed by one of the Turnkeys.

'Madame,' said the Governor, 'I come to bring you news.' But he looked so serious that my heart sank.

'And I, Madame,' said the lawyer, 'shall be pleased to add a codicil to this intelligence.'

'Gentlemen, I have already this morning received news enough for one day at least. Am I, gentlemen, ordered to adorn the next procession along the Oxford Road?'

'No, Madame,' the Governor replied. 'But I wish the news were more joyful. I had hoped – I had expected – considering the whole case – '

I looked at Jenny. She turned suddenly pale; I thought she was going to faint. Consider: she had persuaded herself that a full and immediate pardon would be granted. She had no doubt as to that point. She did not faint; she recovered and spoke with white lips and a hard forced voice.

'Tell me quick!'

'Madame, His Majesty has graciously commuted the sentence into transportation to the plantations for the term of five years.'

Jenny made no reply. I groaned aloud. Transportation? To go out as a servant! To be bought by a planter and made to work in the tobacco fields under the lash? This for Jenny! All the world knew what transportation meant and what were the mercies served out to convicts.

The Governor sighed and shook his head. The lawyer took up the tale. 'Madame,' he said, 'believe me; everything has been done that could be done. Had you pleaded Not Guilty you would most certainly have been acquitted. Madame, I know your reasons, and I respect them. You pleaded Guilty. Your reasons were not such as could be laid before the King, unless privately. The Judge in your case is a lawyer of great eminence; that is to say, he is jealous of the Law; he holds that above all things the Law must be feared. He is called a hanging Judge, being a most merciful man; but the Law must be respected. There must not be one Law for the rich rogue and another for the poor rogue.'

'Rich or poor,' said Jenny, 'I am a rogue for having stolen nightcaps in my garrets; and I am a rogue and a vagabond because I am an actress.'

'Nay, Madame; but the Toast of the Town, the most lovely – '

'My loveliness does not stand me in much stead at this juncture. Tell me again. I am to be shipped across seas: I am to stay there five years: I am to herd on board with the wretched women outside: I am to work in the fields with them and with negroes: I am to be whipped by my master: I am to live on sweet potatoes. I am to wear sacking for all my clothes. Gentlemen,' she added with flushed cheek, 'go, tell the King that I will not accept this mercy.'

'Nay, Madame,' said the lawyer with persuasive tongue. 'You go too fast. Those who have friends can evade the obligations of service; you, who have so many friends, will find that you have nothing to fear beyond the voyage and a short residence in a pleasant climate. For my own part, dear Madame, I hope to see you before another year begins back upon the boards of Drury Lane, with all the town at your feet. I pine, Madame, I languish for the first evening to arrive.'

'Jenny,' I whispered, 'for Heaven's sake be careful. Consider; this gentleman cannot be deceiving you. If there is, as he says, no real obligation to service; and if, as he says, the sentence means only a short residence in a pleasant country – then surely you must accept. There is, however, the voyage. Perhaps, Sir,' I addressed the lawyer, 'it will be possible for Madame to take the voyage in a private cabin apart from the rest of the – the company.'

'It will certainly be possible. She may take state rooms for herself and her maid: she will be treated as a gentlewoman. It is only a question of arrangement with the Captain. Madame, I assure you, upon my honour, that the sentence means no more than what I have stated. It is a brief exile in which you will endure no other indignity than that of sailing on board the ship which carries a few scores of the wretches going out as slaves – if one may call an Englishman a slave.'

Jenny wavered. Her cheek was still red with shame and disappointment. She wavered.

'Jenny,' I said, taking her hand.

She sat down. 'Let it be, then, as you will.'

'That is bravely resolved,' said the Governor. 'And now I shall have the pleasure of removing you immediately from this close and confined chamber to one more airy and more commodious.'

'Gentlemen,' said Jenny, still crestfallen, 'I thank you both for your good intentions. I should love you better if you would put a sword through me and so end it. Perhaps, however, the ship may go to the bottom. Let us hope so. It must sink, I am sure, so heavy will be the heart of lead on board it.'

So, with renewed protestations of assistance and goodwill the lawyer went away with the Governor. In the yard I observed that he stopped and looked upon the crowd of women, many of whom he would help to the gallows. Does such a lawyer, always occupied in getting up and preparing a case, so as to persuade a jury into a verdict of 'Guilty' ever feel remorse at having done so, or repugnance at doing it again? Do the ghosts of those whom he has sent to the other world haunt his bedside at night? One may as well ask if the Judge who pronounces the sentence feels remorse or pity. He is the mouth of the Law; the Counsel feeds the mouth; the Governor of Newgate is the arm of the Law. However, that the Counsel for the Prosecution should take so much interest in the release of a prisoner is, I should think, without example in the history of Newgate, where they have never had before, and can never have again, a prisoner so lovely, so attractive, so interesting, as Jenny. After him came another visitor. It was my Lord Brockenhurst who brought us the news we had already heard – but with a difference.

'Madame,' he said, after telling us what we had already heard, 'I shall always regret that I was not the first to let you know. Indeed, I have flown. The commutation of the sentence involves a voyage; that cannot be denied; but there is no obligation to service. That will be arranged for you; I can undertake so much, if necessary. The voyage is no great matter; six weeks if you are fortunate; eight weeks, at most, will set you on shore; the country is said to be beautiful; the climate is healthy, the Virginians are mostly gentlemen of good family.'

'I thank you, my Lord, for your kind words.'

'There is another thing, Madame. I am empowered to assure you that the Petition which you drew up for your young protégée here has been graciously received by Her Majesty the Queen. She has herself asked for the remission of the capital sentence. The girl's life will be spared.'

'This is good news, at least.'

'On conditions, which you must expect. She will go with you to Virginia for five years. You can take her as your maid, if you please.'

'With me for five years?' Jenny repeated. 'I know so little of what is ordered – '

'Briefly, Madame, a prisoner under sentence of transportation is engaged as a servant, generally on a tobacco plantation, where he works with the negroes. If there should happen to be one among them of a superior class he becomes an accountant or even a manager; or if he can command influence or money his engagement is merely nominal. Your engagement will be a form which I shall arrange for you. This girl can remain with you. When you come home you can bring her with you.'

'In five years?'

'No – in much less time – in a few months. I am permitted on the highest authority to assure you that your banishment will be but short. As soon as it can with decency be asked for, a full pardon will be asked for and it will be granted. You will then only have to return in order to delight your friends once more.'

'When shall I have to go?'

'A ship is now fitting out. She sails in a week or a fortnight. You will sail as a cabin passenger, entrusted to the protection of the Captain. The – the other – passengers will be confined between decks, I believe.'

'My Lord, I am deeply touched by all your kindness.'

'Madame, I have done little – little indeed. Would it had been more! I shall now, with your permission, make arrangements with the Captain of the ship for your entertainment on the voyage and your reception on reaching the port.'

'So,' said Jenny, 'in one day I am deprived of my husband. I am a widow who never was a wife. I am deprived of my country – which is London; and of all my friends.'

His lordship's face changed. 'Your husband, Madame? Is he dead?'

'He died last night. Let us not speak of him.'

'Then you are free' He glanced at me: I saw his meaning and the purpose in his eyes. 'You are free.'

I stepped out, leaving them together. In a few minutes he came out with the look of one distracted, and not knowing what he was doing or whither he went.

Within the cell Jenny was sitting at the table with red and tearful eyes.

'That good and noble friend, Will, would make me Lady Brockenhurst.'

'Jenny – why not?'

'He would go with me: he would marry me here and sail with me. No – no – I promised his sister. What? Because I love a man – the best of men – should I give him children who would be ashamed of their mother and her origin? Mine would be a pretty history for them to learn, would it not? No, Will, no. Believe me I love him too well. Even if he were a meaner man, I could never bring my history to smirch the chronicles of a respectable family.'

She was silent a little. 'Will,' she said presently, looking up, 'all that I foretold has proved true. I want no money. I am going out to a strange country. It is not Ireland as I thought. It is Virginia. I see it again so plain – so clear – I shall know it when I land. But I can see no farther. There will be no return for me to Drury Lane. My vision stops short – now that I see you – somewhere – with me – I see Alice also. But I cannot see England or London – or the Black Jack or Drury Lane.'

Then we moved to the more commodious chamber, where I soothed her spirits with a cup of tea which is better far than wine or cordials for the refreshment of the mind. Presently she began to recover a little from her disappointment.

'It will be lonely at first,' she said, 'without a single friend, and I suppose that a transported convict – say that for me, Will – it hath a strange sound. It is like a slap in the face – a transported convict – '

'Nay, Jenny, do not say it.'

'I must. I say that though a transported convict must be despised, yet I shall have my girl here with me, and perhaps my Lord will prove right and I may come home again. Yet I do not think so. Will, there is one consolation. At last I shall get clean away from my own people. They used to congregate round the stage-door of the Theatre to congratulate their old friend on her success. The Orange-Girls were never tired of claiming old friendship. I married in order to get away from them, but Matthew never meant to keep his promise – I am tired, Will, of my own people. They have made me suffer too much. Henceforth let them go and hang without any help from me.'

'It is high time, Jenny.'

'The Act ends lamely, perhaps. It may be the last Act of the Play. The ship leaves the Quay. On the deck stands the heroine in white satin, waving her handkerchief. The people weep. The bo's'n blows his whistle. The sailors stamp about; the curtain falls. Will, if things are real – what am I to do when I get back – if I do get back? How am I to live?'

'Jenny,' I said seriously, 'I believe that one so good and so fearless, for whom daily prayers are offered, will be led by no will of her own, into some way of peace and happiness.'

'Think you so, good cousin? There spoke Alice. It is her language. She says that beyond the stars are eyes that can see and hands that can lead. Why, Will, for my people, the only hand that leads is the hand of hunger: the only hand that directs is the hand with the whip in it; as for eyes that see' – she shook her head sadly – 'I wish there were,' she said. 'Perhaps there would then be some order in St. Giles's. And there would be some hope for the poor rogues. Oh! Will – the poor helpless, ignorant, miserable rogues – of whom I am one – a transported convict – a transported convict – how we suffer! how we die! And pass away and are forgotten! Will … Will … I go with a heavy heart – I go to meet my death. For never more shall I return. Where is the eye that sees? Oh! Will – where is the hand that leads?'

CHAPTER XXV
TRANSPORTATION

In the evening when I left the prison, it was with emotions strange and bewildering. Jenny, who was to have received a free pardon, was sent, a self-accused convict, to the plantations. To the plantations, where they send the common rogues and villains. She was to go out on board a convict ship, counted happy because although one of that shameful company, she was not kept below all the voyage on convict fare with those wretches vile and unspeakable.

And I was rich. After all these troubles: after my father's displeasure: after my disinheritance: after my persecution and imprisonment: I was rich —

And Matthew, the cause of all, was dead.

Truly the hand of the Lord had been heavy upon them all. Matthew dying in starvation and misery. Mr. Probus, lying in prison, a pauper and blind: Merridew stoned to death: the other two escaped with life, but that was all. But the innocent were suffering with the guilty: the old man Alderman languishing in a debtors' prison with no hope of release: and Jenny a convict to be transported across the seas. They did well to call it a voyage: a short exile in a pleasant climate: she was a convict: she was under sentence.

And I was rich. So I kept saying to myself as I walked home that evening. So I kept saying to Alice when I told her what had happened while we sat till late at night talking over these acts of Providence.

We were to see her go far away across the ocean – a convict, never perhaps to return: to see her go alone, save for her little maid: in danger of wicked men of whom there are plenty over every part of the world: perhaps, in spite of what was said, a servant even, at her master's beck and call: the woman to whom I owed more than life: far more than life: honour: and the respect of the world: and the happiness of my children and grandchildren: yea, even unto the third and fourth generation. What was wealth? Where was its happiness when we had to think of Jenny? It was this woman, I say, who by her ready wit, her generosity, her fearlessness in the presence of risks certain and dangers inevitable, made my innocence as clear as the noonday's sun. For this service shall her name be blessed among those who come after me and bear my name and are stimulated to deeds of honour by the thought that they come of an honourable stock. Think of the burden upon their lives had they been doomed to remember that their father or their grandfather before them had suffered a shameful death for highway robbery!

Jenny saved me – but at what a price! She braved the worst that the rogues, her former friends, could do to her. She compelled her own people: their own associates to betray them in order to prove my innocence. She paid for the betrayal by prison, trial and ruin. She poured out her money like water in order that no doubt whatever should exist in the mind of the Court or the Jury as to the real character of the witnesses. In return she endured the foul air and the foul companionship of Newgate and a shameful transportation to Virginia, there to be set up, if her sentence was carried out, and sold as a slave for five years. It was no common gratitude – we repeated over and over again – that we owed her for this service. We owed her all – all – all – that we possessed or ever could possess.

But money cannot effect everything: it could not, in this case, give Jenny the full pardon and the immediate release we desired.

In the dead of night, as I lay sleepless, tortured in my mind because I could think of nothing that we could do for Jenny, who had done so much for us, Alice spoke to me, sitting up in bed.

'Husband,' she said, and then she fell to weeping for a while and it seemed as if she could not stop her crying and sobbing – but they were tears of prayer and praise. 'Let us talk. It is yet night. The world sleeps; but the Lord is awake. Let us talk.'

So we talked.

'I am heavy in my mind about that poor creature,' she began.

'And I no less, my dear.'

'We must not think that the innocent are punished with the guilty. That old man the Alderman is pulled down by his son: they lie in ruin together: but he is innocent: for this reason he has been permitted to lose his wits and now feels nothing. Jenny suffers because though she is innocent in intention, she is guilty in fact. Will, if I think of that poor creature, so good and generous and so self-denying: and of the company among whom she has lived: and of the people among whom she was born: and how she has no religion, not the least sense of religion, I think that this new business may be but the leading of the poor trembling soul to knowledge.'

'She is assured that before long she will be permitted to return.'

'Perhaps she will not be permitted to return. There is One who is higher than kings.'

'What would you do, Alice?'

'Let us ask ourselves, Will, what we are to do with our new riches. I am but a homely body, I cannot become a fine lady. As for yourself, remember, my dear, that you have been a musician, playing for your livelihood at the Dog and Duck: and you have stood your trial at the Old Bailey: and you have been in a Debtors' Prison: and your father's House is bankrupt: and your name is held in contempt where formerly it was in honour. Where will you seek your new friends? In the country? But the Quality despise a musician. In the City? They despise a musician much: prisoner for debt, more: a bankrupt, most.'

'I know not what is in your mind, Alice.'

'I am coming to it, my dear. Remember, once more, what you said to-night that we owe her all – all – all. Your life: your honour: your son's pride in his father: my life, for the agony and the shame would have killed me. Oh! Will, what can we do for her? What can we give her in return for benefits and services such as these?'

'I will give her all I have, my dear, my whole fortune, this new great fortune. I will give her everything but you, my dear, and the boy.'

'Money she does not want and it will not help her in this strait.'

'What then can we do? We have gratitude – it is hers. And our fortune, it is hers if she will take it.'

'Oh! Will, be patient with me, dear. We can give her indeed, all that we have: we can give her' – she bent over me and kissed me, and her tears fell upon my forehead – 'we can give her, Will – ourselves.'

'What?'

'We can give her – ourselves. The whole of our lives. We can become her servants in grateful thanks for all that she has done for us.'

'But how, Alice, how?'

'Consider: she is going out to a new country – alone. We know not into what company she may fall. It is a rough country not yet fully settled I am told: there are fierce Indians and cruel snakes and wild beasts – though I fear the men worse than the beasts. Who will protect her? She is beautiful and men are sometimes driven mad by beauty in women.'

I began to understand.

'Let us go away with her to this new country, where she shall be the mistress and we will be the servants. They say it is a beautiful country, with fine sunshine and fruits in plenty. Let us go with her, Will, and protect her from dangers and teach her to forget the thieves' kitchen and make her happy among the flowers and the woods. We will turn her captivity into a holiday: we will think of nothing in the world but to make her happy. I have told you. Will, what is in my mind. And, my dear, I verily believe the Lord Himself has put it there.'

I reflected for a little. Then I kissed her. 'I am content, my dear,' I said. 'As you desire, so shall it be. We will go with Jenny and become her servants as long as the duty shall be laid upon us.'

And so we fell asleep. And in the morning this thing seemed a dream. But it was no dream. Then we had to begin our preparations. It would be close on three weeks, we learned, before the ship, the Pride of Ratcliffe, would be ready to drop down the river. I went on board and saw the Captain. He told us that Lord Brockenhurst had already engaged the best cabin for Madame, that although one of the convicts she was to be treated differently: to be separated from the rest: not to mix with them: wherein, he said grimly, 'she is lucky indeed.' With her and in her cabin was to go another convict, a young girl. They were to mess in the Captain's cabin. 'See,' he said, 'what it is to be a friend of a noble Lord.' I told him that the lady was a cousin of my own, which disconcerted him. However, without many more words, we came to an understanding. I was to have a cabin for so much. And the Captain undertook to lay in provisions for us. He was kind enough to draw up a list of the things we should require: it appeared necessary for a passenger to America to buy up half the beeves and sheep of Smithfield, together with all the turkey, geese and poultry, of Leadenhall, not to speak of wine and rum, enough for the whole crew. He said that in bad weather so much of the live-stock was destroyed that it was necessary to provide against these accidents. So he prevailed, and I think I kept the whole ship's company with my stores.

The ship was of 350 tons burden, a stout, well-built ship, with three masts, not unlike one of my father's West Indiamen, but inferior in tonnage: she was slow, it afterwards appeared, generally doing from four knots an hour, or about a hundred knots a day at such times as there was a favourable wind. If the wind was unfavourable, as generally happened, her speed was much less. As for the length of the voyage, the Captain reckoned that taking one voyage with another, she would get across in six or eight weeks: the uncertainty of the time, as he pointed out, as well as the possibility of storms, called for the apparently vast quantity of provisions which he was laying in for our party.

And now began a busy time. First I communicated our design to Mr. Dewberry, the attorney, who entirely approved of it. Next I arranged with him for the safe investment of my new fortune as to which there was no difficulty at all as soon as the death of Matthew had been duly proved and attested. The amount which was originally £100,000 had now by the accumulation of the interest become over £120,000, which, at five per cent., produced the enormous income of £6,000 a year – more than a hundred pounds a week. What would we do with a hundred pounds a week? Mr. Dewberry laughed. 'I have never yet,' he said, 'found a rich man complaining of too much wealth. For the most part he complains of poverty. In a word, Mr. Halliday, your wealth will before many months cease to be a burden to you. But remember, great as is this income, even in the wealthy City of London, and enormous as it will be in the distant land of Virginia, there are limits to the power even of such an income. Keep within it: keep within it.'

It matters not how we made this money safe – that is, as safe as money can be made. There are stocks and shares in the National Debt. Some of these were obtained: and there were houses in the City which were bought: in a few days my excellent attorney put my affairs in such order that I was enabled to leave England without fear, and to be provided, moreover, with letters of credit by which I could draw for such money as might be necessary from time to time. By this time our plans, much talked about, were matured. We would purchase an estate, as a plantation: in Virginia every estate is a plantation: it would be probably a tobacco-growing estate with its servants and slaves and buildings complete. Thither we would all go together and take up our abode. Letters were provided which I could present to responsible and honest merchants at Baltimore, by whose assistance I hoped to get what we desired, and we resolved, further, to tell Jenny nothing of these plans until we were all on board together.

The next thing was to find out what we should take out from the old country to the new. It was reported that already they made nearly everything that was wanted: such as furniture and things made out of the woods of the country, which are various and excellent. The things most in demand were reported to be knives, tools, and ironmongery of all kinds: guns and weapons: clothes of the better kind, especially dresses for gentlewomen in silk and satin and embroidered work. Books, music, and musical instruments were also scarce. I laid in a great stock of all these things: they were packed in large chests bound in iron and sent on board as they were bought.

In getting these purchases and in procuring this information the days passed quickly, because it was necessary as well that I should visit Jenny every day. A happy bustling time. After all the trouble of the past it was pleasant to think of a new world opening before us with new hopes of happiness. These hopes were realized. I do not say that people are better in the New World than in the Old; everywhere are men self-seeking and grasping: but there is less suffering, less poverty, and, I believe, none of such infernal wickedness as may be devised at home by men like Probus and Merridew. Such monstrous growths are not found in a new country where the population is thin, and there is no place for villains to hide their heads. The worst trouble in Virginia, in those days, was with the convicts, concerning whom I shall speak immediately.