I rowed myself aboard that evening in a strange condition of exultation, for I had now no doubt—no doubt at all—that the charges were true, and that a conspiracy of the most deadly kind was not only discovered, but also checked. And I could not but admire the craft and subtlety displayed by the favourite of the Muses in devising a plan by which it was made possible for the conspirators to come all together without the least suspicion to the town of Lynn. How else could they come? For reasons political? But Lynn is a borough in the hands of Sir Robert Walpole, of Houghton. Nobody could stand against him, nor could any one in Lord Fylingdale's rank visit the town in its ordinary condition without receiving an invitation to Houghton if Sir Robert was there. Unless, indeed, there were reasons why he should not be visited or received. What Sam had not expected was, without doubt, the wonderful success of his deception; the eagerness with which the country round accepted his inventions; the readiness with which they drank those innocent waters; the miraculous cures effected; and the transformation of the venerable old port and trading town into a haunt and resort of fashion and the pursuit of pleasure.
Thinking of all these things, and in blissful anticipation of the discomfiture of all the conspirators, there was an important thing that I quite forgot, namely, to send Molly's letter to her suitor in his room at the "Crown." I carried the letter in my pocket. I undressed and lay down in my bunk. I slept with a light heart, dreaming only of things pleasant, until the morning, when the earliest stroke of the hammer from the yard and the quay woke me up. It was then half-past five. I sat up. I rubbed my eyes. I then suddenly remembered that the letter was in my pocket still.
It was, I say, half-past five. The engagement was for six o'clock. I might have to run, yet, to stop Lord Fylingdale.
It does not take long to dress. You may imagine that I did not spend time in powdering my hair. In a quarter of an hour I was over the side of the ship and in my dingey.
By the clock on the Common Stathe it was five minutes to six when I landed and made her fast. I climbed the stairs, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the "Crown Inn." As I reached the door the clock struck six. Was Lord Fylingdale in his room? I was too late. He had left the house some ten minutes before, and had been carried in his chair across the market-place.
I followed. It was already five minutes past the hour. I should find him in the church, chafing at the delay. I should give him the letter and retire.
The market-place was filled with the market people and with the townspeople who came to buy. I pushed across, stepping over a basket, and jostled by a woman with poultry and vegetables. It was, however, seven or eight minutes past six when I arrived at the church; the doors of the south porch were open. Within I heard the sound of voices—or, at least, of one voice. I looked in.
Heavens! What had happened? Not only was I late with my letter, but—but—could I believe my eyes? Molly herself stood before the altar; facing her was Lord Fylingdale, who held her hand. Within the rails stood the Reverend Benjamin Purdon; beside him, the clerk, to make the responses. And the minister, when I arrived, was actually saying the words which the bridegroom repeats after the minister, completing in effect the marriage ceremony.
"I, Ludovick, take thee, Mary, to my wedded wife …" and so on according to the form prescribed. And again, the words beginning—
"With this ring I thee wed…."
I stood and listened, lost in wonder.
Then came the prayer prescribed. After which the clergyman joined their hands together, saying:—
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
I heard no more. I sat down on the nearest bench. What was the meaning of this sudden change? Remember that I had left Molly only a few hours before this, fully resolved that she would demand an inquiry into the statements and charges made in the two letters; resolved that she would not keep that engagement; her admiration for the proud, brave, noble creature, her lover, turned into loathing.
And now—now, in the early morning, with her letter in my pocket stating her change of purpose—I found her at the altar, and actually married.
"Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."
What if the man Purdon was all that he was described? The priestly office confers rights and powers which are independent of the man who holds that office. Whatever his private wickedness, Purdon was a clergyman, and therefore he could marry people.
Molly stood before the altar as had been arranged; she wore a black silk domino; she had on a pink silk cloak with a hood drawn over her head, so that she was quite covered up and concealed. But I knew her by her stature, which was taller than the common, and by the dress, which had been agreed upon.
Then the bridegroom offered his hand and led the bride into the vestry. They were to sign the marriage register.
And here I rose and slunk away. I say that I slunk away. If you like it better, I crawled away, for I was sick at heart. The thing which I most dreaded, the marriage of our girl to a rake and a gamester, had been actually accomplished. Misery and ruin; misery and ruin; misery and ruin would be her lot. And in my pocket was her letter asking for explanations—and withdrawing her promise for the morrow! Could one believe one's senses?
I crawled away, ashamed for the first time in my life of the girl I loved. Women, I said to myself, are poor, weak creatures. They believe everything; Lord Fylingdale must have been with her early. He had but to deny the whole; she accepted the denial; despite her resolution she walked with him to the church as the lamb goes to the shambles. Oh, Molly! Molly! Who would have believed it of you?
I left the church and went away. I thought of going to the captain; of telling my father; of telling the vicar; but it seemed like treachery, and I refrained. Instead, I walked back to the quay, and paddled to the ship, where presently the barges came alongside and the day's work began. Fortunate it is for a man that at moments of great unhappiness his work has to be done and he is desirous to put aside his sorrow and to think upon his duty. But, alas! Poor Molly! Who could have believed it possible?
Well, you see, I did not follow this wedding to an end. Had I gone into the vestry I should have been witness of something very unexpected. Why, had not the Lady Anastasia—who, I now understand, was tortured by jealousy—promised that "something should happen"?
The clergyman had the registers lying on the table open. He took a pen and filled in the forms. He then offered the pen to the bride.
"My lady," he said. "I must ask your ladyship to sign the register. In duplicate, if you please."
The bride sat down, and in a large bold hand wrote her name, "Mary Miller."
Then the bridegroom took the pen and signed, "Fylingdale."
The clergyman sprinkled the pounce box over the names and shut up the books, which he gave to the clerk. This officer took the books and locked them in the great trunk which held the papers and books of the church, putting the key in his pocket.
"And now," said Mr. Purdon, "let me congratulate my noble patron and the newly made countess on this auspicious event. I have brought with me a bottle of the finest port the 'Crown' possesses, and I venture to drink health, happiness, and prosperity." So saying he produced a bottle and glasses. The bride without saying a word inclined her head to the bridegroom and drank off her glass. Lord Fylingdale, who looked, if one may say so of a bridegroom, peevish and ill at ease, raised his glass. "To your happiness, Molly!" he said.
So, all was finished. "You are going home, Molly?" he asked. "For the present. That is to say, for a day or two it will be best. I shall claim you very soon. There is no one but ourselves in the vestry," for the clerk, having locked the box and accepted the guinea bestowed upon him by the bridegroom, was now tramping down the church and through the porch. No one but themselves was in the vestry or the church. "You may, therefore, take off your domino."
"As your lordship pleases." Lord Fylingdale started. Whose voice was that? "As you order, I obey." So the bride removed her domino and threw back the hood.
The bridegroom started. "What is this?" he cried furious, with certain words which were out of place in a church.
"WHAT IS THIS?" HE CRIED FURIOUS.""WHAT IS THIS?" HE CRIED FURIOUS, WITH CERTAIN WORDS WHICH WERE OUT OF PLACE IN A CHURCH.
"WHAT IS THIS?" HE CRIED FURIOUS.""WHAT IS THIS?" HE CRIED FURIOUS, WITH CERTAIN WORDS WHICH WERE OUT OF PLACE IN A CHURCH.
"WHAT IS THIS?" HE CRIED FURIOUS, WITH CERTAIN WORDS WHICH WERE OUT OF PLACE IN A CHURCH.
"Lady Anastasia!" cried Mr. Purdon. "Good Lord! Then we are all undone!"
"What does it mean? Tell me, she devil—what does it mean? Where is Molly? But this is play acting. This is not a marriage."
"I fear, my lord," said the parson, "that it is a marriage. The registers are in the strong box. They cannot be altered."
"Go after the clerk, man. Order him to give up the keys. Tear the pages out of the registers."
"I cannot," said Mr. Purdon. "I dare not. The man is a witness of this marriage; he has seen the entry in the register. I dare not alter them or destroy a single page. I have done a great deal for your lordship, but this thing I cannot do. It is a marriage, I say. You are married to the Lady Anastasia here."
"Talk! talk! Go after the man. Bring back the man. Tear the keys from him. Silence the man! Buy his silence! Buy—I will murder him, if I must, in order to stop his tongue."
"Your lordship forgets your bride—your happy, smiling, innocent bride!"
He cursed her. He raised his hand as if to strike her down, but forbore.
"I told you," she continued, "that in everything I was at your service—except in one thing. Tear the registers; murder the clerk; but the bride will be left. And if you murder her as well you will be no nearer the possession of the lovely Molly."
The bridegroom sank into a chair. He was terrible to look at, for his wrath and disappointment deprived him of the power of speech. Where was now the cold and haughty front? It was gone. He sat in the chair, upright, his face purple, his eyes starting from his head as one who hath some kind of fit.
The clergyman, still in his white surplice, looked on and trembled, for his old pupil was in a murderous frame of mind. There was no knowing whom he might murder. Besides, he had before this divined the true meaning of the visit to Lynn; and he foresaw ruin to himself as well as his patron.
Lord Fylingdale turned upon him suddenly and cursed him for a fool, an ass, a villain, a traitor. "You are in the plot," he said. "You knew all along. You have been suborned."
"My lord—my lord—have patience. What could I know? I was bidden to be here at six to marry you. I supposed that the bride was the fair Miss Molly. I could not tell; I knew nothing. The lady was in a domino. It is irregular to be married in a domino. But your lordship wished it. What could I do?"
"Send for the key, then, and destroy the registers."
"Alas! my lord, it is now, you may be sure, all over the town that you have been married, and to Miss Molly."
"Where is Molly? Where is Molly, then? Why did she keep away?"
The bride looked on with her mocking smile of triumph. "You may murder me," she said, "but you will not undo the marriage. I have been married, it is true, under a false name; but I am married none the less."
"You have brought ruin upon us all," her husband said. "Ruin—headlong ruin. I am at my last guinea. I can raise no more money—I have no more credit. You, yourself, are as much discredited."
"If you are ruined," the lady replied, "you are rightly punished. How many vows have you made to me? How many lies have you invented to keep me quiet?"
"With submission, my lord," Mr. Purdon stammered, for terror and bewilderment held him, "this is a bad morning's work. Let me advise that before the town is awake we leave the church and talk over the business in her ladyship's rooms, or elsewhere. We must be private. To curse and to swear helps nothing; nor does it help to talk of a jealous revenge. Let us go."
It was with a tottering step, as if he was smitten with palsy, that the bridegroom walked down the aisle. The bride put up her domino, and threw her hood over her head, and so with the parson, in silence, walked away from the church to her lodging, leaving the bridegroom to come by himself.
As yet the market people had not heard the news.
But the news spread. The clerk told his wife. "I come from the church," he said. "I have witnessed the marriage of Miss Molly—Captain Crowle's Molly—with the noble lord who wears the star and looks so grand—a private wedding it was. I know not why. The parson was the Reverend Mr. Purdon, he who reads the morning prayers and preaches on Sunday."
Then the clerk's wife, slipping on her apron—for such folk find the shelter of the apron for their hands necessary in conversation—ran round to the pump room. No one was there as yet, but the two dippers. To them she communicated the news.
Then she went on to the market and told all the people of the town who were chaffering there.
At seven o'clock the captain, walking in his garden, was surprised by the arrival of the horns, who stood before the house and performed a noble flourish. "What the devil is that for?" said the captain. Then there arrived the butchers, with their marrowbones and cleavers, and began to make their music with zeal. The captain went out to them. Up went their hats.
"Huzza for Miss Molly and her husband."
"Her husband? What do you mean?"
"Her husband—his lordship—married this morning."
"What?" The captain stared in amazement. Then he rushed into the house. Molly was in the kitchen. "What is this?" he asked. "The butchers are here and the horns, and they swear you were married this morning, Molly?"
"Why, captain, I have not been outside the door. I am not married, I assure you, and I begin to think, now, that I never shall be married."
The captain went out and dismissed the musicians. But the thing troubled him, and he was already sick at heart on account of the last night's discourse and its discoveries.
What followed, by invention and design of the pious ecclesiastic, Mr. Purdon, was a villainy even greater than that at first designed—more daring, more cruel.
The bride, accompanied by the minister officiating in the late ceremony, walked back to her lodging. She was still exultant in the first glow and triumph of her revenge. He, on the other hand, walked downcast, stealthily glancing at his companion, his big head moving sideways like the head of a bear, his sallow cheeks paler than was customary. The bridegroom, for his part, flung himself into his chair, and so was carried to the lady's lodging. A strange wedding procession!
She threw off her cloak and her domino, and stood before her newly-made lord, her eyes bright, her face flushed, her lips quivering. She was filled with revenge only half satiated; but revenge can never be wholly satisfied; and she was filled with the triumph of victory.
"I have won!" she said; "you tried to deceive me again, Ludovick. But I have won. You have been caught in your own toils."
He took the nearest chair, sitting down in silence, but his face was dark. As she looked upon him, some of the triumph died out of her eyes; her cheek lost its glow; she began to be frightened. What would he say—or do—next? As for his reverence, he stood close to the door as if ready for instant flight. Indeed, there was cause for uncertainty because the man was desperate and his sword was at his side.
"Silence!" he said, "or I may kill you."
Then there was silence. The other two did not speak. The lady threw herself upon the sofa, twisting her fingers nervously.
"You have married me, you say. You shall be a happy wife. You cannot imagine how happy you will be."
In a contest of tongues the woman has the best of it.
"So long as you, my lord, enjoy the same happiness, or even greater, I shall not repine. You intended my happiness in another way."
"You have destroyed my last chance. It is a good beginning."
"A better ending, my lord. The fond mistress whom you have fooled so long becomes the wife. It is not the duty of a wife to provide for her husband. Nor will the Countess of Fylingdale allow the Earl to enter her house. She will want the proceeds of her bank for herself. In a word, my lord, you are not only my husband, but you are now privileged to provide for yourself."
He sprang to his feet and fell to common and violent cursing, invoking the immediate and miraculous intervention of that Power which he had all his life insulted and defied. The lady received the torrent without a word; what can one say in reply to a man who only curses? But she was afraid of him; his words were like blows; the headlong rage of the man cowed her; she bent her head and covered her face with her hands.
Then Mr. Purdon ventured to interfere. "Let me speak," he said. "The thing is done. It cannot be undone. Would it not be better to make the best of it? Does it help any of us—does it help your lordship—to revile and to threaten?"
The bridegroom turned upon him savagely. "You to speak!" he said. "You, who are too mealy mouthed and too virtuous even to tear up a page from a register."
"I do not wish to be unfrocked, or to be sent to the plantations, my lord. Meantime, it would be doing you the worst service in the world if I were to tear out that page."
"Oh! you talk—you always talk."
"Of old, my lord, I have sometimes talked to some purpose."
"Talk again, then. What do you mean by disservice? You will say next, I suppose, that this play acting was fortunate for me."
"We may sometimes turn disasters into victories. If your lordship will listen——"
His patron sat down again—the late storm leaving its trace in a scowling face and twitching lips.
"Why the devil was not Molly there? How did this woman find out? How did she know that Molly was not coming?"
"I can answer these questions," said the lady. "Molly would not come because she learned last night, just in time, certain facts in the private life of the bridegroom——"
"What?" Lord Fylingdale betrayed his terror. "She has heard? What has she heard?" He had not, as you have heard, received Molly's letter, nor had he opened the captain's letter. Therefore, he knew nothing.
"She had heard more than enough. You have lost your bride and her fortune. I might have warned you, but I preferred to take her place."
"What has she heard?"
"Apparently, all that there is to be heard. Not, of course, all that could be told if Mr. Purdon were to speak. Merely things of public notoriety. That you are a gambler and a rake; that you have ruined many; that you are ruined yourself. Oh! Quite enough for a girl of her class to learn. In our rank we want much more before we turn our back upon a man. I, myself, know much more. Yet I have married you."
"She has heard—" Lord Fylingdale repeated.
"Dear, dear!" said the parson. "All this is most unfortunate—most unfortunate. Your lordship has already lost your bride—lost her," he repeated; "lost her—and her fortune. Is there no way out?"
"Who brought these reports? Show me the man!"
"Ta-ta-ta! You need not bluster, Ludovick. Reports of this kind are in the air; they cling to your name; they travel with you. What? The notorious Lord Fylingdale? They have come, you see, at last, even to this unfashionable corner of the island. They are here, although we have done so much to declare your virtues. Acknowledge that you have been fortunate so far."
"Are these reports your doing, madam? Is this a part of your infernal jealousy?"
"I do not know who put them about. It is not likely that I should start such reports—especially after the scandal at Bath. I am, in fact, like his reverence here, too much involved myself. Oh! we have beautiful characters—all three of us."
"Who told Molly?"
"I say that I know nothing. She has been warned. That is all I can tell you, and she has been advised to take no further steps until full explanations have been made in answer to these rumours."
"Full explanations," repeated Mr. Purdon. "Dear, dear! Most unfortunate! most unfortunate!"
"Your lordship can refer to his reverence here, or to the admirable Semple; or to the immaculate Sir Harry; or to the colonel—that man of nice and well-known honour—for your character. But who will give them a character? Understand," she said, facing him, "you had lost your bride before you got out of bed this morning. Your only chance now is to imitate the example of Tom Rising and to carry her off. And she will then stick a knife between your ribs as she intended to do to that worthy gentleman. But no, I forgot, you cannot do that, you are already married."
His reverence again interposed. "With submission, my lord, some explanations will be asked. It will not, certainly, be convenient to offer any. There is, however, one way—and only one—that I can suggest." He looked at the Lady Anastasia. "It will be, perhaps, at first, distasteful to her ladyship. It has, however, the very great advantage of securing the fortune, which, I take it, is what your lordship chiefly desires. As regards the girl, she is in point of manners and appearance so far beneath your lordship's notice that we need not consider her in the matter."
"I care nothing about the girl, but hang me if I understand one single syllable of what you mean, or how you can secure the fortune without the girl."
"It is not always necessary to carry your wife about with you. She might be left with her friends. A marriage without settlement places, I believe, a woman's fortune absolutely in the hands of her husband."
Neither of his listeners made the least sign of understanding what he meant.
"Strange!" he said. "I should have thought that this way would have been seized upon immediately. It is wonderful that you do not understand."
"Pray, Mr. Purdon," said the lady, "do not credit me, at least, with the power of following your mind in all its crookedness."
"Let us consider the situation. I was somewhat surprised when your lordship instructed me to come to this place. Surprised and suspicious. Naturally, I kept my eyes open. I very soon discovered what was proposed. Here was a girl whom Semple had represented to your lordship as a great heiress. You want an heiress at this juncture. I followed the course of events with satisfaction. You were civil to the girl when all the company trampled upon her; you were affable to the old fool, her guardian; you made private and personal inquiry into her fortune; you succeeded in representing yourself as a man of virtue and high principle—all this was cleverly managed. But you made one mistake. You concealed your true intentions from the Lady Anastasia."
"It was her infernal jealousy. Why couldn't she let me marry the girl and leave her in Gloucestershire—out of the way?"
"A great mistake. I thought that my pupil knew the sex better. Jealousy, my lord, supposes love; and love can always be directed into the other channel of submission. Well, the marriage was arranged; you had already taken the precaution of getting a licence. Then, at the last moment, these sinister reports began. How far they can be explained away—how many others they involve; how many scandals they revive—we know not. But explanation—explanation—no, no—that would be the devil!"
"Go on, man. You talk forever."
"Had these reports been delayed but a single day—had they arrived after the marriage."
"But they arrived before the marriage."
"Quite so; which brings me to my proposal. Here you are—at your last guinea. So am I. You can raise no more money. If I were not your domestic chaplain I should be in the King's Bench. I have lived on your bounty for ten years and more. I hoped to go on with the same support. To be sure I have earned my money. I have been of service on many occasions, but I am grateful, and I would, if I could, for the sake of old times, assist your lordship on this occasion."
"I want all the assistance I can get. That is quite certain."
"And I want all the money I can get. I always intended, somehow or other, to get a slice of this pudding. If I put it into your lordship's power to claim and to seize upon this fortune, which seems to have been snatched out of your hands at the last moment, I must have my share."
"Your share? What do you call your share?"
"Twelve thousand pounds."
"Twelve thousand devils!"
"You can get nothing without me. If you refuse I can, at least, tell everybody the pleasant truth about this morning's work, and how the biter was bit."
"Go on with your proposal, then."
"You will give me a promise—a bill, if you like, payable in two months—you will not be able to get through all that money in two months—for twelve thousand pounds."
"It is a monstrous sum. But, on condition that you place this girl's fortune in my hands—however, it is impossible. Well, you shall have my promise—on my honour as a peer." He placed his right hand upon his heart.
The clergyman grinned. "Your lordship gives me more than I dare to ask. It is a bill—a written document—not a promise, even on your honour as a peer. Give me that and I will show you the way. Stay—nothing can be done without me—I will tell you my scheme before you sign that paper. Now, listen—you had already lost your bride when you arrived at the church. Her ladyship most fortunately——"
"How, sir, most fortunately?"
"A moment. Madam saw her way to the revenge of jealousy. She took the place of the bride. And she was married as Miss Molly; she signed the name of Molly Miller; the licence was in that name. The clerk who was present has, I am sure, already carried the news all over the place. We have the evidence, therefore, of the bridegroom, the parson, the clerk, the licence, the registers. Who is to prove that the real Molly was at home all the time? Captain Crowle, perhaps, though I doubt. The girl herself—but who will believe her? My lord, you have married Miss Molly, and not the Lady Anastasia."
"What then?"
"You have only to claim your bride."
"Sir. You forget that I am the bride," Lady Anastasia interposed, quickly.
Mr. Purdon bowed and smiled, rubbing his hands softly. "With submission, madam. I do not advise that his lordship should carry her off, nor that he should claim herad mensam et torum, as we scholars say. His principles would not, I am sure, allow that he should carry off an unmarried woman. Not at all. He will leave her with her friends. Indeed, he would prefer to do so. I suggest only that we should proclaim the marriage and lay hands upon the fortune."
"She is to be the countess. And what am I to be?"
"His lordship's best friend. You will rescue him in his deepest need; you will restore him to affluence; it will be a service, madam, of the purest and most disinterested affection, instead of an ugly and ruinous revenge. Heavens! Can you hesitate?"
Thus did he gloss over the villainy so that the poor woman almost believed that she was entering upon a course of virtuous benevolence, and, as the man said, a service of love.
"But the girl—Molly. She will not consent to be a countess in name."
"She and her friends will protest; but they will be overborne; meantime, she has the virtue and the pride of her station. Will she even consent, do you think, to call herself a countess when she is not married? Why, we actually make a ladder for ourselves to climb thereby, out of her virtue."
He looked at the lady no longer stealthily, but full in the face, with a smile, as if he was proposing a scheme of the noblest kind; as if there was nothing to be hidden, and there were no perjuries to be advanced.
Lord Fylingdale, too, turned to her with a face of inquiry and doubt.
"What is your lordship's opinion?"
"It is a scheme of great audacity. It will require bold handling."
"It shall be boldly handled, if I may advise."
"It is certain to be resisted with the utmost indignation."
"Of that there is no doubt. But the end is also certain. Nothing can withstand the evidence of our case. It is so clear that I myself am of opinion that the bride was actually Miss Molly."
They both looked at Lady Anastasia, who made no response—her eyes in her lap.
"The truth will lie with us three," the tempter went on. "Only with us three. None of us will reveal it."
"As regards jealousy, Anastasia, the girl will be here, and everything will continue just as before."
She threw up her arms and sprang to her feet. "Oh!" she cried, "it is the most monstrous villainy."
"We need not think of the girl. We must think of ourselves."
"A service of love," murmured Mr. Purdon, "a beautiful, a noble service of love!"
"The fortune is immense, Anastasia. It is ridiculous that the girl should have so much. We will leave her a competence. Besides, there are the jewels."
Lady Anastasia gasped.
"You yourself will adorn these jewels. It will be my greatest pleasure to atone for my ill-judged deception by giving you all those jewels—the diamonds, the rubies, the chains of pearls, and all the rest of the pretty glittering things." He took her hands, the parson looking on all the time as a physician looks on at a blood-letting or an operation. "What can that girl do with jewels? They shall all be yours. Forgive me, Anastasia, and let us again work together as we have already done—you and I—with no more jealousy and no more suspicions."
He kissed her hand. His manner was changed almost suddenly; he became soft, caressing, and persuasive. It was the old charm which the poor lady could never resist. She suffered him to hold her hand; she allowed him to kiss her hand; her eyes grew humid.
"Oh!" she murmured, "I must do everything you ask, Ludovick, if you are only kind."
"How can I be anything but kind?" he replied, with a smile. "You must forget and forgive. The thought that all I had schemed and planned was torn from me—and by you, Anastasia—by you—was too much. My mind was upset; I know not what I said. Forgive me!"
"Oh, Ludovick! I forgive."
"And the jewels shall atone—the lovely jewels. You shall have them all."
"You will truly give me the jewels?"
"Truly, my Anastasia. After all, we are man and wife. Henceforth we shall only live for each other. Your happiness shall be mine. The jewels shall be yours."
She yielded; she fell into his arms. There was a complete, a touching reconciliation!
"I agree, then, Purdon," said his lordship. "We both agree. It remains only to choose the best time, the best place, the best manner."
"Let it be the boldest manner; the most public place; before the largest company. Let there be no mistake possible. Leave this to me, my lord. Twelve thousand pounds. Your ladyship will oblige me with pen, ink, and paper? I may point out" (he turned to his former pupil with an ugly grin) "that if this promise, or bond, or bill is not met I shall proclaim the whole business from the housetop."
In other words, Lord Fylingdale was going to declare that it was Molly, and none other, who was married that morning at six o'clock, and to assume the rights and powers of a husband. So that the news of his evil reputation came, after all, too late to be of any use. And as for explanations, who would have the right to ask any explanations of a married man on behalf of his wife.
Fortune was with the conspirators. Everything helped them. First of all, the dippers whispered the news as a profound secret. Then it was whispered about the pump room as a profound secret. Then it was carried to the confectioner's; to the book shop; to the coffee houses; to the taverns; to the gardens; and talked about as an event and not a secret at all. It was, indeed extraordinary that a nobleman of Lord Fylingdale's rank and fortune should stoop to marry the daughter of a plain merchant of Lynn; a homely creature, as the ladies declared; one who had no manners, and was actually ignorant of the polite world. It was said that she was rich. Could the Earl of Fylingdale stoop to pick up her paltry fortune? What was the attraction, then? A bouncing figure; big hands and strong arms; fine eyes, perhaps, and there an end; for the rest, a mere common girl, no better than dozens like herself. Some there were who whispered a word of ugly import in the country. "It must be witchcraft! Surely," they said, "this unfortunate young man has been bewitched. Some one, perhaps the negress, has exercised spells over him to his destruction. The pity of it! The pity of it! It will be three generations, at least, before the stain of this alliance can be wiped out of the family pedigree."
The vicar heard the rumour. He hastened at once to find out the truth from the person most certain, as he thought, to know the facts, viz, Molly herself.
"I am to congratulate you, Molly," he said, "or must I call you the Countess of Fylingdale?"
"I am certainly not a countess," she replied. "Why the horns came here at seven this morning and the butchers with them, all to congratulate me. What does it mean?"
"Then it is not true, Molly? Heavens, how glad I am!"
"Why, certainly not. I wrote to Lord Fylingdale last night. I told him I should not be at the church this morning, as I had promised."
"Then—is it not true?—may I contradict the report?"
"If you please, sir. Did you see Jack last night after he left me?"
"We did. And we learned your resolution. Therefore, I was the more astonished."
"Oh! sir. Pray do not think that I would marry a rake for a title which I do not want and should not adorn."
"Heavens! my dear Molly, what a load you lift from my heart!"
So he went away. Outside, in the streets, he met the clerk of St. Nicholas. "What is all this," he said, "about a marriage early this morning?"
"Why, sir, it is no secret, I believe. Miss Molly was married at six o'clock to Lord Fylingdale. I was present, and gave away the bride."
"Are we dreaming? Are we in our right senses? You say, man, that Miss Molly was married this morning—this very morning—to Lord Fylingdale. By whom?"
"By his reverence, Mr. Purdon."
"By Mr. Purdon? Was the marriage duly celebrated?"
"Surely, sir. They were married by licence; and the marriage is entered in the registers."
"Come to the church and show me the registers."
The clerk led the way to the vestry and opened the great trunk. There lay the books of the registers. He took them out and showed the entries. Yes; there was no doubt possible. There were the two signatures, "Fylingdale" and "Mary Miller," with the clerk as witness and the signature of "Benjamin Purdon, Clerk in Orders," as the officiating minister.
"Now," said the vicar, sitting down, "what does this mean?"
As for myself, I also heard the news. It was brought on board by Captain Jaggard. "I could have wished," he said, "that Captain Crowle had seen his way to marry the girl to some honest man of the place—to you, Jack, or some other. I suppose she is too rich for a merchant or a simple sailor. Pity! Pity! This noble lord will take her away, and we shall see her no more."
I did not think it necessary to tell him that I was myself an eyewitness of the wedding, but, as soon as I could get away, I went ashore to learn what was said and reported.
At my father's house behind the school I found the vicar in a strangely bewildered mind. "Molly," he said, "flatly denies the marriage."
"Molly denies?" I was amazed.
"And the clerk swears that he gave her away; the registers are duly entered. What does this mean? What does this mean?"
I stared, and for a time made no reply. Molly to utter a falsehood? The thing was incredible. Yet, what was I to think?
"Sir," I said, "I remembered, early this morning, that I had forgotten Molly's letter to Lord Fylingdale. I hastened ashore, hoping to be in time to stop his going to the church. I was too late. I hurried on to the church. To my amazement the wedding service was at this moment being read by Mr. Purdon, and I saw, with my own eyes, Molly, wrapped in her pink cloak, the hood over her head, married to Lord Fylingdale. You cannot think that I was deceived."
"Why, the thing grows more and more mysterious. Given the fact that Lord Fylingdale is a reprobate, with no principle and no religion, yet he would not pass off another woman as Molly. She would have to be a woman of the vilest character. I do not think there is a woman in Lynn who could be persuaded to such an act of villainy. No, it is impossible; the clerk could not be deceived; the clergyman—to be sure he is a fit companion for the bridegroom—would not—could not—stoop so low. Think, Jack. Molly stoutly declares that she has not left the house for any purpose whatever. That is a plain assertion. Then we have the evidence of yourself, of the clerk, of the registers, and of the two whose evidence might not be considered trustworthy—the bridegroom and the minister. I do not understand. You say that Molly was dressed in a cloak that you recognised?"
"In her pink silk cloak, such as she throws over her shoulders at the assembly."
"There is no escape, I fear, no escape, that I can see. What does it mean? Why does Molly make this assertion? She must know that it cannot undo the wedding."
"I cannot so much as guess. Molly is the most candid and the most truthful of women. She cannot lie. It is impossible. There must be some dreadful mistake."
"She is, as you say, of a most truthful nature. Yet—how to explain? What does it mean?"
"I saw her hand placed in the bridegroom's, and I heard the words. Then, for my heart sank, I came away."
"Tell me again. When you left her last night, she was fully resolved not to keep her promise."
"She was fully resolved, I say. I have her letter—the letter which she wrote with my help, the letter which I ought to have sent to his lordship."
I lugged it out of my pocket; the vicar read it. "Humph," he said, "it is written as if by a supercargo—but that matters nothing. The meaning of it is plain. Her resolution is fixed. She was agitated, Jack."
"Naturally she was agitated at finding the man, whom she was to marry out of respect and not for love, was unworthy of the least respect."
"She was agitated. That was, as you say, natural. She had in her mind, at the same time, the promise to meet her accepted lover at the church at six in the morning. We must remember that. Now it is difficult to understand a more serious blow to the mind of a young girl than to be told suddenly, without the least preparation for it, that the man she is to marry is not what she believed him to be; not, that is, a man of honour, not a man of virtue, not a man whose conduct is governed by principle. I say that this knowledge may fall upon a woman in such a manner as to distract her for a time."
"But Molly was not in the least distracted."
"Not in your judgment. Could you have followed her to the lonely chamber, Jack, you might have witnessed a scene of strange distraction in which contempt took the place of respect; loathing of love; and enmity in place of gratitude. In a word, you would have seen a transformation of the girl. Had you watched her through the night you would have seen the sleeplessness and the restlessness caused by these emotions; you would have seen, perhaps, with the early morning nature asserting herself and the girl dropping asleep. After an hour or two she awakes, her mind not yet recovered; she remembers her promise, but not her refusal to keep it; she dresses mechanically; she steps out of the house unseen; she meets the man—he had not received your letter—she goes through the ceremony with him. She returns home, mounts to her room still without being observed, and again falls asleep. When she awakes there is no memory in her mind of the wedding service, nor any recollection of what had taken place. There would be left nothing but the memory of last night's revelations."
He went on to fortify his theory with an abundance of examples taken from antiquity, and from books in which persons have been known to do strange things while seemingly broad awake and in their senses, who, afterwards, remembered nothing. "I can even understand," he said, "a man committing a crime in this unconscious manner, who, in his sane moments, would be incapable of any wickedness. Is this what was formerly called demoniac possession? If so, it is a truly dreadful thing, and one against which we ought to pray."
The explanation seemed, at least, one that accounted for the strange denial of a simple fact.
"We will leave it so," he said. "I will go and talk to Captain Crowle about it, though I doubt whether the captain can be made to understand these nice distinctions between things as they are and things as they seem. It is, from every point of view, most unfortunate. The poor girl is now the wife of a villain. What will happen to her nobody knows as yet. Nor do I see how we can protect her."
Accordingly, he laid the matter before the captain, but failed in persuading him.
"No, sir," he said; "there is villainy abroad. I know not of what kind. There is villainy, and there are villains. Molly is not married. She was not out of the house this morning at all. She was with her mother in the stillroom. Besides, do you believe it possible for a woman not to know whether she is married or not?"
"Captain, I cannot understand it, except by my theory that——"
"He shan't have her, whatever he says. What? Should I suffer my girl—my ward—to go to him, and that unmarried? Say no more, vicar—say no more."
Thinking over the vicar's distinctions about things as they are and things as they seem, a sudden objection occurred to me.
"If Molly was actually married, whether she remembered it afterwards or not, what became of the wedding ring?" To this objection I could find no reply. And so the vicar's explanation, in my mind, fell to the ground, and I was as much at sea as ever. For Molly, who was always as true and candid as a mirror, was now … but I could not put the thing into words.