The Orange Girl. Walter Besant

the ladies of the Prison were dining. 'The tavern invites us: the gaming table offers us a seat: we have our virtues and our vices. But we have not our crimes. And as a rule we cannot boast among our company the presence of the Robber, the Forger, or the Common Rogue. We have, in a word, no representative, as a rule of the Gallows, the Pillory, the Stocks, the Cart-tail, and the Whipping Post.'

      I waited, for he did not like to be interrupted.

      'Sir,' he went on, 'I am a Poet. As a child of the Muses' – I thought they were unmarried but did not venture on that objection – 'it is my business to observe the crooked ways of men and the artful ways of women, even though one may at times be misunderstood – as has once or twice happened. One may be the temporary companion of a Rogue without having to pick a pocket. I remember the faces of those two men – I saw them in a Thieves' Kitchen whither I was taken in disguise by one who knows them. The Captain, Sir, is a Highwayman, common and notorious. He is now five-and-twenty, and his rope is certainly long out, so that he is kept from Tyburn Tree by some special favour by Mr. Merridew the Thief-Taker. The other, whom they call the Bishop, is a Rogue of some education. He may last longer because he is useful and it would be hard to replace him. He was once usher in a suburban school at Marybone, and now writes lying, threatening or begging letters for the crew. He also concocts villainies. He threatens to set the house on fire, or to bring the householder into bankruptcy: or in some way to injure him fatally unless he sends a certain sum of money. He tells gentlemen who have been robbed that they can have their papers back, but not their money, by sending a reward. His villainy is without any pity or mercy or consideration. The Captain is a mere robber – a Barabbas. The Bishop is worse: he has the soul of a Fiend in the body of a man.'

      'But why,' I said 'are they here?'

      'They are in hiding. A sham debt has been sworn against them. From their dejected faces and from what I have overheard them saying, I learn that a true debt has been added for another detainer. But indeed I know not their affairs, except that they came here in order to be out of the way, and that something has happened to disconcert their plans. As honest men we must agree in hoping that their plans, which are certainly dishonest, may succeed, in order that their presence among us may cease and so we may breathe again. The air of the Prison is sometimes close and even musty, but we do not desire it to be mistaken for the reek of St. Giles's or the stench of Turnmill Street.'

      However, I troubled myself but little as to these two men. And I know not how long they were in the prison. Had I known what they would do for me in the future I think I should have brained them there and then.

      This afternoon the pair were talking together with none of the listlessness that belongs to the King's Bench. 'Might as well get out at once' – I heard fragments – 'quite certain that he won't appear – no more danger – if she will consent,' and so on – phrases to which I paid no attention.

      Suddenly, however, they stopped short, and both cried out together:

      'She's come herself!'

      I looked out of my window and beheld a Vision.

      The lady was alone. She stood at the end of the Parade and looked about her for a moment with hesitation, because the scene was new to her. She saw the ragged rout playing racquets: drinking at their tables: leaning against the pumps at each of which there is always a little gathering: or strolling by in couples on the Parade. Then she advanced slowly, looking to the right and to the left. She smiled upon the people as they made way for her: no Queen could have smiled more graciously: yet not a Queen, for there was no majesty in her face, which was inspired by, and filled with, Venus herself, the Goddess of charm and grace and loveliness. Never was a face more lovely and more full of love. As for her dress, all that I can tell you is that I have never known at any time how this lady was dressed: she carried, I remember, an ivory-handled fan in her hand: she seemed to beholders to be dressed in nothing but lace, ribbons and embroidery. Her figure was neither tall nor short. Reasonably tall, for a woman ought not to be six feet high: so tall as not to be insignificant: not so tall as to dwarf the men: slender in shape and quick and active in her movements. Her eyes, which I observed later, changed every moment with her change of mood: one would say that they even changed their colour, which was a dark blue: they could be limpid, or melting, or fiery, or pitiful; in a word, they could express every fleeting emotion. Her features changed as much as her eyes: one never knew how she would look, until one had watched and known her in all her moods and passions: her lips were always ready to smile: her face was continually lit up by the sunshine of joy and happiness. But this woman wanted joy as some women want love. Her voice was gentle and musical.

      I speak of her as I knew her afterwards, not as she appeared on this, the first day of meeting. I make no excuse for thus speaking of her, because, in truth, the very thought of Jenny – I have too soon revealed her name – makes me long to speak of what she was. Out of the fulness of my heart I write about her. And as you will understand presently, I could love without wronging my wife, and as much as a woman can be loved, and yet in innocence and with the full approval of the other woman whom also I loved.

      At the sight of this apparition the whole Prison stared with open mouth. Who was this angel, and for what fortunate prisoner did she come? At the very outset, when I could not dream that she would ever condescend to speak to me, she seemed the most lovely woman I had ever beheld. Some women might possess more regular features: no one, sure, was ever so lovely, so bewitching, so attractive. It is as if I could go on forever repeating my words. The women of the Prison – poor tattered drabs, for the most part – looked after her with sighs – oh! to dress like that! Some of them murmured impudently to each other, 'Who gave her all that finery?' Most of them only looked and longed and sighed. Oh! to be dressed like her! To look like her! To smile like her! To put on that embroidered petticoat – that frock – those gloves – to carry that fan – to possess that figure – that manner! Well: to gaze upon the inaccessible may sometimes do us good. The sight of this Wonder made those poor women appear a little less slatternly. They straightened themselves: they tidied their hair: the more ragged crept away.

      As for the men, they followed her with looks of wonder and of worship. For my own part I understood for the first time that power of beauty which compels admiration, worship and service: when I am greatly moved by music that memory comes back to me. In looking upon such a woman, one asks not what has been her history: what she is: what she has done: one accepts the heavenly cheerfulness of her smile: the heavenly wisdom seated on her brow: the heavenly innocence in her eyes: the purity which cannot be smirched or soiled by contact with things of the world.

      I continued to gaze upon her while she walked up the Parade. To my surprise this angelic creature stopped before the pair of worthies – the bully in scarlet and the drunken divine. What could she want with them? They received her with profound salutations, the Bishop sweeping the ground with his greasy hat.

      'Madam,' he said, 'we did not expect that you would yourself condescend to such a place.'

      'I wished to see you,' she replied, curtly. I seemed to remember her voice.

      'May we conduct you, Madam,' said the Captain, 'to the Coffee-room for more private conversation. Perhaps a glass – '

      'Or,' said the Bishop, for she refused the proffered glass with an impatient gesture – could such a woman drink with such men? she refused, I say, with a shake of her head, 'for greater privacy to our own room. It is on the third floor. No one will venture to intrude upon us – and there is a chair. I fear that, in the neglect, which is too common in this place, the beds are not yet made,' He looked as if the morning wash had not been performed either.

      'What do I care, sir,' she asked, interrupting again, 'whether your beds are made or not? I shall stay here,' She withdrew a little nearer to the wall beside my window, so as to be outside the throng of people. 'We can talk, I suppose, undisturbed, and unheard, though, so far as I care, all the world may hear. Bless me! The people look as if a woman was a rare object here.' She looked round at the crowd. 'Yet there are women among your prisoners. Well, then, what have you got to say? Speak up, and quickly, because I like not the place or the company. You wrote to me. Now go on.'

      'I wrote to you,' said the Bishop, 'asking a great favour. I know that we have no reason to expect that or any other favour from you.'

      'You have