A fortnight had passed; the wedding of Beau Bufton was at hand--it was to be on the next day--and he was celebrating what he called his last night of freedom right royally. Indeed, he had been celebrating it during the whole of that preceding day most royally by wandering about from chocolate-house to chocolate-house, where he did not drink always of that succulent but sober beverage; by inviting a few of his choice companions to his rooms to supper, and by visiting his tradespeople and telling them that ere long now every bill should be paid, while also obtaining loans from more than one of them on the strength of his forthcoming wedding with an heiress. One thing, however, he had carefully kept quiet, namely, the information as to who and what his heiress was, and where she came from. And it was well, indeed, that he had obtained these loans, since his already lean purse had suffered considerably through the inroads made on it by two people, one of whom was Mrs. Pottle, now in town at Lambeth, with her charge; and the other Lewis Granger, who haunted him like a spectre. Of the two, the former was perhaps the worst harpy, the most intolerable blood-sucker, as on each occasion when she had seen him she had demanded money from him, and would listen to no denial.
"Five 'undred guineas," she said to him on the first meeting, which was under the shadow of the great Abbey, she being there to hand him a note and to explain why she could not convoy him to Cowley Street; "five 'undred guineas to come to me, in a day or so now, and you won't give me a paltry twenty. Fie, Mr. Bufton! Shame on you! And me doing all, and putting you in the way of marryin' such a sweet young thing. Fie, Mr. Bufton!"
Whereon, of last, by wheedling and cajolery, and also by threats that even now it was not too late for her to break off this marriage and to keep the "sweet young thing" out of his way, she had gained her object and obtained her request--a request only to be reiterated and insisted on the next time she saw him.
"But," exclaimed the Beau, "it is to come off the sum--off the five hundred guineas! You will remember that, Mrs. Pottle!" Though, even as he made the remark, he told himself that each of these handfuls of guineas was in truth a gift, since there would never be any five hundred guineas to find its way into her pockets. Quite a wasted gift.
"Ah," groaned Mrs. Pottle. "Um! Off the five 'undred. That ain't noble. That ain't royal. Howsomdever, if it must be, it must." After which she shuffled a letter into his hand and bade him read it. Which he did--in rapture!
"Oh, my beloved one," it ran, the handwriting being, he noticed, beautifully clear and legible, as indeed all young ladies' handwriting was in those days, "I am here at last in London, ready to be your bride. Yet ever have I trembled night and day with fear and apprehension lest aught should arise to prevent our arrival. My guardians would not at first decide to let me set out for London, because the season was almost past; and also because I have been ailing. Ay! in very truth almost have I been dead, owing to a terrible scene which arose betwixt me and one other, the man whom you attacked so nobly, as I have since heard, in the avenue; for, my beloved, that man desired my hand, you must know--he was unlike you, my unselfish hero! and was a fortune-hunter, and his reproaches were terrible when he learnt that we had met. But now he is gone to his horrid ship; now I can be wholly yours. Oh! my dear one, how I desire that you might come here to our town house so that I could see you, embrace you; but, alas! none must ever know till it is done. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pottle and I will sally forth, and we will meet to arrange all. Bid me but to come, and I will fly to you. Confide in her; she will be true. Now, no more, from your ever fond and trusting--A. T."
And "A. T." had sallied forth, as she had said, under the charge of the astute Mrs. Pottle; the lovers had met, and planned all; now, to-morrow, Beau Bufton would clasp his beloved one, his heiress, in his arms.
"Tell us," said Granger this evening, as he--clad in a brand-new suit, a new wig, and clean fresh lace--sat at the Beau's table, "us all. Let us know what is to be. My friends," he said, addressing two or three dissolute-looking young men, all fashionably dressed, who also sat, or rather lolled, at the repast, "we have a task, the task of duty, of friendship, to perform to-morrow early. Tell us, or rather tell them, since I know very well, what is to be done."
"Well, brave boys," exclaimed the Beau, beaming on them, as who would not beam who upon the morrow was to marry a hundred thousand guineas, "this is the plan: We wed to-morrow at Keith's Chapel, in May Fair, at eleven. I would that it had been earlier, but Keith's clerk says his reverence's deputy--Keith being now in Newgate--is never to be depended on before that hour, he not having slept off the effects of--well! of over-night."
"Keith's Chapel!" exclaimed one of the guests, who himself appeared as though he would not have slept off the effects of the present night much before the hour that had been mentioned. "Why, I protest, 'twas there James, Duke of Hamilton, married Miss Gunning a few years ago. You will be in the fashion, Beau."
"Ay! 'tis so," exclaimed Granger. "We are nothing if not fashionable."
"Yet," said an older, graver man than the first speaker, "are you very sure that thus you will be by law united? Has not a Marriage Act passed forbidding such things?"
"Such an Act has passed," Bufton replied, "but there are doubts as to its being able to break the holy tie, Keith being a licensed clergyman still permitted by the Archbishop to issue the license on a crown stamp, and to give a certificate. But even were it not so," and now Beau Bufton bestowed that smile of his upon his guests which always caused Granger's gall to rise, "the ceremony may serve, illegal though it should be; for if it is so, at least it will have given me sufficient possession of my young heiress to make another and more binding one necessary; while who, do you imagine, would be willing to marry my adorable Ariadne Thorne afterwards? In truth, she could belong to none but me."
"Ariadne Thorne!" exclaimed the youngest member of the company present, who now spoke for the first time during the present conversation, and causing his exclamation to be heard above the shrill peal of nervous laughter emitted by Lewis Granger at the Beau's exposition. "Ariadne Thorne! Can there be two of that name?"
"I devoutly hope not," remarked the Beau, fingering his chin and looking himself a little nervous, the company thought, "or else I have caged the wrong bird. What Ariadne Thorne do you know of, then, Dallas?"
"One who is a rich heiress, even as you say your future bride is. One who is the owner of Fanshawe Manor, in Hampshire, and is beloved by Sir Geoffrey Barry."
"'Tis she!" Bufton said, with his most hateful chuckle. "'Tis she. And Dallas, my dear, I have won her from him. She never loved him, and she is mine."
"I thought she did," the young man named Dallas muttered. "In solemn truth, I thought so. So, too, thought all the county. He is a brave, handsome fellow."
"Handsome is as handsome does!" exclaimed Granger, who had scowled somewhat at this conversation, and now seemed very desirous of putting an end to it; "while as for bravery--well! ask the Beau if Sir Geoffrey Barry was very brave in the avenue of Fawnshawe Manor two weeks ago."
"I had to give him a lesson in the use of the small sword, to--in fine--chastise him," Bufton said. "I was there with Ariadne, and--and--well!--he drew off."
"He drew off! He permitted you to chastise him! Him! Geoffrey Barry! The county, to which I myself belong, would scarce deem it possible."
"Yet," replied Bufton, with what he considered his choicest tone of contempt, "I have told you that it is so."
"And also," said Dallas, "you have told me that Ariadne Thorne loves you, while we know that she and you wed to-morrow. Naturally, your word is to me sacred. Yet--I speak it not in offence--it would be hard to convince all who know either Sir Geoffrey Barry or Ariadne Thorne that such things could be." After which he became strangely silent, the more so, perhaps, because now Lewis Granger bestirred himself to circulate the bottles, filling each man's glass again and again with wine, calling of toasts, singing himself snatches of songs, and generally egging on the company to hilarious behaviour.
Thus the time passed, until from St. James's Church hard by there rang out the hour of two, when Granger, who all through the evening had performed the part of master of the ceremonies, suggested that they should break off.
"It is a solemn occasion," he said, with his best air--one which, whatever might have been his past, he was well capable of assuming--"a solemn occasion in which we all take part to-morrow. Let us not, therefore, sit up toping until daybreak, now close at hand. Remember, there is a little feast at the Hercules Pillars directly 'tis concluded; let us reserve ourselves for that. Gentlemen, our dearest friend, the Beau, relies on all your company to-morrow to see him wed his fortune."
"Rather to see him wed a pure and lovely girl," said Dallas, who appeared more sober than some of the company--to, indeed, have become sober, or, at least, grave and thoughtful, during the last hour. "There is not a man under threescore in Hampshire who will not envy him when they hear of hisbonnes fortunes. I shall for a certainty be there."
"And I," each of the others said. Whereon, bidding their host a short adieu and many pleasant dreams, and cautioning him jokingly not to oversleep himself in the morning, they trooped down the stairs and, so, away to their respective lodgings.
"Now," said Granger, when all the Beau's visitors were gone but he, "now get you to bed, and be ready betimes to-morrow. Also drink no more. Remember this must not fall through."
"I have drunk nothing--or scarce nothing," Beau Bufton replied. "Am I a fool that I should carouse away my chance of a fortune and an estate when it is in my grasp, when in nine hours--yes, nine hours! think of it, ye gods!--it will be mine."
Then, with his eyes on Granger, and with the point of his chin in his hand, he cried, "You are strangely sober to-night, too, Lewis. I have known the time when these," and he pointed to the half or three-quarter drained flasks of Tokay and champagne which stood about the table, "would have been too much for you to resist. When they would have been on the table, but without a drop in them, and you--well! you would have been beneath it."
"Do you taunt me with my infirmities!" exclaimed Granger. "Taunt me--your jackal, your tool--with being sober! Have I not also something to induce me to sobriety? Your marriage means much to me. Almost as much as it does to you." And he regarded the other with a strange fixity of gaze.
"Five thousand guineas?" said the Beau, interrogatively. "Humph!"
"Ay--it means--well! just so. Gad! you see everything. You are a monstrous clever man."
"So, so," said the Beau. "So, so. Anyway, I have brought my pigs to a good market. Eh?"
"You have. In solemn truth, you have. Now, good-night. I shall be with you to-morrow to breakfast early. To bed. To bed." And with a nod he left the room.
It was a wet, warm July night, or rather morning, for the summer dawn was coming as he left the house, yet he seemed in no hurry to seek his own bed, wherever it might happen to be. Instead, he peered up and down the street as though searching for a hackney carriage or chair; but, seeing none, walked fast up the Haymarket until he came to a night house which was still open, and in which were still many dissolute people of both sexes, drinking and carousing. Then he called for a dram, and ordering the woman who was waiting to bring pen, paper, and sand, sat down and wrote a short note--a note which, when he had sealed and addressed it to "Lord John Dallas," he dropped into his pocket, after which he paid his reckoning and went forth, finding now a chair and two men waiting for a fare outside.
"Carry me," he said, "to Park Place. Then I shall need you to take me to King Street, Covent Garden. A crown will do your business, eh?"
The men answering that it would, he stepped in, and they went off as fast as their state of semi-drunkenness (in which London chair-men generally were at that time in the morning) would allow, and eventually they reached Park Place, whereon, alighting, Lewis Granger walked down the narrow street regardless of the drizzle, until he stood before No. 13, when, taking from his pocket the letter he had written at the night house, he dropped it into the gaping dolphin's mouth in bronze which formed the entrance to the letter-box.
"If Dallas loves his mother, as I have heard tell," he said to himself, "that should do his business, and prevent him from interrupting us to-morrow. Our hymeneal ceremony needs no disturbance--until it is over."
After which he went back to his chair and was conveyed to his own lodgings in King Street. Yet when in them--or rather, in "it," since his abode consisted of but a small, meanly furnished room on the third floor--he still seemed disinclined for rest, and appeared to be, indeed, more disposed towards meditation and reflection than aught else; while, as food for such reflection, two pieces of paper which he drew from his pocket appeared to furnish it since he regarded them long and steadily. Each was a bill properly drawn and accepted, yet unlike. For the first, which had written across it the signature "Glastonbury," had also stamped on it in rough, coarse letters, though very plain ones, the word "Counterfeit," while the other was a bill for five thousand guineas, payable to Lewis Granger and signed by Algernon Bufton.
"Yet," muttered Granger to himself, as he regarded the latter, "you are useless; you will never be paid. Nevertheless, I will keep you--keep you safe. You may some day become a witness, if not a principal."
After which he laughed softly to himself, and continued to do so until he was in bed.
"If I possess him, I may be unhappy,But, if I lose him, I am surely so."
"If I possess him, I may be unhappy,But, if I lose him, I am surely so."
Meanwhile a different scene was being enacted earlier in Cowley Street, Lambeth, or, as it was more often termed, Cowley Street, Westminster--a spot now quaint and old, but then almost fresh and new; a street to which, then as now, there would come from the river a wafted scent of new-mown hay (especially in the warm days of harvest-time, when windows were open), brought up or down the river in great cumbrous barges for sale in London; a quiet place which was then as peaceful and tranquil as the streets of old country towns are now.
All through the day which preceded that night when Beau Bufton had celebrated his last hours of bachelor freedom, as he had cynically termed the conclusion of his unwedded life, Ariadne Thorne had either sat in the great parlour on the lower floor--a floor raised some three or four feet above the level of the road and narrow footway outside--had sat glancing eagerly out of the long windows which faced the walls that enclosed the grounds of the Abbey, or, pacing the spacious room, had given herself up to uneasy thoughts.
"Will he ever come?" she whispered to herself again and again, "or, coming, ever forgive me for what I have done--am about to do? I pray God he may."
Then, almost distraught, she would seize the long bell-rope and summon Mrs. Pottle to her presence, who, entering with a look of strange, hard determination on her strong features, would stand before her mistress ready to answer, for the twentieth time, any questions that might be asked her, and ready also to dispel any doubts which might exist in the girl's perturbed mind.
"He must have received my letter," Ariadne would then say; "must have had it in his hands by yesterday morning at the latest. Must he not, Pottle?"
"In truth he must," her old nurse and attendant from the first would say; "he must indeed, deary."
"And, receiving it, would come. Surely he would come, Rebecca," addressing the woman now, as most often she did, by her Christian name.
"I think so, dear heart; that is, if the frigate ain't----"
"Sailed! Oh, my God!" Ariadne cried, "if it has done that! If it has gone to join Admiral Boscawen's fleet in the West Indies. If it has done that! Then--then my heart is broken."
"P'r'aps, it ain't sailed after all. Don't weep, sweet one. P'r'aps it ain't. Look at that vane out there on the Abbey. The wind is west--doo west. He won't get out o' the Channel ag'in that, let alone off to the Injies. I remember when we were going in theR'yal Suverin----"
"If he would only come. Only come once--for an hour--half an hour--so--so--that I could make all clear to him. Could sue to him for pardon and for pity."
"Humph!" Mrs. Pottle exclaimed, with a snort, "he ain't got so very much to pardon nor to pity, I don't think. Pardon and pity! Hoity-toity! You've writ him, ain't you?"
"Ay, indeed I have! Yet I could not tell him all then--could not do so until he stands here before me. Oh! Rebecca, Rebecca, what have I done! What have we done!"
"Done what we oughter. That is, I have; what I agreed to do, if things turn out well. You ain't done nothin' as you oughtn't to do, and 'ave been an angel, as you always was. And cheer up, missy, he'll come; I know as how he will."
"I pray God," Ariadne said again, "I pray God he will."
A few days before this conversation took place, the girl, after considerable communing with herself, had despatched a letter addressed to Captain Sir Geoffrey Barry on board H.M.S.Mignonneat Portsmouth; a letter cold in tone, it is true, and one in which there was no acknowledgment, as well as no denial, of her having been false to him, or of her having received a visit from the person whom he had encountered in the lime-tree avenue of her estate. For neither, she knew, would weigh anything with him--he would disbelieve her denial, while, on the other hand, her confession that such was the case would prevent him from ever speaking to her again. And she so much desired to see him before to-morrow; to see him before he sailed, as she had heard he was about to do, to join Admiral Boscawen's squadron.
"If you will not come to me before you quit England for the West Indies," she wrote, "you will have put away from both of us for ever any prospect of our being aught but strangers. I have been a wicked, weak girl, perhaps, though never have I regarded myself as such until now, and I should have told you all that I had done on the night when you parted from me; then, at least, you would have forgiven me. Now, I ask you, I beseech you, to come to me at once on receipt of this; I implore you to do so on the strength of the love that has been between us, and in memory of the love of our early years. If you will do that, then--then--you shall know all. No action on my part shall be hidden from you."
"Will he come?" she said, "will he come?" And, thinking of the letter she had written, she told herself that he would do so. Surely he would!
Meanwhile, below, Mrs. Pottle was engaged in the homely occupation of sewing and of ironing, and of other feminine pursuits that are dear to the hearts of women of her class. Upon a huge table were spread out a number of garments such as would befit a young lady who was about to make a clandestine marriage--a marriage which, since it must necessarily be without the accompaniment of a large and fashionable gathering of friends, would be but simple, yet a ceremony in which the bride would, nevertheless, be expected to make a proper appearance. To wit, there was a flowered brocade covered with Italian posies, myrtles, jessamine sprigs, and pinks; as well as a lace apron and stomacher, more than one fan, and several articles oflingerie. And upon another table was an enormous hat such as Gainsborough loved to paint, and with which an earlier master, Rembrandt, frequently adorned the pictures of his cavaliers.
"Fit for any lady to go to the altar in," Mrs. Pottle muttered to herself as she fingered all these things. "Fit even for the Princess 'Melie. And worth money too--good money; that will be of use, come what come may. Worth money; ay! that's something; and I've 'ad fifty guineas from Bufton--damn him!--I'll get no more arter he's led his bride to church to-morrow."
Then she walked to a cupboard and, taking out a thick black bottle and a small glass, helped herself to a dram, old customs of her stormy seafaring life being strong upon her still; while, as she drank so she still continued to muse, sitting down near all this finery, and occasionally regarding it.
"P'r'aps, arter all," she murmured, "I done wrong; p'r'aps I oughter not to--to let 'er 'ave him. Yet 'er 'art's on it. 'I will go through with it,' she said last night--only last night 'though the devil stood a-tween him and me. You know from the time I come back from Tunbridge I was set upon it.' And so she 'ave been set upon it. Ah, well! he oughter to 'ave 'er. And now he must 'ave 'er. Well, so be it."
After which, her eye falling again upon the clothes laid out near her, she murmured, "Worth money; that's something."
The house in which she now sat below stairs, while Ariadne Thorne was upstairs in the parlour, was one that the gentry of the county of Hampshire were in the habit of using when in London, it being an instance of the numerous better class of lodgings which were to be obtained in the town at the end of the reign of George II. It also was near the House of Commons, and had been handy for General Thorne during the time he sat in that assembly. But now that Parliament was not sitting, and when Ariadne had come to London, ostensibly with a view to visiting the mercers and other furnishers of ladies' necessaries, there were no other occupants of the house but herself and those who had accompanied her.
Presently Mrs. Pottle roused herself from a nap to which she had succumbed--perhaps owing to the heat of the summer day!--and regarded a clock that ticked in the parlour which she used in common with other ladies' servants and gentlemen's gentlemen when the house had lodgers.
"Five o'clock," she muttered, "five o'clock, and the Portsmouth coach is doo in the city by now. If Sir Geoffrey's coming, he'll be here by this, or soon. His frigate ain't started on no voyage, I'll go bail; not with that wind a-blowing. Will he come? Will he? He see that villain, Bufton, sure enough in the avenue, and he heerd her say to me as 'ow he had seen him. Pity! Pity! Might 'a' spoilt all. Lawk's sakes, what will she tell him when he do see her?"
Again she dozed, sitting in her chair; then, when perhaps she had slumbered peacefully for some quarter of an hour, she sprang to her feet wide awake, for, above, she had heard a hackney coach rumble up to the door. And, a moment later, had also heard the rush of feet across the room, and knew, divined, with woman's instinct, that Ariadne had flown to the window to peer out from behind the heavy curtains and to observe if he for whom she was waiting had come.
In another instant, Mrs. Pottle was running up the narrow stairs from below to open the door in answer to an imperious summons that sounded through the house.
With almost a look of guilt, a half look of terror, on her face, she answered the question of Sir Geoffrey Barry as to whether her mistress was within; she seeing, as she glanced at him, that he was very pale--as pale as he who was so bronzed could be--and that on his face was a stern look.
"Your mistress," he said, "has sent for me. I am here in answer to her summons. Where is she?"
"She is 'ere, Sir Jaffray," Mrs. Pottle said, opening the door of the parlour and announcing him. And then those two who had loved each other so fondly and so long were alone face to face.
"How lovely she is!" Geoffrey thought, observing the sad, pale face of the girl and her soft eyes as they were fixed on him; observing, too, however, how one white hand was pressed to her heart as though to still the tumult beneath. "How lovely, and--how false."
"Geoffrey!" Ariadne cried now. "Oh, Geoffrey! you have come to me. I knew you would. Knew it so well. You could not stay away from me," she said, sinking her voice so that the gentle tones of it sounded even more sweet than usual, "when I wanted you to come. Oh, Geoffrey!" she sighed.
"Actress!" he said inwardly, his face white--almost, it seemed, drawn. "Actress!" Then cursed himself for being there--for, in solemn truth being drawn to her against his will! But aloud, he said, so coldly that the tone struck like ice to her heart:
"I am here because you desired to see me again; because, too, Heaven help me! you conjured me, lured me with those cunning words you wrote in your letter, 'the memory of the love of our early years.' Ay, ourearlylove. You did well to speak of that. That, at least, has been."
"And can there be no other? Not when----"
"Not until," he cried, his voice ringing clearly through the room, "not until you deal truthfully with me, if ever; not until you answer my question fairly as to that man--that bedizened fop--I encountered in your avenue!"
"What do you ask? What do you desire to know?"
"That you know as well as I. Yet once again. I ask you, did that man come to Fanshawe Manor; was he there by--my God!--by appointment with the Manor's owner: was he there to see--Ariadne Thorne?"
For a moment the pure clear eyes gazed into his, then they dropped and sought the floor.
"Yes," she whispered slowly, hesitatingly, "yes, he went there--to see--Ariadne Thorne----"
"Ah!" he cried, "ah! I knew it. Knew it well from the moment I heard your whispered words to your woman. I knew it. Oh!" and now he, too, lifted his hand towards his heart as though to still it. "Oh! then thus all ends; thus I bid farewell to all our love. It is enough. To-morrow I resign my command----"
"No! no!" she cried, and now she came swiftly towards him. "No! no! To-morrow! Not to-morrow! Until to-morrow at least is past--do nothing. Geoffrey! Geoffrey! I love you; fondly, madly! Not to-morrow, of all days! not to-morrow!"
* * * * * * *
"A long talk," muttered Mrs. Pottle, below stairs, "a long talk," and she glanced at the clock, which now struck seven even as she did so. "A long talk. She must 'a' bin telling of 'im all. Ah! poor sweet, I'll go bail she finds it pretty 'ard to do. Yet they're quiet, too. I don't hear no walking about. Surely they ain't a-quarrelling--surely"--for now her melodramatic mind, a mind perhaps attuned to such things by her own stormy life, imagined the worst--"he hasn't refused to believe her! hasn't--oh! oh! that's too terrible to think on."
"I'll go up," she whispered to herself a moment later; "I will. I'll find an excuse for busting in upon them. I'm getting the 'orrors what with Sir Jaffray being 'ere and what with thinking of all that's to do to-morrow."
Whereon, slowly, she went towards the stairs, and began to creep up them noiselessly; but, when she reached where they turned towards the passage, she paused astonished.
For the door of the parlour opened, and Sir Geoffrey came forth--yet not alone.
By his side was Ariadne, her fair, lovely face radiant with a look of happiness extreme, her hand upon his sleeve. While, as they reached the hall door and she put up her other hand to unfasten the latch, Mrs. Pottle saw, with wonder-staring eyes, that he, bending forward now, took that hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it fervently.
Then, ere he went, Ariadne being still behind the half-open door, he did even more, for now he held his arms open before her and drew her into them, and kissed her long and tenderly, after which, murmuring "Adieu, sweetheart," loudly enough for Mrs. Pottle to hear, he went forth into the street.
"And that it may be better known, there is a porch at the door like a country church porch."
Thus advertised the redoubtable Keith (at this time languishing in Newgate, and represented by deputies), the reverend divine who, by license, performed more clandestine marriages among the upper classes than any other clergyman had ever done in London. Of course, the "scum and offal of the clergy," as Keith had more than once termed his rival practitioners in the Fleet, had, before the passing of the Marriage Act, united hundreds more couples than he had ever done; but, as he said, "What would you have? They marry drunken sailors to demireps, shopboys to their masters' daughters, who, as often as not, must secure a husband by hook or by crook, and that at once; rich tradesmen's widows to decayed gentlemen,et id genus omne. But I, I am a gentleman of ancient family myself, and I will meddle with none but those of my own kidney."
While, since a certain date, namely, February 14, 1752, Keith had been so puffed up and vainglorious that it seemed as though, henceforth, nothing short of peers and heiresses, or peeresses and handsome young men, were considered by him fit for entanglement in his net; and certain it is that from that date his fees went up. For on that day he had tied together in bonds, never to be loosened--and which were never sought to be loosened--James, sixth Duke of Hamilton, to Elizabeth, second daughter of John Gunning, of Castle Coote, County Roscommon, who marrieden secondes noces, John Campbell, fifth Duke of Argyll, and was likewise created a peeress in her own right.
Indeed, he became so puffed up, that gradually he discontinued his advertisements in the papers, including the above directions, as well as his charge of a guinea, "inclusive of the license on a crown stamp and minister's and clerk's fees," and began to squabble and chaffer for three guineas and five guineas, and sometimes even ten, before he would perform his office.
Therefore it was five guineas which by his orders his deputy, Peter Symson, officiating in his stead, had extorted from Beau Bufton when consenting, on the day before the marriage, to put his chapel and his clerk and himself at that gentleman's service the next morning.
"So long," said Bufton, "as it ties me tight, I care not. That is the needful thing. That there can be no breaking of the knot."
"Be very sure there cannot," said Symson; "very sure. This is no hole-and-corner marriage shop where rakes and libertines can possess themselves of women's persons and properties, and, after having grown tired of their wives and abused their wealth, can get relief. Oh, no! And no tricks can be played here. No marrying under a false name, and claiming exemption thereby; none of that. Your name may not be Algernon Bufton, as you tell me it is, and your lady's name may not be Ariadne Thorne; but, still, that will not serve."
"It will not be required to do so," said Bufton, thrusting out his long chin at the parson and favouring him with his sneer; "we come here to get closely padlocked, not to be tied together with a piece of easily breakable thread."
"That is well; the class of marriages which I, on behalf of my suffering and injured employer, alone perform. Very well, because, once I have done my office, you are united until death you do part. You have sworn to me that your name is Algernon Bufton, and the lady's Ariadne Thorne; and though your name may be truly John Nokes, and hers Joan Stokes, as Algernon Bufton and Ariadne Thorne you will be united, and united you will have to remain. I, too, can swear oaths when necessary. Now, fail not to be here at your time to-morrow. I have another union to make at half after ten, also another at half after eleven. Fail not."
After which lengthy and iterative oration, the deputy parson of the May Fair Chapel edged the Beau out of the vestry wherein their conversation had taken place, and wherein, also, the former had pouched his five guineas, he being cautious to be always paid beforehand.
Beau Bufton did take care to be there in time, while, to make assurance double sure, he arrived with his bride, she and Mrs. Pottle having been fetched by him from the corner of a street hard by the end of Cowley Street. The girl was very nervous, as he could see plainly, as well as recognise by the manner in which her hand trembled on his arm; also, she was white and with no bloom of natural colour on her cheeks, although Mrs. Pottle had, in its place, carefully applied the contents of the rouge-pot to them that morning. Otherwise, she was all that became a bride who did not wish to proclaim her position too distinctly. For the flowered brocade (which the Beau's eyes, astute in everything pertaining to clothes and gauds, noticed was not quite new and fresh, but had indeed been a little worn) was suitable enough to a young lady going out for a day's jaunt; the great Rembrandt-like hat matched it well enough, and the fringed gloves, which were brand-new, gave a pleasing set-off to the remainder of her apparel.
Behind the happy pair, as now they descended from the hackney coach and entered the chapel, came Lewis Granger, he having on his arm Mrs. Pottle, while testifying by his countenance that he scarcely appreciated the honour of being that lady's escort. Yet he had arranged everything as became the jackal of the lion; he had sworn deeply, and with many vows, to assist in bringing this marriage to a successful issue; even the indignity of Mrs. Pottle's company could not daunt him nor turn him from his resolution. The companionship of this stern and determined-looking woman at his side must be borne with for the next quarter of an hour. Though still he cast a glance of dismay, almost of shame, at two or three of the Beau's overnight guests who were already assembled and looked brave enough in their scarlet coats, as they all passed up with Mrs. Pottle to the spot where Keith's deputy was ready to perform the ceremony.
This deputy, Peter Symson by name, licensed by the Bishop of Salisbury as priest, seemed by his appearance to verify that which Bufton had said the evening before with regard to his habits. His face was extremely red, and the critical might have opined that it had neither been washed nor shaved this morning; his voice was hoarse and indistinct as he mumbled hastily the words of the irrevocable ceremony, as though anxious to get all concluded as soon as possible. In actual truth, he never performed the marriage ceremony without great fear that, at some moment of it, the myrmidons of Henry Fielding's successor at Bow Street might rush in on him and serve him with a warrant charging him with illegal practices.
Proudly, with a self-satisfied air--the air of one who has fought and conquered and is now reaping the spoils of victory--Beau Bufton went through with his marriage, that smile, which Granger thought so hateful, being on his lips while he uttered his responses clearly and audibly to all--as who would not do who was wedding a hundred thousand guineas? His bride also seemed to take courage as the end drew near, and ceased to shiver and shake as she had done at the commencement. She looked, too, more than once with a self-satisfied glance at the three boon companions who were by the door, as well as at Mrs. Pottle, and--once!--she looked at Granger.
"Sign the book!" exclaimed Symson now, as he closed his own, from which he had been reading in a gabbling, hurried manner. "Sign the book. Isaac, pass over the register to those whom the Lord hath joined together. There is no further fee, yet generous bridegrooms may still offer the minister a gift if they are so disposed. The clerk, too, would accept of something if it were tendered."
But Beau Bufton was deaf to these suggestions. He had paid his five guineas yesterday out of the remnants of the small stock of money left to him; he was not going to squander any of that new fortune which he had now secured. Wherefore, having signed his own name, and indicated with his finger the spot at which his wife should also sign hers, he turned a deaf ear to the reverend gentleman's suggestions, while, he turned on Granger a look of triumph--the proud glance of a successful man.
Then, as he did so, and as still the newly made wife bent over the greasy register, he heard a voice: it was that of the friend whose absence he had noticed regretfully as he entered the chapel; the voice of Lord John Dallas, saying:
"Ariadne Thorne! Ariadne Thorne! That Ariadne Thorne! My God!" While at the same time Bufton saw that the new-comer--the man who had but just arrived upon the scene--was making his way to where he and his wife stood. He saw, too, a strange look upon his face.
"Mrs. Algernon Bufton now," he said, regarding the young man with surprise; "Ariadne Thorne a quarter of an hour ago."
"Ariadne Thorne! never!" Lord John exclaimed, and, to the Beau's horror, he saw a glance of recognition pass between him and the woman at his side, who, to his further astonishment, now trembled no more, but, instead, stood erect and with a look of defiance on her face. "Never Ariadne Thorne. I knew it. Knew it. She loves Geoffrey Barry too well! Ariadne Thorne," he repeated. "Nay! Anne Tremlett, the actress--the singer at booths--the stroller. God! what have you done?"
"Tremlett! Ah!" and Bufton gasped. "Tremlett."
White as a ghost now; himself shaking, as the woman he had married had shaken before; his face terrible to behold, Bufton turned round, observing as he did so that all eyes were on him, while, pushing his wife on one side, he glared at the name she had inscribed in the register. Yet, it was not Anne Tremlett--a name of hideous memories to him--but, instead, "Anne Pottle."
"What does it mean?" he cried hoarsely, his voice changed so as to be utterly unrecognisable. "Speak! Say, wanton! Speak! I say, or I will kill you!" he continued, almost in a shriek.
"Be still," cried Granger, clasping his arm, "be still; this is a church."
"I will know all. Speak, I say, or----" and he made as though he would tear to pieces the woman who stood by his side. "Speak, damn you!"
"Begone from out this house!" cried Symson now. "Though not a duly consecrated edifice, it shall not be polluted by you. Begone, I say!"
"I will not go," the wretched man snarled, "till I have an explanation of why I have been trapped, hoodwinked like this. I will know, or----" and he made a snatch at the register as though to seize the leaf which recorded his marriage with Anne Pottle. An attempt frustrated by Symson, who, big and brawny, thrust himself between it and the duped Beau.
"Let us do as he bids, let us go," his wife said now, her voice calm, and upon her face a look of intense hatred. Yet she did not go, but, standing by her mother's side, said, while all who were present listened open-mouthed--even the curiosity of the Rev. Peter Symson being aroused:
"Let me speak now. My sister and I--she was nigh blind--came to London three years ago, I to earn a living by my voice, she to be dependent on me, since mother could not ask Miss Ariadne to keep us all, though God knows she would have done so willingly; and this snake--this thing whom I have married for retaliation--he--well, he deceived her, ruined her--so--that--she slew herself. Oh, God! my sister--my dead sister--my little helpless sister!
"It was under the name of Tremlett, my mother's maiden name," she went on, recovering somewhat from her emotion, "that I earned my living by singing at Vauxhall and Ranelagh, and, to save trouble and explanation, she, too, went by that name; while he, meeting her at the latter place, where she ever waited for me, persuaded her to evil--ruined her, cursed her life, caused her to kill herself." And now the newly made wife wept. Then, suddenly, again recovering herself, she cried:
"Do you think, all you who are here, that when I met him by chance at Tunbridge at a masquerade, and learnt that he meditated villainy of a different kind, to another woman whom I loved dearly, to that Ariadne Thorne for whom he took me, I would spare him? Never! She was there, too, at Tunbridge, though not at the masquerade, and she lent me clothes, fallals, laces, even a fan, to go and make merry myself. Ah!" she cried, "I am avenged! Avenged! This betrayer of innocent women, this fortune-hunter, is fooled to the top of his bent----Till death us do part!" she exclaimed, with a bitter laugh, breaking off, "Till death us do part!"
"This is no marriage," Beau Bufton said now, addressing Symson, "no marriage. You know that!"
"I know that it will give you much trouble to break it," the reverend gentleman said, with a leer of contempt. "I tie all tight. You were warned yesterday that false names would not save you. And, since she openly avows her name is Anne Pottle, in the name of Anne Pottle you are wed. Now, I require you to be gone. Observe, there is another ceremony to be performed."
While as he spoke he pointed to the door, through which a second wedding party was entering.
"I renounce her!" Bufton cried now, "renounce her for ever. It is a trick played by a wanton!" he cried. "A trick that shall never succeed. You shall be laid by the heels in Newgate--you--you--you hedge priest--Great God!" he almost screamed, breaking off, "what bringsyouhere too?" And in his rage he made an attempt to draw his sword.
For, behind that other small party which had entered the chapel, he saw the form of a man which he remembered well--had good cause to remember--the form of Sir Geoffrey Barry, with, leaning upon his arm, a young and beautiful woman.
"I am here," the new-comer said, "to present you to a lady whom I wish you to know. Pardon me," he continued, addressing the incoming wedding party which he had followed, "if I delay your ceremony for a short moment. But I am desirous of introducing this newly made happy man to my future wife--Miss Ariadne Thorne."