CHAPTER IX
THE CLAIM AND THE ARREST
You have heard how my old friend David Camlet, musical instrument maker,of Dowgate Street, presented me--or my wife--on our marriage, with ahandsome harpsichord. Shortly after my father's death, this good oldgentleman also went the way of all flesh: a melancholy event which Ionly learned by receiving a letter from Mr. Probus. Imagine, if you can,my amazement when I read the following:
'Sir,
'I have to call your immediate attention to your debt of fifty-five pounds for a harpsichord supplied to you by David Camlet of Dowgate Street, deceased. I shall be obliged if you will without delay discharge this liability to me as attorney for the executors--
'And Remain Sir,
'Your obedient humble Servant,
'EZEKIEL PROBUS'
'Why,' said Alice. 'Mr. Camlet gave us the instrument. It was a freegift.'
'It was. If Mr. Probus will acknowledge the fact.'
'Mr. Probus? Is it that man with the harsh voice who talked lies toyou?'
'The same. And much I fear, wife, that he means no good by thisletter.'
'But Mr. Camlet gave us the harpsichord.'
Had the letter been received from any other person I should haveconsidered it as of no importance; but the thought that it came from Mr.Probus filled me with uneasiness. What had that worthy attorney said?'There are ways--we shall find a way to bring you to reason.'
'My dear,' said Alice, 'since we have had the instrument for two yearswithout any demand for payment, we ought to be safe. Better go and seethe man.'
It was with very little hope that I sallied forth. Not only was this mana personal enemy but he was an attorney. What must be the true nature ofthat profession which so fills the world with shuddering and loathing?Is it, one asks, impossible to be an honest attorney? This one, at allevents, was as great a villain as ever walked. They are a race withoutpity, without scruple, without turning either to the right or to theleft when they are in pursuit of their prey. They are like the weaselwho singles out his rabbit and runs it down, being turned neither to oneside nor the other. Their prey is always money: they run down the manwho has money: when they have stripped him naked they leave him, whetherit is in a debtor's prison or in the street: when he is once strippedthey regard him no longer. Other men take revenge for human motives, forwrongs done and endured: these men know neither revenge nor wrath: theydo not complain of wrongs: you may kick them: you may cuff them: it isnothing: they want your money: and that they will have by one way oranother.
I took boat from St. Mary Overies stairs. As I crossed the river adreadful foreboding of evil seized me. For I perceived suddenly that,somehow or other, Mr. Probus was personally interested in getting me tosell my reversion. How could he be interested? I could not understand.But he was. I remembered the persuasion of his manner: his anxiety toget my signature: his sudden manifestation of disappointment when Irefused. Why? Matthew was now a partner with a large income and thefortune which my father left him. Matthew had no expensive tastes. Whyshould Mr. Probus be interested in his affairs?
Next, asked the silent reasoner in my brain, what will happen when youdeclare that you cannot pay this debt? This man will show no mercy. Youwill be arrested--you will be taken to Prison. At this thought Ishivered, and a cold trembling seized all my limbs. 'And you will stayin the Prison till you consent to sell your reversion.' At which Iresumed my firmness. Never--never--would I yield whatever an accursedattorney might say or do to me.
Mr. Probus wrote from a house in White Hart Street. It is a smallstreet, mostly inhabited by poulterers, which leads from Warwick Lane toNewgate market: a confined place at best: with the rows of birdsdangling on the hooks, not always of the sweetest, and the smell of themeat market close by and the proximity of the shambles, it is a dark andnoisome place. The house, which had a silver Pen for its sign, wasnarrow, and of three stories: none of the windows had been cleaned for along time, and the door and doorposts wanted paint.
As I stood on the doorstep the words again came back to me, 'We willmake him sell his reversionary interest.'
The door was opened by an old man much bent and bowed with years: histhin legs, his thin arms, his body--all were bent: on his head he wore asmall scratch wig: he covered his eyes with his hand on account of theblinding light, yet the court was darkened by the height of the housesabove and the dangling birds below.
He received my name and opened the door of the front room. I observedthat he opened it a very little way and entered sliding, as if afraidthat I should see something. He returned immediately and beckoned me tofollow him. He led the way into a small room at the back, not muchbigger than a cupboard, which had for furniture a high desk and a highstool placed at a window so begrimed with dirt that nothing could beseen through it.
There was no other furniture. The old man climbed upon his stool withsome difficulty and took up his pen. He looked very old and shrivelled:his brown coat was frayed: his worsted stockings were in holes: hisshoes were tied with leather instead of buckles: there was no show ofshirt either at the wrist or the throat. He looked, in fact, what hewas, a decayed clerk of the kind with which, as a boy, I had been quitefamiliar. It is a miserable calling, only redeemed from despair--becausethe wages are never much above starvation-point--by the chance and thehope of winning a prize in the lottery. No clerk is ever so poor that hecannot afford at least a sixteenth share in this annual bid for fortune.I never heard that any clerk within my knowledge had ever won a prize:but the chance was theirs: once a year the chance returns--a chance offortune without work or desert.
Presently the old man turned round and whispered, 'I know your face. Ihave seen you before--but I forget where. Are you in trade? Have you gota shop?'
'No. I have no shop,'
'You come from the country? No? A bankrupt, perhaps? No? Going to makehim your attorney?' He shook his head with some vehemence and pointed tothe door with his pen. 'Fly,' he said. 'There is still time.'
'I am not going to make him or anyone else my attorney,'
'You come to borrow money? If so'--again he pointed to the door with thefeathery end of the quill. 'Fly! There is still time.'
'Then you owe him money. Young man--there is still time. Buy a stone atthe pavior's--spend your last penny upon it; then tie it round your neckand drop into the river. Ah! It is too late--too late--' For just thenMr. Probus rang a bell. 'Follow me, Sir. Follow me. Ah! That pavingstone!'
Mr. Probus sat at a table covered with papers. He did not rise when Iappeared, but pointed to a chair.
'You wish to see me, Mr. William,' he began. 'May I ask with whatobject?'
'I come in reply to your letter, Mr. Probus,'
'My letter? My letter?' He pretended to have forgotten the letter. 'Iwrite so many, and sometimes--ay--ay--surely. The letter about thetrifling debt due to the estate of David Camlet Deceased. Yes--yes, I amadministering the worthy man's estate. One of many--very many--who havehonoured me with their confidence.'
'That letter, Mr. Probus, is the reason why I have called.'
'You are come to discharge your obligation. It is what I expected. Youare not looking well, Mr. William. I am sorry to observe marks--are theyof privation?--on your face. Our worthy cousin, on the other hand, has aframe of iron. He will live, I verily believe, to ninety.'
'Never mind my cousin, Mr. Probus. He will live as long as the Lordpermits.'
'When last I saw you Sir, you foolishly rejected a most liberal offer.Well: youth is ignorant. We live and learn. Some day, too late, youwill be sorry. Now, Sir, for this debt. Fifty-five pounds. Ay.Fifty-five pounds. And my costs, which are trifling.'
'I have come to tell you, Mr. Probus, that your letter was written undera misapprehension.'
'Truly? Under a misapprehension? Of what kind, pray?'
The harpsichord was a gift made by Mr. David Camlet. I did not buy it.'
Mr. Probus lifted his eyebrows. 'A gift? Really? You have proof
, nodoubt, of this assertion?'
'Certainly.'
'Well, produce your proofs. If you have proofs, as you say, I shall bethe first to withdraw my client's claim. But makers of musicalinstruments do not usually give away their wares. What are your proofs,Sir?'
'My word, first.'
'Ta--ta--ta. Your word. By such proof every debtor would clear himself.What next?'
'The word of my wife who with me received the instrument from Mr.Camlet.'
'Receiving the instrument does not clear you of liability--what else?'
'The fact that Mr. Camlet never asked me for the money.'
'An oversight. Had he, in a word, intended the instrument for a gift, hewould have said so. Now, Sir, what other proofs have you?'
I was silent. I had no other proof.
He turned again to the book he had before consulted. It was the ledger,and there, in Mr. Camlet's own handwriting, firm and square, was anentry:
'To Will Halliday--a Harpsichord, L55.
In another book was an entry to the office that the instrument had beendelivered.
Of course, I understand now what the old man meant by the entry. Hewanted to note the gift and the value: and unfortunately he entered itas if it was a business transaction.
'Well, Sir?' asked Mr. Probus.
I said nothing. My heart felt as heavy as lead. I was indeed in thepower of this man.
'There are such things as conspiracy,' he went on, severely. 'You havetold me, for instance, that you and your wife are prepared to swear thatthe instrument was a gift. I might have indicted you both for aconspiracy, in which case Tyburn would have been your lot. For the sakeof your excellent cousin and the worthy Mr. Peter, your uncle, Sir, Irefrain from the indictment, though I fear I might be charged withcompounding a felony. But mercy before all things: charity, mercy, andlong suffering. These are the things that chiefly nourish the humansoul, not guineas.'
I remained still silent, not knowing what to do or to say, and seeingthis abyss yawning before me.
'Come Sir,' he said with changed voice, 'you owe fifty pounds and costs.If it were to myself I would give you time: I would treat you tenderly:but an Attorney must protect his clients. Therefore I must have thatmoney at once.'
'Give me time to consult my friends.' Alas! All my friends could notraise fifty pounds between them.
'You have none. You have lost your friends. Pay me fifty pounds andcosts.'
'Let me see the executors. Perhaps they will hear reason.'
'For what purpose? They must have their own. The long and the short ofit, Mr. William Halliday, is that you must pay me this money.'
'Man! I have not got so much money in the world.'
He smiled--he could not disguise his satisfaction.
'Then, Mr. William Halliday'--he shut the ledger with a slam--'I fearthat my clients must adopt--most unwillingly, I am sure--the measuressanctioned by the law.' His eyes gleamed with a malicious satisfaction.'I only trust that the steps we shall have to take will not disturb themind of my much-respected client, your cousin. You will have to chooseyour prison, and you will remain in the--the Paradise of your choiceuntil this money, with costs, is paid. As for your choice, the situationof the Fleet is more central: that of the Bench is more rural: beyondthe new Prison there are green fields. The smell of the hay perhapscomes over the wall. Should you find a lengthened residence necessary, Ibelieve that the rooms, though small, are comfortable. Ah! how usefulwould have been that three thousand pounds which you refused--at such ajuncture as this.'
'If there is nothing more to be said----' I got up, not knowing what Isaid, and bewildered with the prospect before me.
'Heaven forbid, Sir,' he continued sweetly, 'that I should press youunduly. I will even, considering the tender heart of your cousin, extendto you the term. I will grant you twenty-four hours in which to find themoney.'
'You may as well give me five minutes. I have no means of raising thesum.'
'I am sorry to hear that for the sake of my clients. However, I can onlyhope'--he pushed back the papers and rose with a horrible grin of maliceon his face--'that you will find the air of the Prison salubrious. Therehave been cases of infectious fever--gaol fever, lately: perhaps theKing's Bench and the Fleet are equal in this respect. Small-pox, also,is prevalent in one: but I forget which. Many persons live for years ina Prison. I hope, I am sure, that you will pass--many--many--happy yearsin that seclusion.'
I listened to none of this ill-omened croaking, but hastened to leavehim. At the door I passed the old clerk.
'Go to the King's Bench,' he whispered. 'Not to the Fleet where he'llcall every day to learn whether you are dead. There is still time,' hepointed to his throat while he noisily opened the door. 'Round the neck.At the bottom of the River: the lying is more comfortable than in theKing's Bench.'
I had entered the house with very little hope. I left it with despair. Iwalked home as one in a dream, running against people, seeing nothing,hearing nothing. When I reached home I sat down in a kind of stupor.
'My dear,' I said, presently recovering, 'we are lost--we are ruined. Ishall starve in a Prison. Thou wilt beg thy bread. The boy will be agutter brat.'
'Tell me,' Alice took my hand. 'Oh! tell me all--my dear. Can we be lostif we are together?'
'We shall not be together. To-morrow I shall be in the Prison. For howlong God only knows.'
'Since _He_ knows, my dear, keep up your heart. When was the righteousman forsaken? Come, let us talk. There may be some means found. If wewere to pay--though we owe nothing--so much a week.'
'Alice, it is not the debt. There is no debt. It is revenge, and thehope----'
I did not finish--what I would have added was, 'The hope that I may dieof gaol fever or something.' 'My dear, be brave and let us arrange.First, I lose my situation in the Church and at the Gardens. Next, wemust provide for the child and for thyself outside the prison. No, mydear, if the Lord permits us to live any other way the child shall notbe brought up a prison bird.'
The Orange Girl Page 11
