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BARBARA PHILPOT. & Sittbg at M&nmxz &rib Mauls. (1727 to 1737.) BY THE HON. LEWIS WINGFIELD, AUTHOR OF ' 'LADY GRIZEL,' ABIGEI. ROWE,' 'IN HER MAJESTY'S KEEPING,' ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, ^ttblishcrs in ©rtonarn to Jfcr JFKajesia the (Qnetrt. 1885. [All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS OF VOL. III. CHAPTER PAGE ' ' I. THE TABERNACLE OF SIN - - - I ' ' II. PARTNERSHIP - - - - "3° ' ' III. THE PILGRIM CALLS - - - 56 ' ' IV. CHECK TO YOUR KNIGHT - "85 - V. 'A NEW LIFE' - - - - 120 VI. 'JARS' ------ 141 - VII. THE PILGRIM CALLS AGAIN - - l8l - VIII. 'COUNTING THE CHICKENS' - - 2IO - - IX. 'THE PLOT RIPENS' - -225 ' ' X. THE QUEEN RETIRES - - - 254 XI. 'BAB THROWS THE GAUNTLET*- - - 272 ' ' XII. HONEST JACK'S LAST CARD - - 288 4 9 BARBARA PHILPOT. CHAPTER I. ' THE TABERNACLE OF SIN.' N how many ingenious ways may the human heart be wounded ! Philosophy, which bids us seek out and dwell upon the better side of things, cannot so plunge her children in wisdom-water but that a heel will be vulnerable to danger from poisoned arrows. The pilgrimage of a weak woman downhill is a lugubrious line for pen to trace. Yet, since we've looked on the bewitching Philpot when she fizzed across the firmament of Drury with fiery tail, 'tis only right to look upon her now—in guise of profit able lesson—deprived of tail, a mere expiring fire work. Again must we bend our steps to incongruous Southwark—not to behold our wayward Barbara in vol. in. 4° 2 BARBARA PHILPOT. rustling sacque and sumptuous jewelled earrings, swimming into the Bearpit, or commanding a beau contingent among the fair-booths, but crawling over London Bridge in company with Theo, who had deftly arranged the matter of her moving, in a musty hackney-coach floored with damp hay, past the pillory and cage, round the miry corner of Foul Lane, through Deadman's Place to the portals of the Clink Prison. She was stonier and prouder now even than when moping in the solitude of Cleveland Row. The questionable jests and anecdotes redolent of foot lights, with which well-meaning Theophilus strove to beguile the tedium of the journey, entered unheeding ears, as with brows and lips tight set she frowned on the silver river, on the hoary tower of St. Saviour's— which had looked upon so much of human trouble—the reeking ditches, busy inns and cut throat wynds of the strangest quarter of London. To her strained fancy the fusty coach was a tumbril bearing her to execution; not the swift release of decollation, or even of a clumsy hanging but slow wherein lingering death, the young spirit would battle for leave to remain in its still healthy tenement and be crushed out of it by inches. Bab did not choose to look upon the matter in Theo's careless She way. knew that the coach was a hearse on its to the way churchyard, that once established here she might never be free again, and THE TABERNACLE OF SIN.' 3 marvelled at the foreshadowing vision which in happier days had lent a fascination to the spot. To those among us who have a share in anything so ironically splendid, is it not with a curiously mixed feeling that we look on our family vault, at the chamber which, when our little time of fretting and trial is gone by, shall close on us—silent oasis in the midst of turmoil—and keep us till the last great day? Doth it not occur to us to think of what will happen in that darkened room when the last sorrowing rela tive (if any make believe to sorrow) shall have deposited his wreath and gone up the steps into the air, and the iron gates are closed, and the turf beaten down over the entrance ? Will all the ancestors look up out of their niches and nod a ' welcome ? Will they say, Lucky descendant ! Has your turn come to escape from the mocking series of disillusions which make up human life ?'—then drowsily sink back and sleep again ? I vow that when the relatives (wreaths deposited and tears decorously shed) have pulled off their black gloves and pocketed their handkerchiefs, and gone gaily off conversing about the last new play or some hitch in politics—relieved to have got rid of that unpleasant coffin—'tis the one under lock and key that's to be envied ! For we're justified in sup posing a hiatus—a respite—if not eternal rest. A part of us, at any rate, hath done with the battle. 40—2 4 BARBARA PHILPOT. For Bab's body there would soon be peace—that was the one gleam of consolation on which she chose to dwell while Theo prattled. And yet how hard, so young, so strong, so lovely—so capable of enjoying a world which, if absurd and unsatisfying, is beautiful ! How hard to have to look beyond and sigh for worms and corruption ! If guilty now and again of fits of vacillation, of blenching and wincing under stripes, her bitterest enemy could not say that Bab was craven. At a moment of supreme trial she could put on a stony mask and bear without a quiver, looking straight into the abyss which was destined to receive her bones. Theo, who was quite of another way of thinking, if equally careless and reckless, marvelled at the calm woman by his side, who did not trouble even to resent his well-intentioned fictions as to the life she was about to lead. She had insisted on dis missing the tearful abigail, with a remark that she could not afford such luxuries. With steady firm hand she had strangled the blackbird, poisoned the dog and cat ; made up a bundle of such clothes as yet remained, remarking with a sad smile to awe- stricken Theo : ' This piece of linen is new and fine, and will make a winding-sheet.' So strange and self-contained a woman was out of his experience. As they passed down Deadman's 'THE TABERNACLE OF SIN.' 5 Place, an opening was visible among the rickety groups of dwellings leading to a neglected square of unkempt grass. ' See how I know this neighbourhood,' she said quietly. ' Yonder's the " Crossbones," where the poor fallen women lie buried in sacks for want of coffins, and never a word said over them ! Beyond is Hangman's Acre, an impassable morass laden with fever, stretching away as far as Kennington, its only denizens the malefactors swinging in their chains, keeping guard over the women's resting-place.' There was something so uncanny about his com panion talking thus in her loveliness and strength, that Theo was relieved when they reached the prison-gate. It would be necessary to stay for a day or two within the Clink, till sundry details were ar ranged. He explained to her that 'twould be quite possible to return to the stage and earn a living whilst dwelling in the Rules ; but this proposal was met with a decided and stubborn negative. She would never return to the stage. Why, she declined to say. How make clear to such an one as Honest Pistol her Quixotic feminine resolve ? How could he comprehend the proud sensitive woman's pain— her rebellious feeling of outrage over the conditions ■of her life ? To certain minds there is witchery in martyrdom. The fanatic savage who flings himself naked on a foe armed cap-d-pie must feel something of this. He 6 BARBARA PHILPOT. he must must know that in so unequal a struggle the perforce be worsted, and fling upon his gods responsibility of his defencelessness. a Thus was it with Barbara. She had received full share of buffets; though shorn, the wind had not been tempered, and she resented the coldness of the blast. She was not to be fitly clothed ? Very well, then. If she must die of cold she would cast off the flimsy garment which had been bestowed in order to discerned that freeze more quickly. Hence it will be the lash produced no good effect upon Barbara. set The more her back was bruised the harder she her teeth, the more steely was the glitter of her eye. When she passed under the gateway of the Clink, and none so obstinate as she, so upright of bearing, stiff-necked, none more superbly disdainful. Twenty guineas in a silken purse comprised the sum-total of her fortune—a present from Theo, who indeed could but ill afford it. Yet by her queenly air did she instil respect into the circling crowd as she stood in the prison-yard. ' The lovely Peggy,' a battered female with no nose and but one blear eye—terror of new-comers— sank back abashed, and feebly mumbled for ' garnish.' Three dirty men in fetters paused in a game to doff their hats with an involuntary courtesy, which was shared even by the head turnkey, omnipotent tyrant. What a tatterdemalion crew ! Dirtier, more squalid, sure, than formerly. Haggard, slouching, 'THE TABERNACLE OF SIN.' 7 lanthorn-jawed ; some dwindling from lack of food, some fevered by strong waters—ragged, unwashed, eaten by horrible maladies ; some numbed by blank despair, some jovial with hellish levity. You could tell at a glance which were the ruffling bullies, which their persecuted victims—which were the new-corners who hoped still, which the ones (preponderating company) from whom all hope had faded. The entrance of the beauteous apparition and her squinting escort produced but a momentary lull, and then the hurlyburly rose again with renewed din, and such oaths and talk as turned our Barbara the paler.