CHAPTER XXIII
AN UNEXPECTED EVENT
At this juncture the question of money became pressing. For three monthsI had been out of a place. Jenny's money, of which she was so prodigal,was coming to an end; and although she hinted at other resources itbecame obvious to me that the attempt must be made to find employment. Ilooked forward to another round of walking about the town day after dayin fruitless search. At this juncture, however, an event happened whollyunexpected, which changed the position altogether both for myself and,as it proved, for Jenny.
You have heard how I visited my cousin in the Prison; how I found himragged and half starved; and how I gave him five guineas from his wife,which he instantly gambled away. Jenny sent him no more money; nor didshe speak of him again; nor did I again visit him; nor did I think uponhim. To think of one who had been my life-long enemy served no purposebut to make me angry: even now, after thirty years, when I have longsince forgiven this poor deluded wretch, ever running after aWill-o'-the-wisp, I cannot think of what he did for me--how he made itimpossible for my father to be reconciled--without a momentary wrathboiling up in my heart. Still, I say, at thinking of my Cousin Matthewthe pulse beats quicker; the blood rises to my cheeks; it is like awound whose scar never vanishes, though it may be hidden away: I wouldnot injure Matthew if he were still living in the world, but I cannotforget. The old rule taught to children was that we must forget andforgive; two boys fight and are reconciled: the master flogs the boy,who is then forgiven and his offence at once forgotten: we all forgetand forgive daily: yet some things may not be forgotten: the long yearsof continued persecution, animosity, misrepresentation and conspiracyagainst dear life I cannot forget, though I have long since forgiven.
One evening Mr. Ramage came to see me. 'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I havecalled to tell you what you ought to know. The Alderman, Sir, has Ifear, lost his wits: his misfortunes have made him distracted: he nowdreams that he is living in a palace, and that his riches have no limit.He buys land; he gives his daughters diamonds; he founds almshouses----'
'If he believes all that, he is surely happy,' I said.
This faithful servant shook his head. 'There is a look in his eyes whichbelies his words,' he said, 'I would rather see him wretched in hissenses than happy without them.'
'How does he live?'
'He has a room on the Master's side; some of his old friends of the Citysend him a guinea every week: his daughters pass the day with him. Hewants for nothing. But, Mr. Will--the change! the change!' and so hiseyes filled with tears. 'And he who would have been Lord Mayor--LordMayor--next year!'
'How do my cousins treat you?'
'If I was a dog and toothless they could not treat me worse, because Igave that evidence.'
The unfortunate Alderman! This was, indeed, a wretched ending to anhonourable career. I suppose that he knew nothing and suspected nothingof what was threatening; and that the news of his wrecked fortunes fellupon him like a thunderbolt. That some of his friends sent him a guineaa week showed that he was pitied rather than blamed for this wreck andruin of a noble House. Poor old merchant! And this after his Alderman'spride and glory: after being Warden of his Company: after a longpartnership in one of the oldest Houses in the City! Fortune, which usedto put Kings down and put Kings up, just by a turn of her wheel, nowmakes rich merchants bankrupt and consigns Aldermen to Debtors' Prisonsin order to bring home to all of us--even the humble musician--theuncertainty of human wealth. His wits gone a-wandering! A happiness forhim: a thing to be expected, when, at his age, there had fallen upon himthe thing which City merchants dread worse than death.
'How can we help him?' I asked.
'Nay: there is no help, but pity and to bear the scorn of the youngladies as best one may.'
'Do they know that Matthew is in the prison with him?'
'No, Sir. They do not know. They do not inquire after Mr. Matthew. Butit was of him, Sir, that I came to speak.'
It then appeared that since in every depth of misery there is a lowerdepth, so the unfortunate man had sunk still lower since I last saw him.He was absolutely destitute, ragged, starving, even bare-footed.
'Will,' said Alice, 'we must take him to-morrow what we can spare. Afterall he is your cousin. You must forgive him.'
'I would not harm him, certainly.'
Alas! Silver and gold had we little: out of our slender store we mightspare two or three shillings and some provisions. Half a loaf; a pieceof cheese; a piece of gammon; a bottle of beer; these things I carriedover to the Fleet Prison in the morning. I also carried over a warm coatwhich I could ill spare; a pair of shoes and stockings; a warm wrapperfor the neck; and a thick blanket.
I had no difficulty in finding Matthew. He sat in a bare and wretchedroom where, on this cold day of January, with a sharp frost outside,there was no fire in the grate, no curtains to the rattling windows, nocarpet, no beds, nothing but the hard planks to lie upon when night felland the poor debtors could huddle together for such warmth as thehalf-starved human body could afford. There was a small bench--I supposeit found its way there by accident. Matthew sat on that, his feet underthe bench, his body bent, his hands clasped. I called him by name.'Matthew!'
He looked up. He knew me. He murmured something, I know not what, but itwas unfriendly. To the last, he remained unfriendly.
I opened my bundle. I took out my provisions and the bottle of beer. Heate and drank enormously, but without a word of thanks. Then I took outthe stockings and the shoes and put them on: tied the kerchief round hisneck; laid the thick blanket on the floor, laid him on it and rolled itround him. He was quite unresisting; he was without gratitude; hecursed, but mechanically, and as if he could say nothing else. Insteadof getting warmer, his teeth chattered and he shivered still.
I spoke to him again. 'Is there anything more I can do for you,Matthew?'
'You can go away,' he said, articulate at last. 'You can go away andleave me. The sight of you makes me mad.' I have since thought that thismight be a sign of repentance.
'I will go away directly. Is there anything more I can do for you?'
'I want,' he said, lifting his head and looking round, 'I want to havemy turn. The last time I lost. If you will find the man who won my coatand will send him here, I shall be warm directly, and I can have anotherturn. I've lost a good deal, somehow. The luck's been against me, alwaysagainst me.'
He lay back and shivered again, though now he was wrapped up in theblanket with a warm coat on over his old rags. He should have been quitewarm. I felt his forehead; it was hot and dry.
'Matthew,' I said, 'I think you are in some kind of fever. Shall I bringa doctor for you?' There are generally about a thousand people in thisbarrack, men, women, and children, yet they have not so much as anapothecary in the place. Outside, there is the wise woman who knows theherbs and professes to cure all the diseases that flesh is heir to witha bundle of camomile, feverfew, or vervain. She commonly lives in acourt. In Fleet Street there is the apothecary who has a shop full ofdrugs. He despises the wise woman, yet is not so much wiser than she is,except in his own conceit. There is the tooth-drawer; and there is thebone-setter; but for physicians there are none.
His face, now that the pains of cold and hunger were appeased, lookedgray, and what the old women call drawn. It is a bad sign had I knownit, but I did not. I thought he was suffering from cold and hungerfirst, and from some kind of fever brought on by privation.
'You think,' he murmured--his voice was sunk almost to a whisper--'tobring a man--a murderer--to make an end--that is your revenge. But youshall not. I will send to the Warden for protection. Go away. Leave mealone. I can do you no more harm. I will have no doctor sent by you, topoison me.'
'Do you know, Matthew, that Probus received such terrible injuries inpillory that he will remain blind for the rest of his life?'
'Blind?' he sat up eagerly repeating. 'Blind for the rest of his life.Ha! Then he will not be able to find me. Will, he wanted to get youhung--so as to be out of the w
ay. He was going to try next to get mehung. Then all the money would be his. Blind, is he? Then he can't findme. Will, the man is a devil; now a blind devil; a devil in the dark.'The thought seemed to revive and to comfort him.
'The other man, Merridew, was killed by the mob in pillory.'
'Killed--killed--by the mob. I was afraid he was going to give me up forthe reward. Then I am safe; at last. Both of them out of the way. Now Ishall prosper again.'
'Yes--you are quite safe.'
'Will,' he held out his hand. 'Don't bear malice. Don't give informationagainst me.'
'I am not going to give any information against you.' But I could nottake his hand, for which I was afterwards sorry.
'The information ought to be worth fifty pounds at least and a Tyburnticket--a Tyburn ticket,' he went on repeating the words over one afterthe other, which showed the weakness of his condition.
It is useless setting down all the nonsense he talked. After a while Ileft him and looked about for someone who would attend to him. PresentlyI found an old man in rags, almost as bad as Matthew's, who undertook tolook after him and give him some food from time to time. So I went awayand repaired to my daily post at Newgate again, saying nothing to Jennyabout this illness.
I repeat that I had no thought of anything but what they call a feverishcold, which would be checked by the warmth and the food. You maytherefore imagine my surprise when I went to visit the sick man in themorning to learn that he was dead.
'He talked a lot of nonsense,' said the old man, his nurse; 'all daylong he talked nonsense about murdering and hanging, and dividingthousands. Now and then I gave him a bit and a sup and he went ontalking. There was no candle and I lay down beside him with a corner ofhis blanket over me, and in the middle of the night I woke up and foundthat he had left off talking and was quite still and cold. So I went tosleep again.' The insensate wretch had actually finished his sleepbeside the corpse.
Matthew was dead.
They showed me his body lying in a small shed against the wall. It waslaid in a shell of pinewood roughly painted black, with no name or plateupon it. It was to be taken across to the churchyard of St. George'sthat afternoon, to be laid in a pauper's grave without mourners orfriends, and with a service hurriedly gabbled over his coffin.
The old man who had nursed him was now comfortably wrapped in theblanket and clothed in the coat and stockings which Alice had sent forthe use of the dead man. I hope the things kept him warm.
Matthew was dead. At first I did not understand the difference it madeto me. I asked if he had left anything behind him; any letters or papersor anything at all that his sisters might desire to have. There wasnothing; absolutely nothing was left of him at all.
Most of our lives are like the stones thrown in the water; it makescircles widening and growing indistinct; presently these signs vanishaltogether. Then the stone is clean forgotten. So the man and his lifeare clean forgotten, never to be brought to mind again. Matthew left nocircles even; his was a stone that fell into the water silently and madeno splash and left no mark upon the surface even for a minute. He livedfor eight-and-twenty years: he ruined an old and noble House of trade;he lost all the wealth and possessions and money of the House; he lostall the money he could borrow; he plotted against me continually inorder to get some of the money which might be mine; he wilfully anddeliberately deceived the woman who married him; he died in a debtors'prison without a single friend in the world or a single possession tobequeath to a single friend, if he had one. To die lying on thefloor--it would have been on the bare planks but for Alice; in the darkroom without fire or light; what more wretched end could one desire forhis worst enemy? What more miserable record could one set down against aman?
I could do nothing more. I left the poor shell in the shed and passedover to the other side. If my uncle could understand anything I had tocommunicate the sad news to him. His only son was dead--What a son! Whata life! What a death!
The alderman was sitting before the fire. With him sat his twodaughters. The guinea a week which was meant for him alone procured foodfor the two girls as well. They passed the whole day, I believe, sittingthus before the fire in gloom and bitterness; their bitterness wasmostly directed against myself as the supposed cause of all theirtroubles.
'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 goodnews, I am sorry to say.'
'That one can see by the joy expressed in your face.' Yet I did not feeljoyful.
'Sir,' I addressed my uncle. 'I bring you bad news.'
He looked up and smiled vacuously. 'You will find my brother, sir, onChange, 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. Oron 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 tohim. You have seen us in our shame and misery. Give us your news andgo.'
'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 thereason; perhaps he did not know that.
They looked at each other. Then they burst into tears. I thought theywere natural tears such as a sister might shed over the loss of herbrother. But they were not. 'Oh!' they cried. 'Oh! Oh! Oh! And now youwill have the whole of that great fortune. And we thought that you woulddie and that Matthew would have it. What a misfortune! What a dreadfulthing!' They wept and lamented, capping each other in lamentations allto the effect that the fortune had fallen to the undeserving one. 'Andafter all his plots and after his shameful trial before all the world!And after his highway robbery! And after the things that have been doneto us! and now that people will say that Matthew died a Pauper--on theCommon side! On the Poor side! We can never hold up our heads again.'
So I left these dear creatures. Never could I understand why theyattributed any one of their misfortunes to me; nor of what nature werethe 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 weekgiven by the Alderman's old friend; the uncertainty of his life; allshould be considered when we think of their bitterness.
For my own part it was not until my cousins reminded me that Iunderstood the great difference which the event made to me.
I was the survivor: and my succession came to me in less than threeyears after my father's death.
I was the survivor. At a single step I rose from the condition of asimple fiddler, at twenty-five or thirty shillings a week, to thepossession of a fortune of over a hundred thousand pounds.
I hastened to our trusty attorney, Mr. Dewberry. I apprised him of whathad happened; he undertook to present my claims and to transfer themoney 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 thatyou 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 asyou 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--awidow. 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--eitherto you or to me.'
'Let us not speak of him, then.'
'No--we must forget him. As for this money, Will, it is yours--yourown--yours and Alice's--and the lovely boy's.'
'Jenny--all that we have is yours: all that we have andmore ... more ... gratitude and love and devotion--which aremore than gold.'
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