This was the day when all the villainy came to a head and did its worst and met with the first instalment of exposure. I have told you what was done at the church and what was our own bewilderment, not knowing what to believe or how to explain things. For my own part, though I might have guessed, because I had discovered the jealousy of Lady Anastasia; yet the truth, even the possibility of the truth, never came into my head. I had no manner of doubt, in my own mind, that it was Molly herself, and none other, whom I saw standing as a bride at the altar rails with Lord Fylingdale for a bridegroom. The fact, I say, admitted of no dispute. Yet, why should Molly change her mind? And why should she deny the fact?
I sought her at the house. I begged her to come into the garden and to talk with me privately. Then I asked those two questions. Her answer to both of them was most amazing.
"Jack," she said, "I know not what you mean. I have not changed my mind. It is impossible for me to marry a man of whom such things can be said unless he can prove that they are false. How can you think that I have changed my mind? As regards this talk about an early wedding, what do I know about it? At six o'clock I was in the kitchen with my mother and Nigra. I have not been out of the house at all."
Then I persisted. I asked her if she could have gone out and had perhaps forgotten.
"Forgotten!" she repeated, scornfully. "Do you suppose that a woman could by any possibility forget her own wedding? But what is it, Jack? What is in your mind?"
Then I told her. "Molly," I said, "last night I forgot your letter. There was so much to think and talk about with these disclosures that I forgot. This morning I remembered. Then I hurried ashore. I ran to the 'Crown'; it was just upon six. I was too late. His lordship had gone out in a chair. I ran to the church. It was just after six. The doors were open; I heard voices. I went in, Molly—do not say that I am dreaming—I saw you—you I say—you, yourself—with your pink silk cloak, the hood pulled over your head, a domino to hide your face—just as had been arranged."
"You saw me, Jack? You saw me? How could you see me?"
"And your hand was in Lord Fylingdale's, and Mr. Purdon was pronouncing the words which made you his wife. 'Whom God hath joined together let not man put asunder.'"
She stared at me with blank amazement.
"In my pink silk cloak? Jack, are you in your right mind or is it I myself who am gone distraught?"
"Indeed, I know not which."
"Did you speak to me? Did you congratulate the bride, Jack?"
"No; I was sick and sorry, Molly. I went out of the church. The clerk, however, has been telling the story of this private marriage all over the town. Everybody knows it. The marriage is duly entered in the registers. It was a marriage by the archbishop's licence. The man Purdon may be all that the vicar's letter exposed, but the marriage was in order."
Molly said nothing for a while. Then she said gently: "The letter from the bookseller, your cousin, spoke of Lord Fylingdale as ruined. If he were to marry a woman with money it would become his own."
"I believe that there are sometimes letters—bills of lading, or whatever they are called—which gives the wife the control of her own property; otherwise, everything becomes her husband's."
"Why did he wish to marry me? There was never a gleam of love in his eye—nor a note of love in his voice. Why—except that he might get my money?"
"That is, I am convinced, the reason."
"Villainy—villainy—villainy. Jack, this is a conspiracy. Some woman has been made to play my part. Then he will claim me as his wife, and lay hands upon all that I have."
"No, Molly, he shall not while you have friends."
"Friends cannot help where the law orders otherwise. So much I know, Jack. Yet you can do one thing for me, you can protect me from the man. He must not take me away."
"All Lynn will fight for you."
"Jack, I want more; I want all Lynn to believe me. You have known me all my life. Am I capable of such a change of mind? Am I capable of so monstrous a falsehood as to steal out to marry this man and then to declare that I have never left the house? Oh, the villain! the villain!" Her cheek was aflame; her eyes flashed.
I seized her hand. "Molly," I cried, "they shall all believe you. I will tell the truth everywhere."
Just then the garden door was thrown open and Sam Semple appeared. With a smiling face and a bending knee he advanced bowing low.
"Permit me to offer congratulations to the Countess of Fylingdale."
"I am not a countess. I am plain Molly Miller."
Sam looked disconcerted and puzzled. I perceived that, plot or no plot, he had no hand in it.
"I am come," he said, "from his lordship——"
"I have nothing to do with his lordship."
"Surely, madam—surely, my lady—there is some misunderstanding. I am sent by his lordship with his compliments to ask when it will be convenient for the countess to receive him."
"You have been informed, I suppose, that I was married to him this morning."
"Certainly, my lady."
"Then go back to Lord Fylingdale and tell him that he is a villain and a liar; that I have learned his true character; that I am not married to him; and that if he ventures to molest me my friends will protect me. Give him that message, sir, word for word."
"I believe, Sam," I said, for his discomfiture and bewilderment made him reel and stagger, "that you have no hand in this new villainy. It was you, however, who brought that man to Lynn, knowing his true character and his antecedents. Let us never see your face here again. Go; if I thought you were in this new plot I would serve you again as the captain served you three years ago."
He went away without another word.
Then the captain came home, his face troubled.
"I know not," he said, "what has happened in this place. I have seen Lord Fylingdale. I told him of the charges and accusations."
"Well? Did he deny them?"
"He denied nothing, and he admitted nothing. He says that you married him this morning, Molly."
"I know. He has sent Sam Semple here with the same story. Captain, you believe me, do you not?"
"Believe you, Molly? Why, if I did not believe you, I should believe nothing. Believe you? My dear, I would as soon doubt the prayer book." He laid his hand upon her arm and the tears came into his eyes. "My dear, I have been an old fool. But I did it for the best. He says that you are his wife. Let him come and take you—if he can!"
"It is not Molly that he would take, it is Molly's fortune."
"Why, sir," she said, "if he takes the whole and wastes and dissipates it, so long as he does not take me, what does it matter?"
Then the vicar came again, and the whole of the business had to be discussed again. At first, he adhered to his theory of unconscious action, because a scholar always likes to explain every theory by examples chosen from Latin and Greek authors. He had looked up several more stories of the kind from I know not what folio volumes in his library, and came prepared to defend his opinion. But the absolute certainty of Molly's assertion; the evidence of her mother, who declared that Molly had been working with her since half-past five; the firm belief of the captain; and my own change of opinion and the possibility of deception shook him. Finally, he abandoned his learned view, and adopted our more modern explanation of the case, viz, that the marriage was a sham, and that the woman was some creature suborned to personate Molly.
"But what woman can she be?" asked the vicar. "She can write. I have seen the registers; she has signed in a full, round hand, without bad spelling. The woman, therefore, is educated. My dear, we may perhaps find the woman. My worthy and pious brother in Orders is most certainly in the conspiracy. Where there are three one is generally a traitor. To begin with, the scheme is both bold and dangerous. It is the first step towards obtaining a large sum of money under false pretences. Their necks are in danger, even the neck of a noble earl.
"It is inconceivable," he went on, after a little reflection, "how a woman could be found to play such a part. She must be the mistress of the earl; no other could be trusted."
"What should be done meantime?"
"We must meet the enemy on his own ground. He spreads abroad the report that he married Molly this morning. We must publicly and openly deny the fact. Captain, there will be a large company at the assembly this evening. You will take Molly there. I will go with you. Jack shall put on his Sunday best, and shall also go with us. We must be prepared for an impudent claim, and we must be ready with a prompt denial. Let us court publicity."
This was clearly the best advice possible. We were left unmolested all the afternoon, though the captain made me stay as a kind of garrison in case of any attempt at abduction being made.
In the evening, Molly, in her chair and dressed in her finery, was carried to the gardens, while the captain, the vicar, and myself formed a bodyguard.
We arrived after the dancing had begun. Lady Anastasia was looking on, but her court of ladies and young men, for some reason, seemed to have melted away. She stood almost alone, save for the support of the old beau Sir Harry. The colonel was also with her. And the Reverend Benjamin Purdon stood behind her.
The music was in the gallery at the end of the long room; the dancing was carried on in the middle. Lady Anastasia was standing on the right of the gallery; most of the company on the left. Molly with the captain and followed by the vicar and myself turned to the left.
On her entrance all eyes were fixed upon the newly made countess. She had come without her lord. Was this part of the secret—a secret known to all the world? Or was his lordship before the whole company about to lead his bride to the first place as became her newly acquired rank? Some of the ladies regarded her with looks of hatred, the successors of the looks of scorn with which they had at first welcomed her. Most of them, however, were kindly; a tale of love always meets with a friendly reception; not a woman in the place but would have taken her place with joy unmeasured; as no other woman could, they were ready to accept their fate and to make friends with the successful and the fortunate winner of so great a prize.
It was a great prize, indeed, if they only knew!
The minuets were over and the country dances were about to begin when Lord Fylingdale arrived, followed, as usual, by his secretary. He stood at the door, he looked around; then, with the cold pride which never failed him, he stepped across the room and bowed low to Molly. "Madam," he said, "with your permission, we will dance this country dance together before I take you away with me."
"My lord," replied Molly aloud, so that the whole company heard and trembled, "I shall not dance with you this evening, nor on any other evening."
"She will never again dance with you, my lord; nor will she hold any discourse with you; nor will she willingly admit you to her presence." It was the vicar who spoke, because the man and the occasion proved too much for the good old captain, who could only roll thunderously between his teeth things more fitted for the quelling of a mutiny than for dealing with such a man as his lordship.
"Pray, sir," said Lord Fylingdale, stepping back, "what is the meaning of this? Pray, madam," he turned to Molly, "what is the meaning of this sudden change? Captain Crowle, have I, or have I not, the right to claim my wife?"
The vicar stepped forward and confronted him. His tall, thin figure, his long cassock, his thin and ascetic face contrasted with the over-haughtiness of his adversary.
"My lord," he asked, "how long has this lady been your wife?"
"We were married," he said, "at six o'clock this morning, by the Rev. Mr. Benjamin Purdon, who is here to bear witness to the fact. The wedding was private at my request, because, as you may perhaps believe, I was not anxious to join in the wedding feast with a company of boors, bumpkins, and sailors."
"Ladies and gentlemen,"—the vicar raised his voice and by a gesture silenced the orchestra—"I have to lay before you a conspiracy which I believe is unparalleled in any history. You are aware that Lord Fylingdale, who stands before you, came to the spa a few weeks ago for purposes best known to himself. You will also doubtless remember that certain persons, who arrived before him, were loud in his praises. He was said by them to be a model of all the virtues. I will not repeat the things that were said…."
"All this," said Lord Fylingdale, "is beside the mark. I come to claim my wife."
"Among those who accepted these statements for gospel was Captain Crowle, the guardian of the young lady beside me. It was to him a great honour to be admitted to converse with so distinguished a nobleman and to be permitted to consult with him as to the affairs of his ward. He even informed his lordship of the extent of the lady's fortune, which is far greater than was generally understood. Thereupon his lordship began to pay attention of a marked character. You have all, I believe, remarked these attentions. Then came the attempted abduction and the lady's rescue by Lord Fylingdale. After this he formally offered his hand and his rank to the lady. The honour seemed very great. He was accepted. He then engaged the lady to undertake a private marriage without festivities, to which she consented. She promised, in fact, to be married at St. Nicholas Church this very morning, at six o'clock."
"All this," said Lord Fylingdale, coldly, "is quite true. Yet why you detain the company by the narrative I do not understand. The lady kept her promise. I met her at the place and time appointed. We were married. Once more, Captain Crowle, I claim my wife."
"Ladies and gentlemen," the vicar continued, "there is but one reply to the last statement, for the lady did not keep her engagement."
"Sir," his lordship advanced a step, "are you aware of the meaning of words? Do you assert that I was not married at that time and in that place?"
The Reverend Benjamin Purdon advanced. "Sir," he addressed the vicar, "like his lordship, I am amazed at these words. Why, sir, I myself, at six o'clock this morning, performed the marriage service, as prescribed by the Church, for the Right Honourable the Earl of Fylingdale and Miss Mary Miller."
By this time the company were crowding round eagerly listening. No one could understand what had happened. The bridegroom claimed his bride; the bride's friends denied that she was married.
"Yesterday," the vicar went on, "there arrived, simultaneously, three letters; one of them, an anonymous letter, was addressed to Captain Crowle; one from a respectable bookseller in London was addressed to Mr. Pentecrosse, master of the grammar school; and one from a certain fellow of his college at Cambridge was addressed to me. All these letters, together, contained charges which show how deeply we have been deceived."
"Have a care! Have a care!" said Lord Fylingdale.
At that moment another arrival took place. It was Tom Rising, the wounded man. He was pale and weak; he leaned upon the arms of two gentlemen; he was followed by a figure, strange, indeed, in a polite assembly.
"By these letters and other sources," the vicar continued, "I learn first as to the noble lord's friends—the following particulars. Pray give me your attention.
"I find that the Lady Anastasia Langston hath been lately presented by the grand jury of Middlesex for keeping a house riotous, of great extravagance, luxury, idleness, and ill fame. She is the third on the list. The first," the vicar read from a paper, "is the Lady Mordington and her gaming house in Covent Garden; the second is the Lady Castle and her gaming house, also in Covent Garden; and the third is the Lady Anastasia Langston and her gaming house, in or near Hanover Square, all in this county.
"I am informed that Lady Anastasia hath held a bank every night in this place to the hurt and loss of many.
"I turn next to the case of the Rev. Benjamin Purdon, who stands before you. He was the tutor of Lord Fylingdale; he is described as the companion of his vices; he was the cause last year of a grievous scandal at Bath; he is the author of a ribald piece of verse by which he has corrupted many. No bishop would sanction his acceptance of the smallest preferment."
"This is very surprising," said Mr. Purdon, shaking his big head. "But we shall see, we shall see, immediately."
"There are next, the two gentlemen known as Sir Harry Malyns and Colonel Lanyon. Their occupation is to act as decoy ducks; to lure young men to the gaming table, and to plunder them when they are caught."
Both these gentlemen started, but neither replied.
"I now come to the noble lord before me. He is a most notorious profligate; he shares in Lady Anastasia's gaming house; he has long since been refused admittance into the houses of persons of honour; he is an inveterate gambler; he has ruined his own estate—sold the family plate and pictures, library, everything; he is, at this moment, unable to borrow or to raise the smallest sum of money. The fleet and the King's Bench Prisons are full of the unfortunate tradesmen who trusted him and the young rakes whom he has ruined.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this was the story which reached us yesterday, fortunately, in time. Miss Molly broke off her promise, and wrote to his lordship for explanations. Captain Crowle called upon his lordship this morning for explanations. He was met with derision; he was told that he was too late, the young lady was already married—there was no necessity for any explanations."
The company murmured. Voices were raised demanding explanations.
Said his lordship, coldly, "These inventions need no reply. I claim my wife."
"She is not your wife," said the vicar. "We are ready to prove that at six o'clock the young lady was already engaged with her mother in the stillroom, or in some other occupations. Of that there is no doubt possible. But"—and here he lifted a warning finger, but his lordship paid no attention—"therewas a wedding early this morning. His reverence Mr. Purdon performed the service; the wedding was in the name of Mary Miller as bride; the registers are signed 'Mary Miller.' This is, therefore, a conspiracy."
"You talk nonsense," said his lordship, who certainly carried it off with an amazing assurance. "I claim my wife. Once more, madam, will you come with me?"
"I am not your wife."
"We must endeavour," said the vicar, "to find the woman who personated Miss Molly. The clerk of the parish testifies to the wedding, but he does not appear to have seen the face of the bride. Whoever she was, she wore a domino, and had thrown her hood over her face."
The Lady Anastasia stepped forward, agitating her fan. "Reverend sir," she said to the vicar, "in matters of society you are a very ignorant and a very simple person. It is quite true that I have been presented by a Middlesex jury for gambling. It is also true that half London might also be presented. As for the rest of your statements, that, for instance, Lord Fylingdale shares in the profits of my bank, let me assure you that your innocence has been abused; these things are not true. However, it is not for me to answer public insults in a public place. Sir Harry, my old friend, they call you a decoy—even you, with your name and your reputation. A decoy! Sir, your cloth should shame you. Sir Harry, take me to my chair. If, to-morrow morning, the company thinks proper to dissociate itself from this public insult, I will remain in this place, where, I own, I have found many friends. If not, I shall return to London and to the house presented by the grand jury of Middlesex."
So saying, she retired smiling, and, as they say of soldiers, in good order. With her, also in good order, the ancient beau, with no other signs of agitation than a trembling of the knees—and this might very well be laid to the account of his threescore years and fifteen, or perhaps fourscore.
At this point, however, Tom Rising, supported by his friends, advanced. "My lord," he said, "I have brought an old friend to meet you, Jack Gizzard—Honest John—the poultry man of Bond street. You know him of old, I believe. The advantage of bringing him here to expose you is that you cannot fight a poultry man."
I looked on in admiration. The affair could not be turned into a private quarrel, for the fellow was, indeed, no other than a dealer in poultry by trade. Yet no better witness could be produced, for no one was better known than Jack Gizzard—so called from his trade—at all race meetings, at Newmarket, at Epsom, and at other places. He was, in fact, that rare creature, the man who, not being a gentleman, is yet admitted to the sports of gentlemen; is considered as an authority; is allowed to bet freely with them, yet remains what he was by birth, a mechanic, a shopkeeper, a farmer, a grazier, a horse breeder, or I know not what.
I do not know his surname; he was called Gizzard on account of his calling, and Jack on account of the esteem in which he was held by all sporting men. No one knew better than Jack Gizzard how to choose, how to train, how to feed a gamecock; no one knew better the points of a horse; no one knew better how to train a dog for coursing; no one knew more of the secrets of the stable; no one knew more intimately the rules of the prize ring, whether for quarterstaff, singlestick, or boxing. No one, again, held a better reputation for honesty in sport; he betted and he paid; he would advise a man even to his own loss. Such a man as this Tom Rising brought to the assembly for the discomfiture of his late adversary.
"Jack," he said, "here is his lordship, and there—don't go just yet, colonel," for, at the sight of Jack Gizzard, Colonel Lanyon was about to leave the room. "Not just yet. Thank you, gentlemen," as two or three placed themselves between the colonel and the door.
Jack Gizzard stepped forward. He was in appearance more like a butcher than anything else, being a stout, hearty-looking man, with a red face.
"My lord," he said, "when you last left Newmarket Heath you owed me £500." Lord Fylingdale made no sign of any kind of response. "I met you again at Bath; it was before the time when you were requested by the master of the ceremonies to leave the place with your friend—ah! colonel, glad to see you—with your friend Colonel Lanyon."
Lord Fylingdale made no sign whatever of having heard.
"Bath is not very far from Gloucestershire. I made a journey there to find out for myself your lordship's position. I found your estate in the hands of money-lenders; every acre mortgaged; your house falling to pieces; its contents sold. You are already completely ruined. I went back to London and inquired further; you had lost your credit as well as your character. You could not show your face at the old places; the cockpit of Tothill Fields was closed to you; all the clubs of St. James's were closed to you. Your name, my lord, stank then as badly as it stinks now." Lord Fylingdale still paid no kind of attention. "You may consider, my lord, these few remarks as part payment of that £500." So he turned away.
"Come along, colonel," said Tom Rising. "Bring the colonel to the front. Don't be bashful, colonel."
Some of the gentlemen obeyed, gently pushing the colonel to the front. "Well, poultry man?" said the colonel boldly.
"Well, sharper?" returned Jack Gizzard. "Gentlemen, this fellow has been a bully about the town for twenty years and more; a bully; a common cheat and sharper. He is now altogether discredited. He was expelled from Bath with his noble patron last year. If any of you owe him money do not pay him. He is not fit to sit down with gentlemen of honour. That is all I have to say about you, colonel."
"What I have to say, colonel," said Tom Rising, "is that I owe you £1,200, and if I pay you one single guinea—then——" He proceeded to imprecate the wrath of heaven upon himself if he showed any weakness in that resolution.
Lord Fylingdale once more turned to Molly.
"Madam, for the last time——"
"Send him away—send him away," said Molly. "He makes me sick."
"We deny the marriage, my lord," said the vicar. "That is all we have to say."
"At your peril," replied his lordship. So saying he walked away unmoved, apparently. Mr. Purdon and Colonel Lanyon went with him; both men were flushed in the cheeks and restrained themselves by an evident effort. I was sorry for Sam Semple, for he followed, his face full of trouble and disappointment.
When they were gone, the vicar spoke once more.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we have thought it best to court the greatest publicity possible in this matter. The people whom we have exposed will not again trouble this company by their presence. I know not what the law may decide in this case, supposing his lordship so ill-advised as to go to law. But the truth, which is above the law, remains, that an imposture of the most daring kind has been attempted, and that some woman has been found to personate Miss Molly. I have to express her sorrow for keeping you so long from your pleasures."
And with these words he offered his hand to Molly, and we withdrew, and the music struck up a lively country dance.
This was Molly's last appearance at the assembly.
Next day we heard that our distinguished visitors, the Prince of Purity—or the Prince of Darkness, which you please—the Lady of the Green Cloth, Sir Harry Decoy-Duck, and Colonel Bully Barabbas, with the Reverend Ananias and the ingenious Sam, first favourite of the Muses, had all gone away—whether they went away together or separately I never heard.
The opinion of the company as to the exposure and the marriage was divided. For some thought that Molly was nothing better than a woman who did not know her own mind; that she was first dazzled and carried off her head by the brilliant offer that was dangled before her; that, on Lord Fylingdale's request she consented to the private marriage; that she became afterwards afraid of the greatness for which she was not fitted either by birth or education, and thought to escape by hard lying and a strenuous denial of the fact. I fear that this opinion was that of the majority. For, they added, there was without any doubt a marriage; it was performed by the clergyman who by his learning, eloquence, and piety had made so many friends during his short stay, and it was witnessed by the parish clerk. If Molly was not the bride who could be found so closely to resemble her as to deceive the parish clerk?
When it was objected that the private character both of his lordship and his late tutor was of the kind publicly alleged, these philosophers asked for proof—as if proof could be adduced in a public assembly. And they asked further if it was reasonable to suppose that an eloquent divine, whose discourses had edified so many could possibly be the reprobate and profligate as stated by the vicar? As for his lordship there is, as everybody knows, an offence calledscandalum magnatum, which renders a person who defames a peer or attacks his honour liable to prosecution, fine, and imprisonment.
"We shall presently," they said, "find this presumptuous vicar haled before the courts and fined, or imprisoned, forscandalum magnatum."
But the vicar, when this was reported to him, only laughed and said he should be rejoiced to put his lordship under examination.
Others there were, principally townsfolk, who had known Molly all her life. They agreed that she was a woman of sober mind; not given to vapours or any such feminine weaknesses; not likely to be carried away by terrors; and incapable of falsehood. If she declared that she was not married, she certainly was not married. The business might be explained in some way; but of one thing they were very sure—that Molly, since she said so, was not married. This view was strongly held by the "Society" of King's Lynn at their evening meetings.
It must be owned that the departure of the vivacious and affable Lady Anastasia with that of the agreeable rattle of seventy-five, Sir Harry, and that of the pious Purdon, who had also become a favourite with the ladies, proved a heavy blow to the gaieties of the assembly and the long room. The card room was deserted; conversation in the garden and the pump room became flat; the gentlemen who had gambled at the hazard table now carried on their sport—perhaps less dangerously—at the tavern; many of them, having lost a great deal more than they could afford, were now gloomy; there were no more public breakfasts; no more water parties up or down the river; no more bowls of punch after the dance. In a word the spirit went out of the company; the spa became dull.
Let me finish with the story of this mushroom. I call it a mushroom because it appeared, grew, and vanished in a single season. You may also call it a sky rocket if you please, or, indeed, anything which springs into existence in a moment, and in a moment dies. Perhaps we may liken it most to a bubble such as boys blow from soap suds. It floated in the sunshine for a brief space, glowing with the colours of the rainbow; then it burst and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the memory of it.
The company, I say, after the departure of the party from London, became almost immediately dull and out of spirits. The music alone was gay; many of the ladies lamented loudly that they had ever come to a place where the nightly gambling had played havoc with their husbands, fathers, or sons. They found out that the lodgings were cramped, dirty, ill-furnished, inconvenient, and exorbitant in their cost; that the provisions were dear; that they had already taken the waters for a month or more; and that, in effect, it was high time to go home. Besides, their own houses in the summer, the season of fruit and flowers, with their orchards and their gardens, were certainly more attractive than the narrow streets and the confined air of Lynn.
Therefore, some making this excuse and some that, they all with one consent began to pack up their baggage and to go home.
The departure of our friends from London took place in the middle of June; by the end of June the season was over—the visitors gone. At first the people expected new arrivals, but there were none—the season was over. The market-place for a while was crowded with the women who brought their poultry and fruit and provisions from the country. When they found that no one came to buy, they gradually ceased to appear. Great was the lamentation over the abundance which was wasted, and the produce of their gardens doomed to ripen and to rot.
Then the strolling players put their dresses and properties into a waggon and went away complaining that they were half starved, which was, I dare say, the simple truth. Next, all the show folk and the quacks, and the Cheap Jacks and tumblers and Tom Fools went away too, and the gipsies brought in no more horses, and the streets became once more silent and deserted, save on the quays and on the river, just as they had been before the spa was opened.
And then the music and the horns were sent away; the master of the ceremonies received his salary and went back to Norwich; the gardens were closed; the dippers vanished; the pump room was left for any who chose to dip and draw for themselves; the hairdressers, milliners, vendors of cosmetics, powders, paint, and patches all vanished as by magic; the coffee houses were closed; the bookseller carried his books back to Cambridge or wherever he came from; the confectioner left off making his famous cakes; and the morning prayers were once more read to a congregation of one or two.
The townsfolk, then, having nothing else to do, began to count their gains. The doctor, you remember, prophesied at the outset that all would become rich. What happened was that everybody had made large gains. The takings of the shops had been far greater than they had at any previous time hoped for or experienced. On the other hand the shopkeepers had laid in large and valuable stocks which now seemed likely to remain on their hands. Moreover, as always happens, the temporary prosperity had been taken for a continuing, or even an increasing prosperity, with the consequence that the people had launched out into an extravagant way of living, the smallest shopkeeper demanding mutton and beef instead of the fat pork and hot milk which had formerly been counted a good dinner, drinking the wine of Lisbon and Madeira where he formerly drank small ale, and even taking his dish of tea in the afternoon for the good of his megrims and the clearance of his ill humours.
Oh! but the next year would bring another flood of fortune; they could wait. Therefore they passed the winter in such habits of profuseness as I have indicated. Spring arrived, and they began to furbish their lodgings anew and to look to their stores and stocks. The month of May brought warmth and sunshine, but it did not bring the expected company. May passed; June passed. To the unspeakable consternation of the town, no visitors came at all—none. With one consent all stayed at home or went elsewhere. I have never heard any explanation of this remarkable falling off. That is to say, there were many reasons offered, but none that seemed sufficient. Thus, the ladies of Norfolk had taken a holiday which was costly and could not be repeated every year. It was like a visit to London, which is made once in a life and is talked about for the rest of that life. Or the losses of the gentlemen at the gaming table frightened them; they would not again be led into temptation; or the grand invention of Sam Semple had to be blown upon; or the rheumatic and the gouty who had taken the waters now found that they were in no way the better; or the scandal of those conspirators in high rank drove people away—indeed, such an exposure could do no good to any place of resort.
There were, therefore, after the event, many explanations offered, and every one may choose for himself. It is, however, certain that no visitors came; that the pump room was deserted, save for the few people of the town; that there was no need to engage music or to provide provisions or do anything, for no one came. The spa had enjoyed its brief hour of popularity, and was now dead.
This was a blow to the town, from which it was slow, indeed, to recover. Many of the shopkeepers were unable to pay their rents or to sell their stocks. Simplicity of manners returned with the fat pork and the hot milk; and as for the promised accession of wealth, I believe that the spa left our people poorer than it found them.
I have been told that this has been the fate of many spas. First there is a blind belief in the sovereign virtue of the well; at the outset the place is crowded with visitors; there is every kind of amusement and pleasure; then this confidence becomes less and presently vanishes altogether, and is transferred to some other well. As faith decays so the company grows thinner and less distinguished. There was formerly, I believe, a fashionable spa near London, at a place called Hampstead. This spa had such a rise, such a period of prosperity, and such a fall. Another spa which also rose, flourished and then decayed and is now deserted, was the spa of Epsom, a village some miles south of London. These places, however, lasted more than a single season. Our spa lived but for two or three short months and then passed away. To be sure it was a pretence and a sham from the outset, but people did not know its origin; Sam Semple, its sole creator, remained unknown and unsuspected.
I know not, I say, how the belief in the doctor's well came so suddenly to an end. I do know, however, that the disappointment of the doctor, and, with him, all who let lodgings, kept taverns, provided victuals, and sold things of any kind, was very bitter when the next spring brought no company. They waited, I say, expectant, all through the summer. When it became quite certain that the spa was really dead, they began sorrowfully to pull down the rooms and to take away the fence, and they left the gardens to weeds and decay. And then the town relapsed once more into its former, and present, condition. That is to say, it became again unknown to the fashionable world; the gentry of Norfolk resorted to Norwich again; they forgot that they once came to Lynn; the place lies in a corner with the reclaimed marshes on either hand; it is inaccessible except to those whose business takes them there; travellers do not visit the town; it is not like Harwich, or Dover, or Hull, a place which carries on communication by packet with foreign countries; it is a town shrunken within its former limits, its courts encumbered with deserted and ruinous houses, its streets quiet and silent. Yet it is prosperous in a quiet way; it has its foreign trade, its port, and its shipping; its merchants are substantial; the life which they lead is monotonous, but they do not feel the monotony. Except for an occasional riot among drunken sailors there is no work for the justices of the peace, and no occupants of the prison. At least we have no great lady using her charms, her gracious smiles, her rank in order to lure our young men to their destruction; we have no profligate parsons; we have no noble lords parading in the borrowed plumes of saint and confessor.
Meantime we waited expectant, and in uncertainty. It was possible that the pretended husband would withdraw his claims and that nothing more would be heard of him. It was possible, I say, if we supposed the pretender capable of honour, shame, or of pride, that he would say, in so many words: "You deny the marriage; very well, I will not claim a wife who says that she is no wife." It was, however, far more probable that he would claim his wife and exercise his rights over her property. What should then be done?
The subject exercised the "Society" greatly; every evening the situation was considered from all possible points of view, and always as to the best manner of protecting Molly. It was at this time that the vicar wrote out the statement which he afterwards laid before counsel in London in order to obtain an opinion on its legal aspect.
The case drawn up by him was as follows:
1. There was a betrothal between the two parties A. (standing for Lord Fylingdale) and B. (standing for Molly).
2. It is not denied that a private marriage had been agreed upon by both parties.
3. The marriage was to take place on a certain morning at the time of six at a certain church. B. undertook to wear a certain pink silk cloak with a hood drawn over her head, and a domino to conceal her face, so that the people of the town should not recognise her and crowd into the church.
4. At the appointed hour of six A. presented himself at the church.
5. At the same hour a woman also presented herself dressed as had been arranged, wearing a domino to prevent recognition in the street, and a cloak of pink silk with a hood.
6. The marriage ceremony was performed by a clergyman in due form and on the production of a licence by A.
7. The marriage was duly entered in the register and signed, the woman signing in the name of B.
8. There was present at the wedding, besides the clergyman, the parish clerk, who gave away the bride, read the responses, and signed as witness.
9. Part of the ceremony, including the essential words, was witnessed by one John Pentecrosse, mate ofThe Lady of Lynn.
10. Since A. had no reason to suppose that B. would not keep her promise, it would seem impossible for him to have found at the last moment some other woman to personate B.
This was the case for A., put as strongly and as plainly as possible. I confess that when I read it I was staggered by the case—especially that of the last clause. Certainly, as I had not delivered Molly's letter, A. had no reason for supposing that B. would fail to keep her promise, and therefore no reason for suborning some other woman into a conspiracy.
However, then followed Molly's case.
1. She had accepted A.'s offer of marriage.
2. She had promised to meet A. at 6A.M.
3. She had received the evening before this promise was to be kept information which represented A. in a light that made it impossible for a virtuous woman to marry him.
4. This information was embodied in three letters addressed respectively to the vicar, to the schoolmaster and to Captain Crowle. They can be produced on evidence.
5. On receipt of this information she wrote a letter to A. stating that she must have full explanation as to the charges brought against him before proceeding further in the business.
6. This letter was not delivered, the bearer having his mind full of other points connected with the affair.
7. At half-past five B. left her room and joined her mother in certain household work. Nor did she leave her mother during the morning. This fact is attested by the mother and a certain black woman, B.'s servant.
8. The only way out of the house into the street is by the garden. Captain Crowle was walking in the garden from half-past five till seven and saw no one leave the house.
9. At seven or thereabouts the musicians, with the butchers, arrived to congratulate the bride, and were sent away by Captain Crowle.
10. Later on, A.'s secretary arrived with a message from A. He was informed by B. that no marriage had taken place.
11. Captain Crowle then waited on A. and demanded explanation. He received answer that having married the lady, A. was not called upon to give any explanations.
12. In the evening, before the whole company at the assembly, the vicar charged A. with many acts unworthy of a man of honour, and, among other things, with having conspired with a woman unknown to personate B., and to set up the pretence of a marriage.
Opinion was asked as to the position of B. Would she be considered in the eyes of the law as a married woman? Had A. any rights over her or over her property? Could she marry another man? What steps should she take to protect herself and her property? Observe, that unless B. could be declared not to be the wife of A. she could not alienate, give away, or part with any of her property; she could not marry; she was doomed to be a wife at the mercy of a man more pitiless than a tiger, yet not a wife, for she would die rather than marry him. She must wait until heaven should take pity upon her and despatch this man. Such men, it is observed, do never live long, but they may live long enough to inflict irreparable mischief upon their unfortunate victims.
Molly read the case thus drawn up very carefully. "My only trust," she said, "is in the evidence of mother and Nigra. I confess that I cannot understand how, without knowing that I should fail, he could possibly procure that woman to personate me. Has he the power of working miracles?"
"There is no miracle here," I said, "except the miracle of wickedness greater than would be thought possible. Patience, Molly! Sooner or later we shall find it out."
"It will be later, I fear."
"There are three at least in the plot. The clerk has been deceived; Sam Semple has not been consulted. These are the three—Lord Fylingdale, the parson, who is, doubtless, well paid for his villainy, and the woman, whoever she may be. We shall find out the truth through the woman."
"Since his marriage would give him the command of my property, Jack, and since he was ruined, why does he make no sign?"
This was a week or two after the event. I suppose that Lord Fylingdale was making himself assured as to the strength of his position and his rights. However, we were not to wait very long.
"I am of opinion," said the vicar, after many discussions on the case thus drawn out, "that we should lay the facts before some counsel learned in the law, and ascertain our position. If we are to contest the claim in court, we have, at least, the money to spend upon it."
"We will spend," said the captain, "our last penny upon it." He meant the last penny of his ward's fortune, in which, as you will hear, he was quite wrong, because he had now no power to spend any of it.
It was, therefore, determined that the vicar should undertake the journey to London; that my father should accompany him; that they should not only obtain the advice and opinion of a lawyer, but that they should ascertain, through the bookseller, my father's cousin, or any other person, what they could concerning the private life of his lordship. "There is no saying what we may discover," said the vicar. "How, if there is another wife still living? Even a noble lord cannot have two wives at the same time."
It seems strange that one must make greater preparations for a journey to London by land than a voyage to Lisbon by sea. As regards the latter, my kit is put together in an hour or two, and I am then ready to embark. But as regards the former, these two travellers first considered the easiest way; then the cost of the journey, and that of their stay in London; then the departure of others, so as to form a company against highway robbers; they then arranged for the halting and resting-places; hired their horses, for they were to ride all the way; engaged a servant; made their wills, and so at last were ready to begin the journey. Their company consisted of two or three riders to merchants of London, who travel all over the country visiting the shop-keepers in the interests of their masters. They are excellent fellow-travellers, being accustomed to the road, having no fear of highwaymen, knowing the proper charges that should be made at the roadside inns, and knowing, as well, what each house can be best trusted to provide, the home brewed ale being good at one house, and the wine at another—and so forth. They reckoned five days for the journey if the weather continued fine—it was then July, and the height of summer. The vicar thought that perhaps a week or ten days would suffice for their business in town, and therefore we might expect them back in three weeks. Captain Crowle would have gone with them, but was fearful of losing his ward. For the first time in his life he barred and bolted his doors at night, and if he went abroad he left his house in the custody of his gardener, a stout country lad who would make a sturdy fight in case of any attempt at violence. But violence was not a weapon which was in favour with his lordship. And if it had been, the whole town would have risen in defence of Molly.
For three weeks, therefore, we waited. I, for my part, in greater anxiety than the rest, because my ship had now received her cargo, and I feared that we should have to weigh anchor and slip down the river before the return of our messengers. And at this time when we knew not what would happen or what we should do many wild schemes came into my head. We would carry the girl away; we would foreclose her mortgages, sell her lands, and carry her fortune with her; we would sail in one of her own ships across the Atlantic and make a new home for her in the American colonies. However, in the end we had, as you shall learn, to accept misfortune and to resign ourselves to what promised to be a lifelong penalty inflicted for no sins of Molly's—who was as free from sin as any woman, not a saint, can hope to be—but by the wickedness of a man whose life and ways were far removed from Molly, and might have been supposed to be incapable of afflicting her in any way.
Our friends, therefore, started on their journey, arriving in due time at London, when they began their business without delay. Briefly, they were recommended to a very learned counsel, old, and in great practice, whose opinions were more highly valued than those perhaps of any other lawyer. He was avaricious, and it was necessary to pay him a very handsome fee before he would consider the case. When he accepted the fee he gave it his most careful consideration. His opinion was as follows:
"The fact that there was a marriage between A. and some woman—B. or another—is undoubted. The evidence of the parish clerk may be set aside except to prove this fact, because it does not appear that the bride removed her domino. It might, however, become a part of B.'s case that the clergyman did not witness the removal of the domino. What the clerk saw was a woman dressed in a pink silk cloak with a hood over her head, and a domino concealing her face, who signed the name of Mary Miller. For the same reason the evidence of John Pentecrosse rests only on the dress of the bride, and may therefore be taken as worth that and no more.
"At the same time the dress of the bride is important. A. had no intimation of B.'s refusal to keep her promise. At six o'clock, as is allowed, he presented himself. If B. was not there, how should he be able, at a moment's notice, to procure a woman to personate her, wearing a cloak of the same colour as B.'s, and ready to sign her name falsely? The theory is impossible, for it demands a whole chain of fortuitous occurrences and coincidences, as that A. should find a woman of abandoned character accidentally near the church, ready to commit this crime, dressed as B. was expected to dress, and considered worthy of trust with so great a secret. On the other hand we have evidences of an apparently conclusive kind. B.'s guardian, who was taking the morning air in his garden, says positively that no one left the house. B.'s mother and her black servant declare that B. was in the kitchen with them all the morning. This, I say, seems at first conclusive. But the court would probably hold that a mother's evidence is likely to be in the supposed interests of her child, while a negress would be expected, if she were attached to her mistress, to give any evidence that she thought likely to be of service or was directed to give.
"The case is remarkable, and, so far as I know, without precedent. It is supported on either side by flat assertions which are either true or deliberate perjuries. As regards the bad character of A., I think it would have very little weight. Setting aside, that is, his evil reputation, which might perhaps taint his evidence, and also setting aside the partiality of a mother, which might also, perhaps, taint her evidence, we have the broad and simple facts that A. had no warning of B.'s intention to keep away; that he presented himself according to arrangement; that he was met by a woman dressed exactly as had been arranged with B.; that they were married; and that the register was signed by the woman in the name of B.
"I am of opinion, therefore, that if this case is brought into court there will be pleadings on either side of great interest, and that the court will decide in favour of A.; that if the case goes up for appeal it will again be decided in favour of A.; and that if the case were taken up to the lords that court would also decide in favour of A.
"If action is taken it must be at the cost and charge of the guardian, because the lady's property, in default of settlements, would, in the event which I think probable, fall into the hands of A. thus adjudged to be her husband.
"I advise, therefore, that submission be made to A.; that even though B. continues to deny the marriage, A. shall be invited to make her a suitable provision and shall undertake not to molest her or to compel her to leave her guardian and to live with him."
With this opinion to guide him, the vicar wrote to Lord Fylingdale asking for an interview.
He was received with a show of cold politeness. "You have given me reason, sir, to remember your face. However, I pass over the injuries which you allowed yourself to utter. You are come, I presume, in the name of my unfortunate wife, who, for some reason unknown to me, denies her own marriage. Well, sir, your message?"
"My message, my lord, is briefly this. We have taken counsel's opinion on this business."
"So have I."
"It is, on the whole, to the effect that if we dispute your lordship's claims we shall probably lose."
"My own counsel is also of that opinion."
"For my own part I shall advise my friends to accept what seems impossible to deny."
"You will do well. I shall be pleased, I confess, to see the business settled without taking it into court."
"I should like, if possible, to carry home with me some concessions of your lordship in response to this submission."
"What concessions? It seems to me that the countess has no right to insist upon any concession. The whole of her property, as you know, is my own."
"I fear that is the case."
"I shall probably make certain changes in the administration of the property, now my property. I shall relieve the worthy captain of its control. As regards any other point you must acknowledge that you have treated me with insults intolerable; you are not in a position to make terms. But what do you ask?"
"First, freedom from personal molestation."
"That is granted at once. You may tell the countess that on no consideration will I see her, nor shall I exercise any marital rights. When she consents to confess her falsehood, and to ask pardon for her offences, I may perhaps extend my personal protection, not otherwise."
"As for her allowance—her maintenance?"
"Your reverence is not serious. She says that she is not my wife. The law says, or, is prepared to say, that she is. By the law I am compelled to maintain her. Let her, therefore, invoke the intervention of the law. To procure this she will have to confess her many perjuries. Till then, nothing. Do you understand, sir? Nothing."