The Orange Girl

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER V

  WEDDING BELLS AND THE BOOK OF THE PLAY

  We were married without delay. Why should we wait? I should be no richerfor waiting and time would be passing. We were married, therefore. Itwas impossible from time to time we should not be reminded of the lowlystation in which we lived. When one of my cousins was married, whatpreparations! what feasts arranged and provided! What troops of guests!What a noble company in the Church! What crowds afterwards--the streetfilled with beggars come for the broken victuals: the butchers withtheir din unmusical of marrow-bones and cleavers: the band of musicplaying outside: the acclamation of the crowd when the bride was broughtback from church: the rooms full of guests all with wedding favours: theloving-cup passing from hand to hand: the kissing of the bridesmaids:the merriment and coquetry over the bride-cake and the wedding-ring! Allthis I remembered and it made me sad for a moment. Not for long, forbeside me stood a bride sweeter far than was any cousin of mine: and Iwas a musician; and I was independent.

  We walked over the Fields to St. George's Church and were there marriedat ten o'clock in the morning. Tom gave away his sister: Alice had nobridesmaids: I had no groomsmen: there was no crowd of witnesses: therewas no loving-cup. We were married in an empty church, and aftermarriage we walked home again to Tom's cottage.

  He sat down and played a wedding march, of his own composition, made forthe occasion. 'There!' he said, 'that is better than a weddingfeast--yet there shall be a wedding feast and of the best.'

  It was served at noon: there was a duck pie: a pair of soles: a cowsliptart--a very dainty dish: and fried sweetbreads. After dinner there wasa bottle of port.

  'Will,' said my brother-in-law, taking the last glass in the bottle,'who would be one of those unhappy creatures who cannot be marriedwithout crowds and noise and a great company? Here are we, contentedwith ourselves: we have been married: we have had a royal banquet--yoursweetbreads, wife, were a morsel for a king. You are contented, Will?'

  'Quite.' For I was holding Alice by the hand.

  'You never regret the flesh-pots?'

  'Never--I have forgotten them.' This was not quite true, but it passed.

  'I have sometimes thought'--he looked from me to Alice and from Alice tome again--'that there might have been regrets.'

  'There can be none, now.'

  'Good. Hands upon it, brother. We shall miss Alice, shall we not, wife?But she will not be far off. So.' A tear stood in his eye while hekissed his sister. 'Now,' he said, 'enough of sentiment. The day isbefore us. I have got a man to take my place to-night and another totake yours. On such an occasion, Will, we must not spare and grudge. Wewill see the sights of London and then--then--none of your PleasureGardens--we will--but I have a surprise for you.'

  We sallied forth. Never was a wedding-day kept in so strange a fashion.We took oars at the Falcon Stairs to the Tower. Now Alice had spent allher life in or about the Rules of the King's Bench, but she had neverseen London City or the Sights of London. To her everything was new. Weshowed her the Tower and the wild beasts and the arms and armour and theRoyal Crown and Sceptre. After the Tower, we walked along Thames Streetwhere are the Custom House and Billingsgate Market and the Steelyard andthe Monument. We climbed up the Monument for the sake of the view: itwas a clear day, and we could discern in the distance Lambeth Palace andthe Church and perhaps even, one was not sure, the cottage which we hadtaken on the Bank. After this we went to see the Guildhall and thefamous Giants: then the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange: welooked at the shops in Cheapside: they are the richest shops in theworld, but the mercers and haberdashers do not put out in the windowtheir costly stuffs to tempt the shoplifter. 'You must imagine, Alice,'I told her, 'the treasures that lie within: some time if we ever becomerich you shall come here and buy to your heart's content.' Then weentered St. Paul's, that solemn and magnificent pile: here we heard partof the afternoon service, the boys in their white surplices singing likeangels, so that the tears rolled down my girl's face--they were tears ofpraise and prayer, not of repentance. From St. Paul's we walked up thenarrow street called the Old Bailey and saw the outside of Newgate. Nowhad we known what things we were to do and to suffer in that awfulplace, I think we should have prayed for death. But Heaven mercifullywithholds the future.

  "WE TOOK OARS AT THE FALCON STAIRS TO THE TOWER."]

  It was then about five o'clock. We went to a coffee-house and took somecoffee and ratafia. The animation of the place; the brisk conversation;the running about of the boys: the fragrant odour of the coffee: pleasedus. There were coffee-houses in the High Street, but they lacked thevivacity of this on Ludgate Hill, where Templars, Doctors of Divinity,and the mercers and goldsmiths of Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street wereassembled together to talk and drink the fragrant beverage which hasdone so much to soften the manners of the better sort.

  'And now,' said Tom, 'for my surprise.'

  He called a coach and we drove not knowing whither; he was taking us toDrury Lane.

  We were to celebrate our wedding-day by going to the Play.

  For my own part I had never--for reasons which you will understand--beenallowed to go to the Play. To sober-minded merchants the Play was athing abhorrent: a hot-bed of temptation: the amusements of Prodigalsand Profligates. Therefore I had never seen the Play. Nor had Alice orher sister-in-law, while Tom, who had once played in the orchestra, hadnever seen the Play since his debts carried him off to the King's Bench.

  We found good places in the Boxes: the House was not yet half full andthe candles were not all lighted: many of the seats were occupied byfootmen waiting for their mistresses to take them: in the Pit thegentlemen, who seemed to know each other, were standing about in littleknots conversing with the utmost gravity. One would have thought thataffairs of state were being discussed: on the contrary, we were assured,they were arguing as to the merits or the blemishes of the piece, now inits third night.

  Presently the musicians came in and the cheerful sound of tuning upbegan: then the House began to fill up rapidly; and the orange girlsmade their way about the Pit with their baskets, and walked about theback of the boxes calling out their 'fine Chaney orange--fine Chaneyorange.' Why do I note these familiar things? Because they were notfamiliar to me: because they are always connected in my mind with whatfollowed.

  The play was 'The Country Girl.' The story is about an innocent CountryGirl, an heiress, who knows nothing of London, or of the world. Herguardian wants to marry her himself for the sake of her money, though heis fifty and she is twenty: as he cannot do so without certain papersbeing drawn up, he makes her believe that they are married by breaking asixpence, and brings her to London with him. How she deceives him,pretends this and that, makes appointments and writes love-letters underhis very nose, wrings his consent to a subterfuge and marries the manshe loves--these things compose the whole play.

  The first Act, I confess, touched me little. The young fellow, thelover, talks about the girl he loves: her guardian is introduced: thereis no action: and there were no women. I felt no interest in the talk ofthe men: there was an old rake and a young rake; the soured and gloomyguardian, and the lover. They did not belong to my world, either of theCity or of St. George's Fields.

  But in the second Act the Country Girl herself appeared and with her asa foil and for companion the town woman. Now the Country Girl, Peggy byname, instantly, on her very first appearance, ravished all hearts. Forshe was so lovely, with her light hair hardly dressed at all, hanging incurls over her neck and shoulders, her bright eyes, her quick movements,that no one could resist her. She brought with her on the stage the airof the country; one seemed to breathe the perfumes of roses andjessamine. And she was so curious and so ignorant and so innocent. Shehad been taken, the evening before, to the Play: she found the actors'the goodliest, properest men': she liked them 'hugeously': she wants togo out and see the streets and the people. Her curmudgeon of a guardiancomes in and treats her with the barbarity of a natural bad temperirritated by jealousy. There was
a charming scene in which the CountryGirl is dressed as a boy so that she may walk in the Park without beingrecognised by her lover--but she is recognised and is kissed by the veryman whom her guardian dreads. There is another in which she is made towrite a letter forbidding her lover ever to see her again: this isdictated by the guardian: when he goes to fetch sealing-wax she writesanother exactly the opposite and substitutes it. Now all this was donewith so much apparent artlessness and so much real feminine cunning thatthe play was charming whenever the Country Girl was on the stage.

  It was over too soon.

  'Oh!' cried Alice. 'She is an angel, sure. How fortunate was theexchange of letters! And how lucky that he was made, without knowing it,to grant his consent. I hope that her lover will treat her well. Shewill be a fond wife, Will, do you not think?'

  And so she went on as if the play was real and the Country Girl camereally from the country and the thing really happened. The name of theactress, I saw on the Play Bill, was Miss Jenny Wilmot. I am notsurprised looking back on that evening. The wit and sparkle of herwords seemed, by the way she spoke them, invented by herself on thespot. She held the House in a spell: when she left the stage the placebecame instantly dull and stupid: when she returned the stage becameonce more bright.

  We went back by water: it was a fine evening: a thousand stars weregleaming in the sky and in the water: we were all silent, as happenswhen people have passed a day of emotions. At my brother-in-law'scottage we made a supper out of the remains of the dinner, and aftersupper Alice and I went away to the house we had taken at Lambeth,beside the church. And so our wedded life began.

  There was another incident connected with my wedding which turned out tobe the innocent cause of a great deal that happened afterwards.

  Among my former friends in the City was a certain Mr. David Camlet whohad a shop in Bucklersbury for the sale of musical instruments. Heallowed me the run of the place and to try different instruments; it washe who first taught me to play the harpsicord and suffered me topractise in his back parlour overlooking the little churchyard of St.Pancras. The good old man would also converse with me--say, rather,instruct me in the history of composers and their works. Of the latterhe had a fine collection. In brief he was a musician born and, as wesay, to the finger tips; a bachelor who wanted no wife or mistress; onewho lived a simple happy life among his instruments and with his music.Whether he was rich or not, I do not know.

  He knew the difficulties which surrounded me: I used to tell him all: myfather's prejudice against music: my own dislike of figures andaccounts: my refuge in the highest garret when I wished topractice--only at such times when my father was out of the house: mybeloved teacher in the King's Bench Rules: he encouraged me and warnedme: he took the most kindly interest in my position, counselling alwaysobedience and submission even if by so doing I was forbidden to practiseat all for a time: offering his own parlour as a place of retreat whereI could without fear of discovery practise as much as I pleased.

  When I was turned out of the house, I made haste to inform him what hadhappened. He lifted up his hands in consternation. 'What?' he cried.'You, the only son of Sir Peter Halliday, Knight, Alderman, ex-LordMayor, the greatest merchant in the City: the heir to a plum--what do Isay? Three or four plums at the least: the future partner of so great abusiness: the future owner of a fleet, and the finest and best appointedfleet on the seas--and you throw all this away----'

  'But,' I said, 'I will be nothing but a musician.'

  'Thou shalt be a musician, lad. Wait--thou shalt have music for a hobby.It is good and useful to be a patron of music: to encourage musicians.'

  'But I would be a musician by profession.'

  'It is a poor profession, Will. Believe me, it is a beggarly profession.If you think of making money by it--give up that hope.'

  That day I had ringing in my ears certain glowing words of Tom Shirleyupon the profession and I laughed.

  'What do I care about poverty, if I can only be a musician? Mr. Camlet,you have been so kind to me always, do not dissuade me. I have chosen mypath,' I added with the grandeur that belongs to ignorance, 'and I abideby my lot.'

  He sighed. 'Nay, lad, I will not dissuade thee. Poverty is easy to face,when one is young: it is hard to bear when one is old.'

  'Then we shall be friends still, and I may come to see you sometimeswhen I am a great composer.'

  He took my hand. 'Will,' he said, with humid eyes, 'Music is acapricious goddess. It is not her most pious votary whom she most oftenrewards. Be a musician if she permits. If not, be a player only. Manyare called but few are chosen. Of great composers, there are but one ortwo in a generation. 'Tis an eager heart, and an eager face. The Lord begood to thee, Will Halliday!'

  From time to time I visited this kind old man, telling him all that Idid and hiding nothing. At the thought of my playing at the riversidetavern for the sailors to dance he laughed till the tears ran down hischeeks. 'Why,' he said, 'it was but yesterday that I looked in atChange, because it does one good sometimes to gaze upon those who, likethe pillars of St. Paul's bear up and sustain this great edifice ofLondon. Among the merchants, Will, I saw thy respected father. Trulythere was so much dignity upon his brow: so much authority in his walk:so much mastery in his voice: so much consideration in his reception:that I marvelled how a stripling like thyself should dare to rebel. Andto think that his son plays the fiddle in a sanded tavern for raggedJack tars to dance with their Polls and Molls. I cannot choose butlaugh. Pray Heaven, he never learn!'

  But he did learn. My good cousin kept himself informed of my doingssomehow, and was careful to let my father know.

  'Sir Peter looks well,' Mr. Camlet went on. 'He is perhaps stouter thanis good for him: his cheeks are red, but that is common: and his neck isswollen more than I should like my own to be. Yet he walks sturdily andwill wear yet, no doubt many a long year. London is a healthy place.'

  Presently I was able to tell him that I was about to be married, beingin a position which seemed to promise a sufficiency. He wished me heartycongratulations, and begged to know the happy day and the place of ourabode.

  On the morning after our wedding, before we had had time to look aroundus in our three-roomed cottage--it was designed for one of the Thamesfisherman: hardly had I found time to talk over the disposition of thefurniture, I perceived, from the casement window, marching valiantlydown the lane from St. George's Fields, my old friend Mr. David Camlet.The day was warm and he carried his wig and hat in one hand, mopping hishead with a handkerchief.

  'He comes to visit us, my dear,' I said. 'It is Mr. Camlet. What is hebringing with him?'

  For beside him a man dragged a hand-cart in which lay something largeand square, covered with matting.

  'He is the maker of musical instruments,' I explained. 'Alice, whatif--in the cart----'

  'Oh, Will--if it were----'

  Know that my great desire was to possess a harpsichord, which forpurposes of composition is almost a necessity. But such an instrumentwas altogether beyond my hopes. I might as well have yearned for anorgan.

  He stopped where the houses began and looked about him. He made straightfor our door which was open and knocked gently with his knuckles.

  Alice went out to meet him. By this time he had put on his wig and stoodwith his hat under his arm.

  'The newly married lady of my young friend, Master Will Halliday?' heasked. 'I knew it. In such a matter I am never wrong. Virtue, Madam,sits on thy brow, Love upon thy lips. Permit an old man--yet a friend ofthy worthy husband'--so saying he kissed her with great ceremony. Thenat length, the room being rather dark after the bright sunshine, heperceived me, and shaking hands wished me every kind of happiness.

  'I am old,' he said, 'and it is too late for me to become acquaintedwith Love. Yet I am assured that if two people truly love one another,to the bearing of each other's burdens: to working for each other: thenmay life be stripped of half its terrors. I say nothing of the blessingof children, the support and prop of old age. My c
hildren, love eachother always,' Alice took my hand. 'For better for worse; in poverty andin riches: love each other always.'

  I drew my girl closer and kissed her. The old man coughed huskily. 'Twasa tender heart, even at seventy.

  Alice gave him a chair: she also brought out the wedding cake (which shemade herself--a better cake was never made) and she opened the bottle ofcherry brandy we had laid in for occasions. He took a glass of thecordial to the health of the bride, and ate a piece of bride cake to ourgood luck.

  'This fellow ought to be fortunate,' he said, nodding at me. 'He hasgiven up all for the sake of music. He ought to be rewarded. He mighthave been the richest merchant on Change. But he preferred to be amusician, and to begin at the lowest part of the ladder. It is wonderfuldevotion.'

  'Sir, I have never regretted my decision.'

  'That is still more wonderful. No--no--I am wrong'--he laughed--'quitewrong. If you were to regret it, now, you would be the mostthankless dog in the world. Aha! The recompense begins--in fullmeasure--overflowing--with such a bride.'

  'Oh! Sir,' murmured Alice blushing.

  He took a second glass of cherry brandy and began a speech of somelength of which I only remember the conclusion.

  'Wherefore, my friends, since life is short, resolve to enjoy all thatit has to give--together: and to suffer all that it has toinflict--together. There is much to enjoy that is lawful and innocent.The Lord is mindful of His own--Love is lawful, and innocent: there isabiding comfort in love: trust in each other raises the soul of him whotrusts and of him who is trusted: sweet music is lawful and innocent: ifthere is ever any doubt: if there is any trouble: if any fail in love:if the world becomes like a threatening sea: you shall find in music newstrength and comfort. But why do I speak of the solace of music to WillHalliday and the sister of Tom Shirley? Therefore, I say no more.'

  He stopped and rose. Alice poured out another glass of cherry brandy forhim.

  'I nearly forgot what I came for. Such is the effect of contemplatinghappiness. Will, I have thought for a long time that you wanted aharpsichord.'

  'Sir, it has been ever beyond my dreams.'

  'Then I am glad--because I can now supply that want. I have brought withme, dear lad--and dear blooming bride, as good an instrument as I havein my shop: no better in all the world.' He went out and called his man.We lifted the instrument--it was most beautiful not only in touch butalso with its rosewood case. We set it up and I tried it.

  'Oh!' Alice caught his hand and kissed it. 'Now Will is happy indeed.How can we thank you sufficiently?'

  'Play upon it,' he said. 'Play daily upon it: play the finest music onlyupon it. So shall your souls be raised--even to the gates of Heaven.'

  Once more he drew my wife towards him and kissed her on the forehead.Then he seized my hand and shook it and before I had time or could findwords to speak or to thank him, he was gone, marching down the hot lanewith the firm step of thirty, instead of seventy.

  A noble gift, dictated by the most friendly feeling. Yet it led to thefirst misfortune of my life--one that might well have proved amisfortune impossible to be overcome.

  Then began our wedded life. For two years we continued to live in thatlittle cottage. There our first child was born, a lovely boy. Everyevening I repaired to the Dog and Duck, and took my place in theorchestra. Familiarity makes one callous: I had long since ceased toregard the character of the company. They might be, as Tom pretended,the most aristocratic assembly in the world: they might be the reverse.The coloured lamps in the garden pleased me no more: nor did the sightof those who danced or the pulling of corks and the singing of songsafter supper in the bowers: the ladies were no longer beautiful in myeyes: I enquired not about the entertainment except for my own part: Inever looked at the fireworks. All these things to one who has to attendnight after night becomes part of the work and not of the entertainmentand amusement of life.

  The musician is a being apart. He takes no part in the conduct of Stateor City: he is not a philosopher: or a theologian: he is not a preacheror teacher: he writes nothing either for instruction or for amusement:in the pleasures of mankind he assists but having no share or part inthem. His place is in the gallery: they cannot do without him: he cannotlive without them: but he is a creature apart.

  My mornings were my own. Sometimes I walked with Alice on the terrace ofLambeth Palace: or went down into the Marsh and walked about themeadows: we made no friends except among the humble fishermen to whosewives Alice taught cleanliness. Sometimes, after the child came, I wouldleave Alice for the morning and walk into the City. Perhaps I had a hopethat I might meet my father. I never did, however. I looked for him onChange: I walked in Great College Street: but I never met him. I knewbeforehand that my reception would be of the coldest--but I wanted tosee him and to speak with him. I went down to Billingsgate Stairs andtook boat and was rowed about the ships in the Pool. There I recognisedour own ships: they might have been my own, but would never be mine,now. All these things I had thrown away--ships, wharf, trade, fortune.It made me proud to think so. Yet I would have spoken to my father had Imet him.

  Once I met Matthew in the street and passed him touching shoulders. Helooked me full in the face with the pretence of not knowing me. Icommanded my temper and let him go without expostulation which wouldhave led to a second fight, for which I had no desire.

  On two other occasions I saw him though he did not see me. The first wason a certain afternoon in October when it grows dark about five. I wasstrolling down Garlickhithe near Queenhithe. As I passed the Church ofSt. James's which stands a little back with steps I saw two figuresconversing: one was a man whom I knew at once for my cousin by hisshoulders and by the shape of his head. The other was a woman with aveil over her face. I knew the man next by his voice. Our Matthew hadsuch a voice--oily and yet harsh. 'If you loved me,' he said, 'youwould do this simple thing.'

  'I will never do it,' she declared, passionately. 'You have deceivedme.'

  I would not be an eavesdropper, and I passed on. Matthew, therefore, had'deceived'--the word may mean many things--a woman. Matthew, of all men!However, it was no concern of mine.

  A third time I saw him--or heard him, because I did not see him. It wasin one of those taverns where small square pews are provided with highwalls so that one cannot be heard. I sat in one with Tom Shirley, takinga pint of wine. All round were the voices of people carrying on businessin whispers and in murmurs. Suddenly I distinguished the voice ofMatthew.

  'The security is good,' he said. 'There is no finer security in theCity. I want the money.'

  'You can have some to-morrow night.' I was destined to hear a great dealmore of that grating voice. 'And the rest next week, if I can get thepapers signed. It is a confidential business, I suppose.

  'Nothing is to be said. Our House does not like to borrow money, but theoccasion is pressing.'

  'Let us go,' I said to Tom. 'We shall learn presently all Matthew'ssecrets.'

  'Matthew? Your cousin Matthew?'

  'He is in one of the boxes. I have heard his voice. Come, Tom.'