The Orange Girl Part 46

'The Case of Clarinda, whose future yet remains to be determined, is one which ought to reduce to humility those who boast of our civilization and the justice of our inst.i.tutions. For, certainly, it will be allowed that the first requisite of justice is that the officers of the State shall be sufficiently provided with intelligence, with resources and with encouragement, to search into all cases of alleged crime, and to take care by ascertaining especially the private character and previous history of the witnesses how far they are to be credited. In a word, and speaking of those cases in which human intelligence can be of avail, it should be impossible for an innocent man to be convicted of any crime charged to him. Yet the case of Clarinda shows that such is the condition of the times, such the weakness of our criminal procedure that a conspiracy as vile, as villainous, as was ever concocted out of h.e.l.l would have succeeded to the judicial murder of an innocent man, had it not been for the activity, the courage, the lavish expenditure of a woman unaided and single-handed. Her efforts have resulted in the escape of the innocent man and the imprisonment of the conspirators. But at what a price for herself?

'Clarinda is the daughter of a widow who for a long time has kept a tavern in that part of the town known as St. Giles's. It is not pretended that the place is the resort of the Quality. There has been nothing, however, alleged against the conduct of the house or the character of the landlady. Some of the frequenters certainly belonged to the ranks of those who live by their wits. It is not the case, as alleged in some quarters, that Clarinda was ever the companion or the friend of these people. When she was still quite young she was placed in the pit of Drury Lane Theatre as an Orange Girl. Accident drew towards her the attention of the manager, who found her clever and attractive with a lovely face and figure, a charming manner, and a beautiful voice.

In a word, the Orange Girl was transferred to the stage, and there became the delight of the town; the greatest favourite of living actresses.

'After a time Clarinda, as often happens to actresses, grew weary of the stage, and longed for a quiet life in the country far from the lights and music and applause of the Theatre.

'Among the many who sighed for her was a young merchant from the city; he said he was rich; he swore he loved her; he promised to take her out of town to a country house where she would have a carriage, a garden, and all that she could desire.

'Clarinda listened. He was grave in demeanour; he was even austere; but this proved that he was free from the vices of the men she more frequently met. Clarinda accepted him, and they were married.

'She discovered, on the very day of her marriage, that he had lied to her. He was not rich, though once he had been possessed of a large fortune; he was a gambler; he had gambled away all his money; he had married her because she was lovely; he proposed to use her charms for the purpose of attracting rich gentlemen to his rooms where he intended to carry on a gaming table.

'Clarinda on this discovery instantly left the man in disgust; but for the moment she would not go back to the stage. She then took a large house in one of the western squares. She decorated and furnished this house, and she opened it for Masquerades and a.s.semblies. One day she received a letter from two of the frequenters of her mother's house.

They were in a Debtors' Prison: they were afraid of becoming known, in which case not only would other detainers be put in, but they might themselves be arrested on some criminal charge.

'Clarinda, always generous, went to the Prison, saw the two men, and promised them relief. It was an unfortunate act of generosity, which in the end worked toward her ruin.

'In the Prison she espied a young man so closely resembling her own unworthy husband that she accosted him and learned that he was imprisoned, probably for life, by her husband aided by Mr. Vulpes, an Attorney, on a vamped-up charge of debt with the hope of making him obtain his liberty by selling his chance of succession to a large fortune.

'She obtained the release of this gentleman, who, with his wife, can never cease to be sufficiently grateful to her. She gave him, for he was a fine musician, a place in her orchestra.

'She then learned that Vulpes, the attorney, together with one Traditor, a Thief taker, was organizing another plot against this already injured gentleman. But she was unable to learn the nature of the plot, except that the two Villains whom she had released from Prison were involved in it. The next step was that the gentleman was accused by the whole party of four as a highway robber, and as such was cast into prison.

'Then it was that our Magistrates should have taken up the case.

Clarinda repaired to Rhadamanthus, the Magistrate, and pointed out to him the truth. He told her that he had neither men nor money to follow up the case. Therefore Clarinda, at her own expense, fetched up from various country prisons turnkeys and governors who should expose the character of the witnesses; she persuaded her mother and sister to give evidence to the same effect; in order to do this, she was obliged to buy her mother out of the tavern. She herself gave evidence; and she made her unwilling husband give evidence. The result was the acquittal of the prisoner and the committal of the conspirators. Not the magistrates of the country; but--_Dux femina facti_--a woman, without a.s.sistance, single-handed, at her own private charges, has done this.

'"Non tali auxilio non defensoribus istis Tempus eget."

'That the mob should, in revenge, wreck her house and destroy her property was to be expected at a time when we cannot protect our streets in the very day time. But there was more.

'Clarinda's mother at the time of the trial had in her keeping a certain quant.i.ty of stolen property. Whether she knew it to be stolen or not cannot be said. When, however, the old woman accepted Clarinda's proposal that she should give evidence against the conspiracy she seems to have thought that the garrets of her daughter's house would be a safe place for storing these goods. She was observed to be conveying them by a woman, the mistress of one of the conspirators. While the house was in the hands of the mob, this woman looked for, and found the property--a miserable paltry collection of rags--in the garrets. For the sake of revenge she brought information against Clarinda, who now therefore lies in Newgate waiting her trial at the Old Bailey.

'What should Clarinda do? If she pleads "Not Guilty," which under ordinary circ.u.mstances she should do; the more so as there is no evidence whatever to connect her with any knowledge of these rags; she will be acquitted; but then her mother will be arrested and tried on this capital charge. If, on the other hand, she takes upon herself the full responsibility, the mother escapes scot free while the daughter may pay the full penalty for the crime.

'The reader will not think it necessary to ask what course will be pursued by Clarinda. The generous heart which would risk all, sacrifice all, lavish all, in the cause of justice and for the rescue of a man--not her lover, but a worthless husband's cousin--from an ignominious and undeserved death, will a.s.suredly not hesitate to save her erring mother even at the risk of her own life. That generous heart; that n.o.ble heart; will be sustained and followed unto the end, even though justice demands the uttermost penalty, by the tears of all who can admire heroic sacrifice and filial martyrdom.'

There was more, but this is enough.

In a single day the voice of the people veered round to the opposite pole. It was wonderful how quickly opinion was changed. Jenny, who yesterday had been a traitress; a spy; a receiver of stolen goods; a hussy with no character; suddenly became a heroine; a martyr.

Then the men remembered once more that she was a wonderful actress; a most charming woman; a most beautiful, graceful, vivacious creature.

Then, as of old, men recalled the evenings when as they sat in the pit, Jenny seemed to have singled out one by one each for a separate and individual smile, so that they went home, their heads in the clouds, to dream of things impossible and unspeakable, and all the old love for the Favourite returned to them, and they panted for Jenny to be set free.

During this time I was with Jenny all day long ready to be of service to her. The more I observed her, the more I marvelled at the strange power which brought all men to their knees before her. She had but to smile upon them and they were conquered. The Governor of the Prison was her servant; the turnkeys were her slaves; her visitors crowded her narrow cell every afternoon, while Jenny received them dressed like a Countess with the manner of a Countess. Sometimes I was honoured by her commands to play to them; tea and chocolate were served daily. Great ladies came with the rest to gaze upon her; actresses, once her rivals, now came, all rivalry apart, to weep over her; gentlemen wrote her letters of pa.s.sionate love; portrait painters begged on their knees permission to limn her lovely features. In a word, for a while the centre of fashion was Jenny's cell in Newgate.

And every day, among the visitors stood my Lord of Brockenhurst, foremost in sympathy and truest in friendship. He was, indeed, as Jenny had a.s.sured me, the most loyal of the gentlemen and the most sincere of friends.

It must be added that Jenny's time in prison was not wholly spent in converting a cell into a drawing-room of fashion. The unfortunate women, her fellow-prisoners, were much worse off than the men; they had fewer friends; they were suffered to starve on the penny loaf a day, the allowance of the prison. They lay for the most part in cold and starvation; in rags and dirt and misery overwhelming. Jenny went into their yard and among them. There was the poor creature who had caused her arrest. She was half starved now. Jenny gave her food and spoke to her friendly without reproach; she sent food to others who were starving. She not only fed them; she talked to them, not about their sins, because poor Jenny knew nothing about sins except so far as that certain deeds are punished by the law; but she talked to them about being clean and neat: she revived the womanly instinct in them: made them wash themselves, dress their hair, and take pleasure again in making themselves attractive. Never had a woman a keener sense of the duty of women to be beautiful. She made them in a week or two so civilized that they left off fighting: there was not a black eye in the place; and while Jenny was in the ward there was hardly so much as a foul word. It was pretty to see how they loved her and welcomed her and would have worked themselves to death for her. Poor lost souls--if indeed they are lost! They must all be dead now. The horrible gallows has killed some; the gaol fever, others; the fever of bad food and bad drink and bad air, others, yet until the day of death I am sure that all remembered Jenny. Notably, there was her accuser. She was sullen at first; she was revengeful; next she was ashamed and turned aside; then she wept; and then she became like a tame kitten following her through the ward, hungering and thirsting for one more word--one more word of friendship--from the very woman whom she had brought to this place.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FALLEN ALDERMAN

Let me return to the wretched man who had caused this trouble. I learned that, although his two fellow-prisoners declared openly that Mr.

Merridew's power was gone and that he would never again have the power to hang anybody, some of his credit was still maintained: he pretended that the books--of which he spoke often and with pride, were still kept up, and that every man's life and liberty were in his hands: and many poor rogues, thinking to curry favour, waited upon him daily, bringing him presents of wine, tobacco and (secretly) rum, so that he was able to be drunk and to forget his anxieties for the greater part of the day.

The two rebels against his authority, the Bishop and the Captain, carried themselves bravely: there is, indeed, in the profession of the rogue something of the soldier, in that they both brave dangers without fear. The battle field is covered with the dead and wounded: but there are plenty left standing unhurt: every soldier thinks he will escape: the rogue's field of honour is covered with whipping-posts, stocks, pillory, and gallows. It is far more dangerous than the field of battle.

Yet every rogue hopes to escape, and carries himself accordingly.

Perhaps it is better so. One would not wish such a crew to be whining and snivelling and pretending repentance and imploring pity.

One day I met, coming out of the prison, one whose face and appearance I knew. He was old and bent, and in rags: his woollen stockings were in holes: the elbows of his coat were gone: his hat was too limp to preserve its shape: his b.u.t.tons were off his coat--he wore the old jasey with a broken pigtail. I touched him on the shoulder.

'You are Mr. Probus's clerk?' I said.

'If I am, Sir,' he replied, 'is that a crime?'

'No--no--no. But you remember me? You bade me once go throw myself into the river with a stone about my neck.'

'Ay--ay,' he replied. 'Yes, I remember you now. I did, I did. Was it good advice, young man?'

'It was, doubtless, very good advice. But I did not take it. What are you doing here?'

'I come to look after my master,' he replied simply.

'Your master? He has kept you in rags and wretchedness. He has given you a starvation wage.'

'Yet he is my master. I have eaten his bread, though it was bitter. I come every day to look after him.'

'Has he no friends? No wife or children to do this for him?'

'His friends were his money bags till he lost them. They were his wife and children as well.'

'Has he no relations--cousins--nephews?'

'Perhaps--he has driven them all away long ago.'

'You are his friend at least.'

'I am his clerk,' he repeated. 'Sir, since my master found that all his money had been thrown away and lost, he has not been himself. He has been mad with rage and grief. That is why he hatched that unfortunate plot. I was in Court and heard it. Ah! he was not himself, Sir, I a.s.sure you. Common tricks he practised daily, because he knew how far he could go. But not such a big job as this conspiracy. In his sober senses he would not have been so mad. Have you seen him, Sir? Have you observed the change in him? 'Twould bring tears to a flint. He moans and laments all day long.'

'Yes, I have seen him.'

'Sir, he thinks about nothing else. Sir, I verily believe that he does not know even that he is in Newgate. All the money he had in the world is gone--lent to Mr. Matthew and lost by Mr. Matthew. Terrible!

Terrible!'