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 buttons 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 assure 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!'

'Was there not some lent to the man Merridew?'

'A trifle, Sir: a few hundreds only. No: it is all gone. My master and I must become beggars and go together into the workhouse.' He shook his poor old head and went his way.

Now this man had received the treatment of a dog. How long he had been with Probus: what was his previous history I never knew: it matters not: he had received the treatment of a dog and the wages of a galley slave: yet he was faithful and stood by his master—the only living thing who did—in his adversity as in his prosperity.

I next heard from Mr. Ramage that the Counting House was closed and the gates of the Quay locked: that Matthew had run away. Then that the unfortunate Alderman, partner in the House, had been arrested for debt and was taken to the Fleet Prison. After this, that Matthew had been arrested: that he was bankrupt: that he had been taken to the same prison: and that the whole amount of the liabilities was now so great that this meant certain imprisonment for life. By the custom of London, too, a creditor may, before the day of payment, arrest his debtor and oblige him to find sureties to pay the money on the day it shall become due. By this custom the whole of Jenny's liabilities became the cause of new detainers, so that I believe the total amount for which Matthew was imprisoned was not far short of £150,000. I conveyed this intelligence to my mistress.

'Misfortune,' she said, gravely, 'is falling upon all of us. Thou alone wilt survive—the triumph of virtue. Go, however, take the man something, or he will starve. Give it him from me, Will. Tell him—tell him'—She considered for a little. 'Tell him—as soon as I can forget, I will forgive. Not that he cares whether he is forgiven or not. A man, Will, I very truly believe, may be anything he pleases—drunkard—murderer—highwayman: yet something may still survive in him of human kindness. There will still be a place, perhaps, for compassion or for love. But for a gambler there is no compassion left. He is more hardened than the worst villain in this wretched place: he has neither sense, nor pity, nor affection, nor anything. He is all gambler.'

'I will give him your money, Jenny. But not your message.'

She smiled sadly. 'Go, Will. The money will solace him as long as it lasts. Perhaps a quarter of an hour.'

I repaired without delay to the Fleet Prison. Those who walk up and down the Fleet market know of the open window in the wall and the grating, behind which stands a man holding a tin box which he rattles to attract attention while he repeats his parrot cry, 'Pity the Poor Prisoners! Pity the Poor Prisoners!' This humiliation is imposed upon those of the Common side: they must beg or they must starve. What was my surprise and shame—who could believe that one of my family should fall so low?—to recognise in the prisoner behind these bars, my cousin Matthew! None other. His face was pale—it had always been pale: now it was white: his hand shook: he was unshaven and uncombed: I pretended not to notice him. I entered the prison and was told that he was holding the plate, but would be free in half an hour. So I waited in the yard until he came out, being relieved of his task. I now saw that he was in rags. How can a man dressed as a substantial merchant fall into rags in a few days? There was but one answer. The gambler can get rid of everything: Matthew had played for his clothes and lost.

I accosted him. At sight of me he fell into a paroxysm of rage. He reviled and cursed me. I had been the cause of all his misfortunes: he wept and sobbed, being weak for want of food and cold. So I let him go on until he stopped and sank exhausted upon the bench.

Then I told him that I had come to him from his wife. He began again to curse and to swear. It was Jenny now who was the cause of all his troubles: it was Jenny who refused to obey him: her liabilities alone had prevented him from weathering the storm: he should certainly have weathered the storm: and so on—foolish recrimination that meant nothing.

I made no answer until he had again exhausted his strength, but not his bitterness.

'Matthew,' I said, 'the woman against whom you have been railing sends you money. Here it is. Use it for living and not for gambling,' The money I gave him was five guineas.

The moment he had it in his hand he hurried away as fast as he could go. I thought he ran away in order to conceal his agitation or shame at receiving these coals of fire. Not so, it was in order to find out someone who would sit down to play with him. Oh! It was a madness.

I watched him. He ran to the kitchen and bought some food. He swallowed it eagerly. Then he bent his steps to the coffee-room. I followed and looked in. He was already at a table opposite another man, and in his hands was a pack of cards. In a few hours or a few minutes—it mattered not which—Jenny's present of five guineas would be gone, and the man would be destitute again. Poor wretch! One forgave him all considering this madness that had fallen upon him.

'But,' said Jenny, 'he was bad before he was mad. He was bad when he married me: he is only worse: nothing more is the matter with him.'

But my uncle, the Alderman, also involved in the bankruptcy, had been carried to the same place, while his great house on Clapham Common, with all his plate and fine furniture, had been sold for the benefit of the creditors. Matthew had ruined all. I went to see him. He was on the Masters', not the common side. It was a most melancholy spectacle. For my own part I bore the poor man no kind of malice. He had but believed things told him concerning me. He gave me his hand.

'Nephew,' he said, his voice breaking, 'this is but a poor place for an Alderman: yet it is to be my portion for the brief remainder of my days. What would my brother—your father—have said if he had known? But he could not even suspect: no one could suspect—'

'Nay, Sir,' I said, 'I hope that your creditors will give you a speedy release.'

'I doubt it, Will. They are incensed—and justly so—at their treatment by—by—Matthew. They reproach me with not knowing what was doing—why, Will, I trusted my son'—he sobbed—'my son—Absalom, my son—the steady sober son, for whom I have thanked God so often: Will, he made me believe evil things of thee: he accused thee of such profligacy as we dare not speak of in the City: profligacy such as young men of Quality may practise but not young men of the City. I dared not tell my brother all that he told me.'

'Indeed, Sir, I know how he persuaded not only you but my father as well—to my injury. In the end it was my own act and deed that drove me forth, because I would not give up my music.'

'If not that, then something else would have served his purpose. Alas! Will. Here come your cousins. Heed them not. They are bitter with me. Heed them not.'

The girls, whom I had not seen since my father's funeral, marched along with disdainful airs pulling their hoops aside, as once before, to prevent the contamination of a touch. They reddened when they saw me, but not with friendliness.

'Oh!' said one, 'he comes to gloat over our misfortunes.'

'Ah! No doubt they make him happy.'

'Cousins,' I said, 'I am in no mood to rejoice over anything except my own escape from grievous peril. The hand of the Lord is heavy upon this family. We are all afflicted. As for your brother Matthew, it is best to call him mad.'

'Who hath driven him mad?' asked Amelia, the elder. 'The revengeful spirit of his cousin!'

This was their burden. Women may be the most unreasonable of all creatures. These girls could not believe that their brother was guilty: the bankruptcy of the House: the stories of his gambling: his marriage with an actress: his evidence in the Court: were all set down as instigated, suggested, encouraged, or invented, by his wicked cousin, Will. It matters not: I have no doubt that the legend had grown in their minds until it was an article of their creed: if they ever mention the Prodigal Son—who is now far away—it is to deplore the wicked wiles by which he ruined their martyred Saint: their brother Matthew.

'It is of no use,' I said to my uncle, 'to protest, to ask what my cousins mean, or how I could have injured Matthew, had I desired. I may tell you, Sir, that I learned only a short time ago that Matthew was a gambler: that the affairs of the House were desperate: and that an attempt was to be made upon my life—an attempt of which Matthew was cognizant—even if he did not formally consent. So, Sir, I take my leave.'

They actually did not know that Matthew was within the same walls.—Father and son: the father on the Masters' side, dignified at least with the carriage of fallen authority: the son a ragged, shambling creature, with no air at all save that of decay and ruin. Unfortunate indeed was our House: dismal indeed was its fall: shameful was its end.