Part 21 (1/2)

'Tell me, Jenny,' I said, 'how you became his wife?'

'Yes, Will, I will tell you,' she replied humbly. 'Don't think that I ever loved him--nor could I endure his caresses--but he never offered any--the only man who never wanted to caress me was my husband--to be sure he did not love me--or anyone else--he is incapable of love. He is a worm. His hand is slimy and cold: his face is slimy: his voice is slimy. But I thought I could live with him, perhaps. If not, I could always leave him.'

She paused a little as if to collect herself.

'Every actress,' she went on, 'has troops of lovers. There are the gentlemen first who would fain make her their mistress for a month: those who would make her their mistress for a year: and those who desire only the honour and glory of pretending that she is their mistress: and then there are the men who would like nothing better than to marry the actress and to live upon her salary--believe me, of all these there are plenty. Lastly, there is the gentleman who would really marry the actress, all for love of her, and for no other consideration. I thought, at first, that your cousin Matthew was one of these.'

'How did you know him?'

'He was brought into the Green Room one night by some gambling acquaintance. I remarked his long serious face, I thought he was a man who might be trusted. He asked permission to wait upon me----'

'Well?' For she stopped.

'I thought, I say, that he was a man to be trusted. He did not look like one who drank: he did not follow other actresses about with his eyes: I say, Will, that I thought I could trust him. He came to my lodging. He told me that he was a rich City merchant: he asked me what I should like if I would marry him and he promised to give it to me--that--and anything else----'

'If you did not love him--Jenny----'

'I did not love him. I will tell you. I wanted to get away from the man I did love; and so I wanted, above all, to be taken away from London and the Theatre into the country, never to hear anything more about the stage. Had he done what he promised, Will, I would have made a good wife to him, although he is a slimy worm. But he did not. He broke his word on the very morning when we came out of church----'

'How?'

'He began by saying that he had a little explanation to offer. He said that when he told me he was a rich merchant--that, indeed, was his reputation: but his position was embarra.s.sed: he wanted money: he wished not to borrow any: he therefore thought that if he married an actress--that cla.s.s of persons being notorious for having no honour--his very words to me, actually, his very words an hour after leaving the church--he intended to open a gaming-house at which I was to be the decoy. Now you understand why I call him a villain, and a wretch, and a slimy worm.'

'Jenny!'

'I left him on the spot after telling him what he was--I left him--I left the Theatre as well. I had a friend who found me the money to take this place under another name. I have seen the man many times here--last night--and once I called upon him and I made him give me the money to get you out of the Prison, Will.'

'Matthew found that money?'

'Of course, he did. I had none--I went to him and reminded him that he had contributed nothing to the maintenance of his wife, and that he must give me whatever the sum was. He was obliged to give it, otherwise I should have informed the clerks of the Counting-house who I was.'

I laughed. 'Well, but Jenny, there was another man----'

'You are persistent, Sir. Why should I tell you? Well, I will confess.

This man protested a great deal less than the others. He was a n.o.ble Lord, if that matters. He was quite different from all the rest: he never came to the Green Room drunk: he never cursed and swore: he never shook his cane in the face of footman or chairman: he was a gentle creature--and he loved me and would have married me: well--I told him who and what I was--I will tell you presently--that mattered nothing. He would carry me away from them all. I would have married him, Will: and we should have been happy: but his sister came to see me and she went on her knees crying and imploring me to refuse him because in the history of their family there had never been any such alliance as that with an actress of no family. Would I bring disgrace into a n.o.ble family? If I refused, he would forget me, and she would do all in her power for me, if ever I wanted a friend. It was for his sake--if I loved him I would not injure him. And so she went on: and she persuaded me, Will--because, you see, when people pride themselves about their families it is a pity to bring the gutter into it--with Newgate and Tyburn, isn't it?'

'Jenny, what has Newgate got to do with it?'

'Wait and I will tell you. I gave way. It cost me a great deal, Will--more than you would believe--because I had never loved anyone before--and when a woman does love a man----' The tears rose in her eyes,--'and then it was that your cousin came to the Theatre.'

Poor Jenny! And she always seemed so cheerful, so lively, so happy! Her face might have been drawn to ill.u.s.trate Milton's 'L'Allegra.' How could she look so happy when she had this unhappy love story and this unhappy marriage to think upon?'

'Will,' she cried pa.s.sionately, 'I am the most unhappy woman in the world.'

I made no reply. Indeed I knew not what there was to say. Matthew was a villain: there can be few worse villains: Jenny was in truth a most injured and a most unhappy woman.

It was growing twilight. What followed was told, or most of it, because I have set down the result of two or three conversations in one, by the light of the fire, in a low voice, a low musical voice--that seemed to rob the naked truth of much of its horrors.

'I told my Lord, Will,' she said, 'what I am going to tell you because I would not have him ignorant of anything, or find out anything--afterwards--but there was no afterwards--which he might think I should have told him before. He has a pretty gift of drawing: he makes pictures of things and people with a pencil and a box of water-colours. I made him take certain sketches for me. He did so, wondering what they might mean.' Here she rose, opened a drawer in a cabinet and took out a little packet tied up with a ribbon. 'First I begged him to sketch me one of the little girls who run about the streets in Soho. There are hundreds of them: they are bare-footed: bare-headed: dressed in a sack, in a flannel petticoat: in anything: they have no schooling: they are not taught anything at all: their parents and their brothers and sisters and their cousins and their grandparents are all thieves and rogues together: what can they become?