VIII. A Pattern of Virtue
I wonder how many people have stood on Waterloo Bridge, looking down upon the ever-moving river, and feeling themselves irresistibly attracted by the weird fascination of its cruel waters! But one cannot wonder at the eerie influence it exerts upon the miserable. One moment’s nerve – one plunge – one splash – a short struggle – and the stress and anguish of life are left behind!
And the Hereafter, what of it? It is truly an inscrutable puzzle. But the sudden recollection that an account of earthly doings may be required of us in another world has nerved many a desperate victim of misery to further endurance, and cheated Father Thames of much of his prey.
It was different with Lucy Markham. She was so desperate, so despairing, so wildly reckless, that nothing but the forcibly detaining arms which I flung around her would have prevented her from jumping into the river, and putting an end to a young life that had only seen seventeen summers.
“Let me go!” she shrieked. “How dare you hinder me? Can I not do as I like with myself?”
“No,” I panted, as I vainly strove to avoid the blows with which the frantic girl sought to release herself from my grasp. “I will not let you go until you promise that you will not put an end to your life.”
“Let me go!” she repeated. “I will do as I like! All the world has forsaken me, and I owe it no duty now. You can’t hold me much longer, and you shall see how soon I will end it all.”
“Never! If I don’t get your promise, I will scream for help, and then you will be locked up until your senses come back to you.”
My determination had its effect. She ceased to struggle, and looked solemnly at me with big, lovely eyes, to which the pale light of the moon seemed to give an uncanny glitter.
“Who are you?” she asked, “that you should so concern yourself about the fate of a stranger?”
“I am a friend of humanity, I hope.”
“Humanity! My God! How much humanity has my short life met with? And what sort of a specimen of humanity do you suppose me to be?”
“Unfortunate; that is evident. Not naturally depraved, I am sure. The victim of some scoundrel, I imagine. A fitting subject for help and counsel. That is certain.”
“Help and counsel! Oh, how I have prayed for them! and now it is too late!”
But I saw that I had conquered. The fierceness of the girl’s frenzy had passed, and the crisis in her fate was over. Poor child! how my heart bled for her! It is sad to witness despair at any time. But saddest of all is it to recognise the insatiate ghoul on the face of those to whom life should just be opening wide its portals of joy.
“Perhaps I can afford you help and counsel,” I said soothingly. “People would never find themselves utterly forsaken if they only knew to whom to apply in their need. Tell me about yourself. It will relieve you. What is your name, and where do you live?”
“My name,” was the bitter answer, “has been disgraced, and I will not add to my folly by involving my family in my disgrace. As for my home, it is a truly magnificent one. The air, the sky, and the roaring noises of civilisation are all mine to enjoy ad libitum. Why, I am quite rich!”
As the stranger made the last remark, she lost her self-restraint, and sobbed with hysterical violence. I felt very much relieved at this outburst, for I knew that though it would probably leave the girl faint and exhausted, it would also leave her in a more gentle and pliable frame of mind.
My judgment proved correct, and I was presently fully confided in. It was the old story of blind trust and deliberate betrayal, and is soon told. Lucy Markham had been well educated and delicately reared, but was without relatives or near friends at the time I found her. Her mother had died eighteen months before this. The penury consequent upon the previous death of the father had been partly met by disposing of the furniture and other effects, and when Lucy was left unprotected she was also quite without means.
But she meant to be very industrious and attentive to her duties, and quite expected to earn her living easily in London. So she migrated from the quiet little Surrey village where she had seen so much sorrow to seek and to find employment in one of the greatest hives of wickedness the world has ever known, to wit – London.
When her employer began to pay her little attentions, she felt flattered. When he requested her to observe the strictest secrecy regarding his stealthily bestowed attention, she believed his representation that her fellow employees would be spitefully jealous if they suspected which way the wind was blowing. When he took her to a pretty house, she never doubted his assertion that marriage would follow immediately upon her transference thither, and it was with a feeling of rapturous pride that she obeyed his injunctions to the letter, and allowed herself to be introduced to the servant as “Mrs Maynard,” “just for the look of the thing” as Mr Collinson said.
Asked what the servant would think of her being called “Mrs Collinson” soon, the specious schemer replied that the servant really knew all particulars, and that it was the neighbours for whose benefit the little temporary deception was intended.
But it soon transpired that Lucy herself was the object of deception. The self-styled Mr Maynard had ever some excuse ready for putting off the marriage until his victim felt herself hopelessly compromised. The servant was his willing tool; and when he got tired of his toys, he had no difficulty in getting the servant to help him further in his rascally work. The latter contrived to tell Lucy that all the neighbours already looked down upon her, and that she, being kept by a man to whom she was not married, was considered beyond the pale of respectability. Innocent the girl was. But who would believe her protestations to that effect? In the face of her apparent guilt, no one would do it.
“It’s no use crying over spilt milk,” said the servant. “The master will be kind and generous to you as long as he likes you. But you will have to give up such a notion as marrying so rich a man as he is. Take my advice, and get all you can out of him while you have the chance. He’ll soon fall in love with somebody else.”
Lucy’s heartbroken threat to expose her betrayer only provoked the derision of the servant.
“You would very likely get locked up for attempted blackmailing,” she said. “He has been too careful for such a greenhorn as you to circumvent him. He has never been here to see either you or the house except after dark, and nobody would believe you if you said that Mr Maynard was Mr Collinson. For he is a great man at church, and subscribes to everything. He is supposed to have nearly broken his heart when his wife died, and if ever anybody was looked upon by the world as a pattern of virtue, it is the man whom you, a bit of a shopgirl, expected to marry you. You would only get yourself laughed at and despised. So take my advice and don’t be fool enough to fly in the face of fortune yet.”
Even after these revelations the poor child could hardly believe in the utter baseness of her betrayer. But in her next interview with him she was soon convinced of the fact that the man whom she, in common with the rest of the world, regarded as a pattern of virtue, was, in reality, a monster of deceit and vice.
That night she escaped from her pretty home, and from then until I saved her from self-destruction she had undergone all manner of rebuffs, disappointments, and privations, which were enough to drive any other modest girl to the refuge of the wretched.
I found a temporary home for Lucy, and promised to put an end to her troubles in some way or other. Nor did I doubt my ability to do this. Lucy believed an appeal or a threat of exposure to be equally vain weapons to use against Mr Collinson, but I was more worldly wise, and more sure of success. I saw that as yet the girl was not fit to cope with the world, and I determined to make the “Pattern of Virtue” provide for her comfort. In this determination Lucy’s own guileless and simple nature aided me. Though tenacious of her honour, she did not recoil from the idea of compelling Mr Collinson to pay for his deception, as many a girl of more vigorous mind whose feelings had been outraged would have done.
I confess to feeling more slightly malicious when I went to interview the great draper and clothier, who soon found that he had a much more experienced woman than simple little Lucy to deal with. His dismay, when I quietly laid the whole array of facts before him and proved the strength of my position, was comical to witness. At first he tried to frighten me with his bogie reputation as a pattern of virtue. But I had several cards up my sleeve, and as I played them, one by one, he realised that if I were to make public exposure of only one-half the seedy facts I had been able, with the aid of my colleagues, to rake up against him, the world would know him in all his carnal hideousness, and a vast number of people would take their custom elsewhere.
Before I had done with him I convinced him of the expediency of providing liberally for Lucy for at least five years to come, and I declined to be satisfied with less than three hundred per annum for that period. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he saw no other way out of the embroglio
into which his scoundrelly nature had brought him, and I carried my point.
Lucy has a rare taste for music, and her special gifts lie in the direction of operatic composition. She is talented, industrious, and ambitious, and she is having the best tuition obtainable. Her whole soul is in her art, and there is little fear that she will hearken to the flattery which her sweet looks, gentle nature, and future prospects evoke. When her five years of study are ended there will be another star added to our galaxy of genius, and I shall be more thankful than ever that the opportunity was given me to rescue a despairing soul from a watery grave, and that I had the ability to make a Pattern of Virtue pay liberally for his vices.