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[Illustration: "GRATITUDE, MY LORD, TO YOU," HE REPLIED.]


THE LADY OF LYNN

by

SIR WALTER BESANT

Author of "All Sorts and Conditions of Men,"
"The Orange Girl," Etc.

With Illustrations







New York . Dodd, Mead
and Company . . . 1901

Copyright, 1900
By Sir Walter Besant

The Caxton Press
New York.




Contents


CHAP.                                                            PAGE

     PROLOGUE                                                       1

      I. MY LORD'S LEVEE                                           15

     II. THE LADY ANASTASIA                                        29

    III. THE "SOCIETY" OF LYNN                                     34

     IV. THE GRAND DISCOVERY                                       42

      V. THE PORT OF LYNN                                          48

     VI. THE MAID OF LYNN                                          55

    VII. THE POET                                                  64

   VIII. THE OPENING OF THE SPA                                    70

     IX. SENT TO THE SPA                                           83

      X. "OF THE NICEST HONOUR"                                    97

     XI. THE HUMOURS OF THE SPA                                   104

    XII. THE CAPTAIN'S AMBITION                                   112

   XIII. MOLLY'S FIRST MINUET                                     120

    XIV. MOLLY'S COUNTRY DANCE                                    127

     XV. THE CARD ROOM                                            133

    XVI. HIS LORDSHIP'S INTENTIONS                                141

   XVII. "IN THE LISBON TRADE"                                    147

  XVIII. THE WITCH                                                157

    XIX. A TRUE FRIEND                                            163

     XX. FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING                              172

    XXI. MOLLY'S SECOND APPEARANCE                                178

   XXII. THE ABDUCTION                                            185

  XXIII. WHICH WAY TO FOLLOW?                                     196

   XXIV. THE PUNISHMENT                                           201

    XXV. A GRATEFUL MIND                                          209

   XXVI. THE LAST STEP BUT ONE                                    217

  XXVII. THE EXPECTED BLOW                                        224

 XXVIII. WARNING                                                  231

   XXIX. THE ARDENT LOVER                                         238

    XXX. THE SECRET                                               246

   XXXI. THE "SOCIETY" AGAIN                                      254

  XXXII. A RESPITE                                                262

 XXXIII. A WEDDING                                                270

  XXXIV. A NEW COMPACT                                            278

   XXXV. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?                                       287

  XXXVI. THE DAY OF FATE                                          293

 XXXVII. THE BUBBLE AND THE SKY ROCKET                            306

XXXVIII. THE OPINION OF COUNSEL                                   312

  XXXIX. THE FRUITS OF SUBMISSION                                 320

     XL. ON MY RETURN                                             332

    XLI. THE FIRST AND THE SECOND CONFEDERATE                     345

   XLII. THE THIRD AND THE FOURTH CONFEDERATE                     355

  XLIII. THE FIFTH AND LAST CONFEDERATE                           361




PROLOGUE

PROMOTION AND A BASTING


The happiest day of my life, up to that time, because I should be the
basest and the most ungrateful of men were I not to confess that I
have since enjoyed many days far excelling in happiness that day, was
the 20th day of June, in the year of grace, seventeen hundred and
forty-seven.

For on that day, being my nineteenth birthday, I was promoted, though
so young, to be mate, or chief officer, on board my ship, _The Lady of
Lynn_, Captain Jaggard, then engaged in the Lisbon trade.

In the forenoon of that day I was on board and on duty. We were taking
in our cargo. Barges and lighters were alongside and all the crew with
the barges were hoisting and heaving and lowering and stowing with a
grand yohoing and chanting, such as is common, with oaths innumerable,
in the lading and the unlading of a ship. It was my duty to see the
casks and crates hoisted aboard and lowered into the hold. The
supercargo and the clerk from the counting-house sat at a table on
deck and entered in their books every cask, box, chest, or bale. We
took aboard and carried away for the use of the Portugals or any whom
it might concern, turpentine, tar, resin, wool, pig iron and other
commodities brought by our ships from the Baltic or carried in barges
down the river to the port of Lynn. These were the things which we
took out--what we brought home was wine; nothing but wine; barrels,
tuns, pipes, hogsheads, casks of all kinds, containing wine. There
would be in our hold wine of Malmsey, Madeira, Teneriffe, Canary,
Alicante, Xeres, Oporto, Bucellas and Lisbon; all the wines of Spain
and Portugal; the sweet strong wines to which our people are most
inclined, especially our people of Norfolk, Marshland, Fenland,
Lincoln and the parts around. Thanks to the port of Lynn and to the
ships of Lynn engaged in the Lisbon trade, there is no place in
England where this sweet strong wine can be procured better or at a
more reasonable rate. This wine is truly beloved of all classes: it is
the joy of the foxhunter after the day's run: of the justices after
the ordinary on market day: of the fellows in their dull old colleges
at Cambridge: of the dean and chapter in the sleepy cathedral close:
of the country clergy and the country gentry--yea, and of the ladies
when they visit each other. I say nothing in dispraise of Rhenish and
of Bordeaux, but give me the wine that comes home in the bottoms that
sail to and from Lisbon. All wine is good but that is best which warms
the heart and strengthens the body and renews the courage--the wine of
Spain and Portugal.

_The Lady of Lynn_ was a three-masted, full rigged ship of 380 tons, a
stout and strong built craft, not afraid of the bay at its worst and
wildest, making her six knots an hour with a favourable breeze,
therefore not one of your broad slow Dutch merchantmen which creep
slowly, like Noah's Ark, over the face of the waters. Yet she was full
in the beam and capacious in the hold: the more you put into her, the
steadier she sat and the steadier she sailed. Man and boy I sailed in
_The Lady of Lynn_ for twenty-five years and I ought to know. We made,
for the most part, two, but sometimes three voyages in the year,
unless we experienced bad weather and had to go into dock. Bad weather
there is in plenty: storms and chopping winds in the bay: beating up
the channel against east winds: things are always uncertain in the
North Sea; sometimes the ship will be tacking day after day, getting a
knot or two in four and twenty hours: and sometimes she will be two or
three weeks crossing the Wash, which, as everybody knows, is cumbered
with shallows, and making way up the Ouse when a wind from the south
or southeast will keep a ship from reaching her port for days
together. To be sure, a sailor pays very little heed to the loss of a
few days: it matters little to him whether he is working on board or
in port: he is a patient creature, who waits all his life upon a
favourable breeze. And since he has no power over the wind and the
sea, he accepts whatever comes without murmuring, and makes the best
of it. Perhaps the wind blows up into a gale and the gale into a
storm: perhaps the good ship founders with all hands: nobody pities
the sailor: it is all in the day's work: young or old every one must
die: the wife at home knows that, as well as the man at sea. She knew
it when she married her husband. I have read of Turks and pagan
Mohammedans that they have no fear or care about the future, believing
that they cannot change what is predestined. It seems to me a foolish
doctrine, because if we want anything we must work for it, or we shall
not get it, fate or no fate. But the nearest to the Turk in this
respect is our English sailor, who will work his hardest in the worst
gale that ever blew, and face death without a pang, or a prayer, or a
touch of fear, because he trusted his life to the sea and the wind,
and he has no power to control the mounting waves or the roaring
tempest. It is as if one should say "I make a bargain with the ocean,
and with all seas that threaten and every wind that blows." I say to
them, "Suffer me to make my living on a ship that your winds blow
across your seas, and in return I will give you myself and the ship
and the cargo--all your own--to take, if you please and whenever you
please." It is a covenant between them. Sometimes the sailor gets the
best of it and spends his old age on dry land, safe after many
voyages: sometimes he gets the worst of it, and is taken, ship and
all, when he is quite young. He cannot complain. He has made the
bargain and must hold to it. But if one could sweep the bed of the
ocean and recover among the tangled seaweed and the long sea serpents
and monsters the treasures that lie scattered about, how rich the
world would be! Perhaps (but this is idle talk) the sea might some day
say, "I am gorged with the things that mankind call riches. My floor
is strewn thick with ribs of ships and skeletons of men; with chests
of treasure, bales and casks and cargoes. I have enough. Henceforth
there shall be no more storms and the ships shall pass to and fro over
a deep of untroubled blue with a surface like unto a polished mirror!"
Idle talk! And who would be a sailor then? We should hand the ships
over to the women and apprentice our girls to the trade of setting
sails of silk with ropes of ribbons.

I will tell you presently how I was so fortunate as to be apprenticed
to so fine a craft as _The Lady of Lynn_. Just now it is enough to set
down that she was the finest vessel in the little fleet of ships
belonging to my young mistress, Molly Miller, ward of Captain Crowle.
There were eight ships, all her own: _The Lady of Lynn_, the ship in
which I served my apprenticeship; the _Jolly Miller_, named after her
father; the _Lovely Molly_, after herself; the _Joseph and Jennifer_,
after her parents; the _Pride of Lynn_, the _Beauty of Lynn_, the
_Glory of Lynn_, and the _Honour of Lynn_, all of which you may take,
if you like, as named after their owner. Molly owned them all.

I have to tell you, in this place, why one day in especial must ever
be remembered by me as the most surprising and the happiest that I had
ever known.

I was, therefore, on the quarter-deck on duty when the boy came up the
companion saying that the captain wanted to speak to me. So I
followed, little thinking of what they had to say, expecting no more
than some question about log or cargo, such as the skipper is always
putting to his officers.

In the captain's cabin, however, I found sitting at the table not only
Captain Jaggard himself, but my old friend and patron, Captain Crowle.
His jolly face was full of satisfaction and good humour, so that it
gave one pleasure only to look at him. But he sat upright and assumed
the air of dignity which spoke of the quarter-deck. A man who has
walked that part of the ship in command doth never lose the look of
authority.

"John Pentecrosse," he began, "I have sent for you in order to inform
you that on the recommendation of Captain Jaggard here--" Captain
Jaggard gravely inclined his head in acquiescence, "and with the
consent of Miss Molly Miller, sole proprietor of this good ship, _The
Lady of Lynn_, I have promoted you to the rank of chief officer."

"Sir!" I cried, overwhelmed, for indeed, I had no reason to expect
this promotion for another two or three years. "What can I say?"

"We don't want you to say anything, Jack, my lad,"--the captain came
down from the quarter-deck and became my old friend again. "Give me
your hand. You're young, but there's never a better sailor afloat, is
there, Captain Jaggard?"

"None, Captain Crowle--none. For his years."

"For his years, naturally. He's salt through and through, isn't he,
Captain Jaggard?"

"And through, Captain Crowle." My skipper was a man of grave aspect
and few words.

"Well, then--let us drink the lad's health." And upon that the cabin
boy, who needed no further order, dived into the locker, produced a
bottle, opened it and placed three glasses.

"No better Lisbon," said Captain Jaggard, pouring it out, "goes even
to the table of the King--God bless him!"

"Now, gentlemen," Captain Crowle pushed a glass to me, "first, a glass
to Miss Molly--my little maid. Jack, you've been her playfellow and
you're now her servant."

"I could ask nothing better, sir."

"I know--a good and zealous servant. Drink it off--a full glass,
running over, to Molly Miller."

We obeyed, nothing loth.

"And now, Captain Jaggard, here's the health of your new mate--long to
serve under you--your right hand--your eyes open when you are off the
deck--your sailing master--the keeper of your log--Jack Pentecrosse, I
drink to your good luck."

                     *      *      *      *      *

That was the event which made this day the happiest in my life.
Another event, of which I thought little at the time, was more
important still in the after consequences. This was the humiliation of
Samuel Semple.

In the evening, as soon as I could get ashore, I repaired, as in duty
bound, to pay my respects to my young mistress. She lived, being
Captain Crowle's ward, in his house, which was the old house with a
tower formerly built for some religious purpose. It stands retired
from the street, with a fair garden in front, a garden where I had
played many hundreds of times with Molly when we were boy and girl
together.

This evening she was sitting in the summerhouse with some needlework.
Beside her sat her good old black woman, Nigra.

"Jack!" She dropped her work and jumped up to meet me. "I thought you
would come this evening. Oh! Are you pleased?"

"You knew I should come, Molly. Why, have I not to thank you for my
promotion?"

She gave me her hand with her sweet frankness and her smiling face.

"I would make you Captain Jack, but my guardian will not hear of it.
All in good time, though. I am only waiting. I am proud of you, Jack,
because everybody speaks so well of you. I met your father this
morning and gave him the good news to rejoice his good old heart. He
was too proud to confess his joy. But we know him, don't we, Jack?
Well, I confess that I shall not be happy till you are Captain
Pentecrosse, with a share in every cargo."

"Nay, Molly, the ship is yours and I am but your servant--though a
proud and joyful servant."

She shook her head. "All you brave fellows," she said, "are going out
to sea in storm and tempest to work for me. Why should all these ships
bring riches to me? I have done nothing. They ought to bring riches
for those who work." This shows her tenderness of heart. Never have I
heard of any other woman who complained that her servants worked to
make her rich while she did nothing. Yet the vicar would rebuke her,
saying that riches and increase were the gifts of Providence, and that
she must accept the things plainly intended by heaven. And Captain
Crowle spoke to the same effect and my father, the schoolmaster, also
pointed out that in the Divine scheme there were rich and there were
poor: the former for an example and for an encouragement to industry:
the latter for the virtues of duty, discipline and contentment--things
pleasing in the eyes of the Lord. But still she returned to her talk
about the people who worked for her.

And then we sat and talked, while Nigra went on with her work, sitting
at the feet of her mistress, whom she watched all the time as a dog
keeps one eye always upon his master.

At this time, my mistress, as I have said, was already sixteen years
of age, a time when many girls are already married. But she was still
a child, or a young girl, at heart: being one of those who, like a
fine Orleans plum, ripen slowly and are all the better for the time
they take. In person, if I may speak of what should be sacred, she was
finely made, somewhat taller than the average, her hair of that fair
colour which is the chief glory of the English maiden. Lord! If a
Lisbon girl could show that fair hair, with those blue eyes, and that
soft cheek, touched with the ruddy hue and the velvet bloom of the
September peach, she would draw after her the whole town, with the
king and his court and even the grand inquisitor and his accursed crew
of torturers. I know not how she was dressed, but it was in simple
fashion. Though so great an heiress she went to church no more finely
dressed than any of the girls belonging to the better sort, save for a
substantial gold chain which had been her father's. And this she
always wore about her neck.

She was of a truly affectionate disposition--her mind being as lovely
as her face. In manners she was easy and compliant: in discourse
sometimes grave and sometimes merry. As for her great possessions, she
was so simple in her tastes and habits, being in all respects like the
daughter of a plain merchantman's skipper, that she understood little
or nothing of what these possessions meant or what they might bestow
upon her. She was, in a word, a plain and unaffected damsel with no
pretence of anything superior to those around her. She was skilled in
all household matters although so well read: she could brew and pickle
and make perfumes and cordials for the still room: she could make
cakes and puddings: she knew how to carve at table: she had poultry,
her ducks, her pigs and her dairy, in the fields within the walls hard
by the Lady's Mount. She was always busy and therefore never afflicted
with the vapours or the spleen or the longing for one knows not what
which afflict the empty mind of the idle and the fashionable dame.
There were other good and comely girls in King's Lynn. I might
perhaps,--I say it not with boastfulness--have married Victory,
daughter of the Reverend Ellis Hayes, curate of St. Nicholas. She was
a buxom wench enough and a notable housewife. Or I might have married
Amanda, daughter of Dr. Worship, our physician--she who married Tom
Rising, and when he broke his neck hunting the fox, afterwards married
the Vicar of Hunstanton. She, too, was a fine woman, though something
hard of aspect. But there was never, for me, any other woman in the
world than Molly, my mistress.

No one, however, must believe that there was any thought or discourse,
concerning love between us. I had been her companion and playfellow: I
knew her very mind, and could tell at any time of what she was
thinking. Sometimes her thoughts were of high and serious things such
as were inspired by the sermon; mostly they were of things simple,
such as the prospects of the last brew, or the success of the latest
cordial. Of suitors she had none, although she was now, as I said,
sixteen years of age. There were no suitors. I very well know why,
because, perhaps for friendly reasons, Captain Crowle had told me
something of his ambition for his ward. She was too rich and too good
for the young men of Lynn--what would any of them do with such an
heiress? She was too rich and too good even for the gentlefolk of the
county, a hearty, rough, good-natured people who hunted and shot and
feasted and drank--what would they do with an heiress of wealth beyond
their highest hopes--had they any knowledge of her wealth; but I
believe that they had none. No one knew how rich she was, except the
captain. The girl was intended by her guardian for some great man; he
knew not, as yet, how he should find this great man: but he knew that
there were very few, even of the noble lords in the House of Peers,
whose fortune or whose income would compare with that of his ward--his
little maid. And I, who knew this ambition, knew also that I was
trusted not to betray confidence, nor to disturb the girl's mind by
any talk of love. Now the mind of a young maid piously disposed is
like the surface of a calm sea, which looks up to the sky and reflects
the blue of heaven, undisturbed: till Dan Cupid comes along and
agitates the calm with the reflection of some shepherd swain and
ripples the surface with new thoughts which are allowed by heaven, but
belong not to any of its many mansions.

Therefore we talked of everything except love: of the voyages to the
Portugals and their horrid Inquisition: of the yarns told by sailors
of the places they had seen, and so forth. There was no talk about
books because there were none. A Ready Reckoner; a Manual of
Navigation; Mill's Geography; a Wages Book; the Bible and the Book of
Common Prayer were the only books belonging to the good old captain.
Nor, in all Lynn, save for the learned shelves of the vicar and the
curate of St. Nicholas are there any books. It is not a town which
reads or asks for, books. Why, even on market days you will not see
any stall for the sale of books such as may be seen every week at
Cambridge, and at Norwich, and even at Bury St. Edmund's. 'Tis perhaps
pity that so many gentlemen, substantial merchants, and sea captains
never read books. For their knowledge of the outer world, and the
nations, they trust to the sailors who, to tell the truth, know as
much as any books can tell them: but sailors are not always truthful.
For their wisdom and their conduct of life and manners these honest
merchants depend upon the Old and the New Testament: or, since there
are some who neglect that Treasury of Divine knowledge, they trust to
mere tradition and to proverbs; to the continuation of their
forefathers' habits, and to the memory of what their forefathers
achieved.

The sun went down as we sat talking. The sun went down and the soft
twilight of June, the month which most I love because there is no
darkness, and a man on watch can discern ahead breakers and ships as
well as the vast circle of the rolling sea. And then Nigra gathered
her work together and arose.

"Come to supper, honey," she said. "Come, Massa Jack," and led the
way.

I have often, since I learned and understood things, wondered at the
simplicity with which Molly's guardian thought it proper to bring up
this young heiress whose hand he intended for some great personage, as
yet unknown. He lived for choice in a small parlour overlooking his
neighbour's garden: it was nearly as narrow as the cabin to which he
was accustomed. His fare was that which, as a sailor, he considered
luxurious. The staple, so to speak, was salt beef or salt pork, but
not quite so hard as that of the ship's barrels. This evening, for
instance, we sat down to a supper consisting of a piece of cold boiled
beef somewhat underdone; there was a cold chicken; a sallet of
lettuce, spring onions and young radishes; and a gooseberry pie
afterwards with plenty of strong brown sugar. With these dainties was
served a jug of home-brewed--to my mind a more delicious drink than
any of the wine brought home by _The Lady of Lynn_--I remember now how
it stood beside the captain with its noble head of froth, overtopping
the Brown George in which it was drawn.

It had been a joyful day. It was destined to conclude with an event
neither joyful nor sorrowful--an act of justice. For my own part I
could have sung and laughed all through the supper: the more joyful,
because Molly looked happy in my happiness. But there was something
wrong. When we talked and laughed, the captain laughed with us, but
not mirthfully. His face indicated a change of weather, just as in the
bay before a storm the waters grow turbid: and I observed also, that
Molly's mother, though she laughed with Molly and applauded our
sallies, glanced anxiously from time to time at the captain, who was
her cousin as well as her husband's executor and her daughter's
guardian. And I knew not what to make of these symptoms, because in
the midst of fine weather, with an open sea, a fine sky, and a
favouring breeze, one does not expect the signs of head winds and
driving sleet. What it meant you shall learn, and why I have said that
the day was memorable for two reasons.

Supper over, the captain, instead of turning round his chair to the
fireplace, filling his pipe, and calling for another glass of October,
as we expected, pushed back his chair, and rose with dignity.

"Jennifer," he addressed Molly's mother, "the persuader."

Jennifer was her Christian name. She got up and drew from the corner
by the cupboard a stout crab tree cudgel, twisted and gnarled like the
old tree from which it came. "Be not revengeful, John," she said.

"No, no. I am a justice of the peace. I am captain on my own
quarter-deck. Punishment I shall bestow--not revenge."

"Well, John. But he is young and you are old."

Captain Crowle laughed. "Young, is he? And I am old, am I? We shall
see."

Some one was going to be tried, judged, found guilty, sentenced and to
receive his sentence at once. The thing was not unusual in the house
of a justice of the peace.

"Come with me, Jack. It shall not be said that I inflicted this
punishment without a witness. All the world shall know about it, if so
be the culprit desires. Come with me. Jennifer, keep within, and if
you hear groans, praise the Lord for the correction of a sinner."

Greatly marvelling I followed the captain as he marched out of the
parlour. Arrived at the garden he looked around. "So!" he said, "he
has not yet come. Perhaps it is light enough for you to read some of
his pernicious stuff." With that he put his hand into his pocket and
drew forth a paper. "Read that, Jack, I say, read it."

I obeyed: the twilight gave sufficient light for reading the
manuscript. Besides, the writing was large and in bold characters.
"Why," I said, "I know this writing. It is Sam Semple's."

"Very good. Go on, therefore----"

At the very first words I understood what had already happened and
guessed, pretty well, what was going to happen--

    "Molly divine! Thy heavenly charms prevail;
    As when the sun doth rise stars fade and pale."

"No need for much more of the rubbish, Jack. Read the last of it. I
read it all and it made me sick."

    "So, matchless maid, thy silence grants consent.
    See, at thy feet, the poet's knee is bent--
    When evening roses scatter fragrance faint
    And the sad Philomel renews his plaint."

"Did ever man hear such stuff, Jack? Go on."

    "Within this bow'r afar from sight of men;
    To-morrow, Wednesday, at the hour of ten,
    That bow'r a shrine of Love and Temple fair,
    I will await thee--Samuel Semple--there."

"What do you think of that, Jack? Samuel Semple! the ragged, skulking,
snivelling, impudent son of a thieving exciseman! A very fine lover
for my little maid! Ha! Will he? Will he?" The captain grasped his
cudgel, with resolution.

"Sir," I said, with submission. "What did Molly say to this precious
epistle?"

"Molly? Dost think that I would let the little maid see such ranting
stuff? Not so. The black woman brought the precious letters to me.
There are three of them. Wait, Jack. Thou shalt see. Hush! I hear his
step. Let us get into the summerhouse, and lie snug to see what
happens."

We stepped into the summerhouse, now pretty dark, and waited
expectant.

Like the captain, I was filled with amazement that Samuel, whom I knew
well, who was my schoolfellow, should presume to lift his eyes so
high. Alas! There is no bound, or limit, I am assured, to the
presumption of such as this stringer of foolish rhymes. Yet I felt
some compunction for him, because he would most assuredly receive a
basting such as would cure him effectually of the passion called Love,
so far as this object was concerned.

Presently, we heard footsteps crunching the gravel. "Snug, my lad! Lie
snug," whispered the captain. We heard the steps making their way
along the path between the gooseberry and current bushes. Then they
came out upon the grass lawn before the summerhouse. "The grass is as
big as a quarter-deck, Jack," said the captain. "It will serve for the
basting of a measley clerk. I've knocked down many a mutinous dog on
the quarter-deck."

The poet came to the summerhouse and stood outside, irresolute. He
could not see the two occupants. He hemmed twice, aloud. There was no
reply. "Matchless Molly!" he whispered. "Divine Maid! I am here, at
thy feet. Nymph of the azure sea, I am here."

"The devil you are!" cried the captain, stepping out. "Why, here is a
precious villain for you! Jack, cut him off in the rear if he tries to
get away. So--so, my young quill driver. You would poach on the
preserves of your betters, would you? Would you? Would you?" At each
repetition he banged the wooden post of the summerhouse with his
cudgel.

The poet made no reply, but he looked to right and to left and behind
him, for a way of escape, but found none, for I was ready to bar his
flight. Wherefore, his shoulders became rounded, and his head hung
down, and his knees trembled. Samuel Semple was caught in a trap. Some
young fellows would have made a fight of it. But not Samuel: all he
thought about was submission and non-resistance, which might provoke
pity.

"Three times, jackanapes, hast thou presumed to send stuff to my ward.
Here they are," he took from me the last sheet of doggerel verse and
drew from his pocket two more. "Here they are--one--two--three--all
addressed to the Matchless Molly. Why, thou impudent villain--what
devil prompted thee to call her Matchless Molly--matchless--to such as
you! Take that, sirrah, and that----" They were laid on with a will.
The poet groaned but made no reply--again looking vainly to right and
left for some way of escape.

"Now, sir," said the captain, "before we go on to the serious
business, thou wilt eat this precious stuff--eat it--eat it--swallow
it all--or by the Lord!" Again he raised the cudgel, "I will stuff it
down thy throat."

"Oh! Captain Crowle," he murmured, "I will eat them--I will eat them."

The poet took the papers. They were dry eating and I fear tasteless,
but in a few minutes he had swallowed them all.

"They are down," said the captain. "Now comes the basting. And I would
have you to understand, lump of impudence, that it is my mercy
only--my foolish mercy, perhaps, that keeps me from sending you
through the town at the tail of a cart. Kneel down, sir, in token of
repentance. What? I say--kneel down."

The basting which followed was really worthy of the days when Captain
Crowle, with his own hand, quelled a mutiny and drove the whole crew
under hatches. The right hand at seventy was as vigorous as at forty.
For my own part, I attempted no interference. The captain was wrathful
but he had command of himself. If he added to the basting a running
commentary of sea-going terms, signifying scorn and contempt, with the
astonishment with which a sailor always regards presumption, it was
only to increase the terror and the effect of the cudgelling. I am
quite certain that he was resolved in his own mind when he should
stop; that is to say, when the justice of the case would have been met
and revenge would begin. And I hold myself excused for not preventing
any portion of this commentary.

It was a poor, shrinking, trembling figure full of bruises and aches
and pains that presently arose and slunk away. I should have felt
sorry for him had he taken punishment like a man. Why, I would maroon
any of my crew who would cry and grovel and snivel when tied up for
his three dozen. It made one sick and ashamed to see him and to hear
him, with his--

"Mercy, captain! Oh! Enough, good captain! Oh! captain, I confess. I
deserve it all. Never again, captain. Oh! Forgiveness--forgiveness!"
And so on. I say it made me sick and ashamed. When all was over I
followed him to the garden gate. "Oh! Jack," he groaned. "You stood by
and saw it all. I am a dead man. He shall be hanged for it. You are
the witness. I am nothing but a bag of broken bones. Ribs and collar
bones and skull. I am a poor, unfortunate, murdered man. I am done to
death with a cudgel."

"Go home," I said. "You a man? You cry like a whipped cur. Murdered?
Not you. Cudgelled you are, and well you deserved it. Go home and get
brown paper and vinegar and tell all the town how you have been
cudgelled for writing verses to a matchless maid. They will laugh, Sam
Semple. They will laugh."

The captain went back to the parlour, somewhat flushed with the
exercise.

"Justice," he said, "has been done, without the cart and the cat. My
pipe, Jennifer, and the home-brewed. Molly, my dear, your very good
health."

A day or two afterwards, we heard that Sam Semple had gone to London
to make his fortune. He was carried thither by the waggon that once a
week makes the journey to London, returning the following week. But
when Sam Semple came back it was in a chaise, with much splendour, as
in due course you shall hear. You shall also hear of the singular
gratitude with which he repaid the captain for that wholesome
correction.




The Lady of Lynn




CHAPTER I

MY LORD'S LEVEE


It is three years later. We are now in the year 1750.

At twelve o'clock in the morning the anteroom of the town house of the
Right Honourable the Earl of Fylingdale was tolerably filled with a
mixed company attending his levee. Some were standing at the windows;
some were sitting: a few were talking: most, however, were unknown to
each other, and if they spoke at all, it was only to ask each other
when his lordship might be expected to appear.

As is customary at a great lord's levee there were present men of all
conditions; they agreed, however, in one point, that they were all
beggars. It is the lot of the nobleman that he is chiefly courted for
the things that he can give away, and that the number of his friends
and the warmth of their friendship depend upon the influence he is
supposed to possess in the bestowal of places and appointments.

Among the suitors this morning, for instance, was a half-pay captain
who sought for a company in a newly raised regiment: he bore himself
bravely, but his face betrayed his anxiety and his necessities. The
poor man would solicit his lordship in vain, but this he did not know,
and so he would be buoyed up for a time with new hopes. Beside him
stood a lieutenant in the navy, who wanted promotion and a ship. If
good service and wounds in battle were of any avail he should have
commanded both, but it is very well known that in the Royal Navy there
are no rewards for gallantry; men grow old without promotion: nothing
helps but interest: a man may remain a midshipman for life without
interest: never has it been known that without interest a ship has
been bestowed even upon the most deserving officer and after the most
signal service. The lieutenant, too, would be cheered by a promise,
and lulled by false hopes--but that he did not know.

One man wanted a post in the admiralty: the pay is small but the
perquisites and the pickings are large: for the same reason another
asked for a place in the customs. A young poet attended with a
subscription list and a dedication. He thought that his volume of
verse, once published, would bring him fortune, fame, and friends: he,
too, would be disappointed. The clergyman wanted another living: one
of the fat and comfortable churches in the city: a deanery would not
be amiss: he was even ready to take upon himself the office of bishop,
for which, indeed, he considered that his qualifications admirably
fitted him. Would his lordship exercise his all powerful influence in
the matter of that benefice or that promotion?

A young man, whose face betrayed the battered rake, would be contented
even with carrying the colours on the Cape Coast regiment if nothing
better could be had. Surely his lordship would procure so small a
thing as that! If nothing could be found for him then--the common side
of the King's Bench Prison and rags and starvation until death
released him. Poor wretch! He was on his way to that refuge, but he
knew it not; for my lord would promise to procure for him what he
wanted.

So they all waited, hungry and expectant, thinking how best to frame
their requests: how best to appear grateful before there was any call
for gratitude. Surely a nobleman must grow wearied with the assurances
of gratitude and promises of prayers. His experience must teach him
that gratitude is but a short-lived plant: a weed which commonly
flourishes for a brief period and produces neither flowers nor fruit;
while as for the prayers, though we may make no doubt that the fervent
prayer of the righteous availeth much, we are nowhere assured that the
prayers of the worldly and the unrighteous are heard on behalf of
another; while there is no certainty that the promised petition will
ever be offered up before the throne. Yet the suitors, day after day,
repeat the same promise, and rely on the same belief. "Oh! my lord,"
they say, or sing with one accord, "your name: your voice: your
influence: it is all that I ask. My gratitude: my life-long gratitude:
my service: my prayers will all be yours."

Soon after twelve o'clock the doors of the private apartments were
thrown open and his lordship appeared, wearing the look of dignity and
proud condescension combined, which well became the star he wore and
the ancient title which he had inherited. His age was about thirty, a
time of life when there linger some remains of youth and the serious
responsibilities are yet, with some men, hardly felt. His face was
cold and proud and hard; the lips firmly set: the eyes keen and even
piercing; the features regular: his stature tall, but not ungainly,
his figure manly. It was remarkable, among those who knew him
intimately, that there was as yet no sign of luxurious living on face
and figure. He was not as yet swelled out with wine and punch: his
neck was still slender; his face pale, without any telltale marks of
wine and debauchery; so far as appearance goes he might pass if he
chose, for a person of the most rigid and even austere virtue. This,
as I have said, was considered remarkable by his friends, most of whom
were already stamped on face and feature and figure with the outward
and visible tokens of a profligate life. For, to confess the truth at
the very beginning and not to attempt concealment, or to suffer a
false belief as regards this nobleman, he was nothing better than a
cold-blooded, pitiless, selfish libertine; a rake, and a voluptuary;
one who knew and obeyed no laws save the laws of (so-called) honour.
These laws allow a man to waste his fortune at the gaming table: to
ruin confiding girls: to spend his time with rake hell companions in
drink and riot and debauchery of all kinds. He must, however, pay his
gambling debts: he must not cheat at cards; he must be polite in
speech: he must be ready to fight whenever the occasion calls for his
sword, and the quarrel seems of sufficient importance. Lord
Fylingdale, however, was not among those who found his chief pleasure
scouring the streets and in mad riot. You shall learn, in due course,
what forms of pleasure chiefly attracted him.

I have said that his face was proud. There was not, I believe, any man
living in the whole world, who could compare with Lord Fylingdale for
pride. An overwhelming pride sat upon his brow; was proclaimed by his
eyes and was betrayed by his carriage. With such pride did Lucifer
look round upon his companions, fallen as they were, and in the depths
of hopeless ruin.

In many voyages to foreign parts I have seen something of foreign
peoples; every nation possesses its own nobility; I suppose that king,
lords and commons is the order designed for human society by
Providence. But I think that there is nowhere any pride equal to the
pride of the English aristocracy. The Spaniard, if I have observed him
aright, wraps himself in the pride of birth as with a cloak: it is
often a tattered cloak: poverty has no terrors for him so long as he
has his pride of birth. Yet he tolerates his fellow-countrymen whom he
does not despise because they lack what most he prizes. The English
nobleman, whether a peer or only a younger son, or a nephew or a
cousin, provided he is a sprig of quality, disdains and despises all
those who belong to the world of work, and have neither title, nor
pedigree, nor coat of arms. He does not see any necessity for
concealing this contempt. He lacks the courtesy which would hide it in
the presence of the man of trade or the man of a learned profession.
To be sure, the custom of the country encourages him, because to him
is given every place and every preferment. He fills the House of
Commons as well as the House of Lords: he commands our armies, our
regiments, even the companies in the regiments: he commands our fleets
and our ships: he holds all the appointments and draws all the
salaries: he makes our laws, and, as justice of the peace, he
administers them: he receives pensions, having done nothing to deserve
them; he holds sinecures which require no duties. And the people who
do the work--the merchants who bring wealth to the country: the
manufacturers; the craftsmen; the farmers; the soldiers who fight the
wars which the aristocracy consider necessary; the sailor who carries
the flag over the world: all these are supposed to be sufficiently
rewarded with a livelihood while they maintain the nobility and their
children in luxury and in idleness and are received and treated with
contempt.

I speak of what I have myself witnessed. This man's pride I have
compared with the pride of Lucifer. You shall learn while I narrate
the things which follow, that he might well be compared, as regards
his actions as well, with that proud and presumptuous spirit.

He was dressed in a manner becoming to his rank: need we dwell upon
his coat of purple velvet; his embroidered waistcoat; his white silk
stockings; his lace of ruffles and cravat; his gold buckles and his
gold clocks; his laced hat carried under his arm; his jewelled sword
hilt and the rings upon his fingers? You would think, by his dress,
that his wealth was equal to his pride, and, by his reception of the
suitors, that his power was equal to both pride and wealth together.

The levee began; one after the other stepped up to him, spoke a few
words, received a few words in reply and retired, each, apparently,
well pleased. For promises cost nothing. To the poet who asked for a
subscription and preferred a dedication, my lord promised the former,
accepted the latter, and added a few words of praise and good wishes.
But the subscription was never paid; and the dedication was afterwards
altered so far as the superscription, to another noble patron. To the
clergyman who asked for a country living then vacant, my lord promised
the most kindly consideration and bade him write his request and send
it him by letter, for better assurance of remembrance. To the officer
he promised his company as only due to gallantry and military skill:
to the place hunter he promised a post far beyond the dreams and the
hopes of the suppliant. Nothing more came of it to either.

The company grew thin: one after the other, the suitors withdrew to
feed on promises. It is like opening your mouth to drink the wind. But
'twas all they got.

Among those who remained to the last was a man in the dress of a
substantial shopkeeper, with a brown cloth coat and silver buttons.
He, when his opportunity arrived, advanced and bowed low to my lord.

"Sir," said his lordship, with gracious, but cold looks, "in what way
may I be of service to you?"

"With your lordship's permission, I would seek a place in your
household--any place--scullion in the kitchen, or groom to the
stable--any place."

"Why should I give you a place? Have I room in my household for every
broken cit?"

"My lord, it is to save me from bankruptcy and the King's Bench. It is
to save my wife and children from destitution. There are already many
shopkeepers in Westminster and the city who have been admitted
servants in the households of noblemen. It is no new thing--your
lordship must have heard of the custom."

"I do not know why I should save thy family or thyself. However, this
is the affair of my steward. Go and see him. Tell him that a place in
my household will save thee from bankruptcy and prison--it may be that
a place is vacant."

The man bowed again and retired. He knew very well what was meant. He
would have to pay a round sum for the privilege. This noble lord, like
many others of his rank, took money, through his steward, for nominal
places in his household, making one citizen yeoman of his dairy; in
Leicester Fields, perhaps, where no dairy could be placed; another
steward of the granaries, having in the town neither barns nor
storehouses nor ricks: a third, clerk to the stud book, having no race
horses; and so on. Thus justice is defeated, a man's creditors may be
defied and a man may escape payment of his just debts.

When he was gone, Lord Fylingdale looked round the room. In the window
stood, dangling a cane from his wrist, a gentleman dressed in the
highest and the latest fashion. In his left hand he held a snuffbox
adorned with the figure of a heathen goddess. To those who know the
meaning of fashion it was evident that he was in the front rank,
belonging to the few who follow or command, the variations of the
passing hour. These descend to the smallest details. I am told that
the secrets of the inner circle, the select few, who lead the fashion,
are displayed for their own gratification in the length of the cravat,
the colour of the sash, the angle of the sword, the breadth of the
ruffles, the width of the skirts, the tye of the wig. They are also
shown in the mincing voice, and the affected tone, and the use of the
latest adjectives and oaths. Yet, when one looked more closely, it was
seen that this gallant exterior arrayed an ancient gentleman whose
years were proclaimed by the sharpening of his features, the wrinkles
of his feet, the crows'-feet round his eyes, and his bending shoulders
which he continually endeavoured to set square and upright. Hat in one
hand, and snuffbox in the other, he ambled towards his lordship on
tiptoe, which happened just then to be the fashionable gait.

"Thy servant, Sir Harry"--my lord offered him his hand with
condescension. "It warms my heart to see thee. Therefore I sent a
letter. Briefly, Sir Harry, wouldst do me a service?"

"I am always at your lordship's commands. This, I hope, I have
proved."

"Then, Sir Harry, this is the case. It is probable that for certain
private reasons, I may have to pay a visit to a country town--a town
of tarpaulins and traders, not a town of fashion"--Sir Harry
shuddered--"patience, my friend. I know not how long I shall endure
the barbaric company. But I must go--there are reasons--let me
whisper--reasons of state--important secrets which call me there"--Sir
Harry smiled and looked incredulous--"I want, on the spot, a
friend"--Sir Harry smiled again, as one who began to understand--"a
friend who would appear to be a stranger. Would you, therefore, play
the part of such a friend?"

"I will do whatever your lordship commands. Yet to leave town at this
season"--it was then the month of April--"the assembly, the park, the
card table--the society of the ladies----"

"The loss will be theirs, Sir Harry. To lose their old favourite--oh!
there will be lamentations, at the rout---- Perhaps, however, we may
find consolations."

"Impossible. There are none out of town, except at Bath or
Tunbridge----"

"The ladies of Norfolk are famous for their beauty."

"Hoydens--I know them,

    "'I who erst beneath a tree
    Sung, Bumpkinet, and Bowzybee,
    And Blouzelind and Marian bright
    In aprons blue or aprons white,'

"as Gay hath it. Hoydens, my lord, I know them. They play whist and
dance jigs."

"The Norfolk gentlemen drink hard and the wine is good."

"Nay, my lord, this is cruel. For I can drink no longer."

"I shall find other diversions for you. It is possible--I
say--possible--that the Lady Anastasia may go there as well. She will,
as usual, keep the bank if she does go."

The old beau's face cleared, whether in anticipation of Lady
Anastasia's society or her card table I know not.

"My character, Sir Harry, will be in your hands. I leave it there
confidently. For reasons--reasons of state--it should be a character
of...."

"I understand. Your lordship is a model of all the virtues----"

"So--we understand. My secretary will converse with thee further on
the point of expenditure."

Sir Harry retired, bowing and twisting his body something like an ape.

Then a gentleman in scarlet presented himself.

"Your lordship's most obedient," he said, with scant courtesy. "I come
in obedience to your letter--for command."

"Colonel, you will hold yourself in readiness to go into the country.
There will be play--you may lose as much as you please--to Sir Harry
Malyus or to any one else whom my secretary will point out to you.
Perhaps you may have to receive a remonstrance from me. We are
strangers, remember, and I am no gambler, though I sometimes take a
card."

"I await your lordship's further commands." So he, too, retired. A
proper well-set-up figure he was, with the insolence of the trooper in
his face, and the signs of strong drink on his nose. Any one who knew
the town would set him down for a half-pay captain, a sharper, a
bully, a roysterer, one who lived by his wits, one who was skilled in
billiards and commonly lucky at any game of cards. Perhaps such a
judgment of the gallant colonel would not be far wrong.

There remained one suitor. He was a clergyman dressed in a fine silk
cassock with bands of the whitest and a noble wig of the order
Ecclesiastic. I doubt if the archbishop himself had a finer. He was in
all respects a divine of the superior kind: a dean, perhaps; an
archdeacon, perhaps; a canon, rector, vicar, chaplain, with a dozen
benefices, no doubt. His thin, slight figure carried a head too big
for his body. His face was sallow and thin, the features regular; he
bore the stamp of a scholar and had the manner of a scoffer. He spoke
as if he was in the pulpit, with a voice loud, clear and resonant, as
though the mere power of hearing that voice diffused around him the
blessings of virtue and piety and a clear conscience.

"Good, my lord," he said, "I am, as usual, a suppliant. The rectory of
St. Leonard le Size, Jewry, in the city, is now vacant. With my small
benefices in the country, it would suit me hugely. A word from your
lordship to the lord mayor--the rectory is in the gift of the
corporation--would, I am sure, suffice."

"If, my old tutor, the thing can be done by me, you may consider it as
settled. There are, however, I would have you to consider, one or two
scandals still outstanding, the memory of which may have reached the
ears of the city. These city people, for all their ignorance of
fashion, do sometimes hear of things. The little affair at Bath, for
instance----"

"The lady hath since returned to her own home. It is now quite
forgotten and blown over. My innocency is always well known to your
lordship."

"Assuredly. Has that other little business at Oxford blown over? Are
certain verses still attributed to the Reverend Benjamin Purdon?"

His reverence lightly blew upon his fingers. "That report is now
forgotten. But 'tis a censorious world. One man is hanged for looking
over a gate while another steals a pig and is applauded. As for the
author of those verses, he still remains undiscovered, while the
verses themselves--a deplorable fact--are handed about for the joy of
the undergraduates."

"Next time, then, steal the pig. Frankly, friend Purdon, thy name is
none of the sweetest, and I doubt if the bishop would consent.
Meantime, you are living, as usual, I suppose, at great expense----"

"At small expense, considering my abilities; but still at greater
expense than my slender income will allow. Am I not your lordship's
domestic chaplain? Must I not keep up the dignity due to the
position?"

"Your dignity is costly. I must get a bishopric or a deanery for you.
Meantime I have a small service to ask of you."

"Small? My lord, let it be great: it cannot be too great."

"It is that you go into the country for me."

"Not to Bath--or to Oxford?" His reverence betrayed an anxiety on this
point which was not quite in harmony with his previous declarations.

"Not to either. To another place, where they know not thy name or thy
fame. Very good. I thought I could depend upon your loyalty. As for
arrangements and time, you will hear from my secretary." So my lord
turned on his heel and his chaplain was dismissed. He remained for a
moment, looking after his master doubtfully. The order liked him not.
He was growing old and would have chosen, had he the power of choice,
some fat city benefice with two or three country livings thrown in. He
was tired of his dependence: perhaps he was tired of a life that ill
became his profession: perhaps he could no longer enjoy it as of old.
There was, at least, no sign of repentance as there was no touch of
the spiritual life in his face, which was stamped with the plain and
visible marks of the world, the flesh and the devil. What is that
stamp? Nobody can paint it, or describe it: yet it is understood and
recognised whenever one sees it. And it stood out legible so that all
those who ran might read upon the face of this reverend and learned
divine.

When the levee was finished and everybody gone, Lord Fylingdale sank
into a chair. I know not the nature of his thoughts save that they
were not pleasant, for his face grew darker every moment. Finally, he
sprang to his feet and rang the bell. "Tell Mr. Semple that I would
speak with him," he ordered.

Mr. Semple, the same Samuel whom you have seen under a basting from
the captain, was now changed and for the better. His dress was simple.
No one could guess from his apparel the nature of his occupation. For
all professions and all crafts there is a kind of uniform. The divine
wears gown and cassock, bands and wig, which proclaim his calling: the
lawyer is also known by his gown and marks his rank at the bar by coif
and wig: the attorney puts on broadcloth black of hue: the physician
assumes black velvet, a magisterial wig, and a gold-headed cane. The
officer wears the King's scarlet; the nobleman his star: the sprig of
quality puts on fine apparel and assumes an air and manner unknown to
Cheapside and Ludgate Hill: you may also know him by his speech. The
merchant wears black velvet with gold buttons, gold buckles, white
silk stockings and a gold-laced hat; the shopkeeper substitutes silver
for gold and cloth for velvet: the clerk has brown cloth metal buttons
and worsted stockings. As for the crafts, has not each its own jacket,
sleeves, apron, cap, and badge?

But for this man, where would we place him? What calling did he
represent? For he wore the flowered waist-coat--somewhat frayed and
stained, of a beau, and the black coat of the merchant: the worsted
stockings of the clerk and his metal buttons. Yet he was neither
gentleman, merchant, shopkeeper, clerk, nor craftsman. He was a member
of that fraternity which is no fraternity because there is no
brotherhood among them all; in which every man delights to slander,
gird at, and to depreciate his brother. In other words he wore the
dress--which is no uniform--of a poet. At this time he also called
himself secretary to his lordship having by ways known only to
himself, and by wrigglings up back stairs, and services of a kind
never proclaimed to the world, made himself useful. The position also
granted him, as it granted certain tradesmen, immunity from arrest. He
had the privilege of walking abroad through a street full of hungering
creditors, and that, not on Sundays only, like most of his tribe, but
on every day in the week.

He obeyed the summons and entered the room with a humble cringe.

"Semple," said his lordship, crossing his legs and playing with the
tassel of his sword knot, "I have read thy letter----"

"Your lordship will impute----"

"First, what is the meaning of the preamble?"

"I have been your lordship's secretary for six months. I have
therefore perused all your lordship's letters. I have also in my zeal
for your lordship's interests--looked about me. And I discovered--what
I ventured to state in that preamble."

"Well, sir?"

"Namely, that the Fylingdale estates are gone so far as your
lordship's life is concerned--but--in a word, all is gone. And
that--your lordship will pardon the plain truth--your lordship's
credit cannot last long and that--I now touch a most delicate point to
a man of your lordship's nice sense of honour--the only resource left
is precarious."

"You mean?"

"I mean--a certain lady and a certain bank."

"How, sir? Do you dare? What has put this suspicion into your head?"

"Nay, my lord--I have no thought but for your lordship's interests,
believe me."

"And so you tell me about the rustic heiress, and you propose a
plan----"

"I have had the temerity to do so."

"Yes. Tell me once more about this girl--and about her fortune."

"Her name is Molly Miller: she is an orphan: her guardian is an honest
sailor who has taken the greatest care of her property. She was an
heiress already when her father died. That was eighteen years ago; she
is now nineteen."

"Is she passable--to look at? A hoyden with a high colour, I warrant."

"A cream-<DW52> complexion, touched with red and pink: light hair in
curls and blue eyes; the face and figure of a Venus; the sweetest
mouth in the world and the fondest manner."

"Hang me if the fellow isn't in love with her, himself! If she is all
this, man, why not apply yourself, for the post of spouse?"

"Because her guardian keeps off all would-be lovers and destines his
ward for a gentleman at least--for a nobleman, he hopes."

"He is ambitious. Now as to her fortune."

"She has a fleet of half a dozen tall vessels--nay, there are more,
but I know not how many. I was formerly clerk in a countinghouse of
the town and I learned a great deal--what each is worth and what the
freight of each voyage may produce--but not all. The captain, her
guardian, keeps things close. My lord, I can assure you, from what I
learned in that capacity and by looking into old books, that she must
be worth over a hundred thousand pounds--over a hundred thousand
pounds! My lord, there is no such heiress in the city. In your
lordship's interests I have enquired in the taverns where the
merchants' clerks congregate. They know of all the city heiresses. The
greatest, at this moment, is the only daughter of a tallow chandler
who has twenty thousand to her name. She squints."

"Why have you given me this information? The girl belongs to your
friends--are you anxious for her happiness? You know my way of life.
Would that way make her happier?"

The man made no reply.

"Come, Semple, out with it. Your reasons--gratitude--to me--or revenge
upon an enemy?"

The man . He looked up: he stood upright but for a moment
only. Then his eyes dropped and his shoulders contracted.

"Gratitude, my lord, to you," he replied. "Revenge? Why what reason
should I have for revenge?"

"How should I know of any? Let it be gratitude, then."

"I have ventured to submit--not a condition--but a prayer."

"I have read the clause. I grant it. On the day after the marriage if
the plan comes to anything, I will present thee to a place where there
are no duties and many perquisites. That is understood. I would put
this promise in writing but no writing would bind me more than my
word."

"Yet I would have the promise in writing."

"You are insolent, sirrah."

"I am protecting myself. My lord, I must speak openly in this matter.
How many promises have you made this morning? How many will you keep?
I must not be pushed aside with such a promise."

Lord Fylingdale made no reply.

"I offer you a fortune of a hundred thousands pounds and more."

"I can now take this fortune without your assistance."

"With submission, my lord, you cannot. I know too much."

"What shall I write, then?"

"I am only reasonable. The girl's fortune when you have it will go the
same way as your rents and woods have gone. Provide for me, therefore,
before you begin to spend that money."

"Semple, I did not think you had so much courage. Learn that a dozen
times I have been on the point of kicking you out of the house. Now,"
he rose, "give me paper and a pen--and I will write this promise."

Semple placed a chair at the table and laid paper and pen before it.
"Let me presume so far as to dictate the promise," he said. "I
undertake and promise that on the day after my marriage with the girl
named Molly Miller, I will give Samuel Semple such a place as will
provide him for life with a salary of not less than L200 a year.
So--will your lordship sign it?"

He took up this precious paper from the table, read it, folded it and
put it in his pocket.

"What next?" asked his patron.

"I am preparing a scheme which will give a plausible excuse for your
lordship's visit to the town. I have already suggested that certain
friends should prepare the way. The lady's guardian has prejudices in
favour of morality and religion. They are, I know, beneath your
lordship's notice--yet still--it will be in fact, necessary that your
lordship's character shall be such as will commend itself to this
unfashionable old sailor."

"We will speak again upon this point. The girl you say has no lover."

"She has no lover. Your lordship's rank: your manner: your appearance
will certainly carry the day. By contrast alone with the country
bumpkins the heart of the girl will be won."

"Mr. Semple," his lordship yawned. "Do you suppose that the heart of
the girl concerns me? Go and complete your scheme--of gratitude, not
revenge."




CHAPTER II

THE LADY ANASTASIA


The Lady Anastasia was in her dressing-room in the hands of her
friseur, the French hairdresser, and her maid. She sat in a dishabille
which was a loose robe, called, I believe a nightgown, of pink silk,
trimmed with lace, which showed the greater part of a very well shaped
arm; she had one slipper off and one slipper on, which showed a very
small and well shaped foot, but no one was there to see. Her maid was
busy at the toilette table which was covered with glass bottles
containing liquids of attractive colour; silver patch boxes; powder
boxes; powder puffs; cosmetics in pots, and other mysterious secrets
into which it would be useless and fruitless to inquire. The artist,
for his part, was laboriously and conscientiously building the
edifice--object of so much ingenuity and thought--called a "Head."

She was in the best temper imaginable. When you hear that she had won
overnight the sum of a hundred and twenty guineas you will understand
that she had exactly that number of reasons for being satisfied with
the world. Moreover, she had received from an admirer a present in the
shape of a piece of china representing a monkey, which, she reflected
with satisfaction, would awaken in the minds of her friends the
keenest feelings of envy, jealousy, hatred, longing, and despair.

The Lady Anastasia was the young widow of an old baronet: she was also
the daughter of an earl and the sister of his successor. She therefore
enjoyed the freedom of a widow; the happiness natural to youth; and
all the privileges of rank. No woman could be happier. It was reported
that her love of the card table had greatly impaired her income: the
world said that her own private dowry was wholly gone and a large part
of her jointure. But it is a spiteful world--all that was known for
certain was that she played much and that she played high. Perhaps
Fortune, in a mood of penitence, was giving back what she had
previously taken away. The contrary is commonly the case, viz, that
Fortune, which certainly takes away with alacrity, restores with
reluctance.

Perhaps, however, the reports were not true.

She kept a small establishment in Mount Street: her people consisted
of no more than two footmen, a butler, a lady's maid, a housekeeper,
and three or four maids with two chairmen. She did not live as a rich
woman: she received, it is true, twice a week, on Sundays and
Wednesdays, but not with any expense of supper and wine. Her friends
came to play cards and she held the bank for them. On other evenings
she went out and played at the houses of her friends.

Except for fashions and her dress--what fine woman but makes that
exception?--she had no other occupation; no other pursuit; no other
subject of conversation, than the playing of cards. She played at all
games and knew them all; she sat down with a willing mind to Ombre,
Faro, Quadrille, Basset, Loo, Cribbage, All Fours, or Beggar my
Neighbour, but mostly she preferred the game of Hazard, when she
herself kept the bank. It is a game which more than any other allures
and draws on the player so that a young man who has never before been
known to set a guinea on any card, or to play at any game, will in a
single night be filled with all the ardour and eagerness of a
practised gamester; will know the extremes of joy and despair; and
will regard the largest fortune as bestowed by Providence for no other
purpose than to prolong the excitement and the agony of a gamester.

While the Lady Anastasia was still admiring the china vase set upon
the table, so that she might gaze upon it and so refresh her soul, and
while the friseur was still completing her head, Lord Fylingdale was
announced. The lady blushed violently: she sat up and looked anxiously
in the glass.

"Betty," she cried, "a touch of red--not much, you clumsy creature!
Will you never learn to have a lighter hand? So! that is better. I am
horribly pale. His lordship can wait in the morning room. You have
nearly finished, monsieur? Quick then! The last touches. Betty, the
flowered satin petticoat. My fan. The pearl necklace. So," she looked
again at the glass, "am I looking tolerable, Betty?"

"Your ladyship is ravishing," said Betty finishing the toilette. In
truth, it was a very pretty creature if one knew how much was real and
how much was due to art. The complexion was certainly laid on; the
hair was powdered and built up over cushions and pillows; there were
patches on the cheek: the neck was powdered; eyes naturally very fine
were set off and made more lustrous with a touch of dark powder: the
frock and petticoat and hoop were all alike removed from nature.
However, the result was a beautiful woman of fashion who is far
removed indeed from the beautiful woman as made by the Creator. For
her age the Lady Anastasia might have been seven and twenty, or even
thirty--an age when with some women, the maturity of their beauty is
even more charming than the first sprightly loveliness of youth.

She swam out of the room with a gliding movement, then the fashion,
and entered the morning room where Lord Fylingdale awaited her.

"Anastasia!" he said, softly, taking her hand. "It is very good of you
to see me alone. I feared you would be surrounded with courtiers and
fine ladies or with singers, musicians, hairdressers, and other
baboons. Permit me," he raised her hand to his lips. "You look divine
this morning. It is long since I have seen you look so perfectly
charming."

The lady murmured something. She was one of those women who like above
all things to hear praises of what most they prize, their beauty, and
to believe what they most desire to be the truth, the preservation and
perfecting of that beauty.

"But you came to see me alone. Was it to tell me that I look charming?
Other men tell me as much in company."

"Not altogether that, dear lady, though that is something. I come to
tell you of a change of plans."

"You have heard that the grand jury of Middlesex has presented me by
name as a corruptor of innocence, and I know not what, because I hold
my bank on Sunday nights."

"I have heard something of the matter. It is almost time, I think, to
give these presumptuous shopkeepers a lesson not to interfere with the
pursuits of persons of rank. Let them confine themselves to the
prentices who play at pitch and toss."

"Oh! what matters their presentment? I shall continue to keep the bank
on Sunday nights. Now, my dear lord, what about these plans? What is
changed?"

"We thought, you remember, about going to Tunbridge, in July."

"Well? Shall we not go there?"

"Perhaps. But there is something to be done first. Let me confide in
you----"

"My dear lord--you have never confided in anybody."

"Except in you. I think you know all my secrets if I have any. In whom
else can I confide? In the creatures who importune me for places? In
friends of the green table? In friends of the race course? My dear
Anastasia, you know, I assure you, as much about my personal affairs
as I know myself."

"If you would always speak so kindly"--her eyes became humid but not
tearful. A lady of fashion must not spoil her cheek by tears.

"Well, then, the case is this. You know of the condition of my
affairs--no one better. An opportunity presents itself to effect a
great improvement. I am invited by the highest personage to take a
more active part in the affairs of state. No one is to know this. For
reasons connected with this proposal I am to visit a certain town--a
trading town--a town of rough sailors, there to conduct certain
enquiries. There is to be a gathering at this town of the gentry and
people of the county. Would you like to go, my dear friend? It will be
next month."

"To leave town--and in May, just before the end of the season?"

"There will be opportunities, I am told, of holding a bank; and a good
many sportsmen--'tis a sporting county--may be expected to lay their
money. In a word, Anastasia, it will not be a bad exchange."

"And how can I help you? Why should I go there?"

"By letting the people--the county people, understand the many virtues
and graces which distinguish my character. No one knows me better than
yourself."

The lady smiled--"No one," she murmured.

"--Or can speak with greater authority on the subject. There will be
certain of our friends there--the parson--Sir Harry--the colonel----"

"Pah! a beggarly crew--and blown upon--they are dangerous."

"Not at this quiet and secluded town. They will be strangers to you as
well as to me. And they will be useful. After all, in such a place you
need an opening. They will lead the way."

The lady made no response.

"I may call it settled, then?" He still held her hand. "If you would
rather not go, Anastasia, I will find some one else--but I had
hoped----"

She drew away her hand. "You are right," she said, "no one knows you
so well as myself. And all I know about you is that you are always
contriving some devilry. What is it this time? But you will not tell
me. You never tell me."

"Anastasia, you do me an injustice. This is a purely political step."

"As you will. Call it what you please. I am your servant--you know
that--your handmaid--in all things--save one. Not for any other woman,
Ludovick--not for any other--unfortunate--woman will I lift my little
finger. Should you betray me in this respect----"

He laughed. "A woman? And in that company? Rest easy, dear child. Be
jealous as much as you please but not with such a cause."

He touched her cheek with his finger: he stooped and kissed her hand
and withdrew.

The Lady Anastasia stood awhile where he left her. The joy had gone
out of her heart: she trembled: she was seized with a foreboding of
evil. She threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in her
hands, and forgetful of paste and patch and paint she suffered the
murderous tears to destroy that work of art--her finished face.




CHAPTER III

THE "SOCIETY" OF LYNN


It was about seven o'clock in the evening of early April, at the going
down of the sun that I was at last able to drop into the dingy and go
ashore. All day and all night and all the day before we had been
beating through the shallows of the Wash and the narrow channel of the
Ouse. We had laid her to her moorings off the Common Stath and made
all taut and trim: the captain had gone ashore with the papers: the
customhouse officer had been aboard: we were to begin breaking cargo
on the morrow. The ship was _The Lady of Lynn_, 380 tons, Robert
Jaggard, master marines, being captain, and I the mate or chief
officer. There was no better skipper in the port of Lynn than Captain
Jaggard: there was no better crew than that aboard _The Lady of Lynn_,
not a skulker or a lubber in the whole ship's company; and though I
say it myself, I dare affirm that the mate did credit to his ship as
much as the captain and the crew. We were in the Lisbon trade: we had
therefore come home laden with casks of the rich strong wine of the
country: the Port and Lisbon Sherry and Malaga, besides Madeira and
the wine of Teneriffe and the Grand Canary. Our people of the
Marshland and the Fens and those of Lincolnshire and Norfolk where the
strong air of the east winds kill all but the stoutest, cannot have
too much of this rich wine: they will not drink the lighter wines of
Bordeaux which neither fire the blood nor mount to the head. A
prosperous voyage we had made: the Bay of Biscay suffered us to cross
with no more than half a gale: _The Lady of Lynn_, in fact, was known
in port to be a lucky ship--as lucky as her owner--lucky in her
voyages and lucky in her cargoes.

At the stairs of the Common Stath Yard I made fast the painter and
shipped the sculls. And there, waiting for me, was none other than my
good old friend and patron, Captain Crowle.

The captain was by this time well advanced in life, being upwards of
seventy: yet he showed little touch of time: his honest face being
still round and full; his eyes still free from lines and crows'-feet;
his cheek ruddy and freckled, as if with the salt sea breeze and the
driving spray. He was also as upright as any man of thirty and walked
with as firm a step and had no need of the stout stick which he
carried in his hand, as a weapon and a cudgel for the unrighteous,
more than a staff for the bending knees of old age.

"What cheer--ahoy?" He shouted from the quay as I dropped over the
side into the dingy. "What cheer, Jack?" he repeated when I ran up the
steps. "I've seen the skipper. Come with me to the _Crown_"--but the
proper place for mates was the _Duke's Head_. "Nay, it shall be the
_Crown_. A bowl of punch shall welcome back _The Lady of Lynn_." He
turned and looked at the ship lying in the river at her moorings among
the other craft. "She's as fine a vessel as this old port can
show--and she's named after as fine a maid. Shalt see her to-morrow,
Jack, but not to-night."

"I trust, sir, that she is well and in good spirits."

"Ay--ay. Nothing ails her--nothing ails her, Jack," he pointed with
his stick. "Look how she flourishes. There are fifteen tall ships
moored two and two off the King's Stath and half a dozen more off the
Common Stath. Count them, Jack. Six of these ships belong to the
little maid. Six of them--and two more are afloat, of which one is
homeward bound and should be in port soon if all goes well. Eight
noble ships, Jack, are hers. And the income of nigh upon eighteen
years and houses and broad lands."

"She has a prudent guardian, captain."

"May be--may be. I don't deny, Jack, but I've done the best I could.
Year after year, the money mounteth up more and more. You love her,
Jack, and therefore I tell you these things. And you can keep counsel.
I talk not in the market place. No one knows her wealth but you and
me. They think that I am part owner. I let them think so, but you and
I know better, Jack." He nodded his head looking mighty cunning.

"She cannot be too wealthy or too prosperous, captain. I knew full
well that her prosperity only increases the gulf between us, but I had
long ago understood that such an heiress was not for a mate on board a
merchantman."

"She is not, Jack," the captain replied, gravely. "Already she is the
richest heiress in all Norfolk--perhaps in the whole country. Who is
to marry her? There, I confess, I am at a loss. I must find a husband
for her. There's the rub. She may marry any in the land: there is none
so high but he would desire a wife so rich and so virtuous. Where
shall I look for a husband fit for her? There are admirals, but mostly
too old for her: she ought to have a noble lord, yet, if all tales be
true, they are not fit, most of them to marry a virtuous woman. Shall
I give Molly to a man who gambles and drinks and rakes and riots? No,
Jack, no. Not for twenty coronets. I would rather marry her to an
honest sailor like yourself. Jack, my lad, find me a noble lord, as
like yourself as one pea is like another, and he shall have her. He
must be as proper a man; as strong a man; a clean liver; moderate in
his cups ... find him for me, Jack, and he shall have her."

"Well, but, captain, there are the gentlemen of Norfolk."

"Ay.... There are--as you say--the gentlemen. I have considered them,
Jack. Molly is not a gentlewoman by birth, I know that very well: but
her fortune entitles her to marry in a higher rank. Ay ... there are
the gentlemen. They are good fox hunters: they are good at horse
racing, but they are hard drinkers, Jack: they are fuddled most
evenings: my little maid must not have a husband who is put to bed
drunk every night."

"You must take her to London, captain, and let her be seen."

"Ay--ay ... if I only knew where to go and how to begin."

"She is young; there is no need for hurry: you can wait awhile,
captain."

"Ay ... we can wait a while. I shall be loth to let her go, God
knows---- Come to-morrow, Jack. She was always fond of you: she talks
about you: 'tis a loving little maid: you played with her and ran
about with her. She never forgets. The next command that falls in--but
I talk too fast. Well--when there is a ship in her fleet without a
captain---- But come, my lad."

He led the way, still talking of his ward and her perfections, through
the narrow street they call Stath Lane into the great market place,
where stands the Crown Inn.

The room appropriated to the "Society of Lynn," which met every
evening all the year round, was that on the ground floor looking upon
the market place. The "society," or club, which is never dissolved,
consists of the notables or better sort of the town: the vicar of St.
Margaret's; the curate of St. Nicholas; the master of the school--my
own father: Captain Crowle and other retired captains; the doctor;
some of the more substantial merchants; with the mayor, some of the
aldermen, the town clerk, and a justice of the peace or two. This
evening most of these gentlemen were already present.

Captain Crowle saluted the company and took his seat at the head of
the table. "Gentlemen," he said, "I wish you all a pleasant evening. I
have brought with me my young friend Jack Pentecrosse--you all know
Jack--the worthy son of his worthy father. He will take a glass with
us. Sit down beside me, Jack."

"With the permission of the society," I said.

Most of the gentlemen had already before them their pipes and their
tobacco. Some had ordered their drink--a pint of port for one: a Brown
George full of old ale for another; a flask of Canary for a third: and
so on. But the captain, looking round the room, beckoned to the girl
who waited. "Jenny," he said, "nobody calls for anything to-night
except myself. Gentlemen, it must be a bowl--or a half dozen bowls.
Tell your mistress, Jenny, a bowl of the biggest and the strongest and
the sweetest. Gentlemen, you will drink with me to the next voyage of
_The Lady of Lynn_."

But then a thing happened--news came--which drove all thoughts of
_The Lady of Lynn_ out of everybody's mind. That toast was forgotten.

The news was brought by the doctor, who was the last to arrive.

It was an indication of the importance of our town that a physician
lived among us. He was the only physician in this part of the country:
he practised among the better sort, among the noble gentlemen of the
country round about Lynn and even further afield in the northern parts
of the shire, and among the substantial merchants of the town. For the
rest there were the apothecary, the barber and blood-letter, the
bone-setter, the herbalist and the wise woman. Many there were even
among the better sort who would rather consult the woman, who knew the
powers of every herb that grows, than the physician who would write
you out the prescription of Mithridates or some other outlandish name
composed of sixty or seventy ingredients. However, there is no doubt
that learning is a fine thing and that Galen knew more than the
ancient dames who sit in a bower of dried herbs and brew them into
nauseous drinks which pretend to cure all the diseases to which
mankind is liable.

Doctor Worship was a person who habitually carried himself with
dignity. His black dress, his white silk stockings, his gold shoe
buckles, the whiteness of his lace and linen, his huge wig, his
gold-headed cane with its pomander, proclaimed his calling, while the
shortness of his stature with the roundness of his figure, his double
chin, his thick lips and his fat nose all assisted him in the
maintenance of his dignity. His voice was full and deep, like the
voice of an organ and he spoke slowly. It has, I believe, been
remarked that dignity is more easily attained by a short fat man than
by one of a greater stature and thinner person.

At the very first appearance of the doctor this evening it was
understood that something had happened. For he had assumed an
increased importance that was phenomenal: he had swollen, so to speak:
he had become rounder and fuller in front. Everybody observed the
change: yes--he was certainly broader in the shoulders: he carried
himself with more than professional dignity: his wig had risen two
inches in the foretop and had descended four inches behind his back:
his coat was not the plain cloth which he wore habitually in the town
and at the tavern, but the black velvet which was reserved for those
occasions when he was summoned by a person of quality or one of the
county gentry, and he carried the gold-headed cane with the pomander
box which also belonged to those rare occasions.

"Gentlemen," he said, looking around the room slowly and with
emphasis, so that, taking his change of manner and of stature--for men
so seldom grow after fifty--and the emphasis with which he spoke and
looked, gathering together all eyes, caused the company to understand,
without any possibility of mistake, that something had happened of
great importance. In the old town of Lynn Regis it is not often that
anything happens. Ships, it is true, come and go; their departures and
their arrivals form the staple of the conversation: but an event,
apart from the ships, a surprise, is rare. Once, ten years before this
evening, a rumour of the kind which, as the journals say, awaits
confirmation, reached the town, that the French had landed in force
and were marching upon London. The town showed its loyalty by a
resolution to die in the last ditch: the resolution was passed by the
mayor over a bowl of punch; and though the report proved without
foundation the event remained historical: the loyalty and devotion of
the borough--the king's own borough--had passed through the fire of
peril. The thing was remembered. Since that event, nothing had
happened worthy of note. And now something more was about to happen:
the doctor's face was full of importance: he clearly brought great
news.

Great news, indeed; and news forerunning a time unheard of in the
chronicles of the town.

"Gentlemen," the doctor laid his hat upon the table and his cane
beside it. Then he took his chair, adjusted his wig, put on his
spectacles, and then, laying his hand upon the arms of the chair he
once more looked round the room, and all this in the most important,
dignified, provoking, interesting manner possible. "Gentlemen, I have
news for you."

As a rule this was a grave and a serious company: there was no
singing: there was no laughing: there was no merriment. They were the
seniors of the town: responsible persons; in authority and office:
substantial, as regards their wealth: full of dignity and of
responsibility. I have observed that the possession of wealth, much
more than years, is apt to invest a man with serious views. There was
little discourse because the opinions of every one were perfectly
well-known: the wind: the weather: the crops: the ships: the health or
the ailments of the company, formed the chief subjects of
conversation. The placid evenings quietly and imperceptibly rolled
away with some sense of festivity--in a tavern every man naturally
assumes some show of cheerfulness and at nine o'clock the assembly
dispersed.

Captain Crowle made answer, speaking in the name of the society, "Sir,
we await your pleasure."

"My news, gentlemen, is of a startling character. I will epitomise or
abbreviate it. In a word, therefore, we are all about to become rich."

Everybody sat upright. Rich? all to become rich? My father, who was
the master of the Grammar school, and the curate of St. Nicholas,
shook their heads like Thomas the Doubter.

"All you who have houses or property in this town: all who are
concerned in the trade of the town: all who direct the industries of
the people--or take care of the health of the residents--will become,
I say, rich." My father and the curate who were not included within
these limits, again shook their heads expressively but kept silence.
Nobody, of course, expects the master of the Grammar school, or a
curate, to become rich.

"We await your pleasure, sir," the captain repeated.

"Rich! you said that we were all to become rich," murmured the mayor,
who was supposed to be in doubtful circumstances. "If that were
true----"

"I proceed to my narrative." The doctor pulled out a pocketbook from
which he extracted a letter. "I have received," he went on, "a letter
from a townsman--the young man named Samuel Semple--Samuel Semple," he
repeated with emphasis, because a look of disappointment fell upon
every face.

"Sam Semple," growled the captain; "once I broke my stick across his
back." He did not, however, explain why he had done so. "I wish I had
broken two. What has Sam Semple to do with the prosperity of the
town?"

"You shall hear," said the doctor.

"He would bring a book of profane verse to church instead of the
Common Prayer," said the vicar.

"An idle rogue," said the mayor; "I sent him packing out of my
countinghouse."

"A fellow afraid of the sea," said another. "He might have become a
supercargo by this time."

"Yet not without some tincture of Greek," said the schoolmaster; "to
do him justice, he loved books."

"He made us subscribe a guinea each for his poems," said the vicar.
"Trash, gentlemen, trash! My copy is uncut."

"Yet," observed the curate of St. Nicholas, "in some sort perhaps, a
child of Parnassus. One of those, so to speak, born out of wedlock,
and, I fear me, of uncertain parentage among the Muses and
unacknowledged by any. There are many such as Sam Semple on that
inhospitable hill. Is the young man starving, doctor? Doth he solicit
more subscriptions for another volume? It is the way of the distressed
poet."

The doctor looked from one to the other with patience and even
resignation. They would be sorry immediately that they had offered so
many interruptions. When it seemed as if every one had said what he
wished to say, the doctor held up his hand and so commanded silence.




CHAPTER IV

THE GRAND DISCOVERY


"Mr. Sam Semple," the doctor continued, with emphasis on the prefix to
which, indeed, the poet was not entitled in his native town, "doth not
ask for help: he is not starving: he is prosperous: he has gained the
friendship, or the patronage, of certain persons of quality. This is
the reward of genius. Let us forget that he was the son of a
customhouse servant, and let us admit that he proved unequal to the
duties--for which he was unfitted--of a clerk. He has now risen--we
will welcome one whose name will in the future add lustre to our
town."

The vicar shook his head. "Trash," he murmured, "trash."

"Well, gentlemen, I will proceed to read the letter."

He unfolded it and began with a sonorous hum.

"'Honoured Sir,'" he repeated the words. "'Honoured Sir,'--the letter,
gentlemen, is addressed to myself--ahem! to myself. 'I have recently
heard of a discovery which will probably affect in a manner so vital,
the interests of my beloved native town, that I feel it my duty to
communicate the fact to you without delay. I do so to you rather than
to my esteemed patron, the worshipful the mayor, once my master, or to
Captain Crowle, or to any of those who subscribed for my volume of
Miscellany Poems, because the matter especially and peculiarly
concerns yourself as a physician, and as the fortunate owner of the
spring or well which is the subject of the discovery'--the subject of
the discovery, gentlemen. My well--mine." He went on. "'You are aware,
as a master in the science of medicine, that the curative properties
of various spas or springs in the country--the names of Bath,
Tunbridge Wells, and Epsom are familiar to you, so doubtless are those
of Hampstead and St. Chad's, nearer London. It now appears that a
certain learned physician having reason to believe that similar waters
exist, as yet unsuspected, at King's Lynn, has procured a jar of the
water from your own well--that in your garden'--my well, gentlemen, in
my own garden!--'and, having subjected it to a rigorous examination,
has discovered that it contains, to a much higher degree than any
other well hitherto known to exist in this country, qualities, or
ingredients, held in solution, which make this water sovereign for the
cure of rheumatism, asthma, gout, and all disorders due to ill humours
or vapours--concerning which I am not competent so much as to speak to
one of your learning and skill.'"

"He has," said the schoolmaster, "the pen of a ready writer. He
balances his periods. I taught him. So far, he was an apt pupil."

The doctor resumed.

"'This discovery hath already been announced in the public journals. I
send you an extract containing the news.' I read this extract,
gentlemen."

It was a slip of printed paper, cut from one of the diurnals of
London.

"'It has been discovered that at King's Lynn in the county of Norfolk,
there exists a deep well of clear water whose properties, hitherto
undiscovered, form a sovereign specific for rheumatism and many
similar disorders. Our physicians have already begun to recommend the
place as a spa and it is understood that some have already resolved
upon betaking themselves to this newly discovered cure. The distance
from London is no greater than that of Bath. The roads, it is true,
are not so good, but at Cambridge, it is possible for those who do not
travel in their own carriages to proceed by way of barge or tilt boat
down the Cam and the Ouse, a distance of only forty miles which in the
summer should prove a pleasant journey.'

"So far"--the doctor informed us, "for the printed intelligence. I now
proceed to finish the letter. 'Among others, my patron, the Right
Honourable the Earl of Fylingdale, has been recommended by his
physician to try the newly discovered waters of Lynn as a preventive
of gout. He is a gentleman of the highest rank, fashion, and wealth,
who honours me with his confidence. It is possible that he may even
allow me to accompany him on his journey. Should he do so I shall look
forward to the honour of paying my respects to my former patrons. He
tells me that other persons of distinction are also going to the same
place, with the same objects, during the coming summer.'

"You hear, gentlemen," said the doctor, looking round, "what did I
say? Wealth for all--for all. So. Let me continue. 'Sir, I would with
the greatest submission venture to point out the importance of this
event to the town. The nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood should
be immediately made acquainted with this great discovery; the clergy
of Ely, Norwich, and Lincoln; the members of the University of
Cambridge: the gentlemen of Boston, Spalding, and Wisbech should all
be informed. It may be expected that there will be such a concourse
flocking to Lynn as will bring an accession of wealth as well as fame
to the borough of which I am a humble native. I would also submit that
the visitors should find Lynn provided with the amusements necessary
for a spa. I mean music; the assembly; a pump room; a garden; the ball
and the masquerade and the card room; clean lodgings; good wine; and
fish, flesh and fowl in abundance. I humbly ask forgiveness for these
suggestions and I have the honour to remain, honoured sir, your most
obedient humble servant, with my grateful service to all the gentlemen
who subscribed to my verses, and thereby provided me with a ladder up
which to rise, Samuel Semple.'"

At this moment the bowl of punch was brought in and placed before the
captain with a tray of glasses. The doctor folded his letter, replaced
it in his pocketbook and took off his spectacles.

"Gentlemen, you have heard my news. Captain Crowle, may I request that
you permit the society to drink with me to the prosperity of the
spa--the prosperity of the spa--the spa of Lynn."

"Let us drink it," said the captain, "to the newly discovered spa. But
this Samuel--the name sticks."

The toast was received with the greatest satisfaction, and then, when
the punch was buzzed about, there arose a conversation so lively and
so loud that heads looked out of windows in the square wondering what
in the world had happened with the society. Not a quarrel, surely.
Nay, there was no uplifting of voices: there was no anger in the
voices: nor was it the sound of mirth: there was no note of merriment:
nor was it a drunken loosening of the tongue: such a thing with this
company was impossible. It was simply a conversation in which all
spoke at the same time over an event which interested and excited all
alike. Everybody contributed something.

"We must have a committee to prepare for the accommodation of the
visitors."

"We must put up a pump room."

"We must engage a dipper."

"We must make walks across the fields."

"There must be an assembly with music and dancing."

"There must be a card room."

"There must be a long room for those who wish to walk about and to
converse--with an orchestra."

"There must be public breakfasts and suppers."

"We shall want horns to play in the evening."

"We must have glass lamps of variegated colours to hang among the
trees."

"I will put up the pump room," said the doctor, "in my garden, over
the well."

"We must look to our lodgings. The beds in our inns are for the most
part rough hewn boards on trestles with a flock bed full of knobs and
sheets that look like leather. The company will look for bedsteads and
feather beds."

"The ladies will ask for curtains. We must give them what they are
accustomed to enjoy."

"We must learn the fashionable dance."

"We must talk like beaux and dress like the gentlefolk of
Westminster."

The captain looked on, meanwhile, whispering in my ear, from time to
time. "Samuel is a liar," he said. "I know him to be a liar. Yet why
should he lie about a thing of so much importance? If he tells the
truth, Jack--I know not--I misdoubt the fellow--yet--again--he may
tell the truth----And why should he lie, I say? Then--one knows
not--among the company we may even find a husband for the girl. As for
taking her to London--but we shall see."

So he shook his head, not wholly carried away like the rest, but with
a certain amount of hope. And then, waiting for a moment when the talk
flagged a bit, he spoke.

"Gentlemen, if this news is true--and surely Samuel would not invent
it, then the old town is to have another great slice of luck. We have
our shipping and our trade: these have made many of us rich and have
given an honest livelihood to many more. The spa should bring in, as
the doctor has told us, wealth by another channel. I undertake to
assure you that we shall rise to the occasion. The town shall show
itself fit to receive and to entertain the highest company. We
tarpaulins are too old to learn the manners of fashion. But we have
men of substance among us who will lay out money with such an object:
we have gentlemen of family in the country round: we have young
fellows of spirit," he clapped me on the shoulder, "who will keep up
the gaieties: and, gentlemen, we have maidens among us--as blooming as
any in the great world. We shall not be ashamed of ourselves--or of
our girls."

These words created a profound sigh of satisfaction. The men of
substance would rise to the occasion.

Before the bowl was out a committee was appointed, consisting of
Captain Crowle, the vicar of St. Margaret's, the curate of St.
Nicholas--the two clergymen being appointed as having imbibed at the
University of Cambridge some tincture of the fashionable world--and
the doctor. This important body was empowered to make arrangements for
the reception and for the accommodation and entertainment of the
illustrious company expected and promised. It was also empowered to
circulate in the country round about news of the extraordinary
discovery and to invite all the rheumatic and the gouty: the asthmatic
and everybody afflicted with any kind of disease to repair immediately
to Lynn Regis, there to drink the sovereign waters of the spa.

"It only remains, gentlemen," said the doctor in conclusion, "that I
myself should submit the water of my well to an examination." He did
not think it necessary to inform the company that he had received from
Samuel Semple an analysis of the water stating the ingredients and
their proportions as made by the anonymous physician of London.
"Should it prove--of which I have little doubt--that the water is such
as has been described by my learned brother in medicine, I shall
inform you of the fact."

It was a curious coincidence, though the committee of reception were
not informed of the fact, that the doctor's analysis exactly agreed
with that sent to him.

It was a memorable evening. For my own part,--I know not why--during
the reading of the letter my heart sank lower and lower. It was the
foreboding of evil. Perhaps it was caused by my knowledge of Samuel of
whom I will speak presently. Perhaps it was the thought of seeing the
girl whom I loved, while yet I had no hope of winning her, carried off
by some sprig of quality who would teach her to despise her homely
friends, the master mariners young and old. I know not the reason. But
it was a foreboding of evil and it was with a heavy heart that I
repaired to the quay and rowed myself back to the ship in the
moonlight.

They were going to drink to the next voyage of _The Lady of Lynn_.
Why, the lady herself, not her ship, was about to embark on a voyage
more perilous--more disastrous--than that which awaited any of her
ships. Cruel as is the ocean I would rather trust myself--and her--to
the mercies of the Bay of Biscay at its wildest--than to the
tenderness of the crew who were to take charge of that innocent and
ignorant lady.




CHAPTER V

THE PORT OF LYNN


This was the beginning of the famous year. I say famous because, to me
and to certain others, it was certainly a year eventful, while to the
people of the town and the county round it was the year of the spa
which began, ran a brief course, and terminated, all in one summer.

Let me therefore speak for a little about the place where these things
happened. It is not a mushroom or upstart town of yesterday but on the
other hand a town of venerable antiquity with many traditions which
may be read in books by the curious. It is important on account of its
trade though it is said that in former days its importance was much
greater.

I have sailed over many seas: I have put in at many ports: I have
taken in cargoes of many countries--the ways of sailors I have found
much the same everywhere. And as for the food and the drink and the
buildings I say that Lynn is behind none. Certainly the port of London
whether at Wapping or at Limehouse or Shadwell cannot show anything so
fine as the market place of Lynn or St. Margaret's church or our
customhouse. Nor have I found anywhere, people more civil of speech
and more obliging and well disposed, than in my own town; in which,
apart from the sailors and their quarters, the merchants and
shipowners are substantial: trade is always brisk: the port is always
lively: continually there is a coming and a going: sometimes, week
after week, one ship arrives and another ship puts out: the yards are
always busy: the hammer and the anvil resound all day long:
carpenters, rope makers, boat builders, block makers, sail makers, all
the people wanted to fit out a ship--they say that a ship is like a
woman, in always wanting something--are at work without intermission
all the year round from five in the morning till eight in the evening.
They stand at good wages: they live well: they dress warm: they drink
of the best. It is a city of great plenty. Wine there is of the most
generous, to be had at reasonable price--have I not myself brought
home cargoes from Lisbon of Spanish and Portuguese--strong and
heady--rich and sweet; and from Bordeaux of right claret? All the
things that come from abroad are here in abundance, brought hither by
our ships and distributed by our barges up the river and its
tributaries through eight countries at least, serving the towns of
Peterborough, Ely, Stamford, Bedford, St. Ives, Huntingdon, St. Neots,
Northampton, Cambridge, Bury St. Edmund's, and Thetford. We send them
not only wine but also coals (which come to us, sea-borne, from
Newcastle), deal and timber from Norway and the Baltic, iron and
implements; sugar, lemons, spices, tea (but there is little of that
infusion taken in the county), turpentine, and I know not what: and we
receive for export wheat, barley, oats and grain of all kinds.

In other places you may hear lamentations that certain imported
luxuries have given out: the lemons will fail so that the punch is
spoiled: or the nutmegs give out--which is a misfortune for the
pudding: or the foreign wine has been all consumed. Our cellars and
our warehouses, however, are always full, there is always wine of
every kind: there are always stores of everything that the cook can
want for his most splendid banquet.

Nor are we less fortunate in our food. There is excellent mutton
fattened in the Marshland: the bacon of Norfolk is famous: there are
no geese like the geese of the fens--they are kept in farmhouses, each
in its own hutch, and all driven out to feed in the fens and the
ditches of the fens. Every day you may see the boy they call the
gozzard driving them out in the morning and bringing them home in the
evening. Then, since all the country on the west side is lowland
reclaimed from the sea, it is, like all such land, full of ponds and
haunted by starlings and ducks, widgeon, teal and other wild birds
innumerable, which are shot, decoyed, and caught in great numbers. Add
to this that the reclaimed land is most fertile and yields abundantly
of wheat and barley, fruit and vegetables: and that fish are found in
plenty in the Wash and outside and you will own that the town is a
kind of promised land, where everything that the heart of man can
desire is plentiful and cheap and where the better sort are rich and
comfortable and the baser sort are in good case and contented.

Another circumstance, which certain scholars consider fortunate for
Lynn, is that the modern town abounds with ancient buildings, walls,
towers, arches, churches, gateways, fragments which proclaim its
antiquity and speak of its former importance. You think, perhaps, that
a plain and simple sea captain has no business to know anything about
matters which concern scholars. That is a reasonable objection. The
Lord forbid that I should speak as if I knew anything of my own
reading. I am but a plain sailor: I have spent most of my life
navigating a merchantman. This is an honourable condition. Had I to
choose another life upon the world I would desire of Providence no
higher station and no happier lot. A sea captain is king: his vessel
is an island over which he rules: he is a servant yet not in a state
of servitude: he is a dependent yet is independent: he has no cares
about money for he is well paid: he keeps what hours he pleases:
dresses as he likes: eats and drinks as he likes: if he carries
passengers he has society. No. Let me not even seem to be pretending
to the learning of a scholar. I do but repeat the things which my
father was wont to repeat in my hearing. He was for forty years master
of the Grammar school; a master of arts of Christ's college,
Cambridge: a learned scholar in Latin, Greek, Hebrew and Chaldee: and,
like many of his calling, an antiquary and one who was most happy when
he was poring over old manuscripts in the Archives of the Guildhall,
and amassing materials which he did not live to put together for the
history of Lynn Regis, sometime Lynn Episcopi. The collections made by
him still lie among the chests where the corporation keep their
papers. They will doubtless be found there at some future time and
will serve for some other hand engaged upon the same work.

It is not to be expected that among a trading and a shipping community
there should be much curiosity on such matters as the past history of
their borough: the charter which it obtained from kings; the creation
of a mayor: the destruction of the monasteries when the glorious
Reformation restored the sunlight of the gospel and of freedom to this
happy land. For the most part my father worked without encouragement
save from the vicar of St. Margaret's, the Reverend Mark Gentle,
S.T.P., to whose scholarly mind the antiquities and charters and
leases of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, were of small
account indeed compared with a newly found coin of an obscure Roman
usurper, or an inscription on a Roman milestone, or the discovery of a
Roman urn. Yet my father would willingly discourse upon the subject
and, indeed, I think that little by little he communicated to me the
whole of his knowledge, so that I became that rare creature, a sailor
versed in antiquity and history: one to whom the streets and old
buildings of Lynn spoke in a language unknown by the people, even
unheard by them.

It pleases me to recall the tall form of my father: his bent
shoulders: his wig for the most part awry: his round spectacles; his
thin face. In school he was a figure of fear, always terrible,
wielding the rod of office with justice Rhadamanthine, and demanding,
with that unrelenting alternative, things impossible in grammar. In
school hours he was a very Jupiter, a thundering Jupiter: our school
was an ancient hall with an open timber roof in which his voice rolled
and echoed backwards and forwards. Nor did he spare his only son. In
consequence of some natural inability to cope with the niceties of
syntax I was often compelled to become a warning and an admonition to
the rest. I have sometimes, since those days, in considering things
during the night-watch, asked myself why men of tender hearts force
their children to undergo this fierce discipline of grammar--a thing
instantly forgotten when a boy goes to sea: and I have thought that
perhaps it was invented and encouraged by divines in order that boys
might learn something of the terrors of the law divine. Out of school,
however, no child ever had a parent more indulgent or more
affectionate. The post of schoolmaster is honourable and one that
should be desired, yet I have sometimes wished, when the disagreeable
moments of swishing were upon me, that the hand of the executioner had
belonged to some other boy's father--say, the father of Sam Semple.

I will tell you how he used to talk. I remember one day--it might be
yesterday--he was standing on the Lady's Mount and looking down upon
the gardens and fields which now lie between the ancient walls and the
modern town. "Look, boy," he said, "you see fields and gardens: on
those fields stood formerly monasteries and convents: these gardens
were once enclosed--you may still discern some of the stone walls
which surrounded them, for monk and friar. All the friars were here,
so great was the wealth of the town. On that green field behind the
church of St. Nicholas was the house of the Austin Friars: some
fragments of these buildings have I discovered built into the houses
on the west side of the field: I should like to pull down the modern
houses in order to display those fragments: almost at our feet lay the
house of the Black Friars, yonder to the south, between the road to
the gate and the river Var, was the friary of the White Friars or
Carmelites: there is the tower of the Grey Friars, who were
Franciscans. On the south side of St. Margaret's there are walls and
windows, with carved mullions and arches--they belong to a college of
priests or perhaps a Benedictine House--there must have been
Benedictines in the town; or perhaps they belonged to a nunnery: many
nunneries stood beside parish churches.

"This is part of the wall of the town. 'Tis a pity that it should fall
into decay, but when walls are no longer wanted for defence they are
neglected. First the weather loosens the stones of the battlements; or
perhaps they fall into the moat: or the people take them away for
building. I wonder how much of the wall of Lynn is built into the
churches and the houses and the garden walls; then the whole face of
the wall disappears; then if it is a Roman wall there is left a core
of concrete as in London wall which I have seen here and there where
the houses are not built against it. And here is a point which I
cannot get over. The wall of Lynn is two miles long: that of London is
three miles long, as I am credibly informed by Stow and others. Was
then, the town of Lynn at any time able to raise and to defend a wall
two miles in length? It seems incredible. Yet why build a wall longer
than could be defended? Were these fields and gardens once streets
between the religious houses? Certain it is that Lynn Episcopi, as it
was then called, was formerly a very busy place yet, I apprehend, more
busy than at present in proportion only to the increased wealth and
population of the country."

So he would talk to me, I suppose, because he could never find anybody
else who would listen to him. Those who read this page will very
likely resemble the company to whom my father ventured upon such
discourse of ancient things. They would incline their heads; they
would take a drink: they would sigh: they would say, "Why, sir, since
you say so, doubtless it is so. No one is likely to dispute the point,
but if you think upon it the time is long ago and ... I think,
neighbours, the wind has shifted a point to the nor'east."

The town preserves, in spite of neglect and oblivion, more of the
appearance of the age than most towns. The Guildhall, where they show
the sword and the silver cup of King John, is an ancient and
noteworthy building: there are the old churches: there are almshouse
and hospitals: there is a customhouse which the Hollanders enviously
declare must have been brought over from their country and set up
here, so much does it resemble their own buildings. Our streets are
full of remains: here a carving in marble: here a window of ancient
shape, cut in stone: here a piece of carved work from some ancient
chantry chapel: here a deserted and mouldering court: here a house
overhanging, gabled, with carved front: here a courtyard with an
ancient house built round it; and with the narrow streets such as one
finds only in the most ancient parts of our ancient cities. We have
still our winding lanes with their irregularities: houses planted
sideways as well as fronting the street: an irregular alignment:
gables instead of a flat coping: casement windows not yet transformed
by the modern sash: our old taverns; our old walls; our old market
places; and the ancient bridges which span the four streams running
through the midst of our town. By the riverside you may find the
sailors and the craftsmen who belong to a seaport: at the customhouse
you may meet the merchants and the shippers: in the market places you
may find the countrymen and countrywomen--they talk an uncouth
language and their manners are rough, but they are honest: and if you
go to the church of St. Margaret's or St. Nicholas any day for morning
prayers but especially on Sunday you may find among the congregation
maidens and matrons in rich attire, the former as beautiful as in any
town or country may be met; the latter stately and dignified and
gracious withal.




CHAPTER VI

THE MAID OF LYNN


My earliest recollection as a child shows me Captain Crowle,
full-wigged, with a white silk cravat round his neck, the lace ends
hanging down before, a crimson silk sash to his sword, long lace
ruffles, his brown coat with silver buttons, his worsted hose, and
his shoes with silver clocks. In my memory he is always carrying
his hat under his arm; a stout stick always dangled from his
wrist, in readiness; and he always presents the same honest face,
weather-beaten, ruddy, lined, with his keen eyes under thick eyebrows
and his nose long and broad and somewhat arched--such a nose as lends
authority to a man. In other words, I never saw any change in the
captain, though, when I first remember him he must have been
fifty-five, and when he ceased to be seen in his old haunts he was
close upon eighty.

I have seen, however, and I remember, many changes in the captain's
ward. She is a little thing of two or three at first; then she is a
merry child of six; next she is a schoolgirl of ten or eleven; she
grows into a maiden of sixteen, neither girl nor woman; she becomes a
woman of eighteen. I remember her in every stage. Strange to say I do
not remember her between those stages.

Molly had the misfortune to lose her father in infancy. He was carried
off, I believe, by smallpox. He was a ship owner, and general merchant
of the town, and was generally reputed to be a man of considerable
means. At his death he bequeathed the care of his widow and his child
to his old servant, Captain John Crowle, who had been in the service
of the house since he was apprenticed as a boy. He directed, further,
that Captain Crowle should conduct the business for the child, who by
his will was to inherit the whole of his fortune whatever that might
prove to be, on coming of age, after subtracting certain settlements
for his widow.

It was most fortunate for the child that her guardian was the most
honest person in the world. He was a bachelor; he was bound by ties of
gratitude to the house which he had served; he had nothing to do and
nothing to think about except the welfare of the child.

I would have no secrets with my reader. Let it be known, therefore,
that on looking into the position of affairs, the executor found that
there was a much greater fortune for his ward than any one, even the
widow, ever guessed. There were houses in the town; there were farms
in Marshland; there were monies placed out on mortgage; there were
three or four tall ships, chiefly in the Lisbon trade; and there were
boxes full of jewels, gold chains, and trinkets, the accumulation of
three or four generations of substantial trade. He kept this knowledge
to himself: then, as the expenses of the household were small and
there was always a large balance after the year in favour of the
house, he went on adding ship to ship, house to house, and farm to
farm, besides putting out monies on the security of mortgage, so that
the child, no one suspecting, grew richer and richer, until by the
time she was eighteen, if the captain only knew it, she became the
richest heiress not only in the town of Lynn, but also in the whole
county of Norfolk and even, I verily believe, in the whole country.

I think that the captain must have been what is called a good man of
business by nature. A simple sailor, one taught to navigate; to take
observations; to keep a log and to understand a chart, is not supposed
to be thereby trained for trade. But it must have been a far-seeing
man who boldly launched out into new branches, and sent whalers to the
Arctic seas; ships to trade in the Baltic; and ships into the
Mediterranean, as well as ships in the old trade for which Lynn was
always famous, that with Lisbon for wine. He it was who enlarged the
quay and rebuilt the Common Stath Yard: his countinghouse--it was
called his and he was supposed to be at least a partner--was filled
with clerks, and it was counted good fortune by the young men of the
place to enter his service whether as prentices on board his ships, or
as bookkeepers in his countinghouse, or as supercargoes or pursers in
his fleet. For my own part it was always understood between us that I
too was to enter his service, but as a sailor, not as a clerk. This I
told him as a little boy, with the impudence of childhood: he laughed;
but he remembered and reminded me from time to time. "Jack is to be a
sailor--Jack will have none of your quill driving--Jack means to walk
his own quarter-deck. I shall live to give Jack his sword and his
telescope" ... and so on, lest perchance I should forget and fall off
and even accept the vicar's offer to get me a scholarship at some
college of Cambridge, so that I might take a degree, and become my
father's usher and presently succeed him as master of the Grammar
school. "Learning," said the captain, "is a fine thing, but the
command of a ship is a finer. Likewise it is doubtless a great honour
to be a master of arts, such as your father, but, my lad, a rope's end
is, to my mind, a better weapon than a birch." And so on. For while he
knew how to respect the learning of a scholar, as he respected the
piety of the vicar, he considered the calling of the sailor more
delightful than that of the schoolmaster, even though not so highly
esteemed by the world.

There were plenty of children in the town of Lynn to play with: but it
came about in some way or other, perhaps because I was always a
favourite with the captain, and was encouraged to go often to the
house, that Molly became my special playfellow. She was two years
younger than myself, but being forward in growth and strength the
difference was not a hindrance, while there was no game or amusement
pleasing to me which did not please her. For instance, every boy of
Lynn, as soon as he can handle a scull, can manage a dingy; and as
soon as he can haul a rope, can sail a boat. For my own part I can
never remember the time when I was not in my spare time out on the
river. I would sail up the river, along the low banks of the sluggish
stream up and down which go the barges which carry the cargoes of our
ships to the inland towns and return for more. There are also tilt
boats coming down the river which are like the waggons on the road,
full of passengers, sailors, servants, soldiers, craftsmen,
apprentices and the like. Or I would row down the river with the
current and the tide as far as the mouth where the river flows into
the Wash. Then I would sail up again watching the ships tacking across
the stream in their slow upward progress to the port. Or I would go
fishing and bring home a basket full of fresh fish for the house: or I
would paddle about in a dingy among the ships, watching them take in
and discharge cargo: or receive from the barges alongside the casks of
pork and beef; of rum and beer and water, for the next voyage: happy
indeed, if I could get permission to tie up the painter to the rope
ladder hanging over the side and so climb up and ramble over every
part of the ship. And I knew every ship that belonged to the port:
every Dutchman which put in with cheese and tallow, hardware and soft
goods; every Norwegian that brought deal: I knew them all and when
they were due and their tonnage and the name of the captain.

More than this, Molly knew as much as I did. She was as handy with her
sculls; she knew every puff of wind and where to expect it at the bend
of the river; she was as handy with the sails. While her mother made
her a notable housewife and taught her to make bread, cakes, puddings
and pies; to keep the still-room; to sew and make and mend; to brew
the ale, both the strong and the small; and the punch for the
captain's friends at Christmas and other festivals--while, I say, this
part of Molly's education was not neglected, it was I who made her a
sailor, so that there was nowhere in the place any one, man or boy or
girl, who was handier with a boat or more certain with a sail than
Molly. And I know not which of these two accomplishments pleased her
guardian the more. That she should become a good housewife was
necessary: that she should be a handy sailor was an accomplishment
which, because it was rare in a girl, and belonged to the work of the
other sex, seemed to him a proper and laudable object of pride.

The captain, as you have already learned, nourished a secret ambition.
When I was still little more than a boy, he entrusted his secret to
me. Molly's mother, the good homely body who was so notable a
housekeeper, and knew nothing, as she desired to know nothing
concerning the manners and customs of gentlefolk, was not consulted.
Nor did the good woman even know how great an heiress her daughter had
become. Now, the captain's ambition was to make his ward, by means of
her fortune, a great lady. He knew little--poor man!--of what was
meant by a great lady, but he wanted the heiress of such great wealth
to marry some man who would lift her out of the rank and condition to
which she was born. It was a fatal ambition, as you shall learn. Now,
being wise after the event and quite able to lock the door after the
horse has been stolen I can understand that with such an ambition the
captain's only plan was to have taken the girl away; perhaps to
Norwich, perhaps to London itself; to have placed her under the care
of some respectable gentlewoman; to have had her taught all the
fashionable fal-lals, with the graces and the sprawls and the antics
of the fashionable world; to let it be buzzed abroad that she was an
heiress, and then, after taking care to protect her against
adventurers, to find a man after his own mind, of station high enough
to make the girl's fortune equal to his own; not to overshadow it: and
not to dazzle him with possibilities of spending. However, it is easy
to understand what might have been done.

What was done, you understand. At nineteen, Molly was a fine tall
girl, as strong as any man, her arms stout and muscular like mine; her
face rosy and ruddy with the bloom of health; her eyes blue and
neither too large nor too small but fearless; her head and face large;
her hair fair and blowing about her head with loose curls; her figure
full; her neck as white as snow; her hands large rather than small, by
reason of the rowing and the handling of the ropes, and by no means
white; her features were regular and straight; her mouth not too small
but to my eyes the most beautiful mouth in the world, the lips full,
and always ready for a smile, the teeth white and regular. In a word,
to look at as fine a woman, not of the delicate and dainty kind, but
strong, tall, and full of figure, as one may wish for. As to her
disposition she was the most tender, affectionate, sweet soul that
could be imagined; she was always thinking of something to please
those who loved her; she spared her mother and worked for her
guardian; she was always working at something; she was always happy;
she was always singing. And never, until the captain told her, did she
have the least suspicion that she was richer than all her friends and
neighbours--nay--than the whole town of Lynn with its merchants and
shippers and traders, all together.

You think that I speak as a lover. It is true that I have always loved
Molly: there has never been any other woman in the world for whom I
have ever felt the least inclination or affection. She possessed my
whole soul as a child; she has it still--my soul--my heart--my whole
desire--my all. I will say no more in her praise, lest I be thought to
exaggerate.

Let me return for a moment to our childhood. We ran about together: we
first played in the garden: we then played in the fields below the
wall: we climbed over what is left of the wall: from the top of the
Grey Friars' Tower; from the chapel on the Lady's Mount; we would look
out upon the broad expanse of meadows which were once covered over at
every high tide: there were stories which were told by old people of
broken dams and of floods and inundations: children's imagination is
so strong that they can picture anything. I would pretend that the
flood was out again; that my companion was carried away in a hencoop
and that I was swimming to her assistance. Oh! we had plays and
pretences enough. If we went up the river there was beyond--what we
could never reach--a castle with a giant who carried off girls and
devoured them; he carried off my companion. Heavens! How I rushed to
the rescue and with nothing but the boathook encountered and
slaughtered him. Or if we went down the river as far as the mouth
where it falls into the Ouse, we would remember the pirates and how
they seized on girls and took them off to their caves to work for
them. How many pirates did I slay in defence and rescue of one girl
whom they dared to carry off!

Or we rambled about the town, lingering on the quays, watching the
ships and the sailors and the workmen, and sometimes in summer
evenings when from some tavern with its red curtain across the window
came the scraping of a fiddle, and the voices of those who sang, and
the stamping of those who danced, we would look in at the open door
and watch the sailors within who looked so happy. Nobody can ever be
so happy as sailors ashore appear to be: it is only the joy of a
moment, but when one remembers it, one imagines that it was the joy of
a life-time. You think that it was a bad thing for children to look on
at sailors and to listen to their conversation if one may use the word
of such talk as goes on among the class. You are wrong. These things
do not hurt children, because they do not understand. Half the dangers
in the world, I take it, come from knowledge: only the other half from
ignorance. Everybody knows the ways and the life of Jack ashore.
Children, however, see only the outside of things. The fiddler in the
corner puts his elbow into the tune; the men get up and dance the
hornpipe; the girls dance to the men, setting and jetting and turning
round and round and all with so much mirth and good nature and so much
kindness and so much singing and laughing, that there can be no more
delightful entertainment for children than to look on at a sailors'
merrymaking behind the red curtain of the tavern window.

I recall one day. It was in the month of December, in the afternoon
and close upon sunset. The little maid was about eight and I was ten.
We were together as usual; we had been on the river, but it was cold
and so we came ashore and were walking hand in hand along the street
they call Pudding Lane which leads from the Common Stath Yard to the
market-place. In this lane there stands a sailors' tippling house,
which is, I dare say, in all respects, such a house as sailors desire,
provided and furnished according to their wants and wishes. As we
passed, the place being already lit up with two or three candles in
sconces, the door being wide open, and the mingled noise of fiddle,
voices, and feet announcing the assemblage of company, Molly pulled me
by the hand and stopped to look in. The scene was what I have already
indicated. The revelry of the evening had set in: everybody was
drinking: one was dancing: the fiddler was playing lustily.

We should have looked on for a minute and left them. But one of the
sailors recognised Molly. Springing to his feet, he made a respectful
leg and saluted the child. "Mates," he cried, "'tis our owner! The
little lady owns the barky. What shall we do for her?"

Then they all sprang to their feet with a huzza for the owner, and
another for the ship--and, if you will believe it, their rough
fo'c'sle hands in half a minute had the child on the table in a chair
like a queen. She sat with great dignity, understanding in some way
that these men were in her own service, and that they designed no harm
or affright to her but only to do her honour. Therefore she was not in
any fear and smiled graciously; for my own part I followed and stood
at the table thinking that perhaps these fellows were proposing some
piratical abduction and resolving miracles of valour, if necessary.

Then they made offerings. One man pulled a red silk handkerchief from
his neck and laid it in her lap; and another lugged a box of
sweetmeats from his pocket: it came from Lisbon but was made, I
believe, in Morocco by the Moors. A third had a gold ring on his
finger--everybody knows the extravagancies of sailors--which he drew
off and placed in her hand. Another offered a glass of punch. The
little maid did what she had so often seen the captain do. She looked
round and said, "Your good health, all the company," and put her lips
to the glass which she then returned. And another offered to dance and
the fiddler drew his bow across the catgut--it is a sound which
inclines the heart to beat and the feet to move whenever a sailor
hears it.

"I have often seen you dance," said Molly; "let the fiddler play and
you shall see me dance."

I never thought she would have had so much spirit. For, you see, I had
taught her to dance the hornpipe: every boy in a seaport town can
dance the hornpipe: we used to make music out of a piece of thin paper
laid over a tortoise-shell comb--it must be a comb of wide teeth and
none of them must be broken--and with this instead of a fiddle we
would dance in the garden or in the parlour. But to stand up before a
whole company of sailors--who would have thought it? However, she
jumped up and on the table performed her dance with great seriousness
and so gracefully that they were all enchanted: they stood around,
their mouths open, a broad grin on every face: the women, neglected,
huddled together in a corner and were quite silent.

When she had finished, she gathered up her gifts--the silk
handkerchief--it came from Calicut, the sweetmeats from Morocco, the
gold ring from I know not where. "Put me down, if you please," she
said. So one of them gently lifted her to the ground. "I thank you
all," she curtseyed very prettily. "I wish you good-night, and when
you set sail again, a good voyage."

So she took my hand and we ran away.

At the age of thirteen I went to sea. Then for ten years I sailed out
and home again; sometimes to the Baltic; sometimes to Bordeaux;
sometimes to Lisbon. After every voyage I found my former companion
grown, yet always more lovely and more charming: the time came when we
no longer kissed at parting; when we were no longer brother and
sister; when, alas! we could not be lovers, because between us lay
that great fortune of hers, which it would be improper to bestow upon
the mate of a merchantman.

Said my father to me once by way of warning, "Jack, build not hopes
that will be disappointed. This maiden is not for thee, but for thy
betters. If she were poor--but she is rich--too rich, I fear me, for
her happiness. Let us still say in the words of Agur, 'Give me neither
poverty nor riches.' Thou art as yet young for thoughts of love. When
the time comes, my son, cast your eyes among humbler maidens and find
virtues and charms in one of them. But think no more--I say it for thy
peace--think no more of Molly. Her great riches are like a high wall
built round her to keep thee off, Jack, and others like unto thee."

They were wise words, but a young man's thoughts are wilful. There was
no other maiden in whom I saw either virtues or charms because Molly
among them all was like the silver moon among the glittering stars.

You have heard of the great and unexpected discovery, how the town
found itself the possessor of a spa--and such a spa!--compared with
which the waters of Tunbridge were feeble and those of Epsom not worth
considering. That was in the year 1750, when Molly was already
nineteen years of age and no longer a little maid, but a woman grown,
as yet without wooers, because no one so far had been found fit, in
the captain's eyes, for the hand and the purse of his lovely ward.




CHAPTER VII

THE POET


You have heard the opinions of the "Society" as to Sam Semple. You
have also witnessed the humiliation and the basting of that young man.
Let me tell you more about him before we go on to relate the progress
of the conspiracy of which he was the inventor and the spring.

He was the son of one John Semple who was employed at the customhouse.
The boy could look forward, like most of us, to a life of service. He
might go to sea, and so become in due course, prentice, mate, and
skipper; or he might be sent on board as supercargo; or he might enter
the countinghouse of a merchant and keep the books; or he might follow
his father and become a servant of the customhouse.

He was two years older than myself and therefore, so much above me at
school. Of all the boys (which alone indicates something contemptible
in his nature) he was the most disliked, not by one or two, but by the
whole school; not only by the industrious and the well-behaved, but
also by the lazy and the vicious.

There is always in every school, one boy at least, who is the general
object of dislike: he makes no friends: his society is shunned: he may
be feared, but he is hated. There are, I dare say, many causes for
unpopularity: one boy is perhaps a bully who delights to ill-treat the
younger and the weaker; one is a braggart: one plays games unfairly:
one is apt to offend that nice sense of honour and loyalty which is
cultivated by schoolboys: another is treacherous to his comrades; he
tells tales, backbites and makes mischief: perhaps he belongs to an
inferior station and has bad manners: perhaps he takes mean
advantages: perhaps he is a coward who will not fight: perhaps he
cannot do the things which boys respect.

Sam Semple was disliked for many of these reasons. He was known to be
a telltale; he was commonly reported to convey things overheard to the
usher, by means of which that officer was enabled to discover many
little plots and plans and so bring their authors to pain and
confusion. He was certainly a coward who would never fight it out, but
after a grand pretence and flourish would run away at the first blow.
But if he would not fight he would bear malice and would take mean
revenges; he was a most notorious liar, insomuch that no one would
believe any statement made by him, if it could be proved to be
connected with his own advantage; he could not play any games and
affected to despise the good old sports of cocking, baiting the bear,
drawing the badger, playing at cricket, hockey, wrestling, racing, and
the other things that make boys skilful, courageous and hardy. He was,
in a word, a poor soft, cowardly creature, more like a girl--and an
inferior kind of girl--than an honest lad.

He was much addicted to reading: he would, by choice, sit in a corner
reading any book that he could get more willingly than run, jump, row,
or race. When we had holidays he would go away by himself, sometimes
on the walls, if it were summer, or in some sheltered nook, if it were
winter, contented to be left alone with his printed page. He borrowed
books from my father who encouraged him in reading, while he
admonished him on account of his faults, and from the vicar, who lent
him books, while he warned him against the reports of his character
which were noised abroad. Now--I know not how--the boy became secretly
inflamed with the ambition of becoming a poet. How he fell into this
pitfall, which ended in his ruin, I know not. Certainly it was not
from any boys in the school, or from any friend in the town, because
there are no books of poetry in Lynn, save those which belong to the
parson and the schoolmaster. However, he did conceive the ambition of
becoming a poet--secretly, at first, because he was naturally ashamed
of being such a fool, but it came out. He read poetry from choice, and
rather than anything else. Once, I remember, he was flogged for taking
a volume of miscellany poems into church instead of the Book of Common
Prayer. The boys were astonished at the crime, because certainly one
would much rather read the Book of Common Prayer, in which one knows
what to expect, than a book of foolish rhymes.

I myself was the first to find out his ambition. It was in this way.
Coming out of school one day I picked up a paper which was blown about
the square. It was covered with writing. I read some of it, wondering
what it might mean. There was a good deal and not a word of sense from
beginning to end: the writing was all scored out and corrected over
and over again. Thus, not to waste your time over this nonsense, it
ran something like this:

    When the refulgent rays of Sol =began= prevail
                                early =Day= Morn
    To =A=waken=ed= all the maidens of the dale
                                           Lawn
    Drove Morpheus =shrieking from the beds= away
                --from the maids and swains.

and so on. One is ashamed to repeat such rubbish. While I was reading
it however, Sam Semple came running back.

"That paper is mine," he cried, with a very red face, snatching it out
of my hands.

"Well--if it is yours, take it. What does it mean?"

"It's poetry, you fool."

"If you call me a fool, Sam, you'll get a black eye." He was three
inches taller than myself as well as two years older--but this was the
way all the boys spoke to him.

"You can't understand," he said, "none of you can understand. It's
poetry, I tell you."

I told my father, who sent for him and in my presence admonished him
kindly, first ordering him to submit his verses for correction, as if
they were in Latin. It was after school hours: the room was empty save
for the three of us--my father sat at his desk where he assumed
authority. Outside the schoolroom he was but a gentle creature.

"Boy," he said, "as for these verses--I say nothing. They are but
immature imitations. You would be a poet. Learn, however, that the lot
of him who desires that calling is the hardest and the worst that fate
can have in store for an honest man. There are many who can write
rhymes: for one who has read Ovid and Virgil, the making of verse is
easy. But only one or two here and there, out of millions, are there
whose lips are touched with the celestial fire: only one or two whose
verses can reach the heart and fire the brain of those who read them."

"Sir, may not I, too, form one of that small company?" His cheek
flamed and his eyes brightened. For once Sam was handsome.

"It may be so. I say nothing to the contrary. Learn, however, that even
if genius has been granted, much more will be required. He who would be
a great poet must attain, if he can, by meditation and self-restraint,
to the great mind. He must be sincere--truthful--courageous--think of
that, boy; he must meditate. Milton's thoughts were ever on religious
and civil freedom; therefore he was enabled to speak as a prophet."

He gazed upon the face of his scholar: the cheek was sallow again; the
eyes dull; upon that mean countenance no sign of noble or of lofty
thought. My father sighed and went on.

"It seems, to a young man, a great thing to be a poet. He will
escape--will he?--the humiliations of life. He thinks that he will be
no man's servant; he will be independent; he will work as his genius
inclines him. Alas! he little knows the humiliations of the starveling
poet. No man's servant? There is none--believe me--not even the
African slave, who has to feel more of the contempts, the scorns, the
servitude of the world. Such an one have I known. He had to bend the
knee to the patron, who treated him with open scorn; and to the
bookseller, who treated him with contempt undisguised. One may be a
poet who is endowed with the means of a livelihood. Such is the
ingenious Mr. Pope; or one who has an office to maintain him: such was
the immortal John Milton; but, for you and such as you, boy, born in a
humble condition, and ordained by Providence for that condition, there
is no worse servitude than that of a bookseller's hack. Go, boy--think
of these things. Continue to write verses, if by their aid you may in
any way become a better man and more easily attain to the Christian
life. But accept meanwhile, the ruling of Providence and do thy duty
in that station of life to which thou hast been called."

So saying he dismissed the boy, who went away downcast and with
hanging head.

Then my father turned to me. "Son," he said, "let no vain repinings
fill thy soul. Service is thy lot. It is also mine. It is the lot of
every man except those who are born to wealth and rank. I do not envy
these, because much is expected of them--a thing which mostly they do
not understand. And too many of these are, truth to say, in the
service of Beelzebub. We are all servants of each other; let us
perform our service with cheerfulness and even with joy. The Lord, who
knows what is best for men, hath so ordained that we shall be
dependent upon each other in all things. Servants, I say, are we all
of each other. We may not escape the common lot--the common
servitude."

Let me return to Sam. At the age of fourteen he was taken from school
and placed in a countinghouse where his duty was to clean out, sweep,
and dust the place every morning; to be at the beck and call of his
master; to copy letters and to add up figures. I asked him how he
liked this employment.

"It is well enough," he said, "until I can go whither I am called. But
to serve at adding up the price of barrels of tarpaulin all my life!
No, Jack, no. I am made of stuff too good."

He continued for three years in this employment. We then heard that he
had been dismissed for negligence, his master having made certain
discoveries that greatly enraged him. He then went on board ship in
the capacity of clerk or assistant to the supercargo, but at the end
of his first voyage he was sent about his business.

"It is true," he told me, "that there were omissions in the books. Who
can keep books below, by the light of a stinking tallow candle, when
one can lie on the deck in the sun and watch the waves? But these
people--these people--among them all, Jack, there is not one who
understands the poet, except your father, and he will have it that the
poet must starve. Well, there is another way." But he would tell me no
more.

That way was this. You know, because it led to the basting. The day
after the adventure in the captain's garden, Sam put together all he
had, borrowed what money his mother would give him and went off to
London by the waggon.

After a while a letter came from him. It was addressed to his mother,
who brought it to the school because she could not understand what was
meant. Sam (I believe he was lying) said that he had been received
into the Company of the Wits; his verse, he said, was regarded with
respect at the coffee house; he was already known to many poets and
booksellers; he asked for a small advance of money and he entreated
his mother to let it be known in the town that he was publishing a
volume of verse by subscription. His former patrons, he said, would
doubtless assist him by giving their names and guineas. The book, he
added, would certainly place him among the acknowledged poets of the
day--even with Pope and Gay.

There was much difference of opinion as to sending the guineas: but a
few of the better sort consented, and in due course received their
copies. It was a thin quarto with a large margin. The title page was
as follows:

    "MISCELLANY POEMS
    _by
    SAM SEMPLE,
    Gentleman_."

"Gentleman!" said the vicar. "How long has Sam been a gentleman? He
will next, no doubt, describe himself as esquire. As for the
verses--trash--two-penny trash! Alas! And they cost me a guinea!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE OPENING OF THE SPA


The wonderful letter from Sam Semple was received in April. No one
from the outset questioned his assertions. This seems wonderful--but
they could only be tried by a letter to London or a journey thither.
Now our merchants had correspondents in the city of London, but not in
the fashionable quarters, and nothing is more certain than that the
merchants of this city concerned themselves not at all with the
pursuits of fashion or even with the gatherings of the wits in the
coffee house. As for the journey to London no one will willingly
undertake it unless he is compelled----You may go by way of Ely and
Cambridge--but the road nearly all the way to Cambridge lies through
the soft and treacherous fen when if a traveller escape being bogged,
a hundred to one he will probably acquire an ague which will trouble
him for many days afterwards. Or you may go by way of Swaffham and
East Dereham through Norwich. By this way there are no fens, but the
road to Norwich is practicable only by broad wheeled waggons or on
horseback, and I doubt if the forty miles could be covered in less
than two days. At Norwich, it is true, there is a better road and a
stage coach carries passengers to London in twelve hours.

It is therefore a long and tedious journey from Lynn to London and one
not to be undertaken without strong reasons. Then--even if the society
had entertained suspicions and deputed one or more to make that
journey and to inquire as to the truth of the letter, how and where,
in so vast a city, would one begin the enquiry.

In truth, however, the letter was received without the least
suspicion. Yet it was from beginning to end an artfully concocted
lie--part of a conspiracy; an invention devised by the desire for
revenge; an ingenious device--let us give the devil his due--by one
whose only weapon was his cunning.

Every man of the "Society" went home brimful of the discovery. The
next day the doctor's garden was crowded with people all pressing
together, trampling over his currant and gooseberry bushes, drawing up
the bucket without cessation in order to taste the water which was to
cure all diseases--even like the Pool of Bethesda. Many among them had
used the water all their lives without discovering any peculiarity in
taste--in fact as if it had been ordinary water conferred upon man by
Providence for the brewing of his beer and the making of his punch and
the washing of his linen. Now, however, so great is the power of
faith, they drank it as it came out of the well--a thing abhorrent to
most people who cannot abide plain water. They held it up to the
light, admiring its wonderful clearness: they called attention to the
beads of air rising in the glass, as a plain proof of its
health-giving qualities; they smacked their lips over it, detecting
the presence of unknown ingredients: those who were already rheumatic
resolved to drink it every day at frequent intervals: after a single
draught they felt relief in their joints; they declared that the
rheumatic pains were subsiding rapidly: nay, were already gone, and
they rejoiced in the strength of their faith as if they were driving
an unwelcome guest out through an open door.

The doctor made haste to issue and to print his own examination of the
water. In this document as I have told you, he very remarkably agreed
with the analysis sent down by the egregious Samuel. He appended to
his list of ingredients certain cases which he indicated by initials
in which the water had proved beneficial: most of them at the outset,
were the cases of those who, on the first day, found relief from a
single glass. Many more cases afterwards occurred.

After the town, the country. The report of the valuable discovery
spread rapidly. The farmer folk who brought their produce, pigs,
sheep, poultry and cattle to our markets carried the news home with
them: the whole town--indeed, in a few hours was as they say, all agog
with the discovery and eager, even down to the fo'c'sle seamen to
drink of a well which was by this time reported among the ignorant
class not only to cure but also to prevent diseases. Then gentlemen
began to ride in; on market day there are always gentlemen in the
town; they have an ordinary of their own at the _Crown_; they were at
first incredulous but they would willingly taste of the spring. As
fresh water was comparatively strange to them it is not surprising
that some of them detected an indescribable taste which they were
readily persuaded to believe was proof of a medicinal character. They
were followed by ladies also curious to taste, to prove, and, in many
cases, to be cured.

Meantime everybody, both of the town and of the country, rejoiced at
hearing that it had been decided to take advantage of the discovery in
order to convert Lynn Regis, previously esteemed as on the same level
as Gosport in the south of England or Wapping by the port of London,
into a place of fashionable resort and another Bath or Tunbridge
Wells. It was difficult, however, to believe that the old town with
its narrow and winding streets, its streams, its bridges, its old
decayed courts and ancient pavements could accommodate itself to the
wants and the taste--or even the presence of the polite world.

Then the news spread further afield. The reverend canons in their
secluded close beside their venerable cathedral--whether at
Peterborough, Lincoln, Ely or Norwich, heard the story magnified and
exaggerated, how at Lynn had been found a spring of water that
miraculously healed all wounds, cured all diseases and made the halt
to run and the <DW36> to stand. Better than all it restored the power
of drinking port wine to the old divines who had been compelled by
their infirmities to give up that generous wine.

In their great colleges, a world too wide for the young men who
entered them as students, the fellows heard the news and talked about
the discovery in the dull combination rooms where the talk was ever
mainly of the rents and the dinners, the last brew at the college
brewery, yesterday's cards, or the approaching vacancy in a college
living. They, too, pricked up their ears at the news because for them
as well as their reverend brethren of the cathedral gout and
rheumatism were deadly enemies. If only Providence would remove from
mankind those two diseases which plague and pester those to whom their
lives would otherwise be full of comfort and happiness, cheered by
wine and punch, stayed and comforted by the good things ready to the
hand of the cook and the housewife.

And from all the towns around--from Boston, Spalding, Wisbeach, Bury,
Wells, there came messengers and letters of inquiry all asking if the
news was true--if people had been already treated and already
cured--if lodgings were to be had and so forth.

And then the preparations began. The committee went from house to
house encouraging and stimulating the people to make ready for such an
incursion as the place had never before known even at fair time, and
promising a golden harvest. Who would not wish to share in such a
harvest?

First, lodgings had to be got ready--they must be clean at least and
furnished with necessaries. People at the spa do not ask for great
things in furniture--they do not desire to sit in their lodgings which
are only for sleeping and dressing--a blind in the window or a curtain
to keep out the sun and prying eyes,--a bed--a chair--a cupboard--a
looking-glass--a table--not even the most fashionable lady asks for
more except that the bed be soft and the wainscot and floor of the
room be clean. The better houses would be kept for the better sort:
the sailors' houses by the Common Stath and the King's Stath would do
for the visitors' servants who could also eat and drink in the taverns
of the riverside. Houses deserted and suffered to fall into decay in
the courts of the town were hastily repaired, the roofs patched up,
the windows replaced, the doors and woodwork painted. Everywhere rooms
were cleaned: beds were put up, all the mattresses, all the pillows,
all the blankets and sheets in the town were brought up and more were
ordered from Boston and other places accessible by river or by sea.
Certainly the town had never before had such a cleaning while the
painters worked all night as well as all day to get through their
orders.

It was next necessary to provide supplies for the multitude, when they
should arrive. I have spoken of the plenty and abundance of everything
in the town of Lynn. The plenty is due to the great fertility of the
reclaimed land which enables the farmers to grow more than they can
sell for want of a market. There is sent abroad, as a rule, to the low
countries, much of the produce of the farms. There was therefore no
difficulty in persuading the farmers to hold their hands for a week or
two, and when the company began to arrive, to send into the town
quantities of provisions of all kinds--pork, bacon, mutton, beef,
poultry, eggs, vegetables and milk. Boats were engaged for the
conveyance of these stores down the river. There would be provided
food in abundance. And as for drink there was no difficulty at all in
a town which imported whole cargoes of wine every year.

I must not forget the preparation made in the churches. There are two
in Lynn, ancient and venerable churches both. I believe that they were
always much larger than was ever wanted considering the number of the
people, but in Norfolk the churches are all too large, being so built
for the greater praise and glory of God. However, both in St.
Margaret's and in St. Nicholas, the congregations had long since
shrunk so that there were wide spaces between the walls and the pews.
These spaces were now filled up with new pews for the accommodation of
the expected invasion of visitors. I confess that I admire the simple
faith in the coming success of the spa which at this time animated not
only those most interested as the doctor himself, but also the people
of the town who knew nothing except what they were told, namely that
the well in the doctor's garden had properties, which were sovereign
against certain diseases, and that all the world had learned this fact
and were coming to be cured.

There were next the public preparations. The necessity of despatch
caused the structures to be of wood which, however, when brightly
painted, may produce a more pleasing effect than brick. First, there
was the pump room. This was built, of course, over the well in the
doctor's garden, which it almost covered: it was a square or oblong
building, having the well in one corner, and containing a simple room
with large sash windows, unfurnished save for a wooden bench running
round the wall and two others in the middle of the room. The water was
pumped up fresh and cool--it was really a very fine well of water
always copious--into a large basin; a long counter ran across the room
in front of the basin: the counter was provided with glasses of
various sizes and behind the counter were two girls hired as dippers.
The doctor's door opened out of the pump room so as to afford
readiness and convenience for consultation.

Lastly it was necessary to provide for the amusement of the visitors.
Everybody knows that for one person who visits a spa for health, there
are two who visit it for the amusements and the pleasures and
entertainments provided at these places. I have mentioned the open
fields within the walls of the town which were anciently covered with
the buildings and the gardens of the monks and friars and the nuns.
They are planted in some places with trees: for instance below the
Lady's Mount, in which is the ancient chapel, there lie fields on
which now stand many noble trees. The committee chose this spot for
the construction of the assembly rooms. They first enclosed a large
portion with a wooden fence: they then laid out the grounds with
paths: this done they erected a long room where the assembly might be
held, with a smooth and level floor fit for dancing. This room was
also to be the resort of the company in the mornings and when the
weather was rainy: adjoining the long room was the card room, with one
long table and several small tables: and the tea room, where that
beverage could be served with drinks and cordials to counteract its
(possibly) evil effects. A gallery at one end was ready for the
music--outside there was another building for the music to play on
fine evenings.

I must not forget the decoration of the trees. Nothing could be more
beautiful than this avenue after nightfall: lamps of various colours
hung on festoons from branch to branch: across the avenue in arches,
and from tree to tree in parallel lines: these in the evening produced
an appearance of light and colour that ravished the eye of every
beholder. Those who knew London declared that in the daytime this
place could compare favourably with the Mall in St. James's Park, and
in the evening after dark even with the Marylebone Gardens or
Vauxhall.

All these preparations were pushed forward with the utmost diligence,
so that everything, might be ready by the first of May, on which day
it was hoped that the season of the spa would commence. Musicians and
singers were engaged: they came from London, bringing good
recommendation from some of the pleasure gardens where they had
performed with credit. They were to play for the dancing on the nights
of the assembly; they were also to play in the morning when engaged or
bespoke by the gentlemen. They brought with them two or three
fiddlers; players on various instruments of brass, and the horns. A
dancing master, Mr. Prappit, came from Norwich: he was busy for three
weeks before the opening, with the young folks of the town, who had
never before danced anything more ambitious than a hey or a jig or a
country dance, or a frolic round the May pole. Mr. Prappit was also
engaged as master of the ceremonies, a post of great responsibility
and distinction.

A theatre is a necessary part of every public place: therefore a troop
of strolling players received permission to perform three evenings in
the week in the large room of the _Duke's Head_ inn: I know not what
reputation they had as actors, but I can bear witness that they made
as much as they could out of a passion, tearing it, so to speak, to
rags, and bawling themselves hoarse, so that at least they earned
their money, which was not much, I fear.

The cock pit was newly repaired for the lovers of that manly and
favourite sport to which the gentlemen of Norfolk are, as is well
known, much addicted. For those who prefer the more quiet games there
was the bowling green. And lastly, for those who incline to the ruder
sports, there were provided masters of fence who could play with
quarter staff or cudgel, jugglers and conjurers, with rope dancers,
tumblers, merry andrews and such folk, together with a tent for their
performance.

These details are perhaps below the dignity of history. I mention them
in order to let it be understood that the invention--the lying
invention of Sam Semple, was bearing the fruit which he most desired
in the deception of the whole town. There was never, I believe, so
great a deception attempted or carried into effect.

Meantime, the work of the town continued as usual. The port had
nothing to do with the spa. For my own part I was discharging cargo
from _The Lady of Lynn_, and making ready to take in a new cargo.
All day I was engaged on board: I slept on board: but in the evening I
went ashore and looked on at the preparations, and at this new world
of fashion and pleasure the like of which I had never seen before.
And, as usual, the ships came into port and dropped anchor off the
Stath: or they cleared out and went down the river with the current
and the tide. There were two kinds of life in the place when there had
never before been more than one: and while the people in one part of
the town had nothing to think of but amusement, those at the other
part were as usual, engaged in their various work. The clerks ran
about with their quills behind their ears; the porters rolled the
casks, the bargemen brought their unwieldy craft alongside with many
loud sounding oaths and the yohoing without which they can do nothing;
and in the taverns the sailors drank and danced and sang, quite
unmindful of the people in the streets behind them.

The first arrivals were the gentlefolk from the country round Lynn.
They learned when everything would be ready and they came in as soon
as the gardens were laid out, the long room finished and the first
evening announced--they had but a few miles to travel; they engaged
the best lodgings and demanded the best provisions. As for wine, they
could not have better because there is no better wine than fills the
cellars of our merchants or our vintners.

As these good people came to the spa it was thought necessary to drink
the waters and this they did with much importance, every morning. The
natives of Norfolk are, I verily believe, the longest lived and the
most healthy people in the whole world. With the exception of
ague--they call it the bailiff of Marshland--the people in this county
seldom suffer from any disorder and live to a good old age. Yet all
with one consent began the day by drinking a glass of the cold bright
water served in the pump room. Very few of them, I say, were troubled
with any kind of complaint: though the gentlemen are hard drinkers,
they are also hard riders and the open air and cold winds of the
morning drive out and dissipate the fumes of the evening and its wine.
For this reason, though many of our sea captains drink hard at sea,
they are never a bit the worse for the fresh salt air is the finest
restorative, and a sailor may be drunk once every twenty-four hours
and yet live to a hundred and be none the worse. Most of those who
drank the waters had never felt any symptoms of gout or rheumatism,
lumbago, sciatica, pleurisy, consumption or asthma, or any other
disease whatever. They flocked to the pump room in order to drive away
even the possibility of these symptoms. To drink the waters for a
month, or even for a fortnight, was considered sovereign for the
keeping off of all kinds of sickness for at least a whole year to
come. It was strange how quite young men and young maidens suddenly
conceived this superstitious belief--I can call it nothing but
superstition--that those who were perfectly well would be maintained
in health--_although_ young people of this age do not commonly
contract the diseases above enumerated--by drinking a glass of water
every morning. That old men, who will catch at anything that offers to
restore health, should resort to this newly discovered universal
medicine was not so strange. Captain Crowle, who, to my certain
knowledge, had never suffered a day's sickness in the seventy years of
his life; who kept his teeth firm and sound; whose hair had not fallen
off; who stood firm on his legs and square in his shoulders; who still
drank free and devoured his rations as eagerly as any able-bodied
sailor, marched every morning to the pump room and took his glass.
"Jack," he said, "the discovery is truly miraculous. By the Lord! it
will make us all live to be a hundred. Already I feel once more like a
man of thirty. I shall shake a leg, yet, at the wedding of Molly's
grandchildren."

They all consulted the doctor--the sick and the well alike--the former
in order to be cured and the latter in order to guard against disease.
Now that one knows the foundation of the whole business it is
wonderful to reflect upon the number of cures the doctor was able to
register in his book: cures about which there could be neither doubt
nor dispute, so that one is fain to think that faith alone may be
sufficient to drive out rheumatism. The prescription of the worthy
doctor rested entirely on the curative power of the water. "You will
take," he said to every one who came to him, "every morning before
breakfast for choice, a glass of the water. Or, if you prefer first to
take a dish of tea, a cup of chocolate, or a draught of beer, do so by
all means. In that case take your glass an hour--not more--after
breakfast. I prescribe in your case, a dose in a glass numbered A or
B--or C"--as the case might be. "It contains seven ounces and six
drachms"--or some other weight as the case might be. He was very exact
in the size of the glass and the weight of the dose. "This is the
exact quantity which operates efficaciously in your case. Do not take
more which will not expedite your cure: nor less which will hinder it.
Seven ounces and six drachms."

The doctor's dignity and gravity indeed were a credit to the town. Out
of London, I believe, there was no physician with such outward tokens
of science. The velvet coat he now wore habitually: a new wig greatly
delayed had been brought from Norwich: his lace and his linen were
clean every morning: his fingers became curly from the continual clasp
of the guinea. No one, I am sure, expected to find so grave and
dignified a physician in a town occupied mainly by rude tarpaulins and
their ladies. Where nothing better than a mere apothecary could be
expected there was found a physician in manner and in appearance equal
to the most fashionable doctor of medicine in London itself.

"Before breakfast, madam," he repeated. "Fasting, if possible. If that
is not convenient, after breakfast. Think not to hasten the operation
of the waters by too generous a use of them. Seven ounces and six
drachms in weight. Let that be your daily allowance: that and no more.
For your diet, let it be ample, generous, and of the best quality that
the market supplies. It is providentially, considering the wants of
the spa--the best market in Norfolk, provided with birds of all kinds,
both wild and of the farmyard: with beef and mutton fattened on the
pastures of Marshland; and with fruit and other things of the very
best. Partake plentifully, madam. Do not deny yourself. Tea, you may
take if you desire it: very good tea can be obtained of the apothecary
at a guinea a pound. For my own part I allow the beverage to be
sometimes useful in clearing the brain of noxious vapours and the body
of corrupt humours. For wine I recommend Port, Malmesey, Madeira or
Lisbon--but not more than one measured pint in the day. You must take
exercise gently by walking in the gardens, or in the long room, or by
dancing in the evening. And you may maintain cheerfulness of mind,
which is beneficial in any case whether of sickness or of health, by
taking a hand in the card room."

To the gentlemen who had not as yet fallen victims to any of the
prevalent diseases he would discourse much after the same fashion.

"Put out your tongue, sir--I believe it to be furred---- So.... Dear
me! Worse than I suspected. And your pulse? I believe it to be strong.
So. As I thought. A little too strong, perhaps even febrile. Your
habits, I suppose, include a hearty appetite and a full allowance of
strong ale and wine. You ride--you hunt--you attend races, cockpit and
sport of all kinds; you are not addicted to reading or to study, and
you sometimes play cards."

"The doctor," said his patients afterwards, "knew exactly and could
tell by my pulse and my tongue my daily way of living. 'Tis
wonderful!"

"It is my duty to warn you, sir, that you have within you the seeds of
gout--of inflammatory gout--which will fix itself first upon the big
toe and thus become like a bag of red hot needles. Afterwards it will
mount higher--but I will spare you the description of your dying
agonies. You may, however, avert this suffering, or postpone it, so
that it will only seize upon you should you live to a hundred and
twenty, or thereabouts. The surest method is by drinking these waters
every year for a week or two. One tumbler every morning fasting. You
will take a measured weight of seven ounces and six drachms--" or as I
said before some other weight. "I prescribe in your case, no other
medicine. Let your diet be generous. Confine yourself to a single
bottle of wine a day. Ride as usual and, in fact, live as you are
accustomed. Nature, sir, abhors a revolution: she expects to perform
her usual work in the usual manner."

If any came to him already afflicted with gout or rheumatism he
prescribed for them in a similarly easy and simple fashion.

"You have been taking colchicum--" or whatever it might have been. "I
recommend you on no account to discontinue a medicine to which you are
accustomed. Gout is an enemy which may be attacked from many points.
While it is resisting so far successfully the attack by the drugs
which have been administered to you, I shall attack it from an
unsuspected quarter. Ha! I shall fall upon the unguarded flank with an
infallible method. You will take, sir, three glasses of water daily;
each before meals. Each glass contains the measured weight of seven
ounces and six drachms," or some other weight was carefully
prescribed. "You will, in other respects, follow the diet recommended
by your former physicians."

"The doctor," said his patients, "is not one who scoffs at his
brethren. On the contrary, he continues their treatment, only adding
the water. And you see what I am now."

"Observe," the doctor continued, "my treatment is simple. It is so
simple that it must command success. I shall expect therefore, to find
in you, for your own share in the cure, that faith which assists
nature. Nothing so disconcerts an enemy as the confidence of victory
on the other side. Before that faith, gout flies, terrified; and
nature, triumphant, resumes that nice balanced equilibrium of all the
functions which the unlearned call health."

The doctor also encouraged his dippers, one of whom was a young woman
of attractive appearance and great freedom of tongue, to relate for
the benefit of those who drank the waters, cases of cure and rapid
recovery. This encouragement caused the girl who had a fine natural
gift of embellishment or development, to sing the praises of the spa
with a most audacious contempt for the structure of fact.

"Lawk, madam!" she would say, using the broad Norfolk accent which I
choose to convert into English, because her discourse would be
unintelligible save to the folk of the county. "To think what this
blessed water can do! That poor gentleman who has just gone out--you
saw yourself that he now walks as upright as a lance and as stiff as a
recruiting sergeant. He first came to the pump room, was it a
fortnight ago or three weeks, Jenny? Twelve days? To be sure. You
ought to know--Jenny dipped for him, madam. He was carried in: his
very crutches were no good to him; and as for his poor feet, they
dangle for all the world like lumps of pork. And his groans,--Lawk!--they
would move a heart of stone. Jenny here, who has a feeling heart,
though but a humble dipper at your service, madam, like myself and
pleased to be of service to so fine a lady, burst into tears when she
saw him--didn't you, Jenny, my dear? Before all the people, she did.
Well, he drank three tumblers every day--each exactly seven ounces
and six drachms in weight--oh! the doctor knows what to do for his
patients--did your ladyship ever see a wiser doctor? On the third day
he left off groaning: on the fourth he said, 'I feel better, give me my
third tumbler.' Didn't he say those very words, Jenny? 'Give me my
third,' he said. On the fifth day he walked in by himself. It was on
crutches, it is true, for even this water takes its time. Lord forbid
that I should tell your ladyship anything but gospel. On the sixth day
he used a walking stick: on the seventh, he said, walking upright, his
stick over his shoulder, 'If it was not Sunday,' he said, 'I should cut
a caper--cut a caper,' he said. Jenny heard him. And now he talks of
going home where a sweet young lady, almost as beautiful as your
ladyship, waits for him with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. She
couldn't marry a man, could she, madam, with both feet, as a body might
say, in the grave? Nobody except the doctor and us dippers, knows the
secrets of the spa. If we could talk--but there we are bound to
secrecy, because ladies would not let the world know that they have had
ailments--but if we could talk, you would be astonished. Tell her
ladyship, Jenny, about the old gammer of ninety, while I attend to the
company. Yes, sir, coming, sir."

And so she rattled on, talking all day long and never tired of
inventing these stories. The people listened, laughed, affected
disbelief, yet believed. They drank the waters, and put down their
twopences, which went into a box kept for the doctor. What with the
patients' guineas and the daily harvest of this box he, at least, was
in a fair way of proving the truth of his own prophecy that everybody
in Lynn would be enriched by the grand discovery.




CHAPTER IX

SENT TO THE SPA


At the outset, though the pump room was full every morning and the
gardens and long room in the evening were well attended, the spa
lacked animation. The music pleased, the singers pleased, the 
lamps dangled in chains between the branches and pleased. Yet the
company was dull; there was little noise of conversation, and no mirth
or laughter; the family groups were not broken up; the people looked
at each other and walked round and round in silence; after the first
round or so, when they had seen all the dresses, the girls yawned and
wanted to sit down.

The master of the ceremonies exerted himself in vain. He had hoped so
much and promised so much that it was sad to see him standing in front
of the orchestra and vainly endeavouring to find couples for the
minuet. How should they dance a minuet when there were no leaders to
begin? And where were the gentlemen? Most of them were at the tavern
or the cockpit, drinking and cockfighting, and making bets. What was
the use of calling a country dance when there were none to stand up
except ladies and old men? Mr. Prappet, in a blue silk coat and
embroidered waistcoat, hat under arm, and flourishing his legs as a
fencing master flourishes his arms, fell into despondency. "I make no
progress, Mr. Pentecrosse," he said. "I cannot begin with the beaux of
the town; they are nautical or rustical, to tell the truth, and they
are beneath the gentry of the county. If I begin with them none of the
gentry will condescend either to dance with them or to follow them,
and so the character of the assembly will be gone. We must obey the
laws of society. We want rank, sir. We want a leader. We want two or
three people of fashion, otherwise these county families, none of whom
will yield precedence to any other, and will not endure that one
should stand up before the other, will never unbend. They are jealous.
Give me a leader--a nobleman--a baronet--a lady of quality--and you
shall see how they will fall in. First, the nobility, according to
rank; after them, the gentry; then the town degrees must be observed.
But, in order to observe degrees, sir, we must have rank among us. At
present we are a mob. An assembly in the polite world should be like
the English Constitution, which, Mr. Pentecrosse, consists of Lords
and Commons--Ladies, and the wives and daughters of commoners."

To me it was amusing only to see the people in their fine dresses
marching round and round while the music played, trailing their skirts
on the floor, swinging their hoops, and handling their fans; for the
lack of young men, talking to the clergy from the cathedrals and the
colleges, and casting at each other glances of envy if one was better
dressed, or of scorn when one was worse dressed than themselves.

"As for the men, Jack," said Captain Crowle, "I keep looking about me.
I try the pump room in the morning, the ordinary at dinner, the
taverns after dinner. My lad, there is not one among them all who is
fit to be mated with our Molly. Gentlemen, are they? I like not the
manner of these gentlemen. They are mostly young, but drink hard
already. If their faces are red and swollen at twenty-five, what will
they be at forty? My girl shall marry none of them. Nor shall she
dance with them. She shall stay at home."

In fact, during the first week or two after the opening of the spa,
Molly remained at home and was not seen in the long room or in the
gardens.

The town was nearly full, many of the visitors having to put up with
mean lodgings in the crazy old courts, of which there are so many in
Lynn, when the first arrival from London took place. It was that of a
clergyman named Benjamin Purdon, Artium Magister, formerly of Trinity
College, Cambridge. He was a man of insignificant presence, his figure
being small and thin, but finely dressed. His head was almost hidden
by a full ecclesiastical wig. Apparently he was between forty and
fifty years of age; he looked about him and surveyed the company with
an air of superiority, as if he had been a person of rank. He spoke
with a loud, rather a high voice; his face was pale and his hands,
which he displayed, were as white as any woman's, on one finger he
wore a large ring with a stone on which were carved three graces, or
Greek goddesses, standing in a row. To some the ring was a
stumbling-block, as hardly in accordance with the profession of a
divine. "Art," however, he was wont to say, "knows nothing of Eve's
apple and its consequences. Art is outside religion;" and so forth.
Fustian stuff, it seems to me, looking back; but at that time we were
carried away by the authority of the man.

He came to us down the river by a tilt boat from Cambridge, and
accepted, contentedly, quite a humble lodging, barely furnished with a
chair and a flock bed. "Humility becomes a divine," he said, in a
high, authoritative voice. "The room will serve. A coal fire and an
open window will remove the mustiness. Who am I that I should demand
the luxuries of Lucullus? The Cloth should daily offer an example. We
must macerate the flesh." He was thin, but he certainly practised not
maceration. "We must subdue the body. To him who meditates a hovel
becomes a palace. There is an ordinary, you say, daily at the
'Crown'--At two shillings? For the better subjugation of the carnal
appetite it should have been one and sixpence. Nevertheless, I have
heard of the green goslings of Lynn. Perhaps I shall now be privileged
to taste them. There were excellent ruffs and reeves when I was at
college that came to the market-place from the fens in the May time.
You have a Portuguese trade I am told--in wine, I hope, otherwise we
are not likely to get anything fit for a gentleman to drink. It is,
indeed, little that I take; were it not for my infirmities, I should
take none. Your port, I hope, is matured. More sickness is caused by
new wine than by any other cause. Give me wine of twenty years--but
that is beyond hope in this place. If it is three, four, or five years
old, I shall be fortunate beyond my expectation." He did not say all
these fine things at once, or to one person; but by bits to his
brother clergyman, the vicar of St. Margaret's; to Captain Crowle, to
the mayor, to the landlady of the Crown Inn, to the ladies in the long
room. "You see me as I am, a poor scholar, a humble minister of the
church--_servus servorum_, to use the style and title of the Pope; one
who despises wealth." Yet his cassock was of thick silk and his bands
were laced. "I live in London because I can there find, when I want
it, a lectureship for my preaching, and a library--that of Sion
College--for my reading, study, meditation, and writing. I leave
behind me, unfinished, my work--my _magnum opus_--forgive the
infirmity natural to man of desiring to live in the memory of men. I
confess that I look forward with pleasure to future fame: my 'History
of the Early Councils' will be a monument--if I may be permitted so to
speak of it--a monument of erudition. I come here by order of my
physician. Ladies, this sluggish body, which gives us so much trouble,
must be kept in health (as well as in subjection) if we would perform
the tasks laid down for us. The waters which I am about to drink will,
under Providence, drive away those symptoms which have made my
friends, rather than myself, anxious. As for me, what cause have I for
anxiety? Why should I not be ready to lay down pen and book, and teach
no more?"

He was, perhaps--though we must allow a good deal to his
profession--too fond of preaching. He preached in the morning at the
pump room. Holding a glass of water to the light, he discoursed on the
marvels of Providence in concealing sovereign remedies under the guise
of simple water, such as one may find in any running brook to all
appearance, and yet so potent. He would preach in the gardens. He
would show the piety of his character even when taking supper--a cold
chicken and a bottle of Lisbon--in an alcove beside the dancing
platform. In this way he rapidly acquired a great reputation, and drew
after him every day a following of ladies; there are always ladies who
desire nothing so much as pious talk on matters of religion with one
who has a proper feeling for the sex, and is courteous and
complimentary, deferent and assiduous, as well as learned, pious, and
eloquent. The good man, for his part, was never tired of conversing
with these amiable ladies, especially with the younger sort; but I
believe there were jealousies among them, each desiring the whole
undivided man for herself, which is not uncommon even among ladies of
the strictest profession in religion.

It was presently learned that Mr. Purdon had offered to take the
services at St. Nicholas for a few weeks in order to enable the curate
to attend the bedside of a parent. He undertook this duty without
asking for any fee or pay, a fact which greatly increased his
reputation. He continued the morning services, now held in a
well-filled church, and delivered a sermon on Sunday morning. Never
before had the good people who sat in the church heard discourses of
so much eloquence, such close reasoning, such unexpected
illustrations; with passages so tender and so pathetic. The women
wept; the men cleared their throats; the sermons of his reverence drew
after him the whole company, except those who spent their Sunday
morning at the tavern, and also excepting the clergymen of the
cathedrals and the colleges. These, for some reason, looked upon him
with distrust.

Among those who thus regarded him was the vicar of St. Margaret's, the
Rev. Mark Gentle. He was, to begin with, the very opposite of the
other in all respects. He lived simply, drinking no wine; he was a
silent man, whose occasional words were received with consideration;
he was a great scholar, with a fine library. His discourses were not
understood by the congregation, but they were said to be full of
learning. He did not make himself agreeable to the ladies; he never
talked of religion; he never spoke of his own habits or his own
learning. He was a tall spare man with a thin face and a long nose, of
the kind which is said to accompany a sense of humour; and he had
sometimes a curious light in his eye like the flash of a light in the
dark.

"The Reverend Benjamin Purdon," he said, with such a flash, "interests
me greatly. He is a most learned person--indeed, he says so, himself.
I quoted a well-known passage of a Greek tragedy to him yesterday, and
he said that his Hebrew he left behind him when he came into the
country. We must not think that this proves anything. A man's ear may
be deceived. I offered him the use of my library, but he declined.
That proves nothing, either, because he may not wish to read at
present. I hear that the women weep when he preaches; and that proves
nothing. Sir, I should like the opinion of Sion College, which is a
collection of all the rectors and vicars of the city churches, as to
the learning of this ecclesiastic. He is, doubtless, all that he
proclaims himself. But, after all, that means nothing. We shall
probably learn more about him. Whatever we learn will, we may
confidently expect, redound to his credit, and increase his
reputation."

This he said in my presence, to my father. "I know not," he replied,
"how much this learned theologian professes, but humility is not one
of his virtues. I offered, meeting him in the Herb Market yesterday,
to show him the school as a venerable monument erected for the sake of
learning three hundred years ago. 'Pedagogue!' he answered. 'Know thy
place!' So he swept on his way, swelling under his silken cassock."

Captain Crowle, however, with many others, was greatly taken with him.
"Jack," he said, "the London clergyman shames our rusticity. Learning
flows from him with every word he speaks. He makes the women cry. He
is full of pious sentiment. If we have many visitors so edifying, this
discovery is like to prove for all of us the road to heaven as well as
the means of wealth."

Alas! the road to heaven seldom, so far as I understand, brings the
pilgrim within reach of the means of wealth. But this the captain
could not understand, because he had been amassing wealth for his
ward, not for himself, and therefore knew not the dangers of the
pursuit.

The Reverend Benjamin Purdon was only a forerunner. He was followed by
the rest of the company--the delectable company--brought together for
our destruction. I would not willingly anticipate the sequel of these
arrivals among us, but there are moments when I am fain to declare a
righteous wrath. As for revenge--but it would be idle to speak of
revenge. When a man has taken all that he can devise or procure in the
way of revenge--bodily pain, ruin, loss of position, exposure,
everything--the first injury remains untouched. This cannot be undone;
nor can the injury be atoned by any suffering or any punishment.
Revenge, again, grows more hungry by what should satisfy it; revenge
is never satisfied. Revenge has been forbidden to man because he
cannot be trusted. It is the Lord's. In this case it was the Lord who
avenged our cause, and, I believe, turned the injury into a blessing,
and made our very loss a ladder that led to heaven.

A day or two after Mr. Purdon's arrival came a carriage and four
containing a very fine lady indeed, with her maid and her man. She
drove to the Crown, the people all looking after her. A large coat of
arms was emblazoned on the door of her carriage, with a coronet and
supporters; her man was dressed in a noble livery of pale green with
scarlet epaulettes. A little crowd gathered round the door of the
Crown while the footman held the door open and the lady spoke with the
landlord.

"Sir," she said, inclining her head graciously and smiling upon the
crowd, "I have been directed to ask for thy good offices in procuring
a lodging. I am a simple person, but a body must have cleanliness and
room to turn about."

"Madam," said the landlord, "there is but one lodging in the town
which is worthy of your ladyship. I have, myself, across the
market-place, a house which contains three or four rooms. These I
would submit to your ladyship's consideration."

This was an excellent beginning. The lady took the rooms at the rent
proposed and without haggling; there were two bedrooms, for herself
and her maid, and one room in which she could sit; the man found
lodgings elsewhere. It appeared from his statement that his mistress
was none other than the Lady Anastasia, widow of the late Lord
Langston, and sister of the living Earl of Selsey. It was, therefore,
quite true, as Sam Semple had announced, that persons of quality were
coming to the spa.

The Lady Anastasia, at this time was about twenty-six years of age, or
perhaps thirty, a handsome woman still, though no longer in the first
flush of her beauty. Her dress, as well as her manner, proclaimed the
woman of fashion. I confess that, as a simple sailor, one who could
not pretend to be a gentleman and had never before seen a woman of
rank, much less conversed with one, I was quite ready, after she had
honoured me with a few words of condescension and kindness, to become
her slave. She could bear herself with the greatest dignity and even
severity, as certain ladies discovered who presumed upon her kindness
and assumed familiarity. But while she could freeze with a frown and
humiliate with a look, she could, and did, the next moment subdue the
most obdurate, and disarm the most resentful with her gracious smile
and with her voice, which was the softest, the most musical and the
most moving that you can imagine. She had been a widow for two or
three years, and, having now put off the weeds, she was rejoicing at
the freedom which the world allows to a young widow of fortune and of
rank.

You may be sure that the news of her arrival was speedily spread
through the town. On the first night Lady Anastasia remained in her
lodgings; but the ringers of St. Margaret's gave her a welcome with
the bells, and in the morning the horns saluted her with a tune and a
flourish under her windows. To the ringers she sent her thanks, with
money for a supper and plenty of beer, and to the horns she sent out a
suitable present of money, also with thanks.

Later on, a deputation, consisting of the mayor in his robes and his
gold chain, accompanied by the aldermen in their gowns, the vicar in
his cassock and gown, the doctor in his best velvet coat and his
biggest wig, and Captain Crowle in his Sunday suit of black cloth,
waited on the Lady Anastasia. They marched along the street from the
town hall, preceded by the beadle in his green coat with brass buttons
and laced hat, carrying the borough mace, all to do honour to this
distinguished visitor.

They were received by the lady reclining on the sofa. Beside her stood
her maid in a white apron and a white cap. At the door stood her man
in his green livery--very fine. As for the Lady Anastasia's dress, I
will attempt on another occasion a more particular description.
Suffice it to say that it was rich and splendid. The reception which
she accorded to the deputation was most gracious and condescending, in
this respect surpassing anything that they had expected. They looked,
indeed, for the austerity and dignity of rank, and were received by
the affability which renders rank wherein it is found, admired and
respected. Indeed, whatever I shall have to relate concerning this
lady, it must be acknowledged that she possessed the art of attracting
all kinds of people, of compelling their submission to her slightest
wishes and of commanding their respectful affection. So much I must
concede.

The mayor bade her welcome to the spa. "Madam," he said, "this town
until yesterday was but a seaport, and we ourselves for the most part
merchants and sailors. We are not people of fashion; we do not call
ourselves courtiers; but you will find us honest. And we hope that you
will believe in our honesty when we venture, with all respect, to
declare ourselves greatly honoured by this visit of your ladyship."

"Indeed, worshipful sir, and reverend sir--and you, gentlemen, I am
grateful for your kind words. I am here only in the pursuit of health.
I want nothing more, believe me, but to drink your sovereign
waters--of which my physician speaks most highly--and when my health
allows me, to attend your church."

"We hope to offer your ladyship more than the pump room," the mayor
continued. "We have devised, in our humble way, rooms for the
entertainment of the company with music and gardens, and we hope to
have an assembly for dancing in the long room. They are not such
entertainments as your ladyship is accustomed to adorn, but such as
they are, we shall be deeply honoured if you will condescend to join
them. You will find the gentry, and their ladies, of the county and
others not unworthy of your ladyship's acquaintance."

"Sir, I accept your invitation with great pleasure. These gaieties
are, indeed unexpected. I look forward, gentlemen, to making the
acquaintance, before many days, of your ladies as well."

So she rose and dropped a curtsey, while her man threw open the door
and the deputation withdrew.

The doctor remained behind.

"Madam," he said, "you have been ordered--advised--by your physician
to try the waters of our spa. Permit me, as the only physician of the
town, an unworthy member of that learned college, to take charge of
your health during your stay. Your ladyship will allow me to feel your
pulse. Humph! It beats strong--a bounding pulse--as we of the
profession say. A bounding pulse. To be sure your ladyship is in the
heyday of life, with youth and strength. A bounding pulse. Some of my
brethren might be alarmed as at febrile indications; they would bleed
you--even _ad plenum rivum_--forgive the Latin. For my own part I
laugh at these precautions. I find in the strength of the pulse
nothing but the ardour of youth. I see no necessity for reduction of
strength by blood letting. Your ladyship will perhaps detail the
symptoms for which this visit to the spa was ordered."

The lady obeyed.

"These symptoms," said the doctor, "are grave. As yet they are
menacing only. Nature has given warning. Nature opens her book so that
we who know her language may read. We meet her warnings by sharp
action. Your ladyship will, therefore, while continuing the course
recommended by my learned brother, take one glass of the water daily;
in the morning, before breakfast, fasting. Each dose must contain
seven ounces and six drachms. I shall have the honour to visit your
ladyship daily, and we will regulate the treatment according to the
operation of the water."

"And must I give up the innocent pleasures offered me by your friends,
doctor? Surely, you will not be so cruel."

"By no means, madam. Partake of all--of all--in moderation. Cards are
good, if you like them. Dancing, if you like it--with your symptoms
you must, above all things, nourish the body and keep the mind in
cheerfulness."

The doctor withdrew and proceeded to relate to the pump room some
particulars, with embellishments, of his interview with the Lady
Anastasia.

"Nothing," he said, "can be imagined more gracious than her manner. It
is at once dignified and modest. 'I trust myself entirely to your
hands,' she said. What an example to patients of lower rank! 'I rely
entirely on your skill and knowledge,' she added. It should be a
lesson for all. I confess that it is gratifying even though the
compliment was not undeserved, and the confidence is not misplaced. We
may look for her ladyship in the long room this evening. I hope to
present to her many of the ladies of the company. It is a great thing
for the visitors and patients of the spa, that this accession of rank
and fashion has arrived. Her beauty will prove more attractive to the
gentlemen than the cockpit and the tavern; her manners and her dress
will be the admiration of the ladies. She will lead in the dance, she
will be queen of the spa. The widow of the right honourable the Lord
Langston, the daughter and the sister of the right honourable the Earl
of Selsey"--he rolled out the titles as if he could not have too much
of them or too many--"has come among us. We will restore her to health
by means of our spa; she will instruct our young folk in the manners
of the polite world."

In the evening the lady came to the long room soon after the music
commenced. Mr. Prappet, bowing low, invited her to honour the evening
by dancing a minuet. He presented a gentleman, the son of a Norfolk
squire, who, with many blushes, being still young, led out this lady,
all jewels, silk, ribbons, and patches, and with such grace as he
could command, performed the stately dance of the fashionable
assembly.

[Illustration: "HE PRESENTED A GENTLEMAN, THE SON OF A NORFOLK
SQUIRE."]

This done, the master of the ceremonies presented another gentleman,
and her ladyship condescended to a second dance--after which she
retired and sat down. The first gentleman then danced with another
lady; the second gentleman succeeded him, and dance followed dance.
Mr. Prappet presented to Lady Anastasia those of the ladies who
belonged to the gentry, and she was presently surrounded by a court or
company, with whom she discoursed pleasantly and graciously. The spa
had found a leader; the assembly was no longer frigid and constrained;
everybody talked and everybody laughed; the family groups were broken
up; none of the younger gentlemen deserted the assembly for the
cockpit; and when the country dance began and Lady Anastasia led,
dancing down the middle, taking hands and freely mixing with ladies
who had no pretensions to family, being perhaps the daughters of
merchants, and those in Lynn itself, the barriers were broken down,
and without setting themselves apart on account of family pride, the
whole company gave itself up to pleasure. When the music ceased, there
was a run upon the supper tables, and you could hear nothing but the
drawing of corks, the clicking of knives and forks, the music of
pleasant talk, and the laughter of girls. When, at midnight, the Lady
Anastasia called for her chair, a dozen young gentlemen sprang up to
escort her home, walking beside the chair to her lodgings, and bowing
low as she ran up the steps of her house.

The next arrival from London was a person of less consequence. He was
quite an old gentleman, who was brought, it appeared, by easy stages
in a post-chaise. The roughness of the road, especially towards the
end, had shaken him to such an extent that he was unable even to get
out of the chaise, and was carried into the house, where they found
him a lodging and put him to bed. His man told the people that this
was Sir Harry Malyns, a baronet and country gentleman, whose life was
wholly devoted to the pleasures of town. Those who had seen the
withered old anatomy carried out of his carriage laughed at the
thought of this ancient person still devoted to the pleasures of the
town. "Nay," said the varlet, grinning, "but wait till you see him
dressed. Wait till he has passed through my hands. You think he is at
his last gasp. Indeed, I thought so myself when I gave him his sack
posset and put him to bed, but he will recover. Sir Harry is not so
old but he can still bear some fatigues." And, indeed, you may imagine
the surprise of those who had seen him the day before, when, about
eleven o'clock in the forenoon, Sir Harry came out of the house and
walked along the street. In place of a decrepit old man they saw the
most gallant and the most bravely dressed beau that you can imagine.
He appeared from the back and from either side--where his face was not
visible--a young gentleman in the height of fashion. To be sure there
was a certain unsteadiness of gait, and if his foot struck against an
uneven piece of pavement you might perceive his knees knocking
together and his legs beginning to tremble. But he rallied bravely,
and went on. He carried his hat under his arm, a  cane dangled
from his right wrist, his left hand carried a gold snuffbox with a
lady painted on the outside. He walked with an affected step, such as
we call mincing, and when he came to the pump room he entered it upon
his toes, with his knees bent and his arms extended. For an example of
the manners which mean nothing but affectation and pretence, there was
no one at the spa who could compare with old Sir Harry.

The pump room was tolerably full of people who came in the forenoon to
talk. Sir Harry, pretending not to observe the curiosity with which he
was regarded, introduced himself to a gentleman by means of his
snuffbox. "Sir," he said, "have we any company at the spa?" He looked
round the room as if disdainfully. "Fine women, of course, we have.
Norfolk is famous for fine women and fat turkeys; but as for company?"

"Sir, we have many of the country gentry of Norfolk and Lincolnshire;
we have divines from the cathedral cities, and scholars from
Cambridge."

"But of company--such as a gentleman may call company?"

"Why, sir," said the other, himself a plain gentleman of Norfolk, "if
you are not satisfied with what you see, you had better find some
other place for your exalted society."

"Pray, sir, forgive me. I am but recently arrived from London. No
doubt the assembly is entirely composed of good families. I am myself
but a country gentleman and a simple baronet. I used the word company
in a sense confined to town."

"Well, sir, since you are no better than the rest of us, I may tell
you that we have among us a certain lady of rank--the Lady Anastasia
Langston----"

"Pray, sir, pray--excuse me. Not a 'certain' Lady Anastasia. If you
have the Lady Anastasia, you have, let me tell you, the very pearl of
highest fashion. If she is here, you are indeed fortunate. One woman
of her beauty, grace, wealth, rank, and goodness is enough to make the
fortune of the spa. Bath worships her; Tunbridge prays for her return;
there will be lamentation when it is known that she has deserted these
places for the newly discovered waters of Lynn."

"Indeed, sir, we ought to feel greatly honoured."

"You ought, sir. Your ladies of Norfolk will learn more from her, as
concerns the great world and the world of fashion, in a week than they
could learn at the assembly of Norwich in a year. The Lady Anastasia
carries about with her the air which stamps the woman of the highest
fashion. She walks like a goddess, she talks like an angel, and she
smiles like a nymph--if there are such nymphs, woodland or ocean
nymphs--who wear hoops, put on patches, build up headdresses, and
brandish fans."

There was another whose arrival from London caused no ringing of bells
and salutations by the horns. This was a certain Colonel Lanyon, who
wore the king's scarlet, having served and received promotion in the
king's armies. He was about forty years of age; a big, blustering
fellow who rolled his shoulders as he walked along and took the wall
of everybody. He began, as he continued, by spending his time in the
card room, at the cockpit, at the badger drawing, bull baiting, horse
racing, cudgel playing--wherever sport was going on or betting to be
made. He drank the hardest, he played the deepest, he swore the
loudest, he was always ready to take offence. Yet he was tolerated and
even liked, because he was good company. He sang songs, he told
anecdotes, he had seen service in the West Indies and in many other
places, he had passed through many adventures; he assumed, and
successfully, the manner of a good sportsman--free with his money, who
played deep, paid his debts of honour at once, and expected to be paid
in like manner. Now the gentlemen of Norfolk esteem a good sportsman
above all things, and readily pass over any little faults in a man who
pleases them in this respect. As for the ladies, the colonel made no
attempt to win their good graces, and was never seen either in the
long room or the gardens or the assembly.




CHAPTER X

"OF THE NICEST HONOUR"


Last of all came the prince of this company, whom I now know was the
arch villain, Lord Fylingdale himself.

We were prepared for his arrival by a letter from Sam Semple. He wrote
to the doctor informing him that my lord was about to undertake his
journey to Lynn, that he hoped to complete it in three days, and that
he would probably arrive on such a day. He further stated that the
best rooms at the Crown Inn were to be engaged, and that he, himself,
namely, Sam, would accompany his lordship in the capacity of private
secretary and, as he put it, confidential companion. To write such a
letter to the doctor was to proclaim it as from the house-top. In
fact, the good doctor made haste to read it aloud in the pump room and
to communicate the news to the mayor and aldermen.

Sir Harry, being asked if he knew his lordship, shook his head. "We of
the gay world," he said, speaking as a young man, "do not commonly
include Lord Fylingdale among the beaux and bucks. There is in him a
certain haughtiness which forbids the familiarities common among
ourselves."

"Is he, then, a saint?"

"Why, sir, I know nothing about saints. There are none, I believe,
among my friends. I have, however, seen Lord Fylingdale on the
race-course at Newmarket, and I have seen him at the tables when the
game of hazard was played. And I have never yet seen saint or angel at
either place."

"Then how is Lord Fylingdale distinguished?"

"Partly by his rank, but that is not everything. Partly by his wealth,
but that is not everything. Partly by his superiority, which is
undoubted. For he has none of the foibles of other men; if he sits
down to a bottle he does not call for t'other; if he plays cards he
wins or he loses with equal composure, caring little which it may turn
out; his name has never been mentioned with that of any woman. Yet the
world is eager after scandal, and would rejoice to whisper something
concerning him."

"He will condescend to despise us, then," said the vicar of St.
Margaret's, "seeing that our world is wholly addicted to sport, and
takes fortune with heat and passion."

"Not so, reverend sir. He will, perhaps, attend our entertainments,
but his mind is set above such vanities. As for me, sir, I own that I
live for them. But my Lord Fylingdale lives for other things."

"He is ambitious, perhaps. Has he thoughts of place and of the
ministry?"

Sir Harry took snuff. "Pardon me, sir. The world talks. I love the
world, but I do not always talk with the world. It may be that there
are reasons of state which bring him to this neighbourhood. I say
nothing." But he pointed over his shoulder and nodded his head with
meaning.

It will be remembered that Houghton, the seat of Sir Robert Walpole,
then the minister all powerful, is but a few miles from Lynn. The
crowd heard and whispered, and the rumour ran that under pretence of
seeking health, Lord Fylingdale was coming to Lynn in order ... here
the voice dropped, and the rest fell into the nearest ear.

The Rev. Mr. Purdon was more eloquent. "What?" he cried, "Lord
Fylingdale coming here? Lord Fylingdale? Why, what can his lordship
want at Lynn?"

"We have heard that he is sent here to drink the waters."

Mr. Purdon shook his head wisely. "It may be. I do not say that....
There is perhaps gout in the family.... But with a personage--a
personage, I say, there are many reasons which prompt to action.
However----"

"Pray, sir, if you know him, inform us further as to his lordship."

"Madam, I was his tutor. I accompanied him on the grand tour. I
therefore knew him intimately when he was a young man of eighteen. I
have been privileged with his condescension since that time. He is at
once a scholar, a critic, and a connoisseur; he hath a pretty taste in
verse and can discourse of medals and of cameos. He is also a man of
fashion who can adorn an assembly just as he adorns, when it pleases
him, the House of Lords. Yet not a fribble like certain persons"--he
looked at Sir Harry--"nor a beau, nor a profligate Mohock. Pride he
has, I allow. What do you expect of a man with such birth and such
ancestry? His pride becomes him. Lesser men can be familiar. He is
said to be cold towards the fair sex--I can contradict that calumny.
Not coldness but fastidiousness is his fault. 'My Lord,' I have said
to him often, 'to expect the genius of Sappho, the beauty of Helen,
and the charms of Cleopatra, is to ask too much. Not once in an age is
such a woman created. Be content, therefore,' I ventured to add.
'Genius will smile upon you; loveliness will languish for you; dignity
will willingly humble herself at your feet.' But I have spoken in
vain. He is fastidious. Ladies, if I were young; if I were a noble
lord; if I were rich; it is to Norfolk, believe me, that I should fly,
contented with the conquests awaiting me here. This is truly a land of
freedom where to be in chains and slavery is the happy lot."

This was the kind of talk with which we were prepared to await the
coming of this paladin.

He arrived. Late in the day about seven o'clock, there came into the
town, side by side, his lordship's running footmen. They were known by
the white holland waistcoat and drawers belonging to their calling,
the white thread stockings, white caps, and blue satin fringed with
velvet. In their hands they carried a porter's staff tipped with a
silver ball, in which I suppose was carried a lemon. The rogues
trotted in, without haste, for the roads were bad behind them, and
placed themselves at the door of the Crown Inn, one on each side. The
landlord stood in the open door, his wife behind him; and speedily
half the town gathered together to witness the arrival of the great
man.

His carriage came lumbering heavily along the narrow streets. Within,
beside his lordship, sat, as grand as you please, our poet Sam Semple.
It was admirable to remark the air with which he sprang out of the
carriage, offered his arm for the descent of his patron, followed him
into the inn, demanded the best rooms, ordered a noble supper, and
looked about him with the manner of a stranger and a gentleman, as if
the host of the "Crown" had never boxed his ears for an idle
good-for-nothing who could not even make out a bill aright. The bells
were set ringing for Lord Fylingdale as they had been for the Lady
Anastasia; in the morning the horns saluted the illustrious visitor;
and about eleven o'clock, when his lordship was dressed, the mayor and
aldermen, preceded by the bearer of the mace and accompanied by the
clergy of the town and the doctor, offered a visit of welcome and
congratulation.

They retired overwhelmed by the condescension of their guests. "One
does not expect," said the doctor, "the gracious sweetness of a lady;
but we received every possible mark of politeness and of
consideration. As for the mayor, his lordship treated him as if he
were the lord mayor of London itself. And for my own part, when I
remained on the departure of the rest, I can only say that I was
overwhelmed with the confidence bestowed upon me. There has been talk
in this pump room," he looked around him, "of other reasons--reasons
of state--and of pretended sickness. The company may take it from
me--from ME, I say--that whatever may be the reasons of state, it is
not for us to offer any opinion as to those reasons, the symptoms
which have been imparted to me in confidence are such that a visit to
the spa is imperative; and treatment, with drinking of the waters, is
absolutely necessary."

"This Lord Fylingdale, Jack," said Captain Crowle, who was one of the
deputation, "is a mighty fine gentleman, well favoured and well
mannered. I have not yet learned more about him. They say at the pump
room many things. He received us with condescension and was good
enough to promise attendance at our assembly, though, he said, these
occasions do not afford him so much pleasure as other pursuits. 'Tis a
fine thing, Jack, to be a nobleman and to have so much dignity; since
I have spoken with the Lady Anastasia I find myself trying to look
condescending. But the quarter-deck is one place and the House of
Lords is another. The captain of a ship, Jack, if he were affable,
would very quickly get knocked o' the head by his crew."

Meantime Sam Semple showed good sense in going round to visit his old
friends. Among others he called upon Captain Crowle, to whom he
behaved, with singular discernment, in such a way as would please the
old man. For on board ship we like a cheerful sailor, one who takes
punishment without snivelling, and bears no malice thereafter. A ship
is like a boys' school, where a flogging wipes out the offence, and
master and boy become good friends after it, whatever the heinousness
of the crime.

"Sir," said Sam, standing before the captain, modestly, "you will
understand, first of all, that I am reminded, in coming here, of the
last time that I saw you."

"Ay, my lad, I have not forgotten." The captain did not rise from his
armchair, nor did he offer Sam his hand. He waited to learn in what
spirit the young man approached him.

"Believe me, sir," said Sam, "I am not unmindful of a certain lesson,
rough perhaps, but deserved. The presumption of youth, ignorance of
the world, ignorance of the prize to which I aspired, may be my
excuse--if any were needed. I was then both young and ignorant." It
must be admitted that Sam possessed the gift of words. "Indeed, I was
too young to understand the humble nature of my origin and my
position, and too ignorant to understand my own presumption.
Therefore, sir, before I say anything more, I beg your forgiveness.
That presumption, sir, can never, I assure you, be repeated. I know,
at least, my own place, and the distance between a certain young lady
and myself."

"Why, my lad," said the captain, "since you talk in that modest way, I
bear no malice--none. Wherefore, here is my hand in token of
forgiveness. And so, on that head we will speak no more."

He extended his hand, which Sam took, still in humble attitude.

"I am deeply grateful, captain," he said. "You will, perhaps, before
long find out how grateful I can be." Time, in fact, did show the
depth of his gratitude. "Well, sir, I am now in high favour with my
Lord Fylingdale, on whom you waited this morning."

"I hope his favour will end in a snug place, Sam. Forget not the main
point. Well, your patron is a goodly and a proper man to look at. Sit
down, Sam. Take a glass of home brewed--you must want it after the ale
of London, which is, so far as I remember, but poor stuff. Well, now,
about your noble lord. He is a married man, I suppose?"

"Unfortunately, no. He is difficult to please."

"Ah! and, I suppose, like most young noblemen, something of a
profligate--eh, Sam? Or a gambler, likely! one who has ruined many
innocents. Eh?" The captain looked mighty cunning.

"Sir, sir!" Sam spread out his hands in expostulation. "You distress
me. Lord Fylingdale a profligate? Lord Fylingdale a gambler? Lord
Fylingdale a libertine? Sir!--Captain Crowle!" He spoke very
earnestly; the tears came into his eyes; he laid his hand upon the
captain's knee. "Sir, I assure you, he is, on the contrary, the best
of men. There is no more virtuous nobleman in the country. My tongue
is tied as his lordship's secretary, else would I tell of good deeds.
Truly, his right hand knoweth not what his left hand doeth. My lord is
all goodness."

"Ay, ay? This is good hearing indeed."

"Lord Fylingdale a gambler? Why he may take part at a table; but a
gambler? No man is less a gambler. What doth it matter to him if he
wins or loses a little? He neither desires to win, nor does he fear to
lose. You will, I dare say, see him in the card room, just to
encourage the spirit of the company."

"A very noble gentleman, indeed." The captain drank a glass of his
home brewed, "a very noble gentleman truly. Go on, Samuel."

"Also, he is one who, captain, if there is one thing in the world that
my patron abhors, it is the man who ruins innocency and leaves his
victim to starve. No, sir; his lordship is a man of the nicest honour
and the highest principle."

"He has a secretary who is grateful, at least," observed the captain.

"His sword is ever ready to defend the helpless and to uphold the
virtuous. Would to heaven there were more like the right honourable
the Earl of Fylingdale!"

"Look ye, Master Sam," said the captain. "Your good opinion of your
patron does you credit. I honour you for your generous words. I have
never so far, and I am now past seventy, encountered any man who was
either saint or angel, but in every man have I always found some flaw,
whether of temper or of conduct. So that I do not pretend to believe
all that you make out."

Sam Semple sighed and rose. "I ask not for your entire belief, sir. It
will be sufficient if you learn, as I have learned, the great worth of
this exalted and incomparable nobleman. As for flaws, we are all
human; but I know of none. So I take my leave. I venture to hope, sir,
that your good lady and your lovely ward--I use the word with due
respect--are in good health."

So he departed, leaving the captain thoughtful.

And now they were all among us, the vile crew brought together for our
undoing by this lord so noble and so exalted. And we were already
entangled in a whole mesh of lies and conspiracies, the result of
which you have now to learn.




CHAPTER XI

THE HUMOURS OF THE SPA


And now began that famous month--it lasted very little more--when the
once godly town of Lynn was delivered over to the devil and all his
crew. We who are natives of the place speak of that time and the
misfortunes which followed with reluctance; we would fain forget that
it ever fell upon us. To begin with, the place was full of people.
They came from all the country round; not only did the gentlefolk
crowd into the town and the clergy from the cathedral towns and the
colleges, but there were also their servants, hulking footmen, pert
lady's maids, with the people who flock after them, creatures more
women than men; the hairdressers, barbers, milliners, dressmakers, and
the creatures who deal in things which a fashionable woman cannot do
without, those who provide the powder, patches, cosmetics, _eau de
Chypre_, and washes for the complexion, the teeth, the hands, and
the face; the jewellers and those who deal in gold and silver
ornaments; the sellers of lace, ribbons, gloves, fans, and embroidery
of all kinds. Our shops, humble enough to look upon from the outside,
became treasure houses when one entered; and I verily believe that the
ladies of the spa took greater pleasure in turning over the things
hidden away behind the shop windows, and not exposed to the vulgar
gaze, than in any of the entertainments offered them.

Every other house in Mercer Street and Chequer Row was converted into
a shop for the sale of finery; at the door of each stood the shopman
or the shopwoman, all civility and assurance, inviting an entrance.
"Madam," said one, "I have this day received by the London waggon a
consignment of silks which it would do you good only to see and to
feel. Enter, madam; the mere sight is better for the vapours than all
the waters of the pump room. Look at these silks before they are all
sold. John, the newly arrived silks for their ladyships," and so on,
all along the streets while the ladies walked slowly over the rough
paving stones, followed by their footmen with their long sticks, and
their insolent bearing. Indeed, I know not which more attracted the
curiosity of the countrywomen--the fine ladies or the fine footmen.
These gallant creatures, the footmen with their worsted epaulettes and
their brave liveries, did not venture into the streets by the
riverside--Pudding Lane, Common Stath Lane, or the like--the resort of
the sailors, where the reception of those who did venture was warmer
and less polite than they expected.

For the gentlemen there were the taverns; every house round the
market-place became a tavern, where an ordinary was held at twelve.

And the gentlemen sat drinking all the afternoon. Nay, they began in
the morning making breakfast of a pint of Canary with a pennyworth of
bread, a slice of cheese, and after the meal a penny roll of tobacco.
These were the gentlemen belonging to the country families. The
attractions of the spa to them were the tavern, the cockpit, the field
where they raced their horses, the badger baiting, and sport of all
these kinds that can be obtained in the spring and summer, when there
is no shooting of starlings in the reeds of marshland, and the decoy
of ducks, for which this country is famous.

Rooms had to be found for the servants; a profligate and deboshed crew
they were, of whose manners it may be said that they were insolent,
and of their morals, that they had none. Two or three of them,
however, getting a drubbing from our sailors, the rest went in some
terror.

It was as if the birds of the air had carried the news of this great
discovery north and south, east and west, so that not only was a great
multitude attracted to the place in search of health and pleasure, but
also another multitude of those who came to supply every kind of want,
real or imaginary. A thousand wants were invented, especially for the
ladies, so that whereas many of the damsels from quiet country houses
had been content with homespun, linsey woolsey, or, at best, with
sarcenet, a few ribbons for their straw hats, and thread for their
gloves, now found themselves unable to appear abroad except with heads
made up on wires and round rolls, their hair powdered and pinned to
large puff caps, with gowns of silk, flounced sleeves, and a laced
tippet. And when they went home they were no longer contented with the
things of their own making, the cordials of ginger, cherries, and so
forth, the distilled waters, the home-brewed ale, the small beer, the
wines made with raspberries, currants and blackberries. They murmured
after tea and coffee, the wine of Lisbon and Canary, the rosolio and
the ratafia, the macaroons, the chocolate, the perfumes, and the many
gauds of the dressing-table. And they scorned the honest red and brown
of cheek and hands that cared nothing for the sun, as if they would be
more beautiful in the eyes of their lovers by having cheeks of a pale
white with a smudge of paint, and hands as white as if just out of bed
and a long illness.

The way of the company was as follows:

They met at the pump room about ten; they called for the water; they
exchanged the latest scandal; they talked about dress; they bemoaned
their losses at cards; they then walked off to morning prayers,
chiefly at St. Nicholas's, where, as you have heard, Mr. Benjamin
Purdon read them with honeyed words and rolling voice. From the church
they repaired to a confectioner's called Jonathan's--I know not
why--where they all devoured a certain cake made expressly for them;
from the confectioner's some went to the draper, the milliner, or the
haberdasher; some to the long room, where there were generally public
breakfasts of tea, chocolate, and coffee; a few, but these were mostly
men, went to the bookseller's, where, for half-a-crown a month, they
could read all day long and what they pleased. The bookseller came
from Norwich, and when the season ended went back to Norwich. Dinner
was served at twelve or one. At five o'clock or thereabouts the
company began to arrive at the gardens and the long room, where, with
music, cards, conversation, and walking among the  lamps, the
evening was quickly spent. Twice a week there was an assembly for
dancing, when refreshments were provided at the cost of the gentlemen.

For the gentlemen there were also the coffee houses, of which two at
least sprang into existence. One laid down twopence on entering, and
could call for a dish of tea, a cup of coffee, or one of chocolate. In
one of them were found the clergy, the lawyers, and the justices of
the peace; they settled the affairs of the nation and decided the
characters of the ministers. In the other were those who affected to
be beaux and wits. Among the latter set one found Sam Semple, now a
person of great authority, as the secretary of Lord Fylingdale and the
author of a book of verse. He pretended to be an arbiter. "Sir," he
would say, "by your leave. The case is quite otherwise. The matter was
lately discussed at Will's. A certain distinguished poet, who shall be
nameless, whose opinion carries weight even in that august assemblage,
was of opinion that...." And so forth, with an air of profound wisdom.
As regards wit in conversation, it consists, I believe, in finding
different ways, all unexpected, of saying: "You are a fool. You are an
ass. You are a jackanapes. You are an ignorant clown. You are a
low-born upstart." This kind of wit was cultivated with some success
at first, but as it was not always relished by those to whom it was
directed, it led to the pulling of noses and the discharge of coffee
or tea in the face of the ingenious author of the unexpected epigram.
So that its practice languished and presently died out altogether.

The most astonishing change, however, was in the market-place. Here,
instead of one market day in the week, there was a market day all the
week long. The stalls were never removed; every day the country people
crowded into the town--some riding, some walking, some in boats, some
in barges, bringing poultry, ducks, eggs, butter, cream, milk, cheese,
honey, lettuce for sallet, and everything that a farm, a dairy, and a
stillroom can provide. Some sat on upturned baskets, their wares
spread out before them; some stood at stalls with white hangings to
keep off the sun; the fine ladies went about among them chaffering and
bargaining, their maids following with baskets. It was a pretty sight,
and to my mind the rustic damsels, for good looks, got the better of
the fine ladies and their maids. Many of the beaux and young bloods
were of the same opinion, apparently, for they, too, went round among
the stalls, with compliments not doubtful, and talk more free than
polite, chucking the girls under the chin and pinching their cheeks.
To be sure these freedoms do a body no harm, and I believe our Norfolk
girls can look after themselves as well as any.

And every day outside the stalls there assembled such a motley crowd
as had never before been seen in Lynn. It was a perpetual fair, at
which you could buy anything. Gipsies went about leading horses for
sale, the cheap Jack stood on the footboard of his cart and bawled his
wares; the rogue stood up, with voice and cheeks of brass, and offered
his caps, knives, scissors, cups and saucers, frying pans, saucepans,
kettles, every morning. His store could never be exhausted; he took a
quarter of what he asked; and he went on day after day. Nor must we
forget the travelling quack, the learned doctor in a huge wig and
black velvet; as like to Dr. Worship himself as one pea is like
another. He had his stage and his tumbling clown, who twisted himself
upon the tight-rope, turned somersaults, walked on his head, grinned
and made mouths and was as merry a rogue as his master was grave.
After the Tom Fool had collected a crowd and made them merry, the
doctor advanced, his face full of wisdom, and explained that he came
among them newly arrived from Persia, that land famous for its learned
physicians; that he was not an ordinary physician, seeking to make
money by his science; that, on the other hand, what he offered was
given, rather than sold, the charge made being barely sufficient to
pay for the costly ingredients used in the making of these sovereign
remedies. He had his pills and his draughts; his balsams and his
electuary; he had his plaster against rheumatism; his famous _Pulvis
Catharticus_ against fever; his _Carduus Benedictus_ against ague;
and, in a word, his infallible remedies against all the ills to which
flesh is liable. So he played his part, not every day, but often, for
the crowd in the market-place changed continually, and every change
brought him new patients.

Or there was the tooth drawer. You knew him by the string of teeth
which hung round his neck like a string of pearls over the neck of a
lady or a collar of SS. round the neck of the worshipful the mayor. He
pulled teeth at half a crown each, and if that was too much, at a
shilling. Not only did he bawl his calling among the crowd, but he
went through the streets from house to house asking if his services
were wanted.

The town crier added to the noise and the animation of the scene.
Almost every day he had something to bawl. He was known by his dress
and his bell. He wore a green coat with brass buttons; a broad laced
hat, he had a broad badge with the arms of the town upon his arm; in
one hand he carried a staff and in the other his big bell. And being
by nature endowed with a loud voice, and a good opinion of himself, he
magnified his office by ringing more loudly and longer than was
necessary, by repeating his "O yes! O yes! O yes!" at the end as well
as the beginning of his announcement, and by proclaiming this twice
over.

Towards the hour of noon, when every tavern had its ordinary, and the
sausages and black puddings were hissing in the cooks' stalls, there
arose a fragrance--call it an incense of gratitude--which pleasantly
engaged the senses. It was a hogo of frying fish, chops, steaks,
sausages, bacon, ham and onions; it included the smell of gosling and
duckling and chicken, roasted rabbit fricasseed; of roast pork, lamb,
mutton, and beef; of baked pies--all kinds of pies--custards, cheese
cakes, dumplings, hasty pudding. Then the feet of those who could
afford it turned to the tavern; those who could not pay the ordinary
at two shillings, or that at one shilling, dived into the cellar,
where they could dine for sixpence, or stood about the stalls where
they fried the sausages; those who brought their dinner with them sat
on their baskets and devoured their food, or bought of the street
criers who now went up and down ringing bells and crying:

    Hot black puddings, hot,
      Smoking hot,
    Just come out of the pot.

or,

    Here, dainty brave cheese cakes,
      Come, buy 'em of me;
      Two for twopence,
      One for a penny;
    Come along, customers, if you'll buy any.

It pleased me to recall the humours of the town at that time. Except
for the rows of booths, one would have thought it Stourbridge Fair at
Cambridge, which once I saw. The weather was fine and clear, the cold
east winds gone. There was so much money flying about that everybody
was buying as well as selling; in spite of all that was brought into
the town by the visitors, nothing was left when they went away,
because all had been spent. We thought that the harvest would last
forever. We looked to a season like that of Bath, which goes on all
the year round. If our people took more money in one day than they had
before taken in a whole month, they thought that it would go on day
after day, and they spent it all without restraint. Nay, the wives and
daughters of those who had kept humble shops and been content with fat
bacon and hot milk for breakfast, and more bacon for dinner; who had
been clad in homespun, now drank tea with bread and butter for
breakfast like the Lady Anastasia herself; dined off ducks and
goslings; drank fine ale and even Canary and Lisbon; and ventured to
attend the assembly where they stood up to the country dance in silk
like any gentlewoman.

I have mentioned the company of players; they acted three times a
week. We who work for our living are apt to despise these mummers and
their calling; to pretend every day to be some one else is not, we
think, an occupation worthy of a man, while the painting, the
disguise, the representation, either in dumb show or in words, of all
the passions in turn, must surely leave the actor no real passions of
his own. Yet I heard, while this company was with us, cases of such
generosity and Christian charity one towards the other when the money
ceased to come in, that I am constrained to allow them at least the
great Christian virtue of love for one another.

Besides the players, there were the singers and the musicians of the
spa; and there were jugglers, mountebanks, tumblers, tight-rope
dancers, ballad-singers, fortune-tellers, conjurers, pedlars and
hawkers of all kinds. The town of Lynn, formerly so quiet and retired,
with no other disturbance than that caused by a brawl among drunken
sailors, became suddenly transformed into the abode of all the devils
disengaged at the moment. There were sharpers busy at the races and
the cocking; men who laid bets, and if they lost, ran away, but loudly
demanded their money when they won; there was gambling; there was
drinking; there was fighting; the servants were as corrupt as their
masters; there were fresh scandals continually; a reputation lost
every day; there were duels fought over drunken quarrels, about women,
about bets and wagers; the clerks of the counting-houses were filled
with the new spirit of gambling; there were lotteries and raffles in
which everybody took tickets, even if they got the money for them
dishonestly. In a word, the pursuits of pleasure proved a mad race,
down a broad and flowery path, on each side of which were drinking
booths, and music, and dancing, while at the end there opened wide....
You shall speedily learn what this was.




CHAPTER XII

THE CAPTAIN'S AMBITION


"Jack," said the captain, "I am now resolved that Molly shall make her
appearance at the assembly, and that as the heiress that she is. Not
lowly and humbly. She shall take her place at once among the fine
ladies."

"But she is not a gentlewoman, captain," I objected.

"She shall be finer than any gentlewoman of the whole company--just as
she is better to look at without any finery."

"Will the company," I asked, "welcome her among them?"

"The women, Jack, will flout and slight her--I have watched them. They
flout and slight each other. That breaks no bones. She shall go."

He went on to explain his designs. As you have heard, they were
ambitious.

"I have this day acquainted Molly, for the first time, with the truth.
She now knows that she is richer than any one believed. As for
herself, she never thought about her fortune, knowing, she says, that
it was safe in my hands. I have opened her father's strong place--it
is in the cellar, behind a stone, and I have taken out the treasures
that even her mother never saw, because her father wished to lead a
homely life, and concealed his treasures. There are jewels and gold
chains, bracelets, necklaces, rings--all kinds of things--Molly has
them all--she is even now hugging them all in her lap and trying them
on before her looking-glass. She shall go to the assembly covered with
jewels."

"Is there any one among the whole company fit for her?" I asked.

"There is one, Jack. He is the noble Lord--the Lord Fylingdale--a very
great man, indeed."

"Lord Fylingdale? Captain, are you serious?"

"Why, Jack, who can be too high and too grand for my Molly? He is said
to be of a virtuous character and pious disposition; he neither
gambles nor drinks, nor is a libertine, as is too common among many of
his rank."

"But, captain, he will marry one of his own rank."

"Ta-ta! he will marry a fine girl, virtuously brought up, made finer
by her fortune. What more can he expect than beauty, modesty, virtue,
and a great--a noble fortune? If the girl pleases him--why, Jack, come
to think of it, the girl must please him--she would move the heart of
an ice-berg--then, I say, I shall see my girl raised to her proper
place, and I shall die happy."

"But, captain, you will raise her above her mother and above yourself,
and above all her old friends. You will lose her altogether."

"Ay, there's the rub. But I shall be contented even with that loss if
she is happy."

I can see even now the honest eyes of the good old man humid for a
moment as he contemplated his own loss, and I can hear his voice shake
a little at thinking of the happiness he designed for his ward.

No one would believe that the captain could be so cunning. No one who
reads this history would believe, either, that a man could be so
ignorant and so simple. We were all as ignorant and as simple. We all
believed what these lying people--these creatures of the devil--(when
I say the devil I mean Lord Fylingdale)--told us. Sir Harry said that
he was too virtuous and too serious for the world of fashion; the
parson said that he was the most cleanly liver of all young men; the
poet swore that he was all day long doing and scheming acts of charity
and goodness towards the unfortunate. They were all in a tale--these
villains--and we were simple and ignorant folk, credulous sailors and
honest citizens living remote from the vices of town, who knew nothing
and suspected nothing. As for myself, I was carried away, as much as
the old captain, with the thought of the honour and glory that awaited
our Molly. I concluded, in my simplicity, that the mere appearance and
sight of the lovely girl would make all the men fall madly in love
with her, without considering the hundred thousand additional charms
held in trust for her by her guardian.

After this talk with the captain I sought Molly. She was in the
summerhouse up the garden with her treasures spread out before her. It
was a most wonderful sight--but it filled me with madness. I never
imagined such a pile of gold and of precious stones. There were
diamonds, and rubies, and blue sapphires; there were all kinds of
gems, with chains of gold and bracelets--a glittering pile of gold and
jewels. Yet my heart sank at the spectacle.

"Look, Jack, look," she cried. "They are all mine! All mine!" She
gathered up a handful, and let them roll through her fingers. "All
mine! Only think, and yesterday I was thinking how delightful it must
be to have even one gold chain to hang round my neck! All mine!"

"Has your mother seen them, Molly?"

"Yes; she knew that there were things somewhere, but my father kept
them put away. Mother didn't want jewels and chains. They came to us
from grandfather, who sailed to the East Indies and brought them home.
Look at the dainty delicate work!" She held up a chain most wonderful
for its fine small work. "Did you ever see anything more beautiful?"

I turned away. The sight of the treasures made me sick. For, you see,
they showed me how wide was the gulf between Molly and me.

"You want no jewels, Molly. I wish you were poor with all my heart."

"Oh! Jack! and so not to have these lovely things? That is cruel of
you. And oh! Jack, I am to go to the assembly to-morrow evening."

"So the captain tells me."

"At last. Victory and Amanda"--Victory was the daughter of the curate
of St. Nicholas, and Amanda was the daughter of the doctor--"have been
already, and I have been kept at home. The dear, bewitching assembly!
The music! The dancing! The fine ladies!"

"There will be none finer than you, Molly."

"That is what the captain says. I am to wear my gold chains and my
jewels. My dress is waiting to be tried on. It came from Norwich. I
shall not let you see it till the evening. The hairdresser is engaged
for to-morrow afternoon. Victory says that the fine ladies turn up
their noses and hide their faces with their fans when the girls of the
place pass before them. Why? Victory does not thrust her company upon
them. Nor shall I. As for that, I can bear their disdainful looks and
their flouts with patience, I dare say."

"If these are the manners of the Great," I said, "give me our own
manners."

"We are not gentlefolk, Jack, you and I and the captain. We must not
complain. If we intrude upon the Quality they will show what they
think of us. To be sure, the captain says that I could buy up the
whole room. But I don't want to buy up anybody. I would rather let
them go their own way, so that I may go mine. Jack, if I were a great
lady I think I would be kind to a girl who was not so well born, if
only she knew her place."

"You need not be humble, Molly. When they know who you are, and what
is your fortune, you will make these fine ladies ashamed."

"The captain wants me to marry some great person," she laughed. "Oh!
If the great person could see me making the bed and baking the apple
pie and beating the eggs for the custard, with my sleeves turned up
and my apron tied round my waist! What a fine lady I shall make, to be
sure!"

"Well, but, Molly, remember that you are rich. You cannot marry
anybody in Lynn. You must look higher."

"Jack, it makes me laugh. How shall I learn to be a great lady? How
should I command an army of servants who have had but my faithful
black? How should I sit in a gilded coach, who am used to ride a pony
or to sail a boat?"

"You will soon get accustomed, Molly, even to a coach and six and
running footmen, such as Lord Fylingdale has. You are not like Victory
and Amanda, and the rest of the girls of Lynn, portionless and
penniless. You must remember the station to which your fortune calls
you."

"Money makes not a gentleman," she returned. "Nor a gentlewoman. I
know my station. It is here, with my guardian, among my old friends.
Well, perhaps I shall not take my place in what you call my station
this year--or next year." Her face cleared, and became once more full
of sunshine. "Jack," she said, "has the captain told you? No one is to
dance with me to-morrow except yourself. We are to have the last
minuet and first country dance together. None of the pretty fellows at
the assembly are to speak to me. It is arranged with Mr. Prappet. They
may look on with admiration and longing, Mr. Prappet says."

Since the arrival of our master of the ceremonies, Mr. Prappet, the
dancing master of Norwich, he had been giving Molly lessons in those
arts of dancing and the carriage of the body, the arms, the face, the
head, which are considered to mark the polite world. As for myself, I
was called upon to be her partner. Truth to say, I was always better
at a hornpipe or a jig than in any of the fashionable dances; but, in
a way, I could make shift to go through the steps.

"Now," she said, "let us practise once more by ourselves."

So we stepped out upon the grass, and there--she in her stuff frock,
her apron, her hair lying about her neck and shoulders, and I in my
workaday garb--we practised the dance which belongs to the assembly,
to courts, to stately ladies and to gentlemen of birth and rank.

The captain was more cunning than one could have believed possible. He
would produce this girl before the astonished company. They should see
that she was more beautiful than any other woman in the whole room;
more finely dressed; covered with gold chains and jewels; thus
proclaiming herself as an heiress of great wealth. She should dance,
at first, with none but one of her own station, or near it, and her
old companion. She would first make all the world talk about her; but
she should be kept apart. It should be understood that she was not for
any of the young fellows of the company. Then, if she attracted the
attention of this young nobleman, so virtuous, so pious, and of such
rare qualities of heart and head--the thing which most he desired--her
marriage with some man of high position, fit for such a girl, might
take place. That was his design, thinking of Lord Fylingdale. If it
failed he would withdraw the girl from the company and cast about for
some other way.

While we were practising he came into the garden and stood leaning on
his stick to look at us.

"Body and bones!" he said; "you've caught the very trick of it.
Prappet has taught you how they do it. Sprawl, Jack; sprawl with a
will. Twist and turn your body. Shake your leg, man. It's a fine leg;
better than most. Shake it lustily. Slide, Molly, slide; slide with
zeal. Slide and bend and twist, and shake your fan. I don't call that
dancing! Why, there isn't a lad in any fo'k'sle couldn't do it better.
Give them the hornpipe, Jack, when the sliding and sprawling is
finished. Stand up and say, 'Ladies, your most obedient. I will now
show a dance that is a dance.'"

When we finished he went on with his discourse.

"Molly has told you, I suppose. She will dance to-morrow evening with
none but you. After the country dance lead her to her chair, and we
will walk home beside her."

"Jack will look very fine among all the beaux," said Molly, laughing.

Truly, I had not considered the matter of dress, and I stood in my
workaday things--to wit, a brown frieze coat with black buttons, a
drugget waistcoat, shag breeches, and black stockings. I remembered
the grand silk and velvet of the beaux and stood abashed.

"Show him, captain," said Molly, laughing, "what we have got for him."

The captain shook his head. "My mind misgives me," he said. "That boy
will feel awkward in this new gear. However, fine feathers make fine
birds. Also fine birds flock together. Since thou art to dance with
Molly, my lad, thy rig must do credit to her as well as thyself, so
come with me."

If you believe me, the captain, who thought of everything, had
provided such a dress as might have been worn by any gentleman in the
room without discredit. It consisted of a blue coat with silver
buttons and silver braid; a waistcoat of pink silk, velvet breeches,
and white silk stockings. There was added a gold laced hat with lace
for throat and sleeves.

"So," said the captain when I stood before him arrayed in this guise,
"'tis a gentleman born and bred, to look upon. Powder thy hair, my
lad; tie it with a white ribbon and a large bow. There will not be a
fribble in the whole company, even including the poor old atomy, Sir
Harry, to compare with you."

[Illustration: "'TIS A GENTLEMAN BORN AND BRED, TO LOOK UPON."]

Molly clapped her hands. "Jack!" she cried, "if I pretend to be a
great lady you must pretend to be an admiral, at least. Why, sir, I
feel as if we had never known you before. As for me--but you shall
see." She sighed. "It is only for the evening," she said. "We shall
come home and I shall put on my old homespun again and you your shag
and your frieze. I am Cinderella and you are Cinderella's brother, and
the captain is the Fairy."

So we laughed and made merry. Yet still I felt that sinking of the
heart which weighed upon me from the first night of the great
discovery and never left me. There are sailors--I have known such--I
think that I am myself one--who know beforehand by such a premonitory
sinking when the voyage will be stormy. Nay, there are some who know
and can foretell when the ship will be cast away and all her crew
drowned in the sea or broken to pieces against the rocks.

I looked into the parlour and found Molly's mother. She sat with her
work in her hands, her lips moving, her eyes fixed. And I saw that she
was unhappy. She was a homely body always. One could understand that
her husband was right in judging that she was not likely to want
jewels and gold chains or to show them to advantage. Like many women
of the station in which she was born (which was beneath that of her
husband) she was unlearned, and could not read; but she was a notable
housewife.

"Jack," she said, coming to herself, "Molly has told you, I suppose."

"I have seen her treasures, and have heard that she is to go to the
assembly."

"She is richer than I suspected. Oh, Jack, she will marry some great
man, the captain says--and so I shall lose my girl--and she is all I
have in the world--all I have--all I have!"

She threw her apron over her head--and I slipped away, my heart full
of forebodings. It is wonderful to remember these forebodings because
they were so fully justified. Patience! You shall hear.




CHAPTER XIII

MOLLY'S FIRST MINUET


I have now to tell you how Molly made her first public appearance at
the assembly, and how she delighted and pleased the kindly ladies who
formed the company.

It was a crowded gathering. Lord Fylingdale, it was known, would be
present. Many gentlemen, therefore, who would otherwise have been at
the coffee house, the tavern, or the cockpit, were present in honour
of this distinguished visitor, or in the hope of being presented to
him. And all the ladies visiting the spa were there as well, young and
old, matrons and maids; the latter, perhaps, permitting themselves
dreams of greatness.

His lordship arrived brave in apparel, tall, handsome, proud, still in
early manhood, wearing his star upon his breast. Every girl's heart
beat only to think of the chance should she be able to attract the
attention and the passion of such a man. He was accompanied (say,
followed) by his secretary, our poet--the only poet that our town has
produced. The master of the ceremonies received him with a profound
bow, and, after a few words, conducted him to the chair or throne on
which sat the Lady Anastasia with a small court around her. Then the
music began, and Lord Fylingdale led out that lady for the minuet. And
the company stood around in a circle, admiring. He next danced with
the young wife of a Norfolk gentleman and member of Parliament, after
which he retired and stood apart. Sir Harry followed, dancing twice
with a fine show of agility. After him others of lower rank followed.
Towards the conclusion of the minuet Molly entered the room, led by
her guardian, Captain Crowle, and followed by myself in my new
disguise.

The captain was no better dressed than if he were sitting in the Crown
Inn, save that he had exchanged his worsted stockings for white silk.
He looked what he was--a simple sailor and commander of a ship. But no
one regarded him or myself, because all eyes were turned upon Molly.

She appeared before the astonished assembly clothed, so to speak, with
diamonds and precious stones, glittering in the light of the candles
like a crowd of stars. She was covered with jewels. Diamonds were in
her headdress; they were also hanging from her neck; there were rubies
and emeralds, sapphires and opals in her necklace and her bracelets;
heavy gold chains, light gold chains, gold chains set with pearls were
hanging about her. She was clothed, I say, from head to foot with gold
and with precious stones.

The intention of the captain was carried out. On her first appearance
she proclaimed herself as she stood before them all as an heiress who
was able to carry a great fortune upon her back, as the saying is, and
to have another great fortune at home. Never before had the company
beheld so strange a sight; a girl wearing so much wealth and such
splendid jewels for a simple assembly.

Then from lip to lip was passed the words, "Who is she? What is her
name? Where does she come from? What is her family? What is the
meaning of this resplendent show of gems and gold? Are they real? Why
does she wear them?" And for the whole of that evening, while Molly
was in the room, no one thought of anything except this wonderful
vision of dazzling jewels. The eyes of the whole company followed her
about, and in their conversation they talked of nothing else. For, of
all things, this was the most unexpected, and, to all the other
maidens, the most disconcerting. They were plain country girls, while
Molly was a goddess. To say that she outshone them all is to say
nothing. There was no comparison possible.

Truly the captain was right. There was no one in that room who could
compare with Molly--either for beauty or for bravery of apparel. As
for her beauty, it was of the kind the power of which women seem not
to understand. Men, who do understand it, call it loveliness. Venus
herself--Helen of Troy--Fair Rosamond--Jane Shore--all the fair women
of whom we have heard, possessed, I am sure, this loveliness. Your
regular beauty of straight features of which so much is made doth
never, I think, attract mankind so surely, or so quickly; doth never
hold men so strongly; doth never make them so mad with love. It is the
woman of the soft eyes, the sweet eyes, the eyes that are sometimes
hazel and sometimes blue, the eyes full of light and sunshine, the
eyes where Cupid plays; the lips that are always ready to smile; the
lips so rosy red; so round and small; the cheek that is like a peach
for softness and for bloom, touched with a natural pink and red; the
rounded chin; the forehead white and not too large; the light brown
hair that is almost flaxen, curling naturally but disposed by art.
Such a woman was Molly.

Yet not a weakly thin slip of a girl. She was tall and strong; her
arms were round and white as a woman's should be, but they were big as
well, as if they could do man's work--they were strengthened and
rounded by the oars which she had handled from childhood. Her ample
cheek wanted no daub of paint; it had a fine healthy colour, like a
damask rose, but more delicate; her eyes were full and bright; there
was no girl in the place, not even among the country ladies, could
show a face and figure so strong, so finely moulded, of such large and
generous charms. When the men gazed upon her they gasped; when the
women gazed upon her their hearts sank low with envy.

How am I to describe her dress? I know that her head was made in what
they called the English fashion, with a structure of lace, thin wires
and round rolls on cushions, with ringlets at the sides and pinned to
a small cap on the top.

All I can safely say about her dress is that she wore a gown of
cherry- silk, with gold flowers over a petticoat of pink silk
adorned by a kind of network of gold lace; that her sleeves were wide
with a quantity of lace--I have never carried a cargo of lace, and
therefore I know not its value; that her gloves were of white silk;
that her arms were loaded with bracelets which clanged and clashed
when she moved; and that chains of gold hung round her neck and over
her shoulders.

The master of ceremonies received us with distinction.

"Captain Crowle," he said, loudly, "you have too long withheld your
lovely ward from the assembly of the spa. I would invite her to dance
the last minuet with Mr. Pentecrosse."

All this had been arranged beforehand. The people gazed curiously, and
began to press around us as I advanced with Molly's hand in mine.

"Be not abashed, Jack," whispered the old captain. "They know not what
to think. Show them how the dance should be done. Slide and sprawl, my
lad. Sprawl with a will and both together," he added, hoarsely, "with
a yo-heave-ho!"

Then the music began again, and Molly stood opposite to me--and the
dance began.

For my own part I obeyed the captain's admonition. I endeavoured to
forget the people who were looking on--I tried to think that we were
rehearsing in the garden--and feeling confidence return, I began to
slide and sprawl with a will.

All the people were gathered round us in a circle. The ladies, holding
their fans before their faces, tittered and giggled audibly. The men,
for their part, laughed openly, making observations not intended to be
good-natured. They were laughing at me! And I was getting on, as I
believed, so well. However, I did not know the cause of their
merriment, and carried on the sprawling with a greater will than ever.

I am sorry now, whenever I think upon it, that Molly had not a better
partner. For my performance, which was quite correct, and in every
particular exactly what Mr. Prappet had taught me, was distinguished,
I learned afterwards, by a certain exaggeration of gesture due to my
desire to be correct, which made the dance ridiculous. If only I had
been permitted to give them a hornpipe! What had I, a mere tarpaulin,
as they say, to do with fine clothes, fashionable sliding and
sprawling, and the pretence of fashionable manners?

You must not think that Molly, though it was her first appearance in
public, though she wore these fine things for the first time, though
all eyes were upon her, was in the least degree abashed. She bore
herself with modesty and an assumed unconsciousness of what people
were saying and how they were looking at her, which certainly did her
great credit. And I am quite sure that, whatever my own performance,
hers was full of grace and ease, and the dignity which makes this
dance so fit for great lords and ladies and so unfit for rustic swains
and shepherdesses. She smiled upon her partner as sweetly as if we
were together in the garden; she played her fan as prettily as if we
were rehearsing the dance with mirth and merriment--it was a costly
fan, with paintings upon it and a handle set with pearls.

The dance was finished at last, and I led my partner to the end of the
room, where the maids sat all in a row with white aprons and white
caps--among them Molly's woman, Nigra--to repair any disorder to the
head or to the dress caused by the active movements of the dance.

And then they all began to talk. I could hear fragments and whole
sentences. They were talking about us.

"Who is she, then?" asked one lady, impatiently. "Where does she come
from?"

"Perhaps a sea nymph," replied a gentleman, gallantly, "brought from
the ocean by the god Neptune, who stands over yonder. One can smell
the seaweed."

"And the gems and chains come, I suppose, from old wrecks."

"Or," said the ancient beau, Sir Harry, "a wood nymph from the train
of Diana. In that case the old gentleman may be the god Pan. The
nymphs of Diana, it appears, have lately taken lessons in the
fashionable dance. As yet, unfortunately----" He shrugged his
shoulders.

"I cannot choose but hear, Jack," said Molly. "Let us make as if we
heard nothing."

"She is an actress," said another lady. "I saw her last night in the
play. She personated an impudent maidservant. The chains and gems are
false; one can see that with half an eye. They are what those vagabond
folk call stage properties."

Yet another took up the parable. "She should be put to the door, or
she should stand in a white apron with the maids. What? We are decent
and respectable ladies, I hope."

"They are not gems at all," observed a young fellow, anxious to display
his wit. "They are the lamps from the garden. She has cut them down and
hung them round herself. See the pretty colours--red--green--blue."

"Let her put them back again, then, and leave the company into which
she dares to intrude." This was the spiteful person who had seen her
on the stage and knew her for one of the strollers. The resentment of
the ladies against a woman who presumed to be more finely dressed than
themselves, and to display more jewels than they themselves possessed,
or even hoped to possess, was deeper and louder than one could believe
possible. Yet this was a polite assembly, and these ladies had learned
the manners which we are taught to copy, at a distance--we who are not
gentlefolk.

"Jack," said Molly, "these are the flouts of which the captain warned
us. Lead me round the room. Right through the middle of them, so that
they may see with half an eye how false are my jewels."

I obeyed. They fell back, making a lane for us, and talking about us
after we passed through them, without the least affectation of a
whisper.

They had an opportunity, however, of seeing the dress and the
trappings more closely.

"My dear," said one, "the jewels are real. I am sure they are real. On
the stage they wear large glass things. Those are brilliants of the
first water in her hair, and those are true pearls about her neck."

"And her dress," said another, "is of the finest silk; and did you see
the gold lace in front of her petticoat? The dress and the jewels,
they must be worth--oh! worth a whole estate. Who can she be?"

"Such a woman," observed an elderly matron very sweetly, "would
probably be ashamed to say where she found those things. Oh! But the
master of the ceremonies must be warned. She must not be tolerated
here again."

"How kind they are, Jack!" whispered Molly.

"Who is the fellow with her?" I heard next.

"He sells flounders and eels in the market. I have seen him in a blue
coat and long white sleeves and an apron."

"No. He is a clerk in a counting-house."

"Not at all. The fellow, like the girl, belongs to the strollers. I
saw him last night laying a carpet on the stage."

"A personable fellow, with a well turned leg." This compliment made me
blush. "It is his misfortune that he must be coupled with so impudent
a baggage."

"You see, Jack," said Molly, "it all comes back to me."

So we went on walking round the room, pretending to hear nothing. We
met Victory, also walking round the room with her beau, a young
merchant of the town. She, fortunate girl! had no jewels with which to
excite the envy, hatred, and malice of the ladies. She was unmolested,
though not a gentlewoman by station.

"Molly," she said, "you are splendid. I have never seen such a show of
jewels. But you will drive them mad with envy. Hateful creatures! I
see them turning green. The minuet was beautiful, my dear. Oh! Jack,
you made me laugh. Never was seen such posturing. The men are angry,
because they think you meant to make them ridiculous."

Thus may one learn unpalatable truth, even from friends. My
"posturing," then, as the girl called it, was ridiculous. And I
thought my performance correct, and quite in the style of the highest
fashion!

Then the captain joined in. "Famous!" he said. "Jack, you rolled about
like a porpoise at the bows. Never believe that a sailor cannot show
the way at a dance. Molly, my dear, you were not so brisk as Jack. But
it was very well, very well, indeed. The women cannot contain
themselves for spite and envy. What did I tell you, my dear?"




CHAPTER XIV

MOLLY'S COUNTRY DANCE


Meantime another kind of conversation was going on, which we could not
hear.

"My lord," the poet bustled up, with his cringing familiarity. "Yonder
is the heiress of whom I spoke."

"Humph! She is well enough for a rustical beauty. Her shape is good,
if too full for the fashion; her cheeks bespeak the dairy, and her
shoulders tell of the milking pail. Why does she wear as many jewels
and charms as an antiquated duchess at a coronation? I suppose they
are real. But there are too many of them."

"They are real. I would vouch for them, my lord," he added earnestly.
"All that I have told you is most true. A greater heiress you will not
find in the whole country. Even with the jewels upon her she could buy
up all the women in the room."

"I would make sure upon that point. They say that she has ships,
lands----"

"And money. Accumulations. My lord, if you will not take my word for
it--why should you?--ask her guardian. There he stands."

"The old salt now beside her, like a Cerberus of the quarter-deck? Who
is the other--the fellow who danced with her--his actions like those
of a graceful elephant? Is he one of her lovers?"

"She has no lovers. Her guardian permits none. The young lady has been
kept in the house. That man is her servant; he is nothing but a mate
in one of her ships. Captain Crowle would not allow a fellow of that
position to make love to his ward."

"Humph!" said his lordship. "Bring the old man here."

The captain obeyed the summons somewhat abashed. But my lord put him
at his ease. "You may retire, Mr. Semple. I would converse with
Captain Crowle." Then he turned to the captain with the greatest
affability.

"Our good friend, Mr. Semple, tells me, captain, that yonder
beauty--the toast, if I mistake not, of our young gentleman
to-night--is none other than your ward."

"At your service, my lord."

"Nay, captain. It is I who should be at her service. Frankly, she does
honour to your town. Had we discovered Miss Molly there would have
been no need to discuss the magical waters of the spa. May I inquire
into the name and conditions of her family?"

"As for her name, sir, it is plain Molly Miller. As for her parentage,
her father was a ship owner and a merchant. Though a citizen and a
free man of Lynn, he was as substantial a man as may be found in the
port of London. Her mother, my first cousin, was the daughter and the
granddaughter and the sister and the cousin of men who have been
captains in the merchant service of Lynn--for many generations. Most
of them lie at the bottom of the sea. We are plain folk, my lord, and
homely. But Providence hath thought fit to bless our handiwork,
and--you see my ward before you--I hope she does not shame the
company?"

"On the contrary, Captain Crowle, she adorns and beautifies the
company not only with her good looks, which are singular and
extraordinary, but also with her fine dress and her jewels, which have
won for her already the envy of every woman in the assembly.

"There are as many jewels in the locker as have come out of it for
to-night," said the captain sturdily.

"Ay? Ay? And there are ships, I hear--many ships. Our friend Mr.
Semple speaks of the lady's wealth with as much respect as he speaks
of her beauty."

"He well may--Molly is the greatest shipowner of Lynn. She is also
owner of many houses in the town and of many broad acres outside the
town. And she will have, when she marries, in addition, a fortune of
many thousand pounds."

"She is, then, indeed, an heiress. I wish her, for your sake, Captain
Crowle, a worthy husband. But it is a grave responsibility. There are
hawks about always looking for a rich wife--to restore fortunes
battered by evil courses. You must take care, Captain Crowle."

"I mean to take care."

"Perhaps among the merchants of this port." The captain shook his
head.

"Or among the gentlemen of Norfolk." The captain shook his head.

"They drink too hard--and they live too hard."

"Perhaps among the scholars and divines of Cambridge."

"They are not fit mates for a lively girl."

"Captain, I perceive that you are difficult to please. Even for your
charming ward you must not expect a miracle in the creation of a new
Adam fit for this new Eve. Be reasonable, Captain Crowle." His
lordship spoke so pleasantly and laughed with so much good nature that
the captain was encouraged, and spoke out his mind as to an old
friend.

"No, no, I want no miracle. I desire that my girl, who is a loving
girl, with a heart of gold, should be wooed and married by a gentleman
whom she will respect and honour--not a drinker nor a gambler nor a
profligate. She will bring him a fortune which is great even for
persons of quality."

My lord bowed gravely. "You are right, Captain Crowle, to entertain
these opinions. Do not change them under any temptations. One would
only wish that the lady may find such a mate. But, captain,
remember--I say it not in an unfriendly spirit--class weds with class.
Sir, they are about to begin the country dance, let us look on."

The company began to take their places.

"Captain Crowle," Lord Fylingdale pointed to the dancers, repeating
his words: "Class weds with class--class dances with class. At the
head of the set stands Sir Harry the Evergreen. His partner is a lady
of good family. Next to them are others of good family. Those young
people who are now taking their places lower down are---- What are
they?"

"Two of them are the daughters of the doctor and the vicar--good girls
both."

"Good girls, doubtless. But, Captain Crowle, not gentlefolk, and
there, I observe, your lovely ward, Captain Crowle, takes her place
modestly and last of all. Who dances with her?"

"It is young John Pentecrosse, son of our schoolmaster, mate on board
one of Molly's ships. He is her playfellow. They have been together
since childhood."

"Perhaps he would be more. Take care, captain--take care." So he
turned away as if no longer interested in the girl. But Sam Semple
remained behind.

"Sir," he said to the captain, "his lordship took particular notice of
your ward. 'Miss Molly,' said my lord, 'is a rustic nymph dressed for
the court of Venus. Never before have I seen a face of more heavenly
beauty.' Those were his lordship's very words." But Sam Semple was
always a ready liar.

"Ay, my lad. They are fine words; but fine words butter no parsnips.
'Class weds with class,' that's what he said to me."

"Surely, captain, with such a face and such a fortune Miss Molly is
raised to the rank ... say, of countess. Would a coronet satisfy you
for your ward? I mean nothing"--here he glanced at the figure of his
lordship. "Nothing--of course not--what could I mean? How well a
coronet, captain, would become that lovely brow!"

Everybody knows that the country dance should continue until the
couple at the bottom have arrived at the top and have had their turn.
Everybody knows, too, that the country dance, unlike the minuet, is
joined by the whole company, with only so much deference to rank as to
give the better sort the highest places at the beginning. They were
given this evening to the ladies of the county who could boast of
their gentility, and, to do them justice, did boast loudly of it,
comparing their own families and that of their husbands with those of
other ladies present. It seems to me, indeed, that it is better to
have no coat of arms and no grandfathers if the possession leads to so
much jealousy, backbiting, and slander. All these ladies, however,
united in one point, viz, that of scorn and contempt for those girls
of Lynn who ventured to join the assembly or to walk in the gardens.
They showed this contempt in many ways, especially by whispering and
giggling when one of the natives passed them. "Is it tar that one
smells so strong?" if one of the sea captain's daughters was standing
near, they would ask. Or "Madam, I think there must be an apothecary's
shop in the assembly," if it was the doctor's daughter, Amanda
Worship. And at the country dance they refused to take the hand of
these girls.

Their greatest possible insult, however, was offered to Molly. It was
a good dance tune, played with spirit--the tune they call "Hey go
mad!" We moved gradually higher up. At last we stood at the top, and
our turn came to end the dance.

Imagine our discomfiture at this point when the whole of these kind
ladies and their partners left their places and so broke up the dance.
We were left alone at the top, while at the bottom were the other two
girls of Lynn, Victory and Amanda, with their partners.

"It's a shame!" cried Victory, aloud. "Do they call these manners?"

"Never mind," said Amanda, also aloud; "it's because you outshine them
all, Molly."

But the mischief was done, and the dance was broken up.

Molly flushed crimson. I thought she would say something sharp. Nay, I
have known her cuff and box the ear of man or maid for less, and I
feared at this moment that she would in like manner avenge the insult.
But she restrained herself, and said nothing.

Meantime, the ladies who had committed this breach of polite manners
stood together and laughed aloud, pretending some great joke among
themselves; but their eyes showed the nature of the joke and this
triumph over a woman who, as Amanda said, outshone them all.

"Your turn will come," I said.

"I think, Jack," said my girl, quickly, "that my chair must be
waiting. The captain said that I was to go after the first country
dance."

But a great surprise awaited her and the ladies who had played her
this agreeable and diverting trick, for Lord Fylingdale stepped
forward, the people falling back to make way for him. He drew himself
up before Molly and made her a profound bow. The captain walked beside
him, evidently by invitation.

"Miss Molly," he said loudly, "your worthy guardian has informed me of
your name and quality. We wanted, in the company at the spa, to make
it complete--the heiress of Lynn. It is fitting that this borough,
which is always young and flourishing, should be represented by one
graced with so many charms."

Molly curtsied with more dignity than one could have expected. See
what a dancing master can effect in a fortnight. "Your lordship," she
said, "does me too much honour. The reception which I have met with
from these ladies had not, I confess, prepared me for your kindness."

"I shall humbly ask the favour of a dance with you, Miss Molly, on the
next occasion." The fans were now all agitation; 'twas like a flutter
in a dovecot. "We shall see if we shall be deserted when our turn
comes." Some of the ladies hid their faces with their fan; some
blushed for shame; some bit their lips with vexation; all darted looks
of envy and hatred upon the cause of the open rebuke.

"Sir"--Lord Fylingdale turned severely to the master of the
ceremonies--"the rules of polite society should be obeyed at Lynn as
much as at Bath and Tunbridge Wells. Look to it, sir; I request you."

So saying, he took Molly's hand, and led her to the chair outside.




CHAPTER XV

THE CARD ROOM


When Molly's chair was carried away, Lord Fylingdale returned to the
assembly. The music had begun another moving and merry tune--that
called "Richmond Ball"--the couples were taking their places, the
young fellows dancing already as they stood waiting, with hands and
feet and even shoulders all together, their partners laughing at them,
and, with hands upon their frocks, pretending to set in the joy and
the merriment of their hearts. And I believe that the withdrawal of
Molly made them all much happier.

Two or three of the ladies standing apart were discussing the public
rebuke just administered. They were angry, being ladies who conceited
themselves on the score of manners, and were proud of their families.

"Not the whole House of Lords," said one, loud enough for his lordship
to hear, "shall make me give my hand to a sailor's wench. Let her
stick to her tar and her pitch. A pretty thing, indeed!"

"I hope," said another, agitating her fan violently, "that his
lordship does not put the ladies of Norfolk on the same level as the
girls of King's Lynn."

"Dear madam," said a third, "Lord Fylingdale called her an
heiress--the heiress of Lynn. An heiress does not carry all her
fortune on her back. Do you not think--some of us have sons--that we
might, perhaps, receive this person with kindness?"

"No, madam. I will not be on any terms with this creature. In my
family we consort with none but gentlefolk."

"Indeed, madam! But a hundred years ago your family, if I mistake not,
were ploughing and ditching on the farms of my family."

Molly seemed like to prove a firebrand indeed. Lord Fylingdale,
however, passed through them without any sign of hearing a word. He
looked round; he observed that the next dance had begun, and that
every lady was touching the hands of those who were not of her own
exalted family. So that his admonition was bearing fruit. He then left
the long room and went into the card room. Here he found the Lady
Anastasia sitting at a table, surrounded by a little crowd of players.
She held the bank. In the excitement of the play her eyes sparkled;
her bosom heaved; her colour went and came visibly beneath the paint
on her cheeks; her lips became pale and then returned to their proper
colour; she rapped the table with her fingers. She was enjoying, in
fact, the rapture which fills the heart of the gambler and makes play
the only thing desirable in life. Perhaps the preacher could imagine
no greater misery for the gamester than a heaven in which there were
no cards.

The game which the Lady Anastasia introduced to these country
gentlemen and the company generally was one called hazard, which is, I
believe, commonly played by gamesters of fashion. Indeed, as was
afterwards learned, this very lady had been by name presented by the
grand jury of Middlesex for keeping a bank at the game of hazard on
Sundays against all comers. At Lynn she kept the bank every evening
except Sunday. It is a game which, more than any other, is said to
lure on the player, so that a man who, out of simple curiosity, sets a
guinea and calls a main, finds himself, after a few evenings of
alternating fortune, winning and losing in turn, so much attracted by
the game that he is only happy when he is playing. I know not how many
gamblers for life were made during the short time when this lady held
the bank. Wonderful to relate, no one seemed to consider that she was
doing anything wrong. She was seen at morning prayers every day; she
drank the waters of the spa; she walked in the gardens, taking tea and
talking scandal with the greatest affability; and in the evenings,
when she kept the bank, it was with a face so full of smiles, with so
much appearance of rejoicing when a player won, and so much kindness
and sympathy when a player lost, that no one asked whether she herself
won or lost.

For my own part, I do not understand how the bank can be held without
great risks and losses. But I have been assured, by one who knows,
that the chances are greatly in favour of the bank, and that this
lady, so highly placed, and of such charming manners, was simply
playing to win, and did win very largely, if not every evening, then
in the course of a week or a month.

"We are all friends here," she said, taking her place and dividing the
pile of money, which constituted her bank, into two heaps, right and
left. At her right hand stood a man of cold and harsh appearance, who
took no interest in the game, but, like a machine, cried the main and
the chance, and gave or took the odds, and, with a rake, either swept
the stakes into the bank when the player lost, or pushed out the
amount won by the player to his seat. They called him the _croupier_,
which is, I believe, a French word. He came from London.

"Since we are all friends here," Lady Anastasia went on, "we need not
observe the precautions that are necessary in London, where players
have been known to withdraw part of their stakes when they have lost,
and to add more when they have won."

Among the players seated at the table--there were many others
standing, who ventured a guinea or so, and, having won or lost, went
away--was the ancient youth of fashion, Sir Harry, who had now
exchanged the dance for the card room. There was also the gentleman of
loud voice and boisterous manners, called Colonel Lanyon.

Sir Harry was the first to call for the dice box, and the dice.

"Seven's the main," he cried, laying as many guineas on the table. He
then rattled the dice and threw. "Five!" he cried.

"Five!" repeated the croupier. "Seven's the main, five is the chance."

The rule of the game is that the player throws again and continues to
throw. If he throws seven first, he loses; if he throws five first, he
wins. But there are introduced certain other rules, so that the game
is not so easy and simple as it seems. Some throws are called "nicks,"
and some are called "crabs." If a nick is thrown, the caster pays to
the bank one main. If crabs, the dice box goes to another player. But
any bystander may bet on the odds. I know not myself what the odds
are, but the regular player knows, and the croupier calls them; in
some cases the bystanders may not bet against the bank, but I do not
know these cases. I know only the simple rules, having seen it played
in the card room.

Lord Fylingdale looked on with an air of cold indifference. He saw, if
he observed anything, that Colonel Lanyon and Sir Harry were playing
high, but that the rest of the company were timidly venturing single
guineas at each cast. Some of them were women, and these were the
fiercest and the most intent upon the game. Most of them were young
men, those who commonly spent their days in all those kinds of sport
which allow of bets and the winning and losing of money. We have heard
of gaming tables in London at which whole fortunes are sometimes lost
at a single sitting; of young men who sit down rich and rise up
poor--even destitute. The young men of Norfolk certainly do not gamble
away their estates in this blind fashion; but it must be owned that
their chief pleasures are those on which they can place a wager, and
that the pastimes which do not allow of a bet are not regarded with
favour. For the ladies of the towns a game of quadrille or whist is
the amusement whenever two or three can be got together. It must,
however, be confessed that the gentlemen are fonder of drinking away
their evenings than of playing cards. The games of ombre, hazard,
basset, faro, and others in which large sums of money are staked, are
commonly played by the people of the town, not of the country.

Lord Fylingdale stood for a while looking over the table. Then he
pulled out his purse--a long and well-filled purse--and laid down
twenty guineas, calling the main "Nine." He threw. "Nick," cried the
croupier in his hard, monotonous note. His lordship had lost. He took
out another handful of guineas and laid them on the table. Again he
lost. The players looked up, expectant. They wanted to see how a noble
lord would receive this reverse of fortune. In their own case it would
have been met with curses on their luck, deep and loud and repeated.
To their astonishment he showed no sign of interest in the event. He
only put up his purse and resumed his attitude of looking on.

At eleven o'clock the music stopped; the dancing was over. Nothing
remained but the punch with which some of the company concluded the
evening. It was provided at the expense of the gentlemen.

The players began to recount their experiences. Fortune, which had
smiled on a few, seemed to have frowned on most.

Then Lord Fylingdale offered another surprise.

"Ladies," he said, "I venture to offer you the refreshment of a glass
of punch. Gentlemen, may I hope that you will join the ladies in this
conclusion to the evening? I would willingly, if you will allow me,
drink to your good luck at the card table. Let the county of Norfolk
show that Fortune which has favoured this part of the country so
signally in other respects has also been as generous in this. I am not
myself a Norfolk, but a Gloucestershire man. I come from the other
side of the country. Let me, however, in this gathering of all that is
polite and of good family in the county be regarded as no stranger,
but a friend."

By this time the punch was brought in, two steaming great bowls. The
gentlemen ladled it out for the ladies and for themselves and all
stood expectant.

"I give you a toast," said his lordship. "We are entertained by the
ancient and venerable borough of Lynn; we must show our gratitude to
our entertainers. I am informed that these rooms, these gardens, the
music and the singers, together with the pump room, have all been
designed, built, collected, and arranged for the company, namely,
ourselves. Let us thank the good people of Lynn. And, since the town
has sent to our assembly to-night its loveliest flower, the young
heiress whom I shall call the Lady of Lynn, let us drink to her as the
representative of her native place. Gentlemen, I offer you as a toast,
'Sweet Molly, the Lady of Lynn!'"

The gentlemen drank it with enthusiasm, the ladies looked at each
other doubtfully. They had not come to Lynn expecting to hear the
beauty of a girl of the place, the town of sailors, ships, quays,
cargoes, casks, cranes, and merchants, the town of winding streets and
narrow courts where the deserted houses were falling to pieces. The
county families went sometimes to Norwich, where there is very good
society; and sometimes to Bury, where there are assemblies in the
winter; but no ladies ever came to Lynn, where there were no
assemblies, no card parties, and no society.

After this toast, the Lady Anastasia withdrew with the other ladies.
Lord Fylingdale led her to her chair and then called for his own.

The gentlemen remained sitting over their punch and talking.

"Who," said one, "is this sweet Molly? Who is this great heiress? Who
is the Lady of Lynn?"

"I never knew," said another, "that there was a lady in Lynn at all."

"You have been in the card room all the evening," said another. "She
danced the last minuet. Where can she be hidden that no one has seen
her before? Gentlemen, 'twas a vision of Venus herself, or the fair
Diana, in a silk frock and a flounced petticoat, with pearls and
diamonds, and precious stones. An heiress? An heiress in Lynn?"

The poet, Sam Semple, who was present, pricked up his ears. The punch
had begun to loosen his tongue.

"Gentlemen," he said, "by your leave. You are all strangers at Lynn
Regis. Norwich you know, and Bury and Swaffham, and perhaps other
towns in the county. But, with submission, Lynn you do not know."

"Why, sir, as for not knowing Lynn, what can a body learn of the place
that is worth knowing?"

"You think that it is a poor place, with a few colliers and fishing
smacks, and a population of sailors and vintners." The poet took
another glass of punch and drank it off to clear his head. "Well, sir,
you are mistaken. From Lynn goes forth every year a noble fleet of
ships. Whither do they go? To all the ports of Europe. From Lynn they
go out; to Lynn they return. To whom do these ships belong? Is a ship
worth nothing? To whom do their cargoes belong? Is the cargo of a tall
three-master worth nothing? Now, gentlemen, if most of these ships
belong to one girl; if they are freighted for one girl; if half the
trade of Lynn is in the hands of this girl's guardian; if for twenty
years the revenues from the trade have been rolling up--what is that
girl but a great heiress?"

"Is that the case with--with sweet Molly?" asked a young fellow who
had been drinking before the punch appeared, and now spoke with a
thick voice. "Is she the heiress and the Lady of Lynn?"

"She is nothing less," Sam Semple replied. "As for her fortune, I
believe, if she wished it, she could buy up half this county."

"And she is unmarried.... Egad!" it was the same young fellow who
spoke, "he will be a lucky man who gets her."

"A lucky man indeed," said Sam, "but she is above your reach, let me
tell you," he added, impudently, because the other was a gentleman.

"Above my reach? Take that," he threw the glass of punch in the poet's
face. "Above my reach? Mine? Who the devil is this fellow? The owner
of a ship, or a dozen ships, with their stinking cargoes and their
cheating trade, above my reach? Why----" Here he would have fallen
upon the offender, but was restrained by his friends.

Sam stood open-mouthed, looking about him dumfoundered, the punch
streaming over his cheeks.

"You'd best go, sir," said one of them. "I know not who you are. But,
if you are a gentleman you can send your friend to-morrow. If not"--he
laughed--"in our country if a gentleman falls out with one whom he
cannot fight with swords, he is not too proud to meet him with stick
or fist. In any case you had better go--and that without delay."

The poet turned and ran. No hostile meeting followed. Sam could not
send a challenge, being no gentleman, and, as you have already seen,
he was not naturally inclined for the ordeal by battle in any other
form.

The young man was one Tom Rising, whose estates lay near Swaffham. He
was well known as the best and most fearless rider in the whole
county; he was the keenest sportsman; he knew where to find fox, hare,
badger, ferret, stoat, or weasel; he knew where to put up a pheasant
or a cover of partridges; he could play at all manly sports; he was a
wild, fearless, reckless, deboshed young fellow, whom everybody loved
and everybody feared; always ready with a blow or an oath; afraid of
nothing if he set his heart upon anything. You shall see presently
that he set his heart upon one thing and that he failed. For the rest,
a comely, tall, and proper young man of four-and-twenty or so, whose
careless dress, disordered necktie, and neglected head sufficiently
indicated his habits, even if his wanton rolling eyes, loose lip, and
cheeks always flushed with wine, did not loudly proclaim the manner of
his life and the train of his thoughts.

When Sam was gone he turned again to the bowl.

In the morning it was reported that there had been wagers, and that a
great deal of money had been won and lost. Some said that Colonel
Lanyon, one of the gentlemen from London, had lost a great sum; others
said that Tom Rising was the heaviest loser. I judge from what I now
know that Tom Rising lost, that evening, more than his estates would
bring him in a whole quarter. And I am further of opinion that Colonel
Lanyon did not lose anything except a piece of paper with some figures
on it, which he handed, ostentatiously proclaiming the amount, which
was very large, to his honourable friend, Sir Harry Malyus, Baronet.




CHAPTER XVI

HIS LORDSHIP'S INTENTIONS


In the morning the newly laid out gardens were the resort--after
prayers, the pump room, the pastry cook, the bookseller, and the
draper--of all the ladies and of many of the men--those, indeed, who
preferred the pleasures of society and the discourse of the ladies, to
the dull talk of the Cambridge fellows and the canons of Ely in the
coffee house, or the noisy disputes and the wagers of the tavern, or
the sport of the cockpit. The gardens became the haunt of scandal and
of gossip; here a thousand stories were invented; here characters were
taken away and reputations dragged in the mud; the ladies in their
morning dress walked about under the trees and in the alleys,
diverting themselves as best they could. At eleven the music played in
the gallery outside the long room. On some days a public breakfast was
offered; on other days there was a lottery or raffle, in which
everybody took a huge interest. Sometimes the company were content to
walk or sit under the trees, talking; sometimes there was singing in
the long room; or perhaps the Rev. Mr. Purdon would read aloud to a
small circle from some book of verse or of romance; or there were
parties made up for voyages up the river; or a play was bespoke by the
general consent. In a word, it was the resort of a multitude who had
nothing to do but to divert themselves; they were full of scandal
about each other; a young fellow could not squeeze a girl's hand but
it was whispered all over the place that he had run away with her; and
though one would think, to hear them, that every woman of the company
was ready to tear to pieces every other woman, yet they assumed so
pretty a disguise, and professed so much interest and affection and
friendship for each other, that one was inclined to believe the
scandal and gossip to be a pretence or masque to hide their true
feelings.

It was natural that in walking about the gardens the people should
divide themselves into parties of two, or three, or more. But in the
morning, after Molly's first appearance, these parties consisted of
groups, each of half a dozen and more, talking about last night's
unexpected apparition of a woman more finely dressed than any of them,
with jewels and gold chains which made the hearts of all who beheld to
sink with envy. "The men, they say, admired her face. Lord Fylingdale
himself, they say, toasted her by name as an heiress. What kind of
heiress can she be? And there was a quarrel about her over the punch.
Tom Rising poured the whole of the punch bowl upon the head of a
gentleman said to be his lordship's secretary. This morning they met
outside the walls. The gentleman is run through the body and cannot
live. No, through the shoulder and will recover. I heard that it was
in the arm, and that he will be well again in a week. But the
heiress--who is the heiress?" And so they went on. You may be sure
that Sam Semple found it prudent to keep out of the way. There was,
therefore, no one to tell these curious ladies who the heiress was, or
what her fortune might be. Mostly they inclined to the belief that a
thousand pounds would cover the whole of her inheritance, and that
Lord Fylingdale meant no more than an act of politeness to the town,
which certainly had done its best to entertain the company. And so on.

Presently there appeared, walking side by side, Lord Fylingdale
himself and Lady Anastasia. He carried his hat under his arm, and his
cane dangled from his right wrist; his face was as cold and as devoid
of emotion as when the night before he had rebuked the company.

They passed along under the trees, conversing. When they passed or met
any others they lowered their voices. Their conversation--I will tell
you in due course how I learned it--was important and serious. It was
of greater importance to Molly and to me, had I known it, than one
could imagine or suspect. And this was, in effect, the substance of
their discourse.

"I know," she said, "that you have some design in coming to Lynn, and
that you intend me to assist you. Otherwise, why should you drag me
here, over vile roads, to a low lodging, in the company of fox hunters
and their ladies? Otherwise, indeed, why should you come here
yourself?"

"The healing waters of the spa," he suggested gravely.

"You have nothing the matter with you. Nothing ever hurts you. If
other men drink and rake all night they show it in their faces and
their swollen bodies. But you--why you look as if you lived like a
saint or a hermit in a cell."

"Yet--to prevent disease--to anticipate, so to speak."

"Ludovick, you have no longer any confidence in me. You tell me to
come here--I come. You order me to set up a bank here every night. I
have done so. What has happened? Sir Harry and the colonel lose and
win with each other and with me. You look in and throw away fifty
guineas with your lofty air as if they mattered nothing. These country
bumpkins look on and wonder. They are lost in admiration at a man who
can lose fifty guineas without so much as a word or a gesture. And
then they put down--a simple guinea. To please you, Ludovick, I have
become a guinea hunter. And I am standing at great expense, and I am
losing the profits of my London bank."

"The change of air will do you good, Anastasia. You were looking pale
in town. Besides, there were too many rumours afloat."

"If I had your confidence, I should not care for anything. I am
willing to be your servant, Ludovick, your tool. I endure the colonel
and I tolerate Sir Harry, with his nauseous old compliments. For your
sake I suffer them to bring discredit on my name and my play. But I do
not consent to be your slave."

"My mistress, not my servant," he murmured, touching her fingers.

She laughed scornfully. "Will you tell me, then, if you wish me to do
anything more for you? Am I to continue picking up the guineas of
these hard-fisted rustics? Am I to figure in their stupid minuets,
whenever they have their assembly? How long am I to stay here?"

"You ask too many questions, Anastasia. Still, to show you that I
place confidence in you, although you mistrust me, I will answer some
of them. Of course it is no news to you that I have at this moment no
rents--nothing to receive and nothing to sell."

"I have known that for two years. You best know how you continue to
keep up your establishment."

"Partly by the help of your table, dear Anastasia. I am not
ungrateful, believe me." Again he touched her fingers, and again she
drew herself away.

"You have remarked upon the danger of having the colonel and old Sir
Harry about you. Both are a good deal blown upon. I would not suffer
them to be with you again at Bath or Tunbridge Wells. In this place
they are safe. Both of them will encourage the play and set an example
of high play and great winnings. One of them will also be ready to
challenge any who refuses to pay. The colonel has his uses. As for
Harry, he is useful to me in other ways. Like his reverence."

"The odious, vile, crawling worm!"

"Quite so. Sir Harry and the Reverend Mr. Purdon are useful in
assuring the world of my own virtuous character."

"Why do you want to appear virtuous? You, whose character is
notorious."

"I have my reasons. Anastasia, I will place my whole confidence in
you. Perhaps you saw at the assembly the other night a certain
bourgeoise--a citizen's daughter--a girl dressed in the clothes of the
fashion, her face as red as her hands----"

"I saw a very remarkable woman, Ludovick--her face and her figure fine
enough to make her fortune. She was covered with jewels, which they
told me were false."

"They told you wrongly, Anastasia. They are real--diamonds, pearls,
rubies, gold chains and all--real. The girl is a great heiress. The
people here do not know how great, or the whole country would be on
bended knees before the goddess. But I know. And on her account--look
you--on her account am I here."

The Lady Anastasia changed her manner suddenly. She glanced at his
face. It was impassive; it showed no sign of any emotion at all.

"Well? What is this heiress to me? Can I get her diamonds?"

"I want you to become her friend, Anastasia. I desire this favour very
greatly."

The Lady Anastasia stopped suddenly. She lowered her face; her cheek
flushed; her lip trembled. "Ludovick," she said, "I am a woman after
all. You may command me in anything--anything else. But not in this.
If you insist upon this, I will go home at once."

He looked surprised. "Why?" he began. "Surely my Anastasia is not
jealous--not jealous, after all the proofs that I have given her of
fidelity?"

"Jealous?" she repeated. "What have you to do with the girl, then?"

[Illustration: "JEALOUS?" SHE REPEATED. "WHAT HAVE YOU TO DO WITH THE
GIRL, THEN?"]

"My dear mistress, I care nothing about the girl, or about any woman
in the world, except one. Who should know this except the one herself?
It is the girl's fortune that I want--not the girl herself."

"How will you get it without the girl?"

"That is the very point I am considering. I came here in order to get
this fortune. My secretary--the fellow Semple--told me of the girl. I
sent you here in order to help me to secure this fortune. I sent his
reverence here--the colonel--Sir Harry--all of them--here with the
same object, which they must not know. I came here. I have made a
friend of the girl's guardian."

"If this is true----"

"Of course, it is true," he replied coldly. "Let me go on. You shall
not charge me again with want of confidence. The guardian is a simple
old sailor. He is a fool, of course, being a sailor. He thinks to
marry his ward to a man of rank."

"Yourself, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. He also believes in the virtue and piety which my friends
here have ascribed to me."

"How will you get the fortune without the girl?"

"I tell you again--there is the difficulty. Anastasia, if you have
ever promised to assist me, give me your assistance now. I must win
the confidence of the old man and the girl. Everybody must speak well
of me. I will learn how the money is placed and where. I will get
possession of it somehow."

"And then--when you have it?"

"My difficulties will be at an end. I shall leave the town and the
gaming table and everything. You will come with me, Anastasia." This
time he took her hand. "We will be Alexis and Amaryllis, the shepherd
Strephon and the maiden Daphne. My Anastasia, believe me, I am tired
of the world and its noisy pleasures. I sigh for rest and repose."

"And the girl?"

"She will do better without this huge fortune. Ye gods! to give such a
girl--this sailor wench--this red and pink bourgeoise--the fortune
that should have been yours, Anastasia! 'Tis monstrous! It cuts her
off from her own people. She would do better to marry the young sailor
fellow who stumbled and rolled through the minuet with her, thinking
he was on his deck rolling in the bay of Biscay. I will set this
matter right. I will relieve her of her fortune and throw her into
those arms which reek of pitch and tar and rope. Happy girl!"

The Lady Anastasia sighed. "There will never be any rest--or any
repose--or any happiness for you or for me. Have it your own way. I
will make the girl my friend. I will tell her that you are the best of
men and the most virtuous. Yes," she laughed a little, but not
mirthfully, "the most virtuous. And now, I think, you may walk with me
through their narrow lanes with a bridge and a stream for every one,
to the small and dirty cabin where my maid makes shift to dress me
every day, so that I may turn out decent at least."




CHAPTER XVII

"IN THE LISBON TRADE"


I was greatly surprised, being on duty aboard in the forenoon, to see
Lord Fylingdale on our quay, which adjoins the Common Stath, in
company with Captain Crowle.

In truth, the nobleman looked out of his element--a fish on dry
land--in a place of trade. His dress was by no means suitable to the
collection of bales and casks and crates with which the quay was
piled, nor did his look resemble that of the merchant, who may be full
of dignity, as he is full of responsibility, but is never cold and
haughty. His secret purpose, as I afterwards understood, was to
ascertain the true nature of Molly's fortune, which he could not
believe to be so great as had been represented to him. His professed
purpose was to see what Captain Crowle was anxious to show him. The
good old man, in fact, played the very game which this virtuous
gentleman desired; he threw the girl--money, and lands, and ships, and
all--at the feet of the very man who wanted the fortune, and for the
sake of it would not scruple to bring misery upon the girl.

"I have heard," his lordship was saying, as he looked around and
marked the crowd of porters, lightermen, and clerks running about, "of
ships and shipping. There is a place near London, I believe, where
they have ships. But I have never seen that part of town. My own
friends own farms, not ships."

"Ships may be better than farms," the old sailor replied, stoutly.
"You have frosts in May; hail in August; drought in spring--where are
your farms then?"

Lord Fylingdale laughed pleasantly.

"Nay, captain, but there is another side to your picture also. Storms
arise; the waves become billows; there are hidden rocks--where are
your ships then?"

"The underwriters pay for all. There may be better money, I say, in
ships than in land."

"Then the merchants should be richer than the landowners."

"Not always, by your leave, my lord. For there are too many merchants;
and of landowners, such as your lordship, there are never more than a
few. But some merchants are richer than some landowners. Of these my
ward is one."

"I should like to know, captain, what you mean by rich. Your ward owns
ships, and brings home their cargoes--turpentine and tar--a fragrant
trade."

"The farmer's muck heap smells no sweeter, and pig-styes, my lord, are
no ladies' bowers."

"Show me one of your ships, captain. If you have one in port, take me
on board. Make me understand what this trade means. I doubt not that
before long we shall all turn our ploughs into rudders, our maypoles
into masts, and our oaks into ships, and so go a trading up and down
the seas, and get rich like the merchants of Lynn Regis."

I do not know how far he spoke truthfully; I am, on the whole,
inclined to believe that he was actually ignorant of trade and
shipping of any kind. He and his class build up a wall between
themselves and those who carry on the trade which pours wealth into
the country and push out their fleets into far distant seas; and he
and his class imagine that they are a superior race to whom Providence
hath delivered the work of administering the kingdom, with all the
offices, prizes, places, and honours belonging to that work. They will
not admit the merchants to any share; they fill the House of
Commons--which should be an assembly containing the merchants, and who
make the country rich--with placemen (their servants), and their own
cousins, sons, and brothers. They command our armies and our navies;
they are our judges and our magistrates; for them the poet writes, the
player acts, the artist paints. They do not condescend to penetrate
into the ports where the ships lie moored and the quays contain the
treasures brought home and the treasures sent out. They grow
continually poorer instead of richer; their gambling, their troops of
servants, their drinking, their pleasant vices impoverish them; they
sell their woods and pawn their revenues. All this time the merchants
are growing richer; they live in places where they never see anything
of the fashionable world--in villages outside London; in towns like
Bristol, Lynn, Southampton, Newcastle, where there are no noble lords;
they do not concern themselves about the government if only the seas
are kept open.

Again, if these noblemen meet the merchants on any occasion their
carriage is cold and proud. Perhaps they show an open scorn of trade;
in any case, they treat them with scanty consideration, as people who
have no rank. Even when they desire to conciliate these inferiors
their manner is haughty, and they speak from a height.

One man is not better than another because he makes his living out of
fields while this other makes his out of ships. And I do not find that
one man makes a better sailor than another because he is the son of a
gentleman while the other is the son of a boat builder or a rope
maker.

However, I am talking likely enough as a fool. It is not for me to
question the order of the world. If the merchants go on getting rich
they may, some time or other, look down upon the House of Lords as
much as the House of Lords, with their ladies, their sons, their
daughters, their nephews, and their cousins, now look down upon
merchants and all who earn their livelihood by honest work, and by
enterprises which demand courage and resolution, knowledge, patience,
and skill.

Presently I saw them both get into a dingey, which the captain rowed
out into the river, making for _The Lady of Lynn_. He made fast the
painter to the companion and climbed up the rope ladder, followed by
his lordship, who, with some difficulty, landed on the deck, looking
at his tarred hands with curiosity rather than disgust. I must say
that he made no complaint, even though his dress, which was not
adapted for rope ladders, showed also signs of the tar.

"My lord," said the captain, "this is one of my ward's ships, and
there is the mate of the ship, Mr. Pentecrosse, at your service."

"At your service, sir," said my lord, from his superior height, and
with that cold condescension which I should try in vain to imitate and
cannot attempt to set down in words. It is not the voice of
authority--every skipper knows what that is and every sailor. It is a
manner which is never found except among people of rank. However, I
pulled off my hat and bowed low. His lordship took no further notice
of me for awhile, but looked about him curiously.

"A strange place," he said. "I have never before been on a ship. Tell
me more about this ship, captain."

"She is called _The Lady of Lynn_. She is three hundred and eighty
tons burden, and she is in the Lisbon trade."

"In the Lisbon trade? Captain, neither the amount of her tons nor the
nature of her occupation enlightens me in the least."

"She sails from here to Lisbon and back again. She takes out for the
Portuguese things that they want--iron, lead, instruments of all
kinds, wool, and a great many other things--and she brings back what
we want--the wine of the country. She comes laden with port wine,
Sack, Malmsey, Canary, Teneriffe, Lisbon, Bacellas, Mountain--in a
word, all the wines of Spain and Portugal. My ward is an export and
import merchant as well as a shipowner; she fills her ships with wine.
The country round Lynn is a thirsty country; the gentlemen of Norfolk,
Lincoln, and the Fen countries, not to speak of the University of
Cambridge, all drink the wines of Spain and Portugal, and a great deal
of it. We send our wine in barges up the river and in waggons across
the country; we send our wine to Newcastle and Hull by ships. The
trade of Lynn Regis in Spanish and Portuguese wine is very
considerable, and most of it is in the hands of my ward."

"This is the Lisbon trade. I begin to understand. And what may such a
ship as this be worth?"

"To build her, to rig her, to fit her for sea, to provision her, would
cost a matter of L1,500 or L2,000."

"And I suppose she earns something by her voyages?"

The captain smiled.

"She makes two voyages every year; sometimes five in two years. She
must first pay her captain and the ship's company; then she must pay
for repairs--a woman and a ship, they say, are always wanting
repairs--then she must pay for provisions for the crew; there are
customs dues and harbour dues at both ends. When all is paid the ship
will bring to her owners a profit of L500 or L600. It is a bad year
when she does not bring in L600."

His lordship's eyebrows lifted. "How many ships did you say are owned
by this fortunate young lady?"

"She has eight. They are not all in the Lisbon trade. Some sail to
Norway; some to the Baltic--that is, to Revel and Dantzig--and bring
home what you saw on the quay, the turpentine, deal, skins, fur, and
so forth."

"Eight ships and a bad year when every single ship does not bring in a
profit of L600. Then, Captain Crowle, we may take it that your ward
has an income of L4,800 a year."

The captain smiled again. "If it were only that I should not be so
anxious about her future. But consider, my lord. For eighteen years
she has lived with me--she and her mother--we live in a plain and
homely way, according to our station. We are respectable, but not
gentle-folk. We live on about L150 a year. The rest is money saved.
Some of it is laid out in land. My ward has a good bit of land, here
and there, chiefly in marshland, which is fat and fertile; some of it
is laid out in houses--a good part of Lynn belongs to her--some of it
is lent on mortgage. Since your lordship hath kindly promised to give
me your advice on the matter, it is proper to tell you the truth. The
girl, therefore, will have an income of over L12,000 a year."

A strange and sudden flush rose to his lordship's cheek; for a few
moments he did not reply. Then in a harsh and constrained voice he
said: "It is a very large income, captain. Many members of the Upper
House have much less. You must be very careful. At six per cent. it is
actually L200,000 or thereabouts. You must be very careful."

"I have been, and shall be, very careful. With such a fortune, my
lord, may not my girl look high?"

"She may look very high. There are some families which would not
admit, even for so great a fortune, a _mesalliance_, but they are
few. There are the jewels, too, of which she wore so many last night.
What may they be worth?"

"I do not know. They have been lying in a chest for fifty years and
more. They were brought from India by Molly's grandfather, who sailed
there, and made the acquaintance of an Indian prince, to whom he
rendered some service. They were too grand for him and his wife; and
they were too grand for Molly's mother, who is but a homely body.
Therefore they have been locked up all this time. Nobody has ever worn
them until Molly put them on last night."

"I am a poor judge of such things, but, captain, I believe that what
the lady wore last night must be worth a very large sum--a very large
sum indeed."

"It may be so. It may be so," said the captain. "There are as many in
the box as we took out of it. Well, my lord, will her diamonds add to
her attractions?"

"Captain Crowle, no one knows or can understand the extraordinary
beauty of a woman who is worth L200,000 and has, besides, diamonds and
pearls fit for a duchess. You must, indeed, be very careful."

I who stood beside him humbly, hat in hand, wondered within myself as
to what his lordship would say if the captain should suddenly or
inadvertently reveal his secret ambitions. Indeed, he looked so
commanding and so noble that these ambitions appeared to me
ridiculous. I felt happier in thinking that they were ridiculous.

How, indeed, should our girl, who must appear homely to one who knew
courts and the charms and splendour of great ladies, attract this cold
and fastidious nobleman?

He turned suddenly upon me. "This," he said, "is one of your crew?"

I was dressed in my workaday frieze and shag, and looked, I dare say,
to unpractised eyes, more like a fo'k'sle hand than the chief officer.

"It is our mate. I told your lordship before. He is second in
command."

"Oh! sir," he said, bowing, a gesture which politeness demanded and
difference of rank allowed to be a slight inclination only, "I beg
your pardon. The strangeness of this place made me forget. Stay, is
not this the--the gentleman who attempted a minuet last night with the
fair Miss Molly?"

The question threw me into confusion. The captain answered for me.

"Gad! He did it rarely."

"Rarely, indeed. Well, sir, you are lucky. You dance with the lady;
you are in the service of the lady; by faithful service you help to
make her rich. What greater marks of favour can Providence bestow upon
you?"

I made no answer, because, indeed, I knew not what to reply.

"And now, sir, if you will show me your ship, I shall be obliged to
you. Teach me the economy of a merchant man."

I obeyed. We left the captain on deck, and I took him over the whole
of the ship. He wanted to see everything; he inspected the two
carronades on the quarter-deck and the stand of small arms. I showed
him the binnacle and explained how we steered and kept her in her
course. I took him below and showed him the lower deck, and let him
peer into the hole. He saw the galley and the fo'k'sle, and
everything.

I observed that he was extremely curious about all he saw. He wanted
to know the value of things; the wages; the cost of provisioning the
ship; the purchase and the sale of the cargo. It was wonderful to find
a man of his rank so curious as to every point.

"I suppose," he said, "that the old man states the mere facts as to
these ships--and the lands--and--and the rest of it."

"No man knows better than the captain," I replied. "He has worked for
nearly twenty years for his ward."

"And for himself, as well, I doubt not."

"No, my lord, not for himself. All for his ward. He has taken nothing
for himself, though he might have done so. It has been all for his
ward."

"A virtuous guardian, truly. Young man, he should be an example to
you. Would that there were many guardians so prudent and so careful!"

Then I invited him into the cabin, and showed him how the log is kept,
and the ship's course set down day by day. There was nothing which he
did not wish to understand.

"I never knew before," he said, "that ships could mean money. Pray,
Captain Crowle, could a ship, such as this, be sold and converted into
ready money like a forest of oak or a plantation of cedars, or an
estate of land?"

"Assuredly, my lord. If I put up _The Lady of Lynn_ for sale to-morrow
there would be a score of bids for her here in this town. If I sold
her in London she would command a higher price."

"Your ward could, therefore, sell her whole fleet if she chose."

"Her fleet and her business as a merchant, and her lands and her
houses and her jewels--she could sell them all."

It seems trifling to set down this conversation, but you will
understand in due course the meaning of these questions, and what was
in the mind--the corrupt and evil mind--of this deceiver.

"But," he went on, "the ship may be cast away."

"Ay! She may be cast away. Then this lad and the whole of the ship's
crew would be drowned. That happens to many tall ships. We sailors
take our chance."

"The crew might be drowned. I was thinking, however, of the cargo and
the ship."

"Oh! as to them, the underwriters would pay. Underwriters, my lord,
are a class of people who, between them, take the risk of ships for a
percentage."

"Then under no circumstances, not even that of ship-wreck, or of fire,
or of pirates, can the owner lose."

"The underwriters would pay. But look you, my lord, there are risks in
every kind of business. There is the cargo. The owner of this ship is
also a merchant. She loads a cargo of wine on her own ship; unloads it
on her own quay, and sends it about the country to the inn-keepers and
the merchants of the towns. They may not want her wine--but they
always do. They may not be willing to pay so much as usual, but they
generally do. These are our risks. But it is a safe business on the
whole--eh, Jack?"

"We have never lost much yet, to my knowledge, captain."

Lord Fylingdale sat down carelessly on the cabin table dangling his
leg.

"I have had a most instructive visit, captain. I do not mind the tar
on my hands or that on my small clothes, which are ruined. I have
learned a great deal. Captain," he added solemnly, "Miss Molly has,
beside the charms of her person and her conversation--out of so fine a
mouth pearls only--pearls as fine as those around her neck would
drop--twelve thousand charms a year. I do not know her equal in London
at this moment. The daughter of a retired tallow chandler was spoken
of, some time ago--said to have fifty thousand pounds--with a squint.
No, sir, Miss Molly in London would take the town by storm."

He paused and fell into a short meditation.

"Jack," said the captain, "there is, I am sure, a bottle in the
locker. His lordship must not leave the ship without tasting some of
the cargo."

I produced a bottle and glasses.

"Your very best, Jack?"

"The king himself has no better," I replied stoutly, "because no
better wine is made."

"I give you a toast, captain," said his lordship. "The fair Miss
Molly!"

We drank it with enthusiasm.

"I have this morning learned a great deal. For one who, like myself,
proposes to serve his country, all kinds of knowledge are useful--even
the smallest details may be important. I have a good memory, and I
shall not readily forget the things which you have taught me. We of
the Upper House, perhaps, keep too much aloof from the trading
interests of the country."

"Your lordship," said the captain, "should present an example of the
better way."

"I shall endeavour to do so." He put on his hat and stood up. "Before
leaving the ship, Mr. Pentecrosse--you seem to have an honest face--I
would exhort you to persevere in faithful service and to deserve the
confidence of your employer. I wish you, sir, a successful voyage and
many of them." He took a step towards the cabin door, but stopped and
turned again to me. "Mr. Pentecrosse, let me add another word of
advice. Do not again attempt to enact the part of a fine gentleman.
Believe me, sir, the part requires practice and study, unless one is
born and brought up a gentleman. Stick to your quarter-deck, friend,
and to your ship's log, and leave, for the future, minuets, heiresses,
and polite assemblies to your betters."

So saying he walked out of the cabin and climbed down the ladder,
followed by the captain. As for me, I stood gaping at the open door,
looking, as they say, like a stuck pig, being both ashamed and angry.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE WITCH


All that day I remained in a state of gloom. I was ashamed to think
that I had brought ridicule upon Molly by my clumsy dancing, and I was
gloomy because I understood that Molly must certainly marry some great
man, and that there would be an end of her so far as I was concerned.
I was her servant; I was her faithful servant; what could I want more?
I was never again to attempt the part of a fine gentleman--and she
would live wholly among fine gentlemen. I know now that it was more
than the common gloom of humiliation. That I should have thrown off
with ease. It was the terror of something evil--the consciousness
which seizes the soul without any cause that can be ascertained, and
fills it with trembling and with terror. Certain words--harmless
words--kept recurring to my mind; words uttered by Lord Fylingdale--"Can
a ship be sold like a farm?" or words to that effect. Why did these
simple words disturb me? The captain had no thought of selling any of
the ships. And why, when I thought of these words, did I also remember
the curious change that came over his face when he understood the
great wealth of this young heiress? I seemed to see again the strange
flush of his pale, cold cheek; I seemed to see a strange smile upon
his unbending lips and a strange light in his eyes. There was never,
surely, any gentleman with a face so cold and calm as that of my Lord
Fylingdale. It was as if a perpetual peace reigned in his mind; as if
he was disturbed by none of the passions and emotions of ordinary men.
Therefore the smile and the strange look must have been in my
imagination only.

Was it possible that the captain's secret prayers were to be granted?
They were ambitious prayers. I have heard it said that the Lord
sometimes grants to men the thing they most desire in order that they
may learn how much better it would have been for them had their
prayers been refused. You shall learn how this lesson was driven into
my mind--line upon line--precept upon precept. For my own part, while
I honestly desired for Molly the best of husbands, the thought of her
marrying this cold, stately, proud young nobleman filled me with pity.

And I must tell you, moreover, of a strange thing. It happened some
three or four years before these events, but I have never forgotten
it.

It is connected with Molly's black woman whom we called Nigra. Like
all black women she was esteemed a witch. In earlier times she would
have been burned at the stake for her magic and sorcery. Yet she was
only a white witch, as they call them; it was very well known that she
worked no mischief and cast no spells. Nobody was afraid of her. If a
child fell into fits the mother, so far from thinking Nigra to be the
cause, brought her to the black woman to be cured. Nobody could look
at her kindly, wrinkled old face, which was always smiling through her
white teeth; nobody could see those smiles upon her face, which shone
in the sun as if it was of burnished metal; nobody could talk with
her, I say, and believe that she was of the malignant stuff that makes
the witch of the village. She had a great reputation for telling
fortunes; she could show girls their future husbands; she could find
out lucky days for them, and tell them how to avoid unlucky days; she
could make charms to be hung round the necks of infants which would
keep them from croup, fits, and convulsions, and carry them safely
through measels and whooping cough. She had sovereign remedies against
toothache, chilblains, earache, growing pains, agues, fevers, and all
the diseases of boys and girls, and with the ailments which fall upon
the maids, such as megrims, headache, swoonings, giddiness, vapours,
and melancholy. It was believed that even Dr. Worship himself could
not compare with this black woman from the Guinea coast.

One evening, long before the events that I am relating, I surprised
her while she was engaged in her harmless spells and magic rites. It
was in the kitchen, where she sat alone at a table before the fire.
There was no candle, and the red light of the blazing coal made her
face shine like copper and her eyes like two flames, and transformed
her red cloth turban into rich crimson velvet. She had on the table
before her a string of shells, a monkey's skull--but it looked like
the skull of a baby--a thick round stick, painted with lines of red
and blue, two or three rags of cloth, a cocoanut shell cut in two to
make a cup, and many other tools or instruments which I forget; and,
indeed, it matters nothing, because no one would be any the wiser if I
set down the whole furniture of this old sorceress.

She was bending over the table, arranging in some kind of order these
mysterious means for learning the future, and murmuring the while
gibberish of the kind which serves these poor blacks for their
language. She was so busy that she did not hear my footsteps, till I
stole behind her and clapped both my hands over her eyes.

Then she jumped up with a shriek, letting her magical tools drop, and
turned round. "Shoo!" she cried, bursting into a laugh. "Shoo! It's
Massa Jack. I thought it was de debble come to look on." This was the
way she talked. I believe that if you take a <DW64> as a baby and bring
him up with Christians, so that he hears no word of his own gibberish,
in the end he will always speak in this way. It is part of his nature;
it is one of the things which belong to his race--wool instead of
hair; black skin instead of white; thick speech instead of clear; the
shin rounded instead of the calf; a projecting heel, and a big jaw
with white, strong teeth.

"Does the devil often come here, Nigra?"

"Massa Jack," she replied, with as much solemnity as she could
command, "don't you nebber ask if the debble comes here."

"What is he like, Nigra?"

She sat down and began to laugh. She laughed till her mouth nearly
reached her ears; she laughed till her turban nodded and shook, and
her shoulders shook, and she shook all over. She laughed, I know not
why. "What he like? Ho! Ho! Ho! Massa Jack--what he like?"

"Well, but, Nigra, tell me how you know him when you see him."

"Massa Jack," she became serious as suddenly as she had fallen into
her fit of laughter. "Look ye here. When you see de debble--then you
know de debble." So saying, she turned to the table again and began to
gather up her unholy possessions.

"Well, but Nigra, I am not the devil, and so you may as well tell me
whose fortune you are telling."

"Missy's fortune."

"What is it?"

She shook her head. "Can't tell you, Massa Jack. Mustn't tell you."

"Why not? Come, Nigra, you know that I desire the very best fortune
for her that can be given to any one."

She hesitated. Then she laid her hand on mine. "Massa Jack," she said,
"I tell her fortune your people's way, by the cards, and my people's
way, by the gri-gri and the skull. It's always the same fortune."

"What is it?"

"Always the same. They say--trouble for Missy--great big trouble--she
dunno yet what trouble is. Bimeby she find out, and then all de
trouble go--like as if de sun come out and de rain leave off. All the
same fortune."

"I don't understand it at all, Nigra. Why should trouble come to Miss
Molly?"

"Cards don' tell that. Sometimes, Jack, de head"--she laid her hand on
the skull of the monkey, or was it the skull of a child?--"de head
tells me things. Befo' you come in de head was talking fine. He say,
'Lose to gain; lose to gain. Him no good. Bimeby bery fine man come
along.' Dat's what de head said to-night."

"Nonsense, Nigra--a fleshless skull cannot speak."

"Dat's what de head say to me dis night," she replied, doggedly.

I looked at the skull, but it remained silent, grinning with the
dreadful mockery of the death's head.

"Bimeby--bery fine man come along," Nigra repeated.

I laughed incredulous. Then she laid her hand upon my eyes for a
moment--only for a moment. "Listen, then."

It was like a voice far away. I opened my eyes again. Before me sat,
or stood unsupported, the skull, and nothing else. The room had
vanished, Nigra and her tools and everything. The eyes of the skull
were filled with a bright light, and the teeth moved, and the thing
spoke. It said: "Lose to gain! Lose to gain! By and by a better man
will come."

I shivered and shook. I shut my eyes for the brightness of the light.
I opened them again immediately. Everything was as before; the old
black woman beside me at the table; the skull and the rest of the
things; the red light of the fire.

"Nigra," I cried, "what have you done? You are a witch."

"What did de skull say, Massa Jack?"

"How did you do it? What does it mean?" To this day I know not how she
contrived this witchcraft.

She would talk no more, however. I suppose she read the signs and
tokens according to the rules of her witchcraft, and knew no more. I
am not one of those who believe that these black women can penetrate
the clouds of the future and can foresee, that is, see clearly, before
they happen, the things that are coming. It would be too much to
expect of a mere black. Why should Providence, who has manifestly
created the black man to be the slave of the white, confer upon the
black woman so great a gift as that of prophecy? It is not credible.

All that day, after Lord Fylingdale climbed down by the rope ladder, I
kept hearing over again the words of the black woman, which came back
to me, though I had long forgotten them, "By and by. By and by, a
better man will come."

Some there are who laugh at these things, which they call
superstitions. I have heard my father and the vicar arguing learnedly
that the time for witchcraft has passed away, with that of miracles,
demoniac possessions, and the casting out of devils. Well, it is not
for me to speak of things that belong to the landsman. There may be no
such thing as witchcraft; there may be no overlooking; the moon and
the planets cannot, perhaps, strike children. But as for what the
sailor believes--why, he knows. All the Greek and all the Hebrew in
the world will not shake out of his mind what he knows. He learns new
knowledge with every voyage, and new experience with every gale, and
when those words of poor old Nigra came back to me, and would not
leave me, keeping up a continual sing-song in my head, I knew very
well, indeed, that some trouble was brewing--and that the trouble had
to do with Molly.




CHAPTER XIX

A TRUE FRIEND


When Molly came out of church after morning prayers she stood in the
porch to see the company pass out. It was a fashionable company,
consisting entirely of ladies who came from the pump room to hear the
Reverend Benjamin Purdon, _locum tenens_ for the curate of St.
Nicholas, read the prayers of the morning service. This he did with an
impressiveness quite overwhelming, having a deep and musical voice,
which he would roll up and down like the swelling notes of an organ,
insomuch that some ladies wept every morning, while he pronounced the
absolution with so much weight that every sinner present rose from her
knees in the comfortable faith that her sins were absolved and washed
away, and that she could now begin a new series of sins upon a clean
slate. Happy condition, when without penance, which the <DW7>s
enforce; and without repentance, which is demanded by the Protestant
faith, a sinner can every morning wipe off the sins of the last
twenty-four hours and so begin another day with a robe as white as
snow, no sins upon their conscience, and a sure and certain hope. "Let
us accept," said this reverend divine, "with gratitude and joy all
that Holy Church gives us; above all, her absolution. We have not the
sins of yesterday to weigh us down together with the sins of to-day.
Madam, your silk apron becomes you highly, pink silk with silver
matches the colour of your cheeks. It is the colour of Venus herself,
I vow. Ah! there are moments when I could wish I was not an
ecclesiastic!"

As a rule the morning prayers at our two churches are but poorly
attended. The merchants and the captains are at this hour in the
counting-houses on the quay, or assembled at the customhouse, which is
a kind of exchange for them; the craftsmen and the sailors and the
bargemen are at their work; the shopkeepers are standing behind their
counters; the housewives and the girls are in the kitchen, pantry, or
stillroom; there is no one left to attend the morning service, except
a few bedesmen and poor old women.

But in the company assembled at the spa there were many ladies of
pious disposition, though of fashionable conversation, who, having no
duties to perform, after drinking the waters and exchanging the latest
gossip at the pump room, were pleased to attend the daily prayers--all
the more because they were read by a clergyman from London who could
talk, when he pleased, like a mere man of the world, or, also when he
pleased, with the gravity and the piety of a bishop. The church was,
further, a place where one could gather together, so to speak, all the
ladies' dresses and receive suggestions and hints by the example of
others what to choose and what to avoid.

Among those who came out of the church that morning was the Lady
Anastasia, in a long hood lined with blue silk, looking, as she always
did, more distinguished than any of the rest. She stopped in the
porch, seeing Molly, and laughed, tapping her on the cheek with her
fan. The other ladies, recognising the girl who wore the chains and
the strings of jewels with so fine a dress at the assembly, passed on
their way, sticking out their chins, or sniffing slightly, or giggling
and whispering, or even frowning. These gestures all meant the same
thing; scorn and contempt for the girl who presumed, not being a
gentlewoman, to have so much money and so much beauty. Envy, no doubt,
was more in their minds than scorn. They were agreed, without
speaking, to treat the poor girl with every sign of resentment. And
then, to their confusion, the greatest lady among them stopped and
laughed and patted the impudent baggage on the cheek!

"Child," said the Lady Anastasia, "you were at the assembly the other
night. I saw you dancing a minuet, and I heard that you were rudely
treated at the country dance. I have heard Lord Fylingdale speak about
you. He has made the acquaintance of your guardian, Captain Crawle or
Crowle. Come, child. Let us be better acquainted. Where are you
going?"

"I am going home, madam."

"Take me with you, then. Let me see your home."

Molly blushed to the ears and stammered that it was too great honour,
so she walked away, Lady Anastasia with her, while the ladies stood in
little groups watching in wonder and indignation, through the
churchyard and so to the captain's house in Hogman's Lane, close to
the fields and gardens.

Molly led her noble guest into the parlour. The Lady Anastasia looked
round. "So," she said, "this is the home of the heiress." There was
truly very little to indicate this fact. The floor was clean and
sanded; a few chairs stood round the walls; one of them was an
armchair; on the walls hung certain portraits--for my own part I
always considered these as very fine works of art, but I have since
heard that the limmer was but a sorry member of the craft. He was an
itinerant painter, who drew these portraits in oils at half a guinea
each. They represented Molly's parents and Captain Crowle as a young
man. On the mantel-shelf stood a row of china cups and over them a
dozen samplers. There was a table and there was no other furniture.

"You are an heiress, are you not, child?"

"The captain tells me so, madam."

"The captain's views as to the nature of a fortune may be limited.
What is your fortune?"

"There are ships, and lands, and houses. I know not how many of each.
And I believe there is money, but I know not how much."

"Strange! Is it in such a house that an heiress should be brought up?
Have you servants of your own?"

"I have my black woman, Nigra."

"Humph! Have you a coach? or a chair? or a harpsichord?"

"I have none of these things."

"Have you friends among the gentlefolk? Who are the people that you
visit?"

"There are no gentlefolk in Lynn. I know the vicar and the curate of
St. Nicholas and their families, and the schoolmaster and his son."

"And the parish clerk, I suppose; and the man who plays the organ.
Have you been educated?"

Molly blushed. "The captain says that I have had the best education
possible for a woman. I can read and write and cast up accounts; and I
can make cakes and puddings, and brew the beer and make the cordials;
and I can embroider and sew."

"Heavens! What a preparation for an heiress! But, perhaps, it is not
so great a fortune after all. And do you go about daily dressed like
this--in stuff or linsey woolsey?"

"It is my workaday dress. I have a better for Sunday."

"I dare say--I dare say. What do they call you? Molly? It is a good
name for you. Molly. There is something simple about it--something
rustical yet not uncouth, like Blousabella. Your face will pass,
Molly. It is a fair garden of red and white. Your eyes are good; they
can be soft and affectionate. I should think they could also be hard
and unforgiving. Your hair is delightful; even the tresses of
Amaryllis are coarse and thick compared with yours. Your hand, my
dear, is a soft and warm hand, but it is too red--you work with it."

"Why, what else should I work with?"

"The only work you should do is the shuffling and the dealing of
cards--your hands were made for this purpose--or to handle a fan, or
to wear gloves; but not to work, believe me."

Molly looked at her hand. It was a workwoman's hand, being, though
small, thick and strong, with fingers square rather than long. She
looked and laughed. "What would you say, madam, if you saw me rowing a
boat or handling the sail while Jack Pentecrosse steers? I have done
much rougher work in a boat than in the stillroom."

"These confessions amaze me, my dear. With ships--actually the plural
of the word ship!--and lands--what lands?--and houses, and that sum of
money, that you should live in a house like this, without servants,
without dress--your clothes are not dress--without a coach--and that
you should be allowed.... Pray, Molly, what does your mother think of
it?"

"My mother teaches me to do what she herself does."

"Yet you came the other night in a costly dress, and you danced the
minuet."

"The director of the ceremonies, Mr. Prappet, taught me the dance."

"You acquitted yourself tolerably, considering your partner, who made
everybody laugh. There was, however, too much of the dancing school in
your style. A minuet, child, should convey the idea of gesture
unstudied. Not natural. Heaven forbid that the world of fashion should
ever be natural! No, but springing out of the courtesy of the
situation, in accordance with the practice of the polite world. The
cavalier woos the maiden, not in the country fashion of swain and
shepherdess, whose wooing is a plain and direct question with a plain
and direct answer, but with formal advances according to well
understood rules, which demand certain postures and gestures. Who
dressed you?"

"The dressmaker from Norwich who has a shop in Mercers' Row. She had
the dress from London."

"The dress was passable. For most girls it would have been too costly.
But it proclaimed the heiress. It also awakened the envy, hatred, and
malice of the whole assembly--I mean of the ladies. Then there were
the jewels. Child, are you really possessed of all those jewels? Are
they truly your own? Are they truly real?"

"I suppose so. They have been locked up for fifty years. My
grandfather, who was a ship's captain, brought them from India. They
were given to him in return for some service by a native prince. No
one has ever worn them except myself. The captain wanted to make the
whole world understand that I have these fine things. That is why I
took some of them out and put them on."

"The world received this intelligence, child, with envy unspeakable.
Since the assembly the ladies have been entirely occupied in taking
away your character. You are a strolling actress; your jewels are
 glass; your silk dress is a stage costume; I will not repeat
the many kind things said concerning you."

"Oh! But what have I done? What am I to do?"

"Be not alarmed. Everybody's character is taken away in turns, and
nobody is one whit the worse. With a girl like you, so innocent of the
world, the more your character is taken away the better it becomes."

"Yet I would rather----"

"Tut, tut. What matters their talk. But about those jewels, my dear. I
am curious about them. Will you let me see them all? If you only knew
how jewels carry me away!"

Molly went away, and presently returned with a large casket of wood
carved with all kinds of devices, such as figures, flowers, fruit, and
leaves. Within there were trays lined with red velvet, the colour now
somewhat decayed; on these trays reposed the jewels she had worn, and
many more. There were strings of pearls; coils of gold chains;
bracelets and necklaces; rings, brooches; all kinds imaginable, set
with precious stones, diamonds, emeralds, pearls, rubies, turquoise,
sapphires, opals--every jewel that is known to men and prized by
women.

The Lady Anastasia gazed upon them with hunger and longing; she took
up the chains and strings of pearls and rubies and suffered them to
fall gently through her fingers, as if the mere touch was sovereign
against all ills; she sighed as she laid them down. She sprang to her
feet and began to hang them about Molly's neck and arms; she twisted
the pearls in and about her hair; she strung the gold chains about her
neck; she covered her again, as she had been covered at the assembly,
with the glittering gauds.

"Oh!" she cried, sinking into her chair. "'Tis too much! Take them off
again, Molly, I burst--I faint--I die--with envy. Oh! that you, who
care so little for them, should have so many, and I, who care so much,
should have so few. Women have risked their honour, their name, their
immortal souls, for a tenth part of the treasures that you have in
this casket. And yet you wonder why they take away your character!"

Molly laughed and shut the box. "As I never saw them before yesterday
I do not understand their envy."

"No--you do not understand. Ah! how much happiness you lose in not
understanding. For you know not the joy of seeing all faces grow black
and all looks bitter. Well, put them away, out of my sight."

Then she turned to another subject.

"Tell me, Molly, what your guardian designs for you. Are you to marry
some merchant who distributes casks of turpentine about the country?
Or a sailor who pretends to be a fine gentleman and dances like an
elephant. The handling of this noble fortune is surely above the
ambition of such gentry as these."

"Indeed I do not know. The captain says that he must look higher than
a merchant or a sailor of Lynn. And he will not think of any gentleman
of the country, neither, because they are all hard drinkers."

"The captain is difficult to please. Methinks a gentleman would at
least bestow promotion. Your children would be gentlefolk, I dare say,
with the help of this great fortune. What does he want, however?"

"He talks about finding a young man of position, who is also
virtuous."

"Oh! He is indeed ambitious. My dear, a young man of position who
wants a fortune is easily found. He grows and flourishes in the park,
like blackberries on a hedge. But when you speak of virtue, the
virtuous young man is not so common. 'Tis a wicked world, my dear."

"The captain has spoken on the subject to Lord Fylingdale."

"I believe he has done so. He may, indeed, entirely depend upon his
lordship's advice, whether it concerns the placing of your fortune or
the bestowal of your hand."

"The captain, I know, thinks very highly of Lord Fylingdale's
judgment."

"I hope also of his virtue. Indeed, but for his virtue, his lordship
would be even as other men, which would be a pity for other men--I
mean, for him."

She then began to give Molly advice about her next appearance at the
assembly.

"You must come again; you must come often; I will take care that you
find partners. You must not show that you are moved in the least by
the treatment you have received. But I would advise a more simple
dress. Come to me, my dear, and my maid shall dress you. A young girl
like yourself ought not to wear so much silk and lace, and the
addition of the gold network was more fitting for a matron of rank
than a young unmarried woman. And as for the jewels, I would recommend
one gold chain or a necklace of pearls and a bracelet or two--I saw
one with sapphires, very becoming--and do not put the diamonds in your
hair. And you must on no account come with the bear who flopped and
sprawled with you before."

"Poor Jack!"

"Jack? Is he your brother?"

"No. He is my old friend. And he is mate on one of my ships--_The Lady
of Lynn_."

"I dare say he would like to command the other Lady of Lynn. But,
Molly, pray be careful. A Jack-in-the-box is apt to jump up high. Take
care."

So saying she rose to go, but stopped for a few last words.

"Well, my dear, you must seriously prepare yourself to take the place
that belongs to you by right of your fortune. After all, what is rank
compared with wealth? I have no doubt that some sprig of quality will
be found to take your hand--with your fortune. At first the women will
flout you. Keep up your courage. You can buy their kindness; you can
buy it by judicious gifts, or by finding out their secrets. I will
help you there, my dear. I know secrets enough to crack the reputation
of half the town."

Molly shuddered. "You make me afraid," she said. "Am I never to have
friends?"

The Lady Anastasia shook her head. "Friends, my dear? What does the
girl mean? We are all friends; of course we are friends, and we all
backbite each other and carry scandal and intrigue. Friends, my dear?
In the world of fashion?"

"I shall never like the world of fashion."

"Not at first. But the liking will come. There is no other way of life
that can be compared with it. You will rise at noon after a cup of
chocolate; you will spend the afternoon in dressing; you will go out
in your coach or your chair to breathe the air of the park; you will
take dinner at four; you will go to the theatre or the opera at six;
you will sit down to cards at ten. My simple native, you know not half
the joys that await you in the dear, delightful, scandalous town."

So she went on, and before she departed she had made Molly promise to
visit her and to receive a continuation of those lessons by which she
hoped, in the interests of Lord Fylingdale, to make the girl
discontented and ready to throw herself, fortune and all, into the
arms of herself and her associates. As yet she had made little
impression. Molly was not anxious for any change. She would be content
to go on as before--the darling of the old guardian--with her friends
and the people among whom she had lived all her life--simple in their
tastes, homely in their manners; to be like her mother, a maker of
bread, cakes, and puddings; a brewer of ale; the mistress of the
still-room.

"Why, Jack," she said, telling me something of this lesson in
politeness. "I am to go away; to live in London; to leave my mother;
never to see the captain any more; never to do anything again; not to
make any more puddings--such as you like so much; to play cards every
night; to have no friends; and to backbite and slander everybody I
know. If this is the polite world, Jack, let me never see it. 'Tis my
daily prayer."

You shall hear how her prayer was granted, yet not in the way she
would have asked. And this, I say again, is the way in which many of
our prayers are granted. We get what is good for us--if we pray for
that good thing--but not by the way we would have chosen.




CHAPTER XX

FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING


It was the custom with some of the high flyers, or the bucks, as they
were called, when the card room was closed, to go off together to a
tavern, there to finish the evening drinking, singing, gambling, and
rioting the whole night through and long after daylight. Truly the
town of Lynn witnessed more profligacy and wickedness during this
summer than all its long and ancient history had contained or could
relate.

The assembly was held twice a week--on Tuesday and on Friday. It was
on Tuesday night that a certain statement was made in a drunken
conversation which might have awakened suspicion of some dark design
had it been recorded. A small company of the said high flyers, among
whom were Colonel Lanyon and the young man named Tom Rising, marched
off to the tavern most frequented by them, after the closing of the
rooms, and called for punch, cards, and candles. Then they sat down to
play, with the ungodly and profane discourse which they affected. They
played and drank, the young men drinking fast and hard, the colonel,
after his custom, keeping his head cool.

The night in May is short; the daylight presently began to show
through the red curtains of the tavern window; then the sun rose; the
players went on, regardless of the dawn and of the sun. One of them
pulled back the curtains and blew out the candles. But they went on
noisily. One of them fell off his chair, and lay like a log; the rest
drew close, and continued to drink and to play. Among them no one
played higher or more recklessly than Tom Rising. It was a game in
which one holds the bank and takes the bets of the players. Colonel
Lanyon held the bank, and took Tom's bets, which were high, as readily
as those of the others which were low.

At five in the morning he laid down the cards.

"Gentlemen," he said, "we have played enough, and taken more than
enough, I fear. Let us stop the game at this point."

"You want to stop," said Tom Rising, whose face was flushed and his
speech thick, "because you've been winning. I want my revenge--I will
have my revenge."

"Sir," said the colonel, "any man who says that I refuse revenge
attacks my honour. No, sir. To-morrow, that is to say, this evening,
or any time you please except the present, you shall have your
revenge, and as much as you please. I appeal to the company.
Gentlemen, it is now five o'clock, and outside broad daylight. The
market bells have already begun. Are we drunk or sober?"

"Drunk, colonel, drunk," said the man on the floor.

"If we are drunk we are no longer in a condition fit for play. Let us
therefore adjourn until the evening. Is this fair, gentlemen, or is it
not? I will go on if you please."

"It is quite fair, colonel," one of them replied. "I believe you have
lost, and you might insist on going on."

"Then, let us look to the counters." They played with counters each
representing a guinea or two or five, as had been agreed upon at the
outset. So every man fell to counting and exchanging until all had
done except Tom Rising, who sat apparently stupid with drink. Then
they began to pay each other on the differences.

"Twenty-five guineas, colonel."

The colonel passed over the money with cheerfulness.

"Forty-three guineas, colonel."

He paid this sum--and so on with the rest. He had lost, it appeared,
to every one of the players except Tom Rising, whose reckoning was not
made up. They were all paid immediately and cheerfully. Now the
gentlemen of Norfolk are as honourable in their sport as any in the
kingdom, but they seldom lose without a curse or two. This
cheerfulness, therefore, under ill fortune surprised them.

The colonel turned to Tom, whose eyes were closing. "Mr. Rising, we
will settle, if you please, after we have slept off the punch."

Tom grunted and tried to speak. He was at that point of drunkenness
when he could understand what was said, but spoke with difficulty. It
is one of the many transient stages of intoxication.

"Then, gentlemen," said the colonel, "we can meet again whenever you
please. I only hope that you are satisfied with me for stopping the
play at this point."

"We are, colonel. We are quite satisfied." So they pushed back their
chairs and rose somewhat unsteadily. But they had all won, and
therefore had reason to be satisfied.

"I'm not--not satisfied." Tom Rising managed to get out these words
and tried to, but without success, to sit square and upright.

"Well, sir," said the colonel, "you shall have your revenge
to-morrow."

"I want it now--I'll have it now. Bring another bowl." His head
dropped again.

"The gentleman," said the colonel, "is not in a condition to play. It
would be cruel to play with him in this state."

"Come, Tom," one of them shook him by the arm, "wake up and be
reasonable."

"I've lost again, and I want revenge."

"To-morrow, Tom, the colonel will give you as much revenge as you
please."

Tom made no reply. He seemed asleep.

"He shall have as much revenge as he pleases. Meantime, gentlemen, we
have been pleasant together, so far. But this young gentleman plays
high--very high. I am ready to meet his wishes; but, gentlemen--far be
it from me to hint that he is not a gentleman of large estate--but the
fact is that he has lost pretty heavily and wants to go on
continually."

"Yesterday," Tom spoke with closed eyes, "it was eight hundred. To-day
it's--how much to-day?"

They looked at each other. "Gentlemen," said the colonel, "you have
heard what he says. I hope you will believe me when I assure you that
the high play was forced upon me."

They knew Tom to be the owner of a pretty estate of about L1,200 a
year, and they knew him to be a sportsman, eager and reckless. Eight
hundred pounds is a large sum to raise upon an estate of L1,200, even
if there were no other demands upon it.

"Say, rather, had a good estate," said another.

"I need not point out, gentlemen," the colonel observed, severely,
"the extreme injustice of admitting to our circle those who venture to
play beyond their means. Play demands, above all things, jealousy in
admittance. If men of honour meet for a few hours over the cards, the
least they can demand is that, since they have to pay at sight, or
within reasonable time, no one shall be admitted who is not able to
pay within reasonable time, whatever losses he may make. You and I,
gentlemen," he continued, "have not forced this high play upon our
friend here."

"No. Tom would always fly higher than his neighbours."

"I think, colonel," said one of them gravely, "that this matter
concerns the honour of the place and the county. You come among us a
man of honour; you play and pay honourably. We admit Tom Rising into
our company. He must raise the money. But you will grant him time.
Eight hundred pounds and more----"

"Perhaps a thousand," said the colonel.

"Cannot be raised in a moment. We are not in London; there are no
money lenders with us; and I know not how much has been already raised
upon the estate. But, colonel, rest assured that the money shall be
duly paid. Perhaps it will be well not to admit poor Tom to our table
in future, though it will be a hard matter to deny him."

Then Tom himself lifted his head.

"I can hear what you say, but I am too drunk to talk. Colonel, it's
all right. Wait a day or two." He struggled again to sit upright. One
of his friends loosened his cravat, another took off his wig and
rubbed his head with a wet cloth. "Why," he said, "I am sober again.
Let's have another bowl and another game."

"No, no," his friends cried out together. "Enough, Tom; get up and go
to bed."

"Colonel Lanyon," he said, "and friends all--gentlemen of this
honourable company"--he ran his words together as men in liquor
use--but they understood him perfectly. "I will play as high as I
like; and as deep as I like; and as long as I like. I will play till I
have stripped every man among you to the very bones. Why do I say
this? Because, gentlemen, after Friday night I shall be the richest
man in the county. D'ye hear? The richest man in the county. You don't
know how? Very well. Do you think I am going to tell you? Ho! ho! when
you hear the news, you'll say, 'twas only Tom--only Tom Rising--had
the courage to venture and to win."

"He means the hazard table," said the colonel.

"No; not the hazard table," Tom went on. "Oh! I know the table and the
woman who keeps the bank, and pretends to weep when you lose. I know
about her. I've heard talk about her. What is it? Don't remember. Tell
you to-morrow."

"He should stop talking," said the colonel, "we must not listen to his
wanderings."

"Richest man in the county," he repeated. "Colonel, I like your
company. You lay down your money like a man. In a week, colonel, I'll
have it all; there shan't be a guinea left among you all. Richest man
in county--make--guineas--fly." His head sunk down again. He was once
more speechless.

His friends looked from one to the other. What did Tom Rising mean?

"Gentlemen," said the colonel, "he has been drinking for many days. He
has some kind of a fit upon him. After a sleep he will be better. Just
now he dreams of riches. I have known men in such a condition to see
animals, and think that they are hunted by rats and clawed by devils."

Again Tom lifted his head and babbled confusedly.

"The richest man--the richest man in the whole county. After Friday
night--not to-night--after Friday night. I have found out a short way
to fortune. The richest man in the county."

So they left him sleeping in his chair, with his head on the table
among the glasses and the spilt punch. It was not long, however,
before they discovered what his words had meant. It was not the raving
of a drunken man, but the betrayal in his cups--unfortunately only a
partial revelation of the abominable wickedness by which he proposed
to acquire sudden wealth. Said I not that Tom Rising was never one to
be balked or denied when he had set his heart upon a thing; nor was he
to be restrained by any consideration of law, human or divine; or of
consequences in this world or the next? You shall now hear what he
designed and what he called the shortest way, and how he was going to
become the richest man in the county.




CHAPTER XXI

MOLLY'S SECOND APPEARANCE


Molly's first appearance was at the assembly of Tuesday; her second on
that of Friday. Between these two days, as you have seen, a good many
things happened, not the least important of which was Lady Anastasia's
"adoption," so to speak, of Molly.

On Tuesday she came with the captain, whose appearance betrayed the
old sailor, followed by the young sailor, transformed, for one night
only, into a fine gentleman. On that occasion she was dressed with an
extravagant display of jewels which might have suited an aged duchess
at court, but was entirely unfitting to a young girl in the assembly
of a watering place; she then danced as if every step had been
recently taught her (which was indeed the case) and as if every
posture was fresh from the hands of the dancing-master.

This evening she came in the company and under the protection of the
Lady Anastasia herself, whose acceptance of her right to appear could
not be questioned, save in whispers and behind the fan. The former
partner in the minuet, he who sprawled and trod the boards like an
elephant; the sailor who would pass for a gentleman--in a word, her
old friend, Jack Pentecrosse (myself)--was not present.

I had proposed to accompany her, but in the morning I received a
message from Lady Anastasia, "Would Mr. Pentecrosse be so very good as
to call upon her immediately?"

I went. I found her the most charming lady, with the most gracious
manner, that I had ever seen. She was, indeed, the only lady of
quality with whom I have ever conversed. It seemed as if she
understood perfectly my mind as regards Molly, because while she
humiliated me, at the same time she made me feel that the humiliation
was necessary in the interests of Molly herself. In a word, she asked
me not to accompany Molly again to the assembly, nor to present myself
there; and, therefore, not to remind the company that Molly's friends
were young men who were not gentlemen. "You have the face and the
heart, Mr. Pentecrosse," she said, laying her white hand on my arm,
"of a man of honour. With such a man as yourself, one does not ask for
a shield and a pedigree. But where women are concerned some things are
necessary. You love our Molly"--she said "our" Molly, and yet she was
in league with the arch villain, the earl among lost souls. "You love
her. I read it in your betraying blush and in your humid eyes.
Therefore you will consent to this sacrifice with a cheerful heart.
And, Mr. Pentecrosse--I would willingly call you Jack, after Molly's
sisterly fashion--come to see me again. It does me good--a woman of
fashion, which too often means of hollow hearts--to converse with a
young man so honest and so simple. Come again, Jack. I am here nearly
every morning after prayers."

I obeyed, of course. Who could resist such a woman? Well, Molly
appeared under her protection. She was now dressed with the simplicity
that belongs to youth, yet with a simplicity only apparent and not
real. For the cloth of gold and the embroidery had vanished; the
bracelets, heavy with rubies and emeralds, had disappeared; the golden
cestus, the diamonds, the gold chains, all were gone. But the pink
silk gown and the white silk petticoat which she wore were costly; the
neck and the sleeves were edged and adorned with lace such as no other
lady in the room could show; round her neck lay a necklace of pearls
as big as cobnuts; on her wrists hung a fan whose handle was set with
sapphires; and in her hair, such was the simplicity of the maiden, was
placed a white rose. Her head was not built after the former manner,
but was covered now with natural curls, only kept in place by the art
of the friseur. In a word, it was Molly herself, not an artificial
Molly; Molly herself, just adorned with the feminine taste which
raised the Lady Anastasia above the blind laws of mere fashion who now
entered the room. She proclaimed herself once more as the heiress with
a more certain note and with less ostentation.

"With her ladyship! With the Lady Anastasia!" they whispered behind
their fans. "What next? Are there no ladies in the room but she must
pick up this girl out of the gutter?" But they did not say these
things aloud; on the contrary they pressed around her ladyship, gazing
rudely and curiously upon the intruder.

"Ladies," said Lady Anastasia, "let me present my young friend, Miss
Molly, the heiress of Lynn. I entreat your favour towards Miss Molly,
who deserves all the favours you can afford, being at once modest, as
yet little acquainted with the world of fashion, and endowed by
fortune with gifts which are indeed precious."

They began with awkwardness and some constraint to express cold words
of welcome; but they could not conceal their chagrin, and two or three
of them withdrew from the throng and abstained altogether after that
evening from the society of her ladyship, and, as they were but plain
wives of country gentlemen, this abstention cost them many pangs. For
my own part, now that I know more about the opinions of gentlefolk, I
confess that I think they were right. If there is an impassable gulf,
as they pretend, between the gentleman and the mere citizen or the
clown, then they stood up for their principles and their order. Why
there should be this impassable gulf I know not; nor do I know who dug
it out and set one class on one side and one on the other; whereas it
is most true that there are many noble families whose ancestors were
either merchants or were enriched by marriages with the daughters of
merchants. Of such there are many witnesses. If, on the other hand, a
girl can be received and welcomed among the Quality simply because she
has a great fortune, there can be no such gulf, and the passage from
one class to the other is matter of worldly goods only. There are also
cases in which the sons of noble and gentle houses have entered into
the service of merchants, and have themselves either succeeded and
made themselves rich, or have sunk down to the levels of retail trade
and of the crafts.

Another humiliation was in store for these ladies. When Lord
Fylingdale entered the assembly he walked across the room, saluted
Lady Anastasia, and bowed low to Molly, who blushed and was greatly
confused at this public honour.

"Miss Molly," he said, "permit me to salute the town of Lynn itself in
your fair person. The town of Lynn is our hostess; you are the queen
of Lynn; let me invite your Majesty to open the ball with me."

So saying, he took her hand and led her out to the middle of the room,
while the music struck up and the company formed a ring.

As for me, you have seen that I made a promise. I kept it in the
spirit but not in the letter. That is to say, I went in my ordinary
Sunday clothes, and stood at the door with the crowd and looked in at
the gay scene. Molly danced with his lordship. My heart sank when I
saw the ease and dignity of his steps, and the corresponding grace of
hers. There was neither sliding nor sprawling. Then after the dance I
saw her standing beside the Lady Anastasia, her eyes sparkling, her
cheek flushed, smiling and laughing, while a whole troop of gentlemen
surrounded her with compliments. She seemed quite happy with them. As
for me, I felt that I was no longer of any use to her; she was flying
far above me; my place was at the door with those who had no right to
enter. So I stole away out of the gardens and into the silent streets,
while the music followed me, seeming to laugh and to mock me as I
crept along with unwilling feet and sinking heart. "Go home! Go home!"
it said. "Go home to your cabin and your bunk! This place is not for
you. Go home to your tarpaulin and your salt junk and your rum!"

I did not obey immediately. I went to the captain's. Molly's mother
was sitting there alone. Nigra was at the assembly to look after her
mistress; the captain was there also, looking on from a corner;
Molly's mother was alone in the parlour, her work in her hands,
stitching by the light of a single tallow candle; and while she
stitched her lips moved.

She looked up. "Jack," she cried, "where is Molly?"

"She is enjoying herself with her new friends. I am no longer wanted.
So I came away."

"My poor Jack!" She laid down her needlework and looked at me. "You
can't make up your mind to lose her. What do you think I feel about
it, then? Sure, a mother feels more than a lover. If she goes, Jack,
she will never come back again. We shall lose her altogether. She will
never come back." With this the tears rolled down her cheek.

"We ought not to grumble and to grutch," she went on. "Why, it is for
her own good. The captain has told us all along that she was too great
a catch for any of the folk about here. There is never a day but he
tells me this, again and again. Not a man, he says, is worthy of such
a fortune! Jack, when I think of the days when my man and me were
married; he never wanted me to know how rich he was. What did I want
with the money? I wanted the man, not his fortune. The jewels and the
chains lay in the cupboard--the foolish glittering things! He followed
simple ways, and lived like his neighbours. And as for Molly, I've
brought her up as her poor father would have had it; there is no
better housewife anywhere than Molly; no lighter hand with the crust;
no surer hand with the home-brewed; no safer hand with the poultry.
And all to be thrown away because she's got such a fortune as would be
wasted on an honest lad like you, Jack, or some good gentleman from
the country side."

"We can do nothing, mother--except to wish her happiness."

"Nothing; not even to find out the kind of man she is to marry. The
captain is all for taking this Lord Fylingdale's advice. Why his
lordship should take to the captain I cannot understand. Sammy Semple
was here to-day--a worm, a wriggling worm--saying how soft and
virtuous his lordship is. Well, Jack, I thought--if he has no
masterfulness in him he isn't any kind of man to advise about a woman.
Now, Molly's father had a fine quick temper of his own, and Molly
needs a master. Then this lady Anastasia, who seems kindly, offers to
take her to town, where she will learn cards and wickedness. But I
doubt, Jack--I doubt. My mind is full of trouble. It is a dreadful
thing to have a rich daughter."

"Would to God," I said, "she had nothing."

"For the men they will come around her; and the women they will hate
her--and she will be too good for her own folk, and too low for the
folks above, and they will all want her money, and they will all scorn
her."

"Nay," I said, "she is too beautiful."

"Beauty! Much women care about beauty! I have dreams at night, and I
wake up terrified and the dreams remain with me still in the waste of
the night like ghosts. Oh, Jack, Jack, I am a miserable woman!"

I left her. I rowed off to the ship and sought my cabin.

After dancing with his lordship, who then offered his hand to a lady
of the county, Molly stood up with the young man called Tom Rising,
who was by this time as sober as could be expected after such a night.
He, in the hearing of everybody, loaded her with compliments of the
common kind, such as would suit a milkmaid, but were not proper for a
modest woman to hear. To these, however, Molly returned no reply, and
danced as if she heard them not. She then rejoined Lady Anastasia,
and, with her, retired to the card room, whither many of the young men
followed her. She stood beside her ladyship, and obliged the young men
by choosing cards for them, which they lost or won. Tom Rising
followed her, and stood beside her with flushed face and trembling
hands. It was remarked afterwards that he seemed to assume the care of
her. He kept gazing upon Molly with fierce and ravenous looks, like a
wolf who hungers after his prey and lives to wait for it. He played
the while, however, and lost during the evening, I believe, some
hundreds of pounds; but, for reasons which you will presently hear, he
never paid that money.

When the country dances began Lord Fylingdale led out Molly once more,
and placed her at the head.

It was too much. Some of the ladies refused to dance at all. Those who
did were constrained and cold. But Molly was triumphant. She was not
an angel. One could not blame her for resenting the flouts and scorn
with which she had been treated. Now, however, she was the first lady
of the company next to Lady Anastasia, because she had been taken out
both for the minuet and the country dance by the first gentleman
present.

I do not think that his lordship paid her any compliments. He danced
as he moved, and spoke with a cold dignity which stiffened his joints.
Now, in a country dance, Molly, for her part, danced all over, her
feet and her body moving together, her hands and arms dancing, her
eyes dancing, her hair dancing. They danced quite down the lines until
every couple had had their turn.

"Miss Molly," said her partner, "you dance with the animation of a
wood nymph, or, perhaps, a nymph of the ocean. I would that the ladies
of London possessed half the vivacity of the Lady of Lynn."

He offered her the refreshment of wine or chocolate, but she declined,
saying that the captain now would be wishing her to go home, and that
her chair would be waiting.

So his lordship led her to the door, where, indeed, her chair was
waiting but no captain, and, bowing low, he handed her in and shut the
door, and he returned to the assembly, and Molly's chair was
immediately lifted up and borne rapidly away, she sitting alone,
thinking of the evening and of her great triumph, suspecting no evil
and thinking of no danger.

A minute later the captain came to the door. There he saw Molly's
chairmen, waiting with her chair. He looked about him. Where was
Molly? He returned to the assembly. The girl was not there. He looked
into the card room. His lordship was standing at the table looking on.
"My lord," said the captain, in confusion, "where is my ward?"

"Miss Molly? Why, captain, I put her into her chair five minutes ago.
She is gone."

"Her chair?" The captain turned pale. "Her chair is now at the door
with her chairmen."

"What devilry is forward?" cried Lord Fylingdale. "Come with me,
captain. Come with me!"




CHAPTER XXII

THE ABDUCTION


The daring attempt to carry off this heiress and to marry her by force
proved in the end the most effective instrument in the success of Lord
Fylingdale's schemes that could possibly be desired or designed. So
great is my mistrust of the man that I have sometimes doubted whether
the whole affair was not contrived by him. I dismiss the suspicion,
however, not because it is in the least degree unworthy of his
character, but because it is unworthy of the character of Tom Rising.
To carry off a girl is not thought dishonourable, especially as it can
always be made to appear that it was with the consent of the girl
herself. But to enter into a conspiracy for the furtherance of another
man's secret designs would be impossible for such a man. Besides, his
subsequent conduct proves that he was not in any way mixed up with the
grand conspiracy of which most of the conspirators knew nothing.

The chair into which Molly stepped without suspicion, and without even
looking for the captain, who should have walked beside her, stood, as
I have said, before the entrance of the long room. Outside, the trees
were hung with  lamps; the place was as bright as in the
sunshine of noon--one would think that nothing could be done in such a
place which would not be observed. There is, however, one thing which
is never observed; it is the personal appearance of servants. No one
regards the boatman of the ferry; or the driver of the hackney coach;
or the postboy; or the chairmen. The chair, then, stood with its door
open opposite to the entrance of the long room. The chairmen stood
retired, a little in the shade, but not so far off as to need calling,
when Lord Fylingdale handed in the lady. This done, he stood hat in
hand, bowing. The chairmen stepped up briskly, seized the poles, and
marched off with the quick step of those who have a light burden to
carry. No one observed the faces of the chairmen, or, indeed, thought
of looking at them; no one remarked the fact that Tom Rising walked
out of the long room directly afterwards and followed the chair.
Within, Molly sat unsuspecting, excited by the triumphs of the
evening. The chair passed through the gardens and the gates recently
erected; instead of turning to the right, which would lead into
Hogman's Lane, the chairmen turned to the left, through the town gate,
and so, turning northwards, into the open fields. Yet Molly observed
nothing. I think she fell asleep; when she came to herself she looked
out of the window. On the right and on the left of her were open
fields.

It was a clear evening. Towards the middle of May there is no black
darkness, but only a dimmer outline and deeper shadows. Molly, who
knew the country round Lynn perfectly well, understood at once that
she had been carried outside the town; that she was no longer on the
high road but on one of the cross tracks--one cannot call them roads
which connect the villages--so that there was very little chance of
meeting any passengers or vehicles. And by the stars she saw that they
were carrying her in a northerly direction.

She perceived, therefore, that some devilry was going on. Now, she was
not a girl who would try to help herself in such a deserted and lonely
spot by shrieking; nor did she see that any good purpose would be
served by calling to the chairmen to let her out. She sat up,
therefore, her heart beating a little faster than usual, and
considered what she should do.

No one is ignorant that an heiress goes in continual peril of
abduction. To run away with an heiress; to persuade her; threaten her;
cajole her; or terrify her into marriage is a thing which has been
attempted hundreds of times, and has succeeded many times. Nay, there
are, I am told, women of cracked reputation and in danger of arrest
and the King's Bench for debt who will visit places of resort in order
to pass themselves off as heiresses to great fortunes, hoping thereby
to tempt some gallant adventurer to carry them off, and so to take
over their debts instead of the fortunes they expected. And there are
stories in plenty of adventurers looking about them for an heiress
whom they may carry off at the risk of a duello, which generally
follows, at the hands of the lady's friends.

Molly, therefore, though not a woman of fashion, understood by this
time her value, especially in the eyes of the adventurer. And she also
understood quite clearly at this moment that she had been carried away
without the knowledge of her guardian, and that the intention of the
abductor was nothing more or less than a forced marriage and the
acquisition of her fortune. "Jack," she told me afterwards, "I confess
that I did wish, just for a little, that you might be coming along the
road with a trusty club. But then I remembered that I was no puny
thread paper of a woman, but as strong as most men, and I took
courage. Weapon I had none, except a steel bodkin gilt stuck in my
hair--a small thing, but it might serve if any man ventured too near.
And I thought, besides, that there would be a hue and cry, and that
the country round would be scoured in all directions. They would most
certainly grow tired of carrying me about in a chair; they must stop
somewhere and put me into some place or other. I thought, also, that I
could easily manage to keep off one man, or perhaps two, and that it
would be very unlikely that more than one would attempt to force me
into marriage. Perhaps I might escape. Perhaps I might barricade
myself. Perhaps my bodkin might help me to save myself. I would
willingly stab a man to the heart with it. Perhaps I might pick up
something--a griddle would be a weapon handy for braining a man, or
even a frying pan would do. Whatever happened, Jack, I was resolved
that nothing, not even fear of murder, should make me marry the man
who had carried me off."

There are found scattered about the byroads of the country many small
inns for the accommodation of persons of the baser sort. Hither
resort, on the way from one village to another, the sturdy tramp,
whose back is scored by many a whipping at the hands of constable and
head-borough. What does he care? He hitches his shoulders and goes his
way, lifting from the hedge and helping himself from the poultry yard.
Here you may find the travelling tinker, who has a language of his
own. Here you will find the pedlar with his pack. He is part trader,
part receiver of stolen goods, part thief, part carrier of messages
and information between thieves. Here also you will meet the footpad
and the highwayman; the smuggler and the poacher, and the fugitive. If
an honest man should put up at one of these places he will meet with
strange companions in the kitchen, and with strange bedfellows in the
chamber. If they suspect that he has money they will rob him; if they
think that he will give evidence against them they will murder him. In
a word, such a wayside inn is the receptacle of all those who live by
robbery, by begging, by pretence, and lies and roguery.

It was before such a wayside inn that the chairmen stopped. Molly knew
it very well. It was at a place called Riffley's Spring; the inn is
"The Traveller's Rest"; it stood just two and a half miles from Lynn,
and one mile from the village of Wootton. It was a small house,
gloomy, and ill-lighted at the best; there was a door in the middle.
The diamond panes of the windows were mostly broken in their leaden
frames; the woodwork was decaying; the upper floor projecting darkened
the lower rooms; in the dim twilight, when the chair stopped, the
house looked a dark and noisome place, fit only for cutthroats and
murderers.

The poles were withdrawn and the door thrown open. Molly, looking out,
saw before her, hat in hand, her late partner, the young fellow they
called Tom Rising.

"Oh!" she cried. "Is it possible? I thought I was in the hands of some
highwayman. Is this your doing, sir? I was told that you were a
gentleman."

He bowed low, and began a little speech which he had prepared in
readiness:

"Madam, you will confess that you are yourself alone to blame. Fired
with the sight of so much loveliness, what wonder if I aspired to
possess myself of these charms. Sure a Laplander himself would be
warmed, even in his frozen region."

"Sir, what nonsense is this? What do you mean?"

"I mean, madam, that your lovely face and figure are sufficient
excuse, not only in the eyes of the world, but in your own eyes, for
an action such as this. The violence of the passion which----"

"Sir, will you order your fellows to take me back?"

"No, madam, I will not."

"Then, sir, will you tell me what you propose to do?"

"I intend to marry you."

"Against my consent?"

"I have you in my power. I shall ask your consent. If you grant it we
shall enter upon married life as a pair of lovers should. If you
refuse--I shall be the master, but you will be the wife."

Molly laughed. "You think that I am afraid? Very well, sir. If you
persist you shall have a lesson in love-making that will last your
lifetime."

"Everything is fair in love. Come, madam, you will please to get out
of the chair."

"What a villain is this!" said Molly. "He is in love with my fortune
and he pretends it is my person. He thinks to steal my fortune when he
runs away with me. You are a highwayman, Mr. Rising; a common thief
and a common robber. You shall be hanged outside Norwich Gaol."

Tom Rising swore a great oath, calling, in his blasphemous way, upon
the Lord to inflict dire pains and penalties upon him if he should
resign the lovely object of his affection now in his possession. You
have heard that he had the reputation of a reckless dare devil who
stuck at nothing, was daunted by nothing, and was like a bulldog for
his tenacity.

"Understand, madam," he concluded this declaration, "I am resolved to
marry you. Resolved. Bear that in mind."

"And I, sir, am resolved that I will not marry you. Resolved. Bear
that in mind."

"Never yet did I resolve upon anything but I had it. No; never yet."

"Mr. Rising, you think you have me in your power. You shall see. Once
more I ask you, as a gentleman, to send me back. Remember I have many
friends. The whole town, high and low, will be presently out after me.
scouring the country."

"In an hour you will be at Wootton. The parson hath promised to await
us there. You will be my wife in one short hour's time."

"You waste words, sir."

"You will have to alight, madam. The post-chaise is here to carry us
to Wootton, where the parson waits to marry us. In an hour, I say, you
shall be my wife."

Molly looked out of the other window. The post-chaise was there with
its pair of horses, and the postboy waiting at the horses' heads. She
would have to make her stand at once, therefore. To get into the
post-chaise with that man would be dangerous, even though she was as
strong as himself, and, since she was not a drinker of wine, she was
in a better condition.

"I looked round at the house," she told me afterwards. "I thought that
if I could get into the house I might gain some time--perhaps I could
bar the door--perhaps I could find that griddle or the frying pan of
which I spoke. Or if it came to using the bodkin, there would be more
room for my arm in a house than in a chair or a chaise. So I had one
more parley, in order to gain time, and then slipped out."

"Sir," she said, "I give you one more chance of retaining the name and
reputation of gentleman. Carry me back, or else await the vengeance of
my friends. I warn you solemnly that murder will be done before I
marry you. Understand, sir, murder of you, or your confederates, or
myself."

She spoke with so much calmness and with so much resolution that she
aroused all his native obstinacy. Besides, it was now too late. The
news of the abduction would be all over Lynn--he must carry the thing
through. He swore another loud and blasphemous oath. Heavens! how he
was punished! How swiftly and speedily!

Molly stepped out of the chair. Tom Rising, his hat in hand, again
bowed low. "Madam," he said, "you are well advised. Pray let me hand
you into the chaise."

She made no reply, but, rushing past him, darted into the house. She
stumbled down one step and found herself in a room where the twilight
outside could not penetrate. It was quite dark. She closed the door
behind her and bolted it, finding a bolt in the usual place.

Then she waited a moment, thinking what she could do next. A rustling
and a footstep showed that she was not alone.

"Who is there?" she cried. "Is there no light?"

She heard the striking of flint and steel; she saw the spluttering
yellow light of a match, and by its flickering she discerned an old
woman trying to light a candle--a rushlight in a tin frame, with holes
at the sides.

Molly looked quietly round the room. A knife lay on the table. She
took it up. It was one of the rough clasp knives, used by rustics when
they eat their dinners under the hedge. She stepped forward and took
the light from the old woman's hand.

"Quick!" she said, "who is in the house?"

"No one, except myself. He said the house was to be kept clear
to-night."

"Can they get in?"

"They can kick the house down if they like, it's so old and crazy."

"Is there an upper room?"

The old woman pointed to the far corner. Molly now perceived that the
place was the kitchen, the tap-room, the sitting-room, and all. A
table was in the middle; a settle was standing beside the fireplace;
there was a bench or two; mugs and cups of wood, pewter and common
ware stood on the mantelshelf; a side of bacon hung in the chimney. In
the corner, to which the old woman pointed, was a ladder. Molly ran
across the room. At the top of the ladder there was a square opening
large enough for her passage. She went up, and found herself, by the
dim rushlight, in an upper chamber, the floor of which was covered
with flock beds laid on the boards. There was one small frame of glass
in the roof, which was not made to open. The place reeked with foul
air, worse than the orlop deck or the hold after a voyage.

Down below she heard her captor kicking at the door. Apparently, the
old woman drew back the bolt, for he came in noisily, swearing
horribly. Apparently, the old woman pointed to the ladder, or perhaps
the glimmer from the room above guided him. He came to the ladder and
tried persuasion.

"Molly, my dear," he cried, "come down, come down. I won't harm you.
Upon my honour I will not. I want only to put you into the chaise and
carry you off to be married. Molly, you are the loveliest girl in the
county. Molly, I say, there is nobody can hold a candle to you. Molly,
I will make you as happy as the day is long. Molly, I love you ten
times as well as that proud lord. He will not marry you. There isn't a
man in all the company I will not fight for your sake. Don't think I
will let any other man have you. Damn it, Molly, why don't you
answer?"

For now she kept silence. The more he parleyed, the more time she
gained. But she found one or two loose boards that had been used for
laying in trestles for the support of the flock beds. She laid them
across the trapdoor, but there was nothing to keep them down.

Then Tom Rising began to swear at the old woman.

"You fool! You blundering, silly, jenny ass of a fool. What the devil
did you give her the candle for?"

"I didn't give it. She took it."

"Go, get another candle, then."

"There are no more candles, master," said the old woman in her feeble
voice. "She's got the only one."

"Molly, if you won't come down I shall force my way up."

Still she kept silence.

He took two steps up the ladder and lifted the boards, showing the
fingers of his left hand. Molly applied her knife, gently but
dexterously; but it touched the bone, and taught him what to expect.
He drew back with a cry of rage.

"Come down," he said, "or it will be worse for you. Come down, I say."

He had not reckoned on a knife and on the girl's courage in using it.

"Molly," he said again, more softly, "come down." She still maintained
silence.

"You have no food up there," he went on. "Your window is only a light
in the roof looking away from the road. No one from Lynn will come
this way. If they do they will see nothing. You had better come down.
Molly, I shall wait here for a month. I shall starve you out. Do you
hear? By the Lord, I will set fire to the thatch and burn you out. By
the Lord, you _shall_ come down."

So he raved and raged. Meantime the two chairmen, who were his own
servants, stood, pole in hand, one in front of the house and one
behind, to prevent an escape. But this was impossible, because the
room, as you have heard, had no other window than a small square
opening in the roof, in which was fitted a piece of coarse, common
glass.

"Jack," she told me, "when he talked of setting fire to the thatch I
confess I trembled, because, you see, my knife would not help me
there. And, indeed, I think he would have done it, because he was like
one that has gone mad with rage. He was like a mad bull. He stormed,
he raged, he cursed and swore; he called me all the names you ever
heard of--such names as the sailors call their sweethearts when they
are in a rage with them--and then he called me all the endearing
names, such as loveliest of my sex, fairest nymph, tender beauty. What
a man!"

Meantime she made no answer whatever, and the darkness and the silence
and the obstinacy of the girl were driving the unfortunate lover to a
kind of madness, and I know not what would have happened.

"Molly," he said, "willy nilly, down you come. I shall tear down the
thatch. I would burn you out, but I would not spoil your beauty. I
shall tear down the thatch, and my men shall carry you down."

Then Molly made answer.

"I have a knife in my possession. Do not think that I am afraid to use
it. The first man who lays hands on me I will kill--whether it is you
or your servants."

"That we shall see. Look ye, Molly, you are only a merchant's
daughter, and I am a gentleman. Do you think I value that compared
with marrying you? Not one whit. When we are married I will buy more
land; I will be the greatest landowner of the whole county. Sir Robert
will make me sheriff. I will go into Parliament, Molly; he will make
me a peer. Come down, I say."

But she spoke no more.

Then he lost control of himself, and for a while stamped and swore,
threatened and cursed. "You will have it, then? Here, John, go and
look for a ladder. There's always a ladder in the back yard. Put it up
against the thatch. Tear it down. Make a hole in the roof. Tear off
the whole roof."

The man propped his chair pole against the door, and went round to
look for the ladder and to obey orders.

"So," Molly told me, "I was besieged. Mr. Rising was below, but I had
my knife, and he was afraid to venture up the steps. I heard the men
clumping about outside. I heard them plant the ladder and climb up.
Now a countryman who understands a thatch is able to tear it off very
quickly, either to make or mend a hole, or to tear down the roof
altogether. And I feared that I must use my knife seriously. Was ever
woman more barbarously abused? Well--I waited. By the quick tearing
away of the straw I saw that the fellow on the ladder knew how to
thatch a rick or a cottage. In a few minutes there would be a hole big
enough for half-a-dozen men to enter. Jack," her cheek flushed and her
eye brightened. "God forgive me! But I made up my mind the moment that
man stepped within the room to plunge my knife into his heart."

If a woman's honour is dearer than her life, then surely it is more
precious than a dozen lives of those who would rob her of that
treasure.

However, this last act of defence was not necessary.

"Master," cried the postboy, who was waiting with the chaise. "Master,
here be men on horseback galloping. I doubt they are coming after the
lady."

Tom Rising stepped to the door and looked down the road. The day was
already beginning to break. He saw in the dim light a company of
horsemen galloping along the road; it was a bad road, and there had
been rain, so that the horses went heavily. They were very near; in a
few moments they would be upon him. He looked at the chaise. He made
one more effort.

"Molly," he said, "come down quick. There is just time. Let us have no
more fooling."

Again she made no reply. Knife in hand, with crimson cheek and set
lips, she watched the hole in the thatch and the man tearing it away.

Tom Rising swore again, most blasphemously. Then, seeing that the game
was lost, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and stepped into the
middle of the road.




CHAPTER XXIII

WHICH WAY TO FOLLOW?


I must admit that in the conduct of this affair Lord Fylingdale showed
both coolness and resolution.

The news that the heiress of Lynn had been abducted spread immediately
through the rooms; the whole company flocked to the doors, where Lord
Fylingdale stood, calm and without passion, while beside him the old
captain stamped and cursed the villains unknown.

He called Molly's chairmen. What had those fellows seen? They said
that they were waiting by order; that another chair stood before them
at the door, the bearers of which were strangers to them, a fact which
at this crowded season occurred constantly; that a gentleman whose
name they knew not, but whom they had seen in the streets and at the
assembly, mostly drunk, had come out hastily and spoken to these
chairmen; that his lordship himself had handed the lady into the chair
and closed the doors, to their astonishment, because they were
themselves waiting for the lady; and that the chair was carried off
instantly, leaving them in bewilderment, not knowing what to do.

He asked them, next, for a closer description of the gentleman. He was
young, it appeared; he was red in the face; he looked masterful; he
cursed the chairmen in a very free and noble manner; one of the
chairmen gave him his sword to wear, which is not permitted in the
assembly; he was swearing all the time as if in great wrath.

"My lord," a gentleman interrupted, "the description fits Tom Rising."

"Has Mr. Rising been seen in the assembly this evening?"

"He was not only here, but he danced with the lady."

"Is he here now? Let some one look for Mr. Rising."

There was no need to look for him, because the rooms--even the card
room--was now empty, all the people being crowded about the doors.

"Where does he lodge? Let some one go to his lodgings."

"With submission, my lord," said another. "It is not at his lodgings
that he will be found. After the assembly, he goes to the 'Rose
Tavern,' where he drinks all night."

"Let some one go to the 'Rose Tavern,' then, and quickly. Captain
Crowle, we will go to the 'Crown' while inquiries are made. Gentlemen,
there is great suspicion that an abominable crime hath been committed,
and that this young lady hath been forcibly carried away for the sake
of her fortune. I take blame to myself for not making sure that I was
placing her in her own chair. This is my business. But I ask your help
for the honour of the spa and the company."

A dozen gentlemen stepped forward and offered their help and their
swords, if necessary. Among them was Colonel Lanyon.

"Come, then. Let us adjourn to the 'Crown' and make inquiries. Be of
good cheer, captain. We will find out which way they took. If they
have nothing but the chair to carry her away we can easily catch them
up."

"I know my girl," said the captain. "It is not one man who can daunt
her, nor will a dozen men force her to marry against her will. If they
try there will be murder."

"If we cannot find the way they took, we must scour the country."

At the gates of the garden they learned that the keeper had seen the
chair go out, and observed that it was closely followed by a gentleman
whom he could only describe by his height, which was taller than the
average. Now, Tom Rising was six feet at least.

At the "Crown," in Lord Fylingdale's room, they held a brief
consultation, after which the gentlemen who had volunteered their help
went out into the town to make inquiries.

In a few minutes they began to return. It was ascertained that Tom
Rising was not at his lodging; nor was he at the "Rose Tavern"; nor
could he be found at any of the taverns used by gentlemen; this
strengthened the suspicion against him. Then one remembered the
strange words of the Tuesday night, in which Tom Rising had promised
his friends that he would, before the week was done, be the richest
man in the county; rich enough to play with them until he had stripped
every man as bare as Adam. Those words were taken as mere drunken
ravings. But now they seemed to have had a meaning. Where was Tom
Rising?

Another discovery was that of the two men belonging to the chair in
which Molly was carried off. They were found in one of the low taverns
by the riverside, drinking. One of them was already too far gone to
speak. The other, with a stronger head, was able to give information,
which he was quite ready to do. A gentleman, he said, had engaged the
chair, and had given them a guinea to drink if they would suffer him
to find his own chairmen. His description of the gentleman
corresponded with that already furnished. He spoke of a tall gentleman
with a flushed face and rough manner of speech. He knew nothing more,
except that two men, strangers to himself, had taken the chair and
carried it off.

"Gentlemen," said his lordship, "there can be, I fear, no doubt the
abduction of Miss Molly has been designed and attempted by Mr. Rising.
Fortunately, he cannot have gone very far. It remains for us to find
the road which he has taken."

They fell to considering the various roads which lead out of the town.
There is the high road to Ely, Cambridge, and London; but to carry a
chair with an unwilling lady in it on the high road, frequented by
night as well as by day with travellers of all kinds and strings of
pack horses, would be ridiculous. There was the road which led to the
villages on the east side of the Wash; there was also the road to
Swaffham and Norwich; another was also the road to Hunstanton.

"I am of opinion," said one of the gentlemen, "that he has fixed on
some lonely place not far from Lynn, where he could make her a
prisoner until she complies with his purpose and consents to marry
him."

Captain Crowle shook his head. "She would never consent," he repeated.
"My girl is almost as strong as any man, and quite as resolute. There
will be murder if this villain attempts violence."

Just then the landlady of the "Crown" threw open the door and burst
in. "Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!" she cried, "I have found out where
they are gone. Ride after them. Ride after them quick, before worse
mischief is done. I have ordered all the horses in the stables to be
saddled. There are eight. Quick! gentlemen, for the love of the Lord,
ride after them."

"Quick! Quick!" said his lordship.

"Where are they? Where are they?" The captain sprang up.

"They are on their way. They cannot be there yet."

"But where? Where?"

"Mr. Rising ordered a post-chaise to wait for him at ten o'clock."

"He left the gardens," said his lordship, "about that time. Go on."

"He ordered it at the Duke's Head. The postboy told the ostler his
orders. He was to wait for Mr. Rising at 'The Travellers' Rest,' at
Riffley Spring, on the way to Wootton."

"'The Travellers' Rest'? What kind of place is that?"

"It is a bad place, my lord--a villainous place--on a lonely road up
and down which there is little travelling. It is a resort of pedlars,
tinkers, and the like--gipsies, vagabonds, footpads, and rogues. It is
no place for a young lady."

"It is not, indeed," said one of the gentlemen.

"Gentlemen," the landlady repeated, "ride after him! Ride after them!
Oh! the sweet Miss Molly!"

"Are the horses ready?"

"They will be ready in a minute."

"Gentlemen, there are, you hear, eight horses. Captain Crowle will
take one, I will take another. The remaining six are at your disposal.
I shall feel honoured if you will accompany me; but on one condition,
if you will allow me to make a condition. The man will fight, I
suppose?"

"Tom Rising," one of them replied, "would fight the devil."

"One could desire nothing better. The condition is that when we
overtake Mr. Rising you will leave him to me. That is understood?"

"My lord, we cannot, by your leave, allow your valuable life to be at
the hazard of a duel with a man both desperate and reckless."

"I shall take care of myself, I assure you. Meantime, if I fall I name
Colonel Lanyon to succeed me, and after him, should he, too, unhappily
fall, you will yourselves name his successor. Gentlemen, we must
rescue the lady and we must punish the abductor. I hear the horses.
Come."




CHAPTER XXIV

THE PUNISHMENT


The postboy, foreseeing events which might require a clear stage,
warily drew his chaise off the road, which here widened into a small
area trodden flat by many feet, into the grassy field at the side, and
stood at his horses' heads in readiness.

The men on the ladder, who were pulling away at the thatch with zeal,
stopped their work. "What's that, George?" asked one. "Seems like
horses. They're coming after the young lady, likely;" so he slid down
the ladder followed by the other, and they ran round to the front,
seizing their poles in case of need. At elections, and on the occasion
of a street fight, the chairman's pole has often proved a very
efficient weapon. Handled with dexterity it is like a quarter staff,
but heavier, and will not only stun a man, but will brain him, or
break arm, leg, or ribs for him.

"For my part," Molly told me, "I saw them suddenly desist from their
work, though in a few minutes the hole in the thatch would have been
large enough to admit of a man's passing through. I was waiting
within, knife in hand. Do you think I would have suffered one of those
fellows to lay hand upon me? Well, in the midst of their work they
stopped, they listened, and they stepped down the ladder. What did
this mean? There was no window to the loft except a single frame with
half-a-dozen small diamond shaped panes too high up to serve any
purpose except to admit a little light. I put my head through the hole
in the thatch. And I heard--imagine my joy--the clatter of horses and
the voices of the horsemen. And then I knew, and was quite certain,
that my rescue had arrived. 'Jack,' I said to myself, 'has found out
the way taken by this villain, and is riding after him.'"

Alas! I, who should have been riding in the front of all, was at that
moment unconsciously sleeping in my bunk aboard _The Lady of Lynn_.

"I thought that at such a moment Mr. Rising would be wholly occupied
with defending himself. I therefore withdrew the boards from the top
of the stair and looked down. No one was in the room below, that I
could see. I cautiously descended. In the corner of the settle by the
fireplace there was the old woman of the house.

"'They are coming after you, Missy,' she said. 'I knew how it would
end. I warned him. I told him that everything was against it. I read
his luck by the cards and by the magpies, and by the swallows.
Everything was against it. They are coming. Hark! They are very close
now, and they will kill him!'

"I ran to the open door. Mr. Rising was in the middle of the road
without his hat, his sword in his hand; behind him stood his chairmen.
He was not going to give me up without a fight. The postboy had drawn
the chaise into the field, and the sedan chair was standing beside it.
And down the road, only a little way off, I saw, in the growing light
of daybreak, Lord Fylingdale leading, the captain beside him, and
half-a-dozen gentlemen following, all on horseback."

"There she is! There is Molly!" cried the captain. "What cheer, lass?
What cheer?"

Lord Fylingdale held up his hand. The whole party drew rein and
halted. Then their leader dismounted. They were now about twenty yards
from the men. He threw his reins to the nearest of the little troop.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we must proceed with this business without
hurry or bluster, or threats. Mr. Rising will, perhaps, threaten and
bluster. We are here to rescue a lady and to punish a villain. Let
both be done without the appearance of wrath or revenge. Captain
Crowle, do not dismount, I entreat you, until the conclusion of the
next act. Miss Molly is, as you see, apparently safe and unhurt."

They obeyed.

"I shall now measure swords with the young gentleman who thinks that
he can carry off heiresses with impunity. I would advise you to
advance a little closer to the house. He must understand that
punishment awaits him, if not from me, then from some other of this
company."

"Look at Tom," said one of them. "His blood is up. He is now all for
fighting. He means mischief, if ever he has meant mischief. I remember
at Swaffham when he fought the young squire of Headingley. That was
about a girl, too. A mere worthless drab of a tavern servant. Tom
broke down the man's guard and ran him through in half a minute. I
wish we were well out of this job."

Tom stood in the road, as I have said, his sword in his hand, his hat
lying on the ground before him. If flaming cheeks and eyes as fiery as
those of a bull brought to bay mean mischief, then Tom's intention was
murderous.

"To thwart Tom in anything," the gentleman went on, "is dangerous; but
to take away his girl--and such a girl--to rob him of that great
fortune just at the moment of success--would madden the mildest of
men. He looks like a madman. Should one warn his lordship? And he has
got two chairmen with their poles in readiness. We should ride in upon
them before they can do any mischief." So they whispered.

Said Captain Crowle: "Kill him, my lord; kill the villain. Kill him."

"Let me warn your lordship," said the gentleman who had last spoken,
"his method will be a fierce attack; he will try to break down your
guard."

"I know that method," Lord Fylingdale replied, coldly. Then he stepped
forward and took off his hat. "Mr. Rising," he said, "this affair
might very well be settled by two or three sailors or common porters.
We are willing, however, to treat you as a gentleman, which, sir, you
no longer deserve."

"Go on, go on," said Tom. "'Twill be all the same in five minutes."

"I am therefore going to do you the honour of fighting you."

"I shall show you how I appreciate that honour. Stop talking, man, and
begin."

"I must, however, warn you that if you are to fight as a gentleman you
must try to behave as one, for this occasion only. Should you attempt
any kind of treachery my friends will interfere. In that case you will
certainly not leave the field alive."

"What do you want then?"

"You must send away those two hulking fellows behind you. I am willing
to fight you with swords, but I am not going to fight your lackeys
with clubs."

Tom turned round. "Here, you fellows, get off. Go and stand beside the
chair. Whatever happens don't interfere. Well, my lord, the sooner
this comes off the better."

He laid down his sword and took off coat and waistcoat, turning up the
sleeve of his right arm. Then he turned to Molly and saluted her.
"Mistress Molly," he said, with a grin, "you are going to have a very
fine sight. Perhaps, when it is over you will be sorry for your
shilly-shally stand off--no, I won't say it. You're not worth carrying
off. If I'd known. Now, my lord."

Lord Fylingdale had also removed his coat and waistcoat, and now stood
in his shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, hat-less.

Just at that moment the sun rose swiftly, as is his manner in this
flat country. It was as if the sky had leaped into light in order to
give these swordsmen a clearer view of each other. They were a strange
contrast. Molly's champion erect, pale, and calm; his adversary bent,
as if with passion, grasping his sword with eager hand.

"He means mischief," repeated the gentlemen of the troop. "I would
this business was ended. I wonder if the noble lord can fight. He does
not look afraid, anyhow."

"He looks as if he could feel neither fear nor anger, nor love, nor
any passion at all. He is an iceberg. Ha! they are beginning."

They faced each other.

The swords crossed. "Look to yourself," said Tom. "I will spit you
like a pigeon."

He stamped and lunged. The thrust was parried, easily and lightly. Tom
lunged again, and again, with a slight turn of the wrist, the thrust
was parried. But as yet Lord Fylingdale seemed to stand on the
defensive.

"He knows how to fence," they whispered. "See! he means to tire his
adversary. He parries everything. Tom thrusts like a madman. Why, he
exposes himself at every lunge. See! he has lost his head. One would
think he was fighting with an automaton who could only parry."

At the door stood the object and cause of the encounter, the girl,
namely, who had brought all this trouble upon Tom Rising's head. She
stood motionless, hardly breathing, watching the duel, as they say the
Roman women used to watch the fight of the gladiators in the
amphitheatre, and as I have seen the Spanish women watch the men who
fight the bull in their circus. I believe that women, in spite of
their tender hearts, are carried away out of themselves by the sight
of mere fighting. It is a spectacle which they cannot choose but gaze
upon; it shows the true nature of man as opposed to that of woman. He
stands up and risks his life, trusting sometimes to his skill, as in a
duel with swords, and sometimes to chance, as on a battlefield where
the bullets are flying. Molly, therefore, watched the fight with
gleaming eyes and parted lips. She was almost ready to forgive the man
who had attempted this injury for the sake of his courage, and she
could not sufficiently admire his adversary for the cold and impassive
way in which he met every furious attack, just with a simple turn of
the wrist, as it seemed to her.

Tom was a strong and lusty fellow, and he could fight after his
fashion, which was with thrust upon thrust, fast and furious, as if
reckless of himself, so that he could engage his adversary wholly in
defence until he found a moment of weakness.

He had fought many times, and hitherto without a scratch or a wound,
the fight always ending with his adversary lying prostrate before him.
On this occasion, however, he found that every thrust was parried;
that his adversary yielded not so much as an inch of ground, and that
he had to do with a wrist of iron and the eye of a hawk.

"Jack!" said Molly. "I hope that I desired not the death of the young
man. But I did desire his defeat. It was splendid to see him stamping
on the ground and attacking like lightning. But it was more splendid
to see his adversary immovable. He stood like a rock; he showed
neither passion nor excitement. He parried every thrust with just a
turn of his wrist."

The gentlemen on horseback closed in and looked on holding their
breath. There was no longer any fear on account of their champion. For
the first time in their lives they saw as fine a master of fence as
ever came out of the schools of Paris. Meantime, the other man was as
one maddened. He drew back; he roared like a bull; he rushed upon his
enemy; he panted and gasped; but he continued the fight undaunted.

Suddenly, his sword flew out of his hand, and fell in the field beside
the chaise.

"Pick up your master's sword," Lord Fylingdale ordered the chairmen.

The spectators looked to see Tom run through on the spot. On the
contrary, Lord Fylingdale remained in his attitude of defence; he was
playing with his enemy. "Take your sword," he said. "You are at my
mercy. But take your sword, man; we have only just begun."

Tom received his sword, and wiped off the mud upon his shirt. Then he
renewed the attack; but it was with less confidence. That one should
refuse to finish the duel when he had disarmed his adversary was a
thing beyond his experience.

"Tom is dashed," said one of the company. "It is all over with Tom."

It was. After a few more lunges, parried with the same quiet skill and
calmness of manner, Tom's sword once more flew out of his hand. Then
the duel was over, for Lord Fylingdale made one thrust and his sword
passed clean through the right arm at the shoulder, passing out at the
other side. Tom reeled; one of his chairmen ran to his help, and he
fell upon the ground, fainting in a small pool of blood.

Lord Fylingdale paid no attention to him. He wiped his sword on the
grass, replaced it in the scabbard, and put on his coat and waistcoat.
This done, he advanced to Molly.

"Madam," he said, "we are fortunate, indeed, in being able to effect a
rescue. This is not a place for a lady, nor is this a sight that one
would willingly offer you. I trust that no violence has been used."

"I thank your lordship. It was a horrid sight. Oh! do not let the poor
man die. He is a villain, but he has failed. Be merciful."

Then the captain came running up. "Molly!" he cried, with the tears
running down his face. "Molly! We are not too late? They haven't
married you? The villain is paid. He is paid, I take it. He hasn't
married you yet? By the Lord, if he has I will brain him with my
cudgel, so you shall be a widow as soon as a wife."

"Captain, can you ask me? The man had a chaise waiting here and would
have forced me into it; but I ran into the house, and so to the upper
floor, whither he could not follow. He set his men to pull off the
thatch. What he would have done next I know not. But I could defend
myself."

"What is that in your hand, Molly?"

It was the knife, which she still held in readiness. She threw it
away. "I shall not need it now," she said. "What do you think I should
have done with it?"

"Molly, I know what you would have done. I said that there was no man
in England who could marry you against your will. It was his heart and
not his shoulder that would have received the knife. My dear, I knew
my Molly. I knew my girl."

Then the other gentlemen crowded round, offering their
congratulations, no one taking the least notice of the unlucky Tom,
who still lay pale and bleeding on the ground.

It was Lord Fylingdale who came to his assistance. "Here, fellows," he
ordered the chairmen, "take up your master and put him in the
chaise--so. And as for you," he addressed the postboy, "here is a
guinea. Drive as fast as you can back to Lynn. Put him to bed in his
lodgings and send for a surgeon or a wise woman, or some one to look
after the wound."

"Will he die?" asked one of the bystanders.

"I should think it not unlikely. His wound is dangerous, and if I know
anything about a man from his appearance I should say that he would be
inclined to fever. But we are not concerned with his fate. Whether he
dies or lives, he has attempted a villainous act and has met with a
fitting punishment."

The carriage, with the wounded man in it, went rattling along the
road, the jerks and bumps among the ruts being enough to keep the
wound open and the blood flowing.

Then Lord Fylingdale called the chairmen. "Who are you?" he asked. "Do
you belong to the town of Lynn?"

They looked at each other. Then one said, "No; we be from Swaffham.
Squire Rising sent for us to do his job."

"Put in your poles. You must now carry the lady back."

"We have done our work," said his lordship. "It remains for us to
escort Miss Molly home again. Madam, you can leave this foul den with
the consciousness that you are avenged."

"Indeed, I want no revenge."

"Justice has been done. Justice is not revenge. You can now, madam, go
back in the chair in which you were brought here. The villain who made
the attempt is already on his way back. Since you desire mercy rather
than revenge we must hope that his wound is not fatal."

So Molly reentered the chair. Then she was brought home in triumph.
The captain rode on one side; her champion on the other; before and
behind her rode her mounted escort. If she had been a queen they could
not have shown her greater deference and respect.




CHAPTER XXV

A GRATEFUL MIND


The news of the abduction, you may be sure, formed, next day, the only
topic of talk in the pump room and the gardens. There are many rumours
and reports. Mr. Rising was allowed to be a villain of the deepest
dye. He was also allowed to be a gentleman of the greatest courage and
resolution. The duel was described with such embroideries and
additions as the feminine imagination could invent. Lord Fylingdale
was desperately wounded; no, only slightly wounded; no, he was not
touched. Mr. Rising was brought home dead, in a pool of blood; no, he
was wounded and not expected to live; and so on. He lay, indeed, at
his lodgings in a fever, which held him for some days; but being young
and strong, and in good health, except that his habit of drinking had
inflamed his blood, he recovered, and, as you shall presently learn,
escaped from certain toils and snares that had been laid with skill,
and were promising success.

I am sorry to say that the opinion of the ladies remained adverse to
Molly. It was universally acknowledged that she was a forward minx;
that she ought to have known her place; that, had she not given
encouragement, Mr. Rising could never have attempted his rash
adventure. "She wants to marry a gentleman. Naturally; she thinks that
money will buy anything. What is the good of having all these fine
things--if, indeed, they are hers--if she is to marry in her own
class, a quill driver, a shopkeeper, a tarpauling? As everybody knows,
Mr. Rising is a gentleman of good family and good estate; could she
look higher? She ought to feel honoured at being carried away by a
gentleman. As for any rumour, connecting her with Lord Fylingdale, one
would be sorry for the poor wench if that was true, because nothing
could be more impossible. Yet the ambition of a girl ignorant of the
world may soar to heights incredible, like the soap bubble, only to
burst, or the sky-rocket, only to fall ignobly to the ground. It is
not likely that his lordship, said to be so fastidious, would bestow a
serious thought upon the girl, save as representing the town of Lynn."
And so on ... with whispers from one to the other at morning prayers,
and louder talk in the pump room, and at the confectioner's and in the
gardens.

Meantime, the captain made haste to wait upon his lordship, in order
to thank him more formally than in the turmoil and agitation of the
evening had been possible.

"Captain Crowle," said his lordship, "there needs no thanks. The
honour of the spa--of the company--was at stake. Could we look on
unmoved when such a crime was committed under our very eyes? Sir,
there were with me, as you saw, half-a-dozen gallant gentlemen, all
pledged to take my place should I fall. Their swords were as much at
the service of insulted virtue as my own."

"You fought a desperate man, my lord. Had you lost hand or eye for a
moment, you would now be dead."

"Captain, I do not lose my eye nor my hand. Nevertheless, to die for
the honour of such a woman as Miss Molly should be happiness enough
for any man."

Said I not that the abduction was the very best thing that could
possibly happen to Lord Fylingdale? Whether he understood the
captain's ambitions as regards himself, or not, I cannot say. We know,
however, that the old man aimed at nothing short of a great alliance
for his ward, a dream that was justified by the noble fortune which
would go with her. Lord Fylingdale knew, besides, that he himself had
made a most favourable impression upon this simple sailor, who
believed everything that he was told. And now, by the rescue of the
girl, he had not only raised himself still higher in the estimation of
the captain, but he stood before Molly as a hero and a fearless
avenger of insult and violence. Nothing could have been more
fortunate.

"Sir," he added, "if you will carry me to Miss Molly herself, I would
offer her my congratulations on the happy ending of her adventure. She
is perhaps overcome by the terrors of the night."

"Molly felt no terrors. She had a knife in her hand which might have
proved more formidable to the young man than your lordship's sword.
But if you will honour my humble house, both Molly and I shall be
still more grateful."

Molly was in the kitchen making a beefsteak pie, with her sleeves
rolled up and her apron on. "Shall I go to my lord as I am?" she said.
"Let me wash my hands and roll down the sleeves at least."

She presented herself, therefore, in her plain morning dress, that in
which she performed her domestic work. Perhaps she showed to greater
advantage thus than in her silks and jewels.

"Miss Molly, your obedient servant." His lordship bowed as low as if
he was addressing a countess at least. "I have ventured to inquire
after your health. Last night's adventure may have proved too great a
shock."

"I am quite well, my lord, thanks to your bravery and your generosity,
which I can never forget--never--not even if I wished to forget."

"Never," said the captain.

"Whenever I hear of a brave man I shall think of your lordship, and
whenever I think of a gallant fight, it will be your lordship
fighting."

"You think too highly of a simple affair, Miss Molly. Nevertheless, I
am proud to have been of service to you."

"At least we must continue grateful, because we have nothing that we
can do in return."

"I am not so sure of that." He smiled kindly. "We shall see. Meantime,
Miss Molly, there is one thing which you might do to please me."

"Oh, what is that?"

"You wore at your first appearance a large quantity of gold chains and
precious stones. I am curious about such gauds. Will you allow me to
see your treasures?"

It was an unexpected favour to ask. Molly laughed, however, and ran to
fetch the box. She poured out the whole of the glittering contents
upon the table. "There, my lord, and if I could venture to offer any
of these things that would please you."

He laughed. "You are kindness itself, Miss Molly. But I am not a lady,
and jewels are of no use to me. I have, however, at my poor house in
Gloucestershire, my family jewels. Let me look at yours."

He sat down and began to examine them closely. Apparently he
understood jewels. It was as if he apprised their value. He placed
some on one side; some on the other. "This," he said, "is a diamond of
the first water. Keep it very carefully. This has a slight flaw, yet,
with more careful cutting, it might become a valuable stone. This
chain is fashioned by an Indian workman. None but an Indian can make a
chain so fine and so delicate. See, it is no thicker than a piece of
twine, and yet how careful and how intricate the workmanship! The
man's fingers must have been more delicate than our craftsmen can
imagine." And so on through the whole of the treasure. "Well, Miss
Molly," he said, "there are few ladies, indeed, even of the highest
rank, who can show so good a collection. I congratulate you with all
my heart. Some day, I hope to see you at court wearing these jewels
and bearing--who knows?--a name as honourable as these are precious."

"Your lordship always encourages," said the captain. "You hear, Molly?
At court and bearing an honourable name."

She blushed and gathered up her treasures.

Her visitor looked round the room. It was the parlour. The homely
appearance of the room, plainly furnished, as might be expected of a
man in the captain's position, was strangely inconsistent with the
mass of treasure which he had just examined. The plain linsey woolsey
of the girl who owned the treasure was also out of proportion, so to
speak, for he understood that this glittering pile of jewels
represented a vast sum of money, and that the girl was far richer than
the poet knew or even the captain guessed. At the mere thought of
getting possession of this treasure his blood quickened; but he
remained, to all appearance, save for a slight and unwonted colour in
his cheek, unmoved. I have never heard, nor can I guess, the value of
these jewels, save that they were worth many thousands.

"These jewels," he said, coldly, "should belong to a great lady. They
deserve to be seen. They are thrown away, save as portable property,
unless they can be used to grace the court. However, ... let me hope
that they will not be thrown away. I think, Miss Molly, that your
mother lives with you in this house. Perhaps this treasure is hers--or
is it all your own?"

The captain made answer. "Molly's mother has no share. A modest sum of
money, sufficient for her needs, is paid her out of the estate. The
rest--all the rest belongs to Molly."

"Truly she is first favourite with Dame Fortune, who, I hope, will not
turn her wheel. Miss Molly, will you present me to madam, your
mother?"

"With all my heart; but my lord, my mother is not used to being called
madam." So saying, Molly retired to the kitchen, and presently
returned, bringing her mother with her. She came in red faced from
stooping over the kitchen fire, wiping her fingers, which she had
hurriedly washed, on her apron, wearing at her side her great
housekeeper's pocket, in which she carried a vast quantity of things
necessary, useful, and handy, such as scissors, pins, a needle-case,
the nutmeg grater, a corkscrew, a few weights, a thread paper, a yard
measure, stockings to be darned, a ball of twine, a skein or two of
silk, ends of ribbon, fragments and rags of cloth, lint for wounds, a
box of goose fat for ointment, and many other articles indispensable
for the complete housewife. Jennifer Miller, Molly's mother, was
indeed a homely body, low in stature, inclined to stoutness, somewhat
short of breath, and, in appearance, exactly what she was in fact,
namely, a woman whose whole delight and study was in housewifery. When
she was young I have heard that she possessed some share of beauty, as
a rosy cheek, red lips, bright eyes, and so forth. But her daughter
took after the father, who was a tall and proper man, as those testify
who knew him.

His lordship treated her with the respect due to a great lady, bowing
as low to her as he had done to Molly.

"Madam, I come to congratulate you on the escape of your daughter.
'Twas providential."

"With your help, sir. Oh! I know a gentleman's modesty. Well, sir--my
lord, I mean--we are humble folk, but I hope we know how to be
grateful. I said to Molly this morning: 'Look out,' I said, 'among
your fine trinkets the very finest thing you've got, and take it
yourself with your humble respects to his lordship,' and I would have
sent with it some of my last year's ginger cordial to warm the
stomach. I warrant it is poor stuff that they give you. Servants don't
give their minds to cordials. But Molly wouldn't go. She was never one
of your shy and shamefaced girls, neither. 'Go and thank his honour,
do,' I said to her, 'What will he think of your manners? Don't leave
it to the captain. Go yourself.' That's what I said."

"Indeed, madam, Miss Molly has already thanked me more than enough. I
am most fortunate in being of some service to her."

"John," the good lady added, "where are your manners, pray? His honour
has nothing to drink. A glass of home-brewed, now, or a little of my
ginger cordial? Unless you will take a bottle home with you. Or a
glass of Lisbon? We are not so poor as to miss it."

"Nothing, madam, nothing, I assure you." So saying, his lordship, with
his most profound bow, quitted the room and the house.

His mind was now made up. There was no longer any doubt possible as to
the girl's great fortune. He had satisfied himself in every
particular. He knew the value of her fleet, and the income of her
business. He now knew the value of her jewels. He would make the girl
his wife, provided he could do it without the settlement of her
fortune upon herself. There must be no settlement.

What he proposed to do with her after his marriage I do not know.
Perhaps he would send her to his country house, from which he had
already sold the furniture, the pictures, the books, and everything.
It stood, I have been told, in a desert, which had once been a lovely
wood. But the wood was felled, and only the stumps were left. There
were gardens around, but they had gone to wrack and ruin. The farmers,
his tenants, paid their rent to the lawyers; his name was a by-word
and a proverb in his own county for mad gambling, for raking, and
ungodly living. I say that he might have proposed to take her to this
deserted spot, and to leave her there. Or he might have taken her to
London, there to associate with I know not what kind of women or what
kind of men. It is certain, however, that no good woman and no honest
man would consort with the wife of the Earl of Fylingdale. He walked
away, however, his mind made up. He would marry the girl if he could
get her without settlements. And as he thought of that treasury of
precious stones, his unholy heart glowed within him.

Molly went back to the kitchen and resumed the making of the beefsteak
pie.

"John," said her mother, "does that young man mean anything?"

"He gives me advice. He knows my design as regards Molly. He is a very
virtuous young gentleman, as well as courageous."

"John, do nothing hastily. He did not look at Molly in a way--well, I
can remember--what I call a hungry way. Take care, John. Perhaps he
only wants her money."

"Why, Jennifer, he is the most fastidious man in the world. Do you
think he can be taken with Molly?"

"Try him. Offer him Molly without a farthing. He would turn away. I am
sure he would, John. I know what a lover's looks should be. Offer him
Molly with her fortune. Ah! then you shall see. John, do nothing rash.
Remember, Molly is ignorant of gentlefolk and their ways. I've heard
of their ways. Molly is like me; she will expect the whole of her
husband, not a part of him."

"Don't I tell the woman that he is a man of the nicest honour?"

"You say so. How do you know, John?"

"Did he not rescue the girl at the risk of his own life? Why,
Jennifer, what more do you ask?"

"Ay. That he did. Perhaps he was not willing to let her fortune go to
some other man. Molly is worth fighting for. Well, if he means
something, why did he go on board the dirty ship with you--and he so
fine? Why was he so anxious to know what the girl has in ships and
things? Why did he ask to see her jewels if it was not to find out
what they are worth? I tell you, John, I could see in his eyes what he
was thinking about."

"Ay, ay; trust a woman for seeing into a millstone."

"He was thinking 'Is she worth it?' And he was calculating how it all
mounted up. Oh! I saw it in his eyes. John, be very careful. If she is
taken from us let her go to a man who will make her happy and then I
will bear it. But not among them that drink and gamble, nor make a
woman mad with jealousy and sick with fear. John, John, be very
careful with that man."




CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAST STEP BUT ONE


You shall now hear more of the cunning by which this noble and
virtuous person--this adornment and boast of the peerage--laid his
plans for securing the fortune and the hand of our Molly. He had
persuaded the simple old sailor to believe anything he chose to
advance; he had shown himself in the eyes of the girl, that which
women admire more than anything else in the world, fearless and
skilled in fence and ready to fight; he had also shown himself ready
to place his courage and his skill at the service and for the rescue
of a woman. So far, everything was prepared and in readiness for the
next step. But there were certain obstacles still in the way. These he
proceeded to remove.

The Lady Anastasia, after the morning prayers, at which she was a
regular attendant, generally returned to her lodging, where she sat
with her maid engaged in the important affairs of the toilette until
dinner.

This day, after his examination of the jewels, Lord Fylingdale was
carried to Lady Anastasia's lodging in the market-place.

The Lady dismissed her maid. "You have something to tell me,
Ludovick," she said. "I cannot tell from your face whether you are
going to deal truthfully. I have had, as you know, a large experience
of the other way. Now, what is it?"

"What I have come to say is important. Anastasia, in this matter I
have given you my entire confidence. There have been, I own, occasions
when I have been compelled--but all that is over. I now confide
absolutely in you and in you alone. My interests are yours."

"You have already given me that assurance on other occasions." She
implied, perhaps, by these words that the assurance and the fact were
not identical.

"What can I give you except my assurance?"

"Nothing, truly. But pray go on. I hear that you have been playing the
part of knight errant and fighting for distressed damsels. I laughed
when I heard of it. You to fight on the side of the angels? Where are
your wings, my Ludovick?"

"The thing happened exactly as I could have wished. The country
bumpkin who carried her off had no knowledge of fence. He could only
lunge, and he was half drunk. There was a great appearance of
desperate fighting--because he was mad with drink and disappointment.
I played with the fellow long enough to make a show of courage and
danger. Then I pinked him."

"Is he dead?"

"I believe that he is in some kind of fever. Perhaps he is by this
time dead. What matters? Well, Anastasia, the result of the affair is
that I have now arrived at perfect confidence on the part of my old
friend the guardian."

"And with the girl?"

"The girl matters nothing. The first part of the business is done. You
can now go back to London."

"Go back to London?" she repeated, suspiciously.

"You have done all I wanted done here. You have given me a very good
character; you have charmed the people of the spa; you have flattered
the girl and inspired her with discontent. Why should you stay any
longer?"

"To be sure I am living at great expense, and the bank is in a poor
way. But what are you going to do?"

"Anastasia"--he sat down and took her hand--"I have inquired carefully
into the whole business. There is no doubt, none whatever, that the
girl is far richer than even her guardian understands. She has a huge
income--a great accumulation of money--and, what is more, a collection
of jewels which is in itself a large fortune. Go back to London
to-morrow or next day; then sit down and write a letter inviting the
girl to stay at your house. Bid her bring with her all her jewels and
finery. I, for my part, will urge the captain to let her accept the
invitation."

"All this is very circumstantial. What then?"

"I will promise the captain to find her a husband--a man of position,
a man of rank, and, above all, one as virtuous as myself." He said
this without the least blush or even a smile.

"Where is that husband to be found?"

"As yet I do not know. He must be a creation of our own. He must not
know; he must simply obey. We shall find such a person somewhere. I
have, I believe, a good many of my former friends in the fleet or the
King's Bench. Now, Anastasia, to find one of these unfortunates; to
offer him an allowance, say a guinea a week, in return for a power of
attorney to administer the property. True, there are the creditors;
but we might take over the detainers. He must not be suffered to get
out." He went on suggesting deceits and villainies.

"You said 'we.' What have I to do with the scheme? It is, you must
confess, Ludovick, one of those arrangements or understandings which
the world calls a conspiracy."

Lord Fylingdale released her hand. Her words pained his sensitive
soul. "If at this time, after all that we have done together, we are
to talk of conspiracies, we had better act separately," he said
coldly.

"No, I am your servant, as you know. Sometimes your most unhappy
servant, but always at your command. Only now and then it pleases me
to call things by their proper names. At such times, Ludovick, I look
in my glass and I see, not the Lady Anastasia in a company of fashion,
but a poor wretch sitting in a cart with her arms tied down, a white
nightcap on her head and a prayer-book in her hand. There is a coffin
in the cart."

"Anastasia! You are ridiculous. What have we done that all the world
would not do if it could? These scruples are absurd, and these visions
are fantastic. What is your share? You know that half of mine--all
that is mine--is yours as well. You shall have my hand and my name.
These you should have had long ago had they been worth your picking
up. Alas! Anastasia, no one knows better than you the desperate
condition of my affairs."

"Well, I will obey you. I will go back to town. I will go to-morrow.
The other partners in our innocency--they will also go back, I
suppose."

"They will have done their part--Sir Harry and the colonel and the
parson--they will all go back. They cost a great deal to keep, and
they have done their work."

"Should I see the girl before I go?"

"Perhaps not. Write to her from London. Invite her to stay with you.
For my own part, I will look about me for the man we want. A
prisoner--on the poor side--a gentleman; one who will do anything for
a guinea a week. The girl will not know that he is a prisoner--it will
be quite easy----"

This he said, concealing his real intentions, and only anxious to get
this lady out of the way. But he left her suspicious and jealous. That
is to say, she had already become both, and this intricate plot of
getting a husband from the fleet, and the rest of it, made her still
more suspicious and jealous.

At the "Crown" Lord Fylingdale found Colonel Lanyon waiting for him.

"I have inquired, my lord, after Tom Rising. He is in a fever this
morning."

"Will he die? What do they think?"

"Perhaps. But he is young. They think that he will recover. What are
your lordship's commands?"

"We have stayed here long enough, colonel."

"With submission, my lord. Although business has been very bad, it
would be as well to wait for the event in Tom Rising's case. My
position is very secure if he recovers. The gentlemen of the company
have acknowledged that he forced high play upon me; they are unanimous
in that respect. It means over a thousand pounds. If he recovers he
must pay the money."

"Yes. In that case it may be best to wait. If he dies----"

"Then, my lord, we know not what his heirs and executors may resolve
upon. The feeling concerning debts of honour is, however, very strong
among the gentlemen of Norfolk. I am sorry that they are not richer."

"If the man dies you can refer to me, perhaps, as arbitrator with the
executors. Meantime, make the best of your opportunities and lose no
more money. Lady Anastasia goes home in a few days, perhaps
to-morrow."

The man retired. Lord Fylingdale sat down and reflected. The great
thing was to get Lady Anastasia out of the way; the rest might stay or
not, as they pleased. Yet he would warn them that their departure
would not be delayed long. He took pen and paper and wrote to Sir
Harry.

    "DEAR BEAU,--I think that the air of Lynn after a few weeks is not
    wholesome for one no longer in his first youth. I would therefore
    advise that you should think about going back to town. Settle
    immediately your affairs, gaming and others. Leave the hearts you
    have broken and return to mend those which are only cracked. In a
    word, the ladies of London are calling loudly for your return, and
    the wits and pretty fellows are asking what has become of Sir
    Harry.--Your obedient servant to command,

    "FYLINGDALE."

There remained the parson and the poet. The latter he could send away
at a day's notice; the former he would probably want for a certain
purpose. He sent for Mr. Semple, his secretary.

"Semple," he said, "I have now made inquiry into the truth of your
statements--I mean as regards this young lady's fortune."

"It is as I told your lordship?"

"It is. The fortune you have exaggerated, but it is no doubt
considerable. Well, I have sent for you in order to tell you that I am
now resolved upon carrying out the project you submitted to me. My own
affairs are, as you found out, embarrassed; the girl's fortune will be
useful to me; her person is passable; her manners can be improved. I
have therefore determined to make her my countess."

"My lord, I rejoice to have been the humble instrument----"

"You have kept the secret, so far, I believe. At least I have seen no
sign that any one suspects my intentions. You have invented a lie of
enormous audacity in order to bring us all together; myself, your
project up my sleeve; and certain friends of mine, to assist in
various ways; your inventions have converted an ordinary well into a
health restoring spring; you have caused the elevation of this town of
common sailors and traders and mechanics into a fashionable spa.
Semple, you are a very ingenious person. I hope that you are satisfied
with your success."

"Gratified, my lord. Not satisfied."

"I understand. You shall be satisfied very shortly by the fulfillment
of my promise. It is, if I remember, to find you a place under
government, worth at least L200 a year, with perquisites. You shall
learn, Semple, that I can be grateful and that I can keep my word,
written or spoken. Now there remains one more service."

He proceeded to give him certain instructions.

"And, remember, the greatest secrecy is to be observed. Neither you
nor the captain is to reveal the fact--until the business is
completed. Everything will be ruined if anything is revealed. Your own
future depends upon your secrecy. You are sure that you have your
instructions aright?"

"I am quite sure, my lord. I am your ambassador. I come with a message
of great importance. There are reasons why the proceedings are to be
kept secret. The lady will be made a countess before a prying and
impertinent world can be informed of your lordship's intentions. I
fly, my lord. I fly."

"One moment, friend Semple. Before you depart on this mission, resolve
me as to a difficulty in my mind."

"What is that, my lord?"

"You are aware, of course, that my plan of life is not quite what this
girl looks for in a husband. She will expect, in fact, the bourgeoise
virtues--constancy, fidelity, early hours, regularity, piety. You know
very well that she will find none of these virtues. They are not, I
believe, expected in persons of my rank. You are preparing for the
girl, in fact, a great disappointment, and, perhaps, a life of misery.
If I did not want her money, I might pity her."

Sam's face darkened.

"Tell me, my friend, in return for what acts of kindness done to you
by the captain or by Molly herself are you conferring this boon upon
the girl?"

The poet made no reply for awhile. Then he answered, his eyes on the
ground. "The thing is as good as done. I may as well let you know. The
captain cudgelled me like a dog--like a dog. My gratitude is so great
that I have succeeded in marrying his ward to--you, my lord. What
worse revenge could I take?"

"Frankly, I know of none." The devil, himself, you see, can speak
truth at times.

"You will waste and dissipate the whole of her fortune, and would if
it were ten times as great, in raking and gaming; you will send her
back to her own people brokenhearted and ruined. That will be my
doing."

"Friend Semple," said his lordship, "if I were not Fylingdale I would
be Semple; and, to tell the truth, if I saw any other way of raising
money I would--well, perhaps I would--even pity the girl and let her
go."




CHAPTER XXVII

THE EXPECTED BLOW


That evening the blow, feared and expected, fell, for then, and not
till then, I felt that we had lost, or thought we had lost, our maid.

I found the captain sitting in the summerhouse alone, without the
usual solace of his tobacco and his October. "Jack," he said, with a
gloomy sigh, "I am now the happiest of men, because my Molly is the
most fortunate of women. I have attained the utmost I could hope or
ask. The most virtuous of men--I should say of noble-men--has asked
the hand of our girl. Molly will be a countess! Rejoice with me!"

I stood outside on the grass, having no words to say.

"She will marry him immediately. Nothing could be more happy or more
fortunate. Such rank--such a position as places her on a level with
the highest ladies of the land, though the daughter of plain folk,
with a shipowner for a father and a sailor's daughter for a mother.
There is promotion for you, Jack!"

"She will go away, then, and leave us!"

"Aye; she will leave us, Jack. She will leave us. His lordship--you do
not ask who it is."

"Who can it be, captain, but Lord Fylingdale?"

"The best of men. He will carry her off to his country house, where
they will live retired for a while, yet in such state as belongs to
her rank. We shall lose her, of course. That, however, we always
expected. The country house is in Gloucester, on the other side of
England. Perhaps she may get to see us, but I am seventy-five, or
perhaps more, and Jennifer, her mother, is not far from fifty. I
cannot look to set eyes on her again. What matter." He hemmed bravely
and sat upright. "What matter, I say, so that the girl is happy. Her
mother may, perhaps, set eyes on her once more; but she will be
changed, because, you see, our Molly must now become a fine lady."

"Yes," I groaned, "she must become a fine lady."

"Jack, sometimes I am sorry that she has so much money. Yet, what was
I to do? Could I waste and dissipate her money? Could I give away her
ships? Could I give her, with the fortune of a princess, to a plain
and simple skipper? No; Providence--Providence, Jack, hath so ordered
things. I could not help myself."

"No, captain; you could not help things. Yet...." I broke off.

"Well, Jack, why don't you rejoice with me? Why the devil don't you
laugh and sing? All you want is to see her happy, yet there you stand
as glum and dumb as a mute at a funeral."

"I wish her happiness, sir, with all my heart."

"Sam Semple came here this afternoon, by order of my lord. Sam gives
himself airs now that he is a secretary and companion. He came and
demanded a private conversation with me. It was quite private, he
said, and of the utmost importance. So we sat in the parlour, and,
with a bottle of wine between us, we talked over the business. First,
he told me that his patron, as he calls him, meaning his master, had
been greatly taken with the innocence and the beauty of Molly. I
replied that unless he was a stock, or a stone, or an iceberg, I
expected nothing less. He went on to say, that although a noble earl
with a long pedigree and a great estate, his patron was willing to
contract marriage with a girl who was not even of gentle birth, and
had nothing but her beauty and her innocence. I told him that she had,
in addition, a very large fortune. He said that his patron scorned the
thought of money, being already much more wealthy than most noblemen
of his exalted rank; that he was willing, also, to pass over any
defects in manners, conversation, and carriage, which would be
remedied by a little acquaintance with the polite world. In a word,
his lordship offered his hand, his name, his title, his rank, and
himself--to my ward."

"His condescension," I said, "is beyond all praise."

"I think so, too. Beyond all praise. I asked his advice touching a
husband for my girl. He promises his assistance in the matter, and he
then offers himself. Jack, could anything be more fortunate?"

"I hope it may turn out so. What does Molly say?"

"You may go in and ask her yourself. She will tell you more than she
will tell anybody else. The matter is to be kept, for the present, a
profound secret between his lordship and ourselves. But since Sam
Semple knows it, and Jennifer knows it, and you are one of ourselves,
therefore, you may as well know it, too. But don't talk about it."

"Why should it be kept a secret? Why should it not be proclaimed
everywhere?"

"My lord says that the place is a hot-bed of scandal; that he would
not have Molly's name passed about in the pump room to be the object
of common gossip and inventions, made up of envy and malice. He would
spare Molly this. When she is once married and taken away from the
place they may say what they please. Whatever they say, they cannot do
her any harm. Why, some of them even declared that she was one of the
company of strolling actresses. There is nothing that they will not
say."

I made no reply, because it certainly did seem as if in asking for
secrecy his lordship had acted in Molly's interests.

"Well, captain, we must make the best of it. You must find your own
happiness in thinking of Molly's."

"What aggravates me, Jack, is the ridiculous behaviour of my cousin
Jennifer. She is in the kitchen crying, and the black woman with her.
Go and comfort her before you see Molly."

I looked into the kitchen. Molly's mother sat in the great wooden
chair beside the fireplace. She held her apron in her hands as if she
had just pulled it off her face, and the tears were on her cheeks.
When she saw me they began to flow again. "Jack," she said, "have you
heard the news? Has the captain told you? The worst has happened. I
have lost my girl. She is to be married; she will go away; she will
marry a man who scorns her guardian and despises her mother. A bad
beginning, Jack. No good can come of such a marriage. A bad beginning.
Oh! I foresee unhappiness. How can Molly become a fine lady? She is
but a simple girl--my own daughter. I have made her a good housewife,
and all her knowledge will be thrown away and lost. It is a bad
business, Jack. Nigra has been telling her fortune. There is nothing
hopeful. All the cards are threatening. And the magpies--and the
screech owl----"

She fell to weeping again. After which she broke out anew. "The
captain says he is the most virtuous man in the world. It isn't true.
If ever I saw the inside of a man in my life I have seen the inside of
that man. He is corrupt through and through----"

"But--consider. All the world is crying up his noble conduct and his
many virtues."

"They may say what they like. It is false; he is heartless; he is
cold; he is selfish. He marries Molly for her money. Persuade the
captain, if you can. He will not believe me."

"How can I persuade him? I have no knowledge. Are they all in a tale?
Are you the only person who knows the truth? How do you know it?"

"I know it because I love my girl, and so I can read the very soul of
a man. I have read your soul, Jack, over and over again. You are true
and faithful. You would love her and cherish her. But this man? He
knows not what love means, nor fidelity, nor anything. Go, Jack. There
is no help in you or in any other. Because there is none other----"
She spoke the words of the prayer book. "None other that fighteth for
us, but only Thou, O God! Only Thou, O God!" She covered her face
again with her apron and fell to sobbing afresh.

So I went into the parlour where Molly was sitting. "Jack!" she jumped
up. "Oh, Jack, I want you so badly."

"I know all, Molly. Except what you yourself say and think about it."

She had a piece of work in her hands, and she began to pull it and
pick it as she replied. For the first time in my life I found Molly
uncertain and hesitating.

"The captain says that it is the greatest honour that was ever offered
to any woman to be raised from a lowly condition to a high rank--and
all for love."

"All for love?" I asked.

"Why, what else can it be that made him fight for me with that
desperate villain? He risked his life. Whatever happens, Jack, I
cannot forget that."

"No. It was doubtless a great thing to do. Has he told you himself
that it was all for love?"

"He has not spoken about love at all. He has never once been alone
with me. It seems that these great people make love by message. He
sent a message by Sam Semple."

"A very fine messenger of Cupid, truly!"

"Offering marriage. The captain cannot contain his satisfaction and
sits glum. My mother says she will never be able to see me again and
begins to cry."

"Well--but, Molly, to be sure it is a great thing to become a
countess. Most women would jump at the chance, under any conditions.
Do you, however, think that you can love the man?"

"He hasn't asked for love. Oh, Jack, to think that people should marry
each other without a word of love! If he loves me I suppose he thinks
that I am bound to give him love in return."

"There, again, Molly, do you love the man?"

"Jack, nobody knows me better than you. What reply can I make?"

"He is too cold and too proud for you, Molly. How can you love him?
Perhaps," I added, because I was very sure that she would marry him,
"after marriage you will find that his coldness is only a cloak to
hide his natural warmth, and that his pride covers his wife as well as
himself."

"He is a good man. Everybody says so. Lady Anastasia declares that he
is the most honourable and high-principled of men. On that point I am
safe. And think, Jack, what a point it is! Why, to marry a drunkard, a
sot, a profligate, a gambler--one would sooner die at once and so an
end. But I can trust myself with him. I have no fear of such treatment
as drives some wives to distraction. Yet he is cold in his manner and
proud in his speech. I might find it in my heart to love him if I was
not afraid of him." And so she went backwards and forwards. He was so
good and so great; his wife must always respect him. He was of rank so
exalted--it was a great honour to become his wife. He was so
brave--she owed her rescue to his bravery. Yet he had spoken no word
of love; nor had she seen any sign of love. I asked her what sign she
expected, and she was confused. "Of course," she said, "every girl
knows very well when a man is in love with her." "How does she know?"
I asked her. "She knows, because she knows." I suppose she felt the
man was not in love with her just as her mother felt that his
character for virtue and nobility was assumed--"corrupt within," she
said. Women are made so. And in the next breath Molly repeated that
what his lordship had done was done for love. "How do you know?" I
asked again. "Because the captain says so," she replied, with
unconscious inconsistency.

"Is the courtship to be conducted entirely by messenger?" I asked.

"No; he will come to-morrow morning and see me. I am to give him an
answer then. But the captain has already told him what the answer is
to be. Oh, Jack, I am so happy! I am so fortunate that I ought to be
happy. Yet I am so down-hearted about it. Going away is a dreadful
thing. And when shall I see any of you, I wonder, again? Oh, I am so
fortunate! I am so happy." And to show her happiness she dropped a
tear, and more tears followed.

What kind of happiness, what kind of good fortune was that which could
fill the mind of the captain with gloom and could dissolve Molly's
mother in tears, and could herald its approach to the bride by sadness
which weighed her down? And as for me, you may believe that my heart
was like a lump of lead within me, partly because I was losing the
girl I loved, but had never hoped to marry, and partly because from
the outset of the whole affair--yes, from the very evening when the
news of the grand discovery was read to the "Society of Lynn"--I had
looked forward to coming events with foreboding of the most dismal
kind.

"Come to see me to-morrow afternoon, Jack," she said. "I must talk
about it to some one. With the captain I cannot talk, because he is
all for the unequal match, and with my mother I cannot talk because
she foretells trouble, and will acknowledge no good thing at all in
the man or in the match. Do not forget, Jack. Come to-morrow. I don't
know how many days are left to me when I can ask you to come. Oh,
Jack, to leave everybody--all my friends--it is hard! But I am the
most ungrateful of women, because I am the happiest--the happiest. Oh,
Jack, the happiest and most fortunate woman that ever lived."




CHAPTER XXVIII

WARNING


In the evening, which was Wednesday, I repaired to the gardens, paying
for my admission, but no longer in the character of a fine gentleman.
Lord Fylingdale was not present, nor Molly. Lady Anastasia was there,
gracious and smiling as usual. Nothing was said about her approaching
departure. After walking round the long room she retired to the card
room, and play began as usual. It seemed to me, looking on with a few
others at the door, that there was a kind of awkwardness or constraint
among the company. They collected together in small groups, which
whispered to each other; then these groups melted away, forming new
companies, which in their turn dissolved. Something of importance had
happened. Presently some of the gentlemen in the card room came out.
They, in their turn, became surrounded and formed into another group,
who whispered eagerly with each other. They were standing near the
door, and I overheard some of their discourse. "I am assured," one of
them was saying, "that he has been ordered out of the assembly at Bath
for foul play at cards, and I have it on the best authority that he
was driven off the Heath of Newmarket." I did not know of whom he was
speaking.

"Truly," said another, "we seem to have fallen into the midst of a
very pretty set of sharpers. Will Tom Rising, if he gets the better of
his wound, have to pay that debt? I think not. A debt of honour can
only be contracted with a man of honour."

"On the other hand, sir, if Tom had won he would have looked for
payment."

"Why, sir, that is true. But observe, when we played with the colonel
we took him for a man of honour. Some of us have won a few guineas of
him. Should we return them? No. And why? Because we accepted him as a
man of honour, and stood to win or lose as between gentlemen. Now, one
does not play with a sharper knowingly. One would not take his money;
one would not pay him if we lost."

"Then Tom must not pay."

"If what we hear is true; if the man has been exposed at Bath; if he
has been warned off the Heath of Newmarket; most assuredly Tom must
not pay a farthing."

"At present the fever is still upon him. Well, but we must wait. All
this may be mere rumour."

"It may be, as you say; but I think not. The report comes from
Houghton, Sir Robert's place, where a certain cousin of Tom Rising,
member of Parliament, I think, for Ipswich, is now staying as a guest.
Houghton is only a few miles from Lynn. It lies in the marshland. This
gentleman, then, heard of the duel and the wound, and has been to see
his cousin."

"Is he still in the town? Can one have speech with him?"

"I think not. He has gone back to Houghton. But he will return. I am
informed that he inquired into the whole particulars; that he learned
of his cousin's heavy losses at play to one, Colonel Lanyon. 'Lanyon?'
says my Parliament man. 'I know that name--Colonel Lanyon? Why, the
fellow ought not to show his face among gentlemen,' and then out came
the whole story."

"Still," said the other, "he may be mistaken."

"Men are not often mistaken in such matters. But, sir, I can tell you
more. There are gentlemen in Sir Robert's party, at Houghton, who
profess to know strange things about others of our visitors from
London. I will mention no names, yet there will be a surprise for some
who pretend to be what they are not. I say no more, except to advise
you not to neglect next Friday's assembly. Meantime, silence, let us
say nothing."

The little group broke up. I paid small attention to the words. The
colonel was quite unknown to me, except as a constant attendant in the
card room. But I observed that the whispering went on, and increased,
and that every man in every group presently went away and formed other
groups, and that more communications were made and more discussions
followed, and that on every one was enjoined a promise of the greatest
secrecy.

Also I observed that every group contained the same varieties of
listeners. There was the open-mouthed man, who gaped with wonder; the
wise man after the event, who had always entertained suspicions; the
indignant man, who was for immediate measures; the slow man, who would
wait; and the critical man, who wanted evidence and proof. I dare say
there were more.

Such whisperings and such groups do not create cheerfulness in a
company. Suspicion and jealousy were in the air that night; the music
played and the fiddlers scraped; the singers squalled; the people
walked round and round, after their usual fashion; there was plenty of
conversation and of animation; they were excited; they were evidently
looking forward to some important event; but they were not laughing,
nor paying compliments, nor talking of dress, nor were they listening
to the music or the singers.

And a very curious circumstance happened in the card room. There was
at first the usual crowd of players sitting and standing; the usual
staking of guineas, and laying and taking odds; it was, in fact, an
ordinary evening, when the company pressed round the table and the
game went on merrily. Then one or two people came in from the long
room. There were whispers; two or three left their places and retired
from the room. Other people came in from the long room; there were
more whispers; more players gave up their seats and left the room.
After a while there was no one left in the card room at all except
Lady Anastasia, Sir Harry Malyns, and Colonel Lanyon. The croupier
still stood at the head of the table, rake in hand, crying the main
and proclaiming the odds. Seeing no one else at the table, the two
players desisted.

"What does it mean?" asked the lady, looking round. "We are deserted."

"I know not," Sir Harry replied. "Some distraction in the gardens;
probably a quarrel; one of the bumpkins has perhaps struck another."

He went out to inquire, but came back immediately. "There is no
distraction," he said. "Nothing has happened; the people are walking
round as usual."

"Something, surely," said the lady, "must have happened. Why are the
tables deserted? Such a thing has never occurred before. Colonel, will
you kindly find out what it means? I have the vapours to-night, I
think. My mind misgives me."

Colonel Lanyon rose and walked to the door. He looked up and down the
long room and returned. "Nothing has happened," he said. "They are all
strangers to me. But since there is no more play I will e'en betake me
to the tavern."

"And I," said the lady, "will go home. Sir Harry, please call my
fellows."

Sir Harry led her through the long room to the door. As she got into
the chair, she said, "Sir Harry, there is something brewing. I caught
looks of hostility as we passed through the room. Do you think it is
the jealousy of the women about that girl with the diamonds?"

"I observed no hostile looks."

"Men never see such things. I tell you I not only saw them, but I felt
them. We have given these people mortal offence. They are gentlefolk.
We come among them, and we admit to our society a girl who has no
pretence to gentility. Lord Fylingdale dances with her; I take her to
the assembly. Lord Fylingdale actually follows her when she is carried
off and fights for her and rescues her. This is a thing which he might
do for any of those ladies, and with no more than the customary
jealousies; but with such a girl it makes bad blood."

"Hostile looks mean nothing. What if there is bad blood?"

"Sir Harry--Sir Harry--it is only in London, and not always there,
that we account ourselves free from revenge. It is a revengeful world,
and there are many people in it who would willingly put you and me and
the colonel, not to speak of the parson and the earl himself, in
pillory, and pelt us with rotten eggs and dead cats."

So she got into her chair, and the old beau, shaking his head, called
his own chair and was carried home.

But Colonel Lanyon who walked to the tavern where his friends met
every night found the place, to his astonishment, empty. Then he, too,
remembered certain signs of hostility or resentment, notably the
desertion of the players, and the cold looks as he left the place.
Now, as the worthy adventurer and sharper was by no means conscious of
innocence, he began to feel uneasy. To such men as those who live by
their wits there is always the danger that some past scandal may be
revived, some former half forgotten villainy remembered.

Therefore he became disquieted. He had some reason for disquiet, for,
to begin with, he had done very well. Tom Rising would recover, it was
thought. He would recover in a week or two, or more. He would then, as
a man of honour, have to raise, by hook or by crook, the sum of
L1,200, of which, by the compact, one-fourth was to be the colonel's
and three-fourths were the earl's. This is a large sum of money to win
or to lose. Now, if anything inopportune was to occur, such as the
revival of an old scandal--say that of Bath, or that of Tunbridge
Wells, or that of Newmarket, these winnings would be in a dangerous
situation.

A gentleman who lives by his wits, although he may be a good swordsman
and a good shot with a pistol, cannot escape the consequences of a
scandal. The thing follows him from place to place. It gets into
taverns and hangs about gaming-houses; it stands between him and his
prey; it snatches the young and inexperienced player from his grasp;
it even prevents the payment of the debts commonly called of honour.
Now, the colonel had been about town and in the haunts of gamesters
for a good score of years, and, truth to tell, he now found it
difficult, anywhere, to be received into the company of gentlemen.

While he sat in the empty room one of the gentlemen, its frequenters,
came in. The colonel looked up.

"Why, sir," he said, "where is the company this evening?"

"There will be no company to-night, colonel."

"Ay--ay? No company? Where are they all, then?"

"To be frank with you, Colonel Lanyon, I am deputed to inform you that
certain things are rumoured about you which must be explained."

"Certain things, sir?" The colonel sprang to his feet. "To be
explained? This is a very ugly word. To be explained. The word, sir,
attacks my honour."

"It does so, colonel. You are quite right."

"Then, sir, you and your friends will have to fight me."

"We will willingly fight with--a man of honour. Not only that, but
where a man of honour is concerned we should be most willing to offer
an apology, if we have attacked his honour. To be brief, colonel,
certain things have been said concerning you and your honour. They
have been alleged behind your back."

"Well, sir, suppose my assailant meets me face to face. Gad, sir, he
shall meet me on the grass."

"Softly, softly, colonel. There will be no fighting, I assure you. As
for anything else, that depends on yourself. Frankly, colonel, they
are very nasty things. On the other hand, I assure you that, as we
have received you without suspicion, we shall stand by you loyally."

"In that case we need not talk of explanations."

"Loyally, I say, unless the explanations are not forthcoming."

"Give me the statements or the charges."

"I cannot, colonel. They are at present vague. But I am instructed to
invite you to be present in the card room on Friday evening next, when
an opportunity will be afforded you of hearing what has been stated
and of replying. Colonel, we have found you very good company. We all
desire to retain you as a friend."

"But, sir, permit me. This is monstrous. You tell me of charges, you
avoid my society, you refuse to tell me the nature of the charges, and
you call upon me to reply on the spot without knowing----"

"Your reply will be quite easy. It really means either yes or no. And
if, as I doubt not, you can disprove whatever is alleged, you will
yourself entirely approve of our action in separating for a time from
a man accused of things dishonourable, of giving him an opportunity of
reply, also of my warning."

"Why, sir, if to be grateful for such a warning and for such general
charges is a duty, I will be grateful. Meantime----"

"Meantime, colonel, you know your past life better than any one. If
there is in it anything of which you are ashamed let me recommend you
to present that affair in as favourable a light as possible. Men will
quarrel over cards. Accusations are easily made. The duel next morning
does not clear away suspicion. If, however, there is nothing, as I
hope, come with a light heart and a cheerful countenance, and we shall
rally round you as brothers and men of honour. I wish you good-night,
Colonel Lanyon, until Friday, after which I hope to sit here beside
you, the bowl of punch on the table, and your songs and stories to
keep us awake, till we sit down again to the cards."




CHAPTER XXIX

THE ARDENT LOVER


Between ten and eleven of the clock next morning, Molly's suitor--I
cannot call him her lover--arrived at the house. At that hour most of
the ladies are at morning prayers, and the gentlemen are either at the
tavern taking their morning whet, or at the coffee house in
conversation, or engaged in some of the sports to which most of them
are so much addicted. Lord Fylingdale, although the streets at such an
hour are mostly deserted, had to cross the market-place on his way to
the captain's house, in Hogman's Lane, and was, therefore, carried in
a chair with the curtains drawn, so as to avoid recognition.

He was received by Captain Crowle in the parlour. For the occasion the
old man had put on his Sunday suit, with white silk stockings; and he
wore his sword, to which, as the former commander of a ship, he was
entitled.

"I am come, captain, to receive in person your answer to the message
conveyed to you yesterday by my ambassador. I hope that the message
was delivered faithfully, and with due respect."

"I believe, my lord, with both."

"I assure you, Captain Crowle, that the respect I have conceived for
your character and loyalty is more than I can express in words. That
you have inspired, in the mind of your ward, similar virtues I do not
doubt, and this confidence, believe me, has much to do with the offer
of my hand to that young lady."

"Your lordship does me the greatest honour. My answer is that I accept
in Molly's name, and joyfully."

"I am delighted. This should be," he added, coldly, "the happiest day
of my life."

"When we spread the news abroad, everybody in Lynn will feel that the
greatest honour has been done to the town as well as to this house."

"Sir, you overrate my position. Still ... however, we must keep the
matter secret for a day or two yet. I engage you, captain, to profound
secrecy."

"As long as you please, my lord. The sooner I may speak of it the
better I shall like it, for I am bursting with joy and satisfaction."

"Patience, captain, for a day or two."

The captain became serious, even melancholy. "You will take her away,
I suppose."

"I fear I must. A married man generally takes away his wife, does he
not?"

"You will take her to your country house, and to London. Well, I am
old--I am seventy-five already. I cannot expect ever to see her again.
Her mother, however, is not so old by thirty years. Perhaps your
lordship will at some time or other--we would not remind you of your
lady's humble folk--allow her if she is within an easy journey to come
here to see her mother."

"Surely--surely, captain. Could I be so hard-hearted as to refuse? Her
mother certainly--or yourself. But not her old friends. Not the
friends of her childhood such as that young sailor man--nor the girls
of the place."

"I care not for them, so that I may comfort her poor mother with that
promise. As for myself, who am I that I should intrude upon her? Let
me die happy in the knowledge that she is happy."

"She shall be as happy as the day is long, captain."

"I doubt it not. As for Jack Pentecrosse, an old playfellow, he is
like me. He loves her as if she was his sister, but he desires nothing
but the knowledge of the girl's happiness."

"I accept your assurance, captain, that he will not endeavour to seek
her or to visit her."

"He will not. My lord," the captain became very serious, "I can
promise you a well-conditioned, virtuous, modest, obedient, and
dutiful wife. She will ask for nothing but a continuance of your
lordship's affection and consideration, in return for which she will
be your willing servant as well as your wife."

"Again, captain, I doubt it not. Else I should not be here."

"And when the day comes--when you pass the word, my lord--the bells
shall ring and the music shall play and all the town shall make
holiday, and we will have such a feast and merrymaking that all the
country round shall ring with it. Lord, I am so happy!"

"But, captain, I have not yet received the consent of the lady."

"Be assured that you will have it. But the girl is shy and hesitates,
being, to say the truth, dazzled by the rank to which she is to be
raised. A young maid's modesty will perhaps hinder such freedom of
speech as you would naturally desire."

"I hope, sir, that I am able to appreciate and value the virtue of
modesty. All I ask of the young lady is her consent."

"Of that you may be assured beforehand."

"Then, captain, as this is an occasion of some awkwardness and one
which it is well to get through as quickly as possible----" Did one
ever hear of such a lover? "Well, to get through as quickly as
possible," his first interview with his mistress. "You will perhaps
bring Miss Molly to me or take me to her."

Molly, meanwhile, was in her bedroom, in a strange agitation, her
colour coming and going; now pale, now blushing; for the first time in
her life, trembling and inclined to swoon. Even for a girl who loves a
man it is an event of the greatest importance, and one never to be
forgotten, when she consents to make him happy. But when she is in
grievous doubt, torn by the consciousness that she does not love the
man; that she is afraid of him; that she does not desire the change of
rank which he offers; and that she would far rather remain among her
own people. In such a case, I say, her trouble is great indeed.
However, to do honour to the occasion, she, like the captain, had
assumed her Sunday attire. Her frock, to be sure, was not so fine as
that in which she graced the assembly, but it was passable. To my mind
she looked more beautiful than in that splendid dress.

At her guardian's summons, she slowly descended the stairs. The
kitchen door was open; she looked in as she passed. Her mother,
instead of being busy over her housewifery was sitting in her chair,
her hands clasped, her eyes closed, her lips moving. She was praying
for her daughter. Molly stepped in and kissed her. "Mother," she said,
"pray that it may turn out well. I must accept him. Yet I doubt. Oh,
pray for me!"

"Because," her mother murmured in reply, "the captain cannot help, and
Jack cannot help; and there is none other that helpeth us but only
Thou, O God!"

Then Molly turned the handle of the parlour door and entered.

"Miss Molly!" her gallant lover, splendid with his star and his fine
clothes, took her hand, bowed low, and kissed her fingers.

"You would speak with me, my lord."

"Yesterday I sent a message to your guardian. I told him by my
messenger that I was entirely overcome by the beauty and the charms
and the virtues of his fair ward. And I offered, unworthy as I am, my
hand and all that goes with it--my rank, and title, my possessions and
myself."

"The captain told me of the message."

"I have to-day received an answer from him. But although he is your
guardian I would not presume to consider that answer as final. I must
have your answer as well."

"My lord, I am but a humble and a homely person."

"Nay, but lovely as Venus herself."

"I know now, since all the company have come to Lynn, how homely and
humble I am in the eyes of gentlefolk."

"You will no longer be either homely or humble--when you are a
countess."

"I fear that your friends among the great will make your lordship
ashamed of your choice."

"My friends know me better than to suppose that I can be ashamed by
their opinion. But, indeed, they have only to see you for that opinion
to be changed. Once seen by the world and all will envy and
congratulate the happy possessor of so much beauty."

"Then, are you satisfied that you are truly in love with me?"

"Satisfied?" He took her hand again and kissed it. "How shall I
satisfy you on this point? By what assurance? By what lover's vows?"

She glanced upwards, having spoken so far with hanging head. Her eyes
met his. Alas! they were cold and hard. There was no softening
influence of love visible in those eyes; only resolution and purpose.
His eyes were as cold as his forehead and as hard as his lips. Poor
Molly! Poor countess!

"Is it not, my lord," she asked, "a mere passing fancy? You will be
tired of me in a month; you will regret that you did not choose rather
among the fine ladies who speak your language and follow your
manners."

"Molly, I am a man who does not encourage idle fancies and passing
loves. You will find no change in me. As I am now so I shall be
always."

She shivered. The prospect made her feel cold.

"Then, my lord," she said, "I have nothing more to say. I shall not do
justice to your rank, nor shall I bring to your house the dignity
which you deserve. Such as I am, take me, if you will, or let me go,
if you will."

"Can you doubt, Molly? I will take you." He hesitated; he took her
hand again; he stooped and kissed her forehead. There was no passion
in his kiss; no tenderness in his touch; no emotion in his voice. Such
as he was then such he would always be. And though the door was
closed, Molly seemed to hear again the voice of her mother murmuring
"but only Thou, O God!"

Her lover drew the captain's armchair and placed it at the open window
which looked out into the garden, then filled with flowers, fragrant
and beautiful, and melodious with the humming of many bees.

"Sit down, Molly, and let us talk."

He did not sit down. He stood before her; he walked about the room; he
played with the gold tassels of his sword.

"Molly, since we are to be married, we must be married at once."

"I am your lordship's servant."

"As soon as possible. Are you ready?"

"Ready? I suppose I could be ready in a month or six weeks."

"Why, what is there to do?"

"I have to get things--dresses, house linen, all kinds of things."

"My dear, you are not going to marry a cit. Everything that you want
you can buy. There are plenty of shops. You want nothing but what you
have--your wardrobe, your fine things, and your common things, and
your jewels. You must not forget your jewels."

"I thought that brides were always provided with things for the house.
But if your lordship has already the linen and the napery----"

"Good Lord! How should I know what I have? The thing is that you will
need nothing."

"Where will you take me?"

"I think, first of all, to my house in Gloucestershire. It is not
fully furnished; the late possessor, my cousin, whom I succeeded, was,
unfortunately, a gambler. He had to cut down his woods and to sell
them; he even had to sell his furniture and pictures. But I can soon
put the house in order fit for your reception." It was he himself, and
not his predecessor, who had sold these things. "If it is not so fine,
at first, as you would wish, we can soon make it worthy of you."

I have often wondered what he intended to do with his bride if things
had gone differently. I am now certain that he intended to take her to
this great country house, which, as I have understood, stands in a
secluded part of the country, with no near neighbours and no town
within reach; and that he intended to leave her there, while he
himself went up to London to resume the old gaming and raking, which
he desired so much, although they had been his ruin. Fate, however,
prevented this design.

"If you desire my happiness, my lord----"

"What else is there in the whole world that I should desire?"

"You will take me to that country place and live there. I fear the
world of fashion and I have no wish to live in London. I have learned
from the Lady Anastasia how the great ladies pass their time."

"Everything shall be as you wish, Molly. Everything, believe me."

He then, by way of illustrating this assurance, proposed a thing which
he himself wished.

"We must be married immediately, Molly, because I am called away, by
affairs of importance, to Gloucestershire. I ought to leave this place
not later than Saturday." The day was Thursday.

"Saturday? We must be married on Saturday?"

"Sooner than Saturday. To-morrow. That will give us time enough to
make what little preparations may be necessary."

"To-morrow? But we cannot be married so soon."

"Everything is prepared. I have the license. We can be married
to-morrow."

"Oh!" It was all she could say.

"There is another thing. Your guardian would like to make a public
ceremony of the wedding; he would hang the town with flags, and ring
the bells, and summon the band of the marrowbones and cleavers, while
all the world looked on."

"Yes. He is so proud of the marriage that he would like to celebrate
it."

"And you, Molly?"

"I should like to be married with no one to look on, and no one to
know anything about it until it was over."

"Why--there, Molly--there, we are agreed. I was in great fear that you
would not think with me. My dear, if there is one thing which I abhor,
it is the public ceremony and the private feasting and merriment with
which a wedding is accompanied. We do not want the town to be all
agog; we do not want to set all tongues wagging; nor do we want to be
a show with a grand triumphal march and a feast to last three days
afterwards."

"Can we be private, then?"

"Certainly. I can arrange everything. Now, Molly, my plan is this. We
will be married privately in St. Nicholas Church at six in the
morning, before the company are out of their beds. No one will see us;
after the marriage you will come back here; I will return with you,
and we will then inform the captain and your mother of the joyful
news. Believe me, when they come to think it over, they will rejoice
to be spared the trouble and the preparation for a wedding feast."

"But I cannot deceive the captain."

"There is no deception. He has agreed to the match. He knows that you
have agreed. There is one consideration, Molly, which makes a private
marriage necessary. I could not consent to a public wedding or to a
wedding feast, because my rank forbids. It would be impossible for me
to invite any person of my own position to such a feast, and it would
be impossible for me to sit down with those persons--worthy, no doubt,
and honest--whom the captain would certainly wish to invite."

This was certainly reasonable, and certainly true. Rank must be
respected, and a noble earl cannot sit down to feast with merchants,
skippers, mates, parsons and the like.

"Then it shall be as your lordship pleases."

"Be at the church at six," he said. "I will provide everything and see
that everything is ready for you. Do not be recognised as you pass
along the street. You can wear a domino with the pink silk cloak which
you wore the other night at the assembly. Then I shall recognise you.
No one else, Molly, need be considered. Are you sure that you
understand?"

"Yes," she sighed. "I understand."

"Then, Molly," he bowed low, and, without offering to kiss her, this
wonderful lover left his mistress and was carried home in his chair.




CHAPTER XXX

THE SECRET


All these things were told me by Molly herself in the afternoon. You
may very well believe that my heart was sick and sore to think of
Molly being thus thrown away for a bribe of rank and position upon a
man who seemed to be of marble or of ice. For of one thing concerning
women I am very certain, that to make them happy they must be loved.
At the time I could not know, nor did I suspect, that this noble earl
was marrying Molly for her fortune. Like the captain, I pictured him
as one lifted above the common lot and apart from all temptations as
regards money, by his own great possessions. Why, he had
nothing--nothing at all. So much I know--he had wasted and dissipated
the whole. There was nothing left, and his marriage, especially his
private and hurried manner of it, was designed wholly to give him the
possession and the control of Molly's riches.

"To-morrow, then, we lose you, Molly."

"To-morrow, Jack. His lordship consents that whenever, if ever, I am
within an easy journey of Lynn I may come back to see my mother. But
when will that be? Alas! I know not. Gloucestershire is on the other
side of the country."

"After all, Molly, there are many wives who thus go away with their
husbands and never see their own folk any more. They forget them; they
find their happiness with the home and the children. Why, my dear, in
a year or two, when you have grown accustomed to your state and the
condition of a great lady, you will forget Lynn and the old friends."

"Never, Jack, never. You might as well expect me to forget the days
when we were children together and played about the Lady's Mount and
on the walls, and rowed our dingey in the river. Forget my own folks?
Jack, am I a monster?"

"Nay, but, Molly, all I want is to see you happy. Remember us if you
will, and remember that we are all, the captain, and your mother and
your faithful black and myself, daily praying for your welfare."

So we talked. It was agreed between us that a private wedding was,
under the circumstances, much more convenient than a public one, with
all the display and feasting in which Lord Fylingdale could not take
part. I could not but think the business too much hurried and too
secret. As for other reasons, especially the absence of any
settlements which would protect the wife, I had no knowledge of such
things, and therefore no suspicion.

I bade her farewell--the last time I should see her in private and
converse with her as of old--and with tears, we kissed and parted. But
there was no question of love or of disappointment. We were like
brother and sister who were separated after growing up together. And
so I kissed her and said no more than "Oh! Molly, if you had no money,
we should not lose you," and she replied with a sigh and more tears,
"And if I had no money, Jack, I should not have to leave my own people
and go among strangers who will not welcome me, or love me, or give me
even their friendliness."

I left her, and walked away. I was too downhearted to stay ashore; I
would go aboard and sit alone in the captain's cabin. There is nothing
so lonely as a ship without her crew. If a man in these days desires
to become a hermit, he should take up his quarters in one of the old
hulks that lie in every harbour, deserted even by the rats, who swim
away when the provisions are all gone. It is lonely by day, and it is
ghostly by night. For then the old ship is visited by the sailors who
have sailed in her and have died in her. In every ship there have been
many who die of disease or by accident, or fall overboard and are
drowned. These are the visitors to the hulk at night. Every sailor
knows this, and has seen them. I wanted to be alone, I say, therefore,
I thought I would go on board and stay there.

Now, on my way across the market-place, there came running after me a
man, who called me by name. "Mr. Pentecrosse--Mr. Pentecrosse," and,
looking round, I saw that it was the Lady Anastasia's footman, in the
green and gold livery--a very line person indeed, to look at, much
finer than myself in my workaday clothes. "Sir," he said "my mistress,
Lady Anastasia, desires speech with you. Will you kindly follow me to
her lodging?"

I obeyed. What did the lady wish to say to me?

She was in her parlour, half dressed in what they call, I believe, a
dishabille. She nodded to the footman, who closed the door and left us
alone.

"Mr. Pentecrosse," she said graciously, "this is the second time I
have sent for you. Yet I gave you permission to call upon me often. Is
this the politeness of a sailor? Never mind; I forgive you, because
Molly loves you and you love Molly."

"Madam," I replied, "it is true that I love Molly, but I have no
longer any right to love her except as one who would call himself, if
he could, her brother."

"So I wanted, Mr. Pentecrosse--may I say Jack?--to learn your
sentiments about this affair. I am, of course, in the confidence of
Lord Fylingdale. I believe that I know all his secrets--or, at least,
as many as a man chooses to tell a woman. You men have all got your
secret cupboards, and you lock the door and keep the key. Say,
therefore, rather, most of my lord's secrets."

"What affairs, madam, do you mean?" I remembered that the business of
the betrothal was a secret. "What affairs?"

"Why ask--the affair between his lordship and Molly, of course. Shall
I prove to you that I know all about it?"

"You can do better, madam, you can tell me what the affair is."

"Oh! Jack, you act very badly. Never, my dear young man, go upon the
stage. Of course, you know Molly has no secrets from you. Listen,
then.

"On the first night when Molly and you distinguished yourselves in the
minuet--never blush, Jack, a British sailor should always show that he
knows no fear--Lord Fylingdale administered a public rebuke to the
company for their rudeness. He showed thereby that he was already
interested in the girl. He then paid attention to the old captain,
whose simplicity and honesty are charming. I need not point out to
you, Jack, that the good old man became like wax in his lordship's
hands. He even revealed his ambition of finding an alliance for the
girl with some noble house or sprig of quality, attracted by the
report of her fortune. He was also simple enough to imagine that any
young nobleman, a younger son, who would take a girl for her money,
must needs be a miracle of virtue, and beyond all considerations of
money. So far I am quite correct, I believe."

"Your ladyship is quite correct, so far." In fact, the captain's
ambitions were the common theme of ridicule in the pump room and in
the gardens.

"He then came to see me, and engaged me as an old friend and one fully
acquainted with his qualities----"

"Virtues, you mean, madam."

"Qualities, I said--to make myself a friend of the fair Molly. This I
did. She showed me the amazing collection of jewels which she
possesses, and I gave her advice on certain points. She came here and
I taught her something of the fashions in dress, carriage, and
behaviour. She is an apt pupil, but lacking in respect for the manners
of the polite world. I then find my lord entering into further
confidential discourse with the captain. He even went on board your
ship, and was by you escorted over the whole vessel. He took so great
an interest in everything that you were surprised, and at parting he
drank a glass of wine to the health of the fair Molly."

"Quite true." I suppose that the captain had told Molly, who told Lady
Anastasia.

"Very well. You see that I know something. But there is a great deal
more. At the next assembly, where Molly went with me, having been
dressed by my own maid in better taste, and without the barbaric
splendour of so many gold chains and precious stones, Lord Fylingdale
took her out before all the ladies--the Norfolk ladies being more than
commonly observant of pedigree and lineage--and danced the first
minuet with her and the first of the country dances. What was this, I
ask you, but an open proclamation to the world that he was in love
with this girl--the daughter of a town full of sailors? So, at least,
it was interpreted, I hear, by some of the company. Others, out of
sheer jealousy and envy, would not so acknowledge the action."

"It was not so interpreted by the captain nor by Molly herself."

"Tut, tut" (she rapped my fingers smartly with her fan), "what
signifies their opinion? As if they know anything of the meaning of
things, even when they are done in broad daylight, so to speak, and in
presence of all the fashion in the place. Why, Jack, there was not a
girl in the town, who, if such an honour had been done to her, would
not have gone home that evening to see in the looking-glass a coronet
already on her head.

"And then came the conclusion. Oh, the beautiful conclusion! The
romantic conclusion when that misguided young gentleman called Tom
Rising endeavoured to carry her off. 'Twas a gallant attempt, and
would have succeeded, I doubt not----"

"Madam, with submission--you know not Molly."

"I know my own sex, Jack--and I know that a man is never liked the
less for showing courage. However, Lord Fylingdale took the matter
into his own hands--rode after her--fought the unlucky Tom and brought
back the lady. I am still, I believe, correct."

"You are quite correct, madam, so far as I know."

"The next day Lord Fylingdale called at the captain's house to inquire
after the lady's health. He saw the captain; he saw the lady herself,
who was none the worse, but rather much the better for the excitement
of the adventure and the delightful sight of two gentlemen trying to
kill each other for her sake. He also saw the lady's mother, who came
out of the kitchen, her red arms white with dough and flour, to
receive the noble lord. Her lively sallies only made him the more
madly in love with the girl."

How had she learned all this? I cannot tell. But ladies of wealth can
always, I believe, find out things, and servants know what goes on.

Lady Anastasia continued her narrative. "Next day my lord sent his
secretary, Mr. Semple, as an ambassador to the captain. He was
instructed to ask formally the hand of the captain's ward in the name
of his master. This he did, the captain not being able to disguise his
joy and pride at this most unexpected honour. Now, sir, you perceive
that I do know the secrets of that young lady. This morning he has
again visited the house, and he received the consent--no doubt it was
with disguised joy--of the lady herself. And you have just come from
her. She has told you of her fine lover and of her engagement."

I made no reply.

"I will tell you more. My lord desires a private marriage and a
marriage very soon. Ha! Do I surprise you?"

"Madam, I perceive that he has told you all. You are quite right. The
wedding, as you know, is to be in St. Nicholas Church to-morrow
morning at six before the better sort have left their beds. And in
order not to be recognised by any of the people, Molly will wear a
domino and her pink silk cloak."

She nodded her head. And she hid her face with her fan, saying nothing
for a space. When she spoke her voice was harsh.

"That is the arrangement. You have understood it perfectly. Well,
Jack, it is a very pretty business, is it not? Here is a young
man--only thirty, as yet--with a fine old title, an ancient name, and
an ancient estate--who is bound by all the rules of his order to marry
only within his own caste. He breaks all the rules; he marries a girl
who is not even a gentlewoman; who belongs to the most homely folk
possible. What kind of happiness do you think is likely to follow on
such a marriage? You who are not altogether a fool, though you are
ignorant of the ways, are the right man to marry Molly. She
understands you and what you like, and how you think. Believe me, she
can never be happy with this nobleman. Sailor man, you do not
understand what it means to be a great man and a nobleman in this
country. From his infancy the heir must have what he wants and must do
as he pleases. No one is to check his fine flow of spirits; he must
believe that the whole world is made for his amusement, and that
everything in the world is made for him to devour and to destroy. When
such a child becomes a man, what can you expect? He wants no friends,
because friendships among people like yourself are based on mutual
help, and he wants no help. Companions he must have; young men like
himself. He need never do any kind of work. Consequently, his mind is
never occupied. He has no serious pursuits; therefore, of simple
amusements he soon tires. Can such a man be unselfish? Can such a man
lead a quiet and domestic life? He will rake; he will gamble; he will
drink; there is nothing else for him. These will form his life. If he
now and then tosses a guinea to some poor wretch, it is counted as an
act of the highest charity. The most virtuous of noblemen may also be
the most profligate."

"Is this what one is to think of Lord Fylingdale?"

"Think what you please, Jack. Should you, however, hear that the
marriage was forbidden, what should you say?"

"Forbidden? The marriage forbidden? But how? Why? It is to take place
to-morrow."

"I don't know. Answer my question."

"Madam, I cannot answer it. If it is true that Lord Fylingdale is the
kind of gentleman whose character you have drawn, there is nothing I
should more rejoice to see. If, however----"

"You may go, Jack. You may go. I dare say something is going to happen
to-morrow, at six in the morning, at St. Nicholas Church. Yes,
something will probably happen. The bride will be recognised by her
black domino and her pink silk cloak. Thank you, Jack. You are a very
simple young man; as simple as you are honest, and a woman can turn
you round her finger."

I went away wondering. I did not understand, being as she said, so
simple that I had myself actually given her the information that she
desired. I have since learned that the passion of jealousy and nothing
else filled her soul and inspired all this reading of Lord
Fylingdale's actions. In his conduct at the assembly she saw the
beginning of his passion; his own explanation that he wanted to get
her money only made her more jealous, because, although she fully
believed that statement, she saw no way of getting at the fortune
without marrying the girl. As for his visits to the house, I suppose
that she simply caused him to be watched and followed, while her maid,
who played the spy for her, could from a certain point in the road
look into the parlour when the window was thrown open. It was easy for
such a jealous woman to surmise the truth; to jump at the conclusion
that, in spite of all his protestations, Lord Fylingdale had come to
the conclusion that he must marry the girl; that his rescue made her
grateful and filled her with admiration for his courage; that he sent
his secretary to open the business, and that he followed up this
message by a formal visit from himself when he placed the lady in a
chair at the window and bent over her and kissed her hand.

This was not all. When he told Lady Anastasia that he had no further
occasion for her services, and that she had better go back to London
at once all her jealousy flared up. She thus divined, at once, that
she was to be sent out of the way, so that when she next met him some
of the business might have blown over and she herself might be less
indignant at his treatment of her.

However, something, she said, was going to happen. What would happen?
For my own part, I was restless and uneasy. What would happen? Had I
known more about the wrath of a jealous woman I should have been more
uneasy. Something was going to happen; could I go to the captain and
warn him as to the character of the lover? Why, I knew nothing. All
that talk about the heir to rank and riches meant nothing except to
show the dangers of such a position. A man so born, so brought up,
must of necessity be more tempted than other men in the direction of
selfishness, indulgence, luxury, laziness, and want of consideration
for others. It is surely a great misfortune to be born rich, if one
would only think so. The common lot is best, with the necessity of
work. All Molly's misfortunes came from that money of hers. Her father
very wisely concealed from his wife the full extent of his wealth, so
that she remained in her homely ways, and the captain also concealed
from Molly until she grew up, the nature of her fortune. Why could he
not conceal it altogether from the world? Then--but it is useless to
think what would have happened. Most of our lives are made up with
mending the troubles made by our own sins or our own follies. Poor
Molly was about to suffer from her father's sin in having so much
worldly wealth.




CHAPTER XXXI

THE "SOCIETY" AGAIN


The "Society" continued to meet, but irregularly, during this period
of excitement when everybody was busy making money out of the company,
or joining in the amusements, or looking on. The coffee house
attracted some of the members; the tavern others; the gardens or the
long room others. It must be confessed that the irregularities of
attendance and the absences and the many new topics of discourse
caused the evenings to be much more animated than of old, when there
would be long periods of silence, broken only by some reference to the
arrival or departure of a ship, the decease of a townsman, or the
change in the weather.

This evening the meeting consisted, at first, of the vicar and the
master of the school only.

"We are the faithful remnant," said the vicar, taking his chair. "The
mayor, no doubt, is at the coffee house, the alderman at the tavern,
and the doctor in the long room. The captain, I take it, as at the
elbow of his noble friend."

The master of the school hung up his hat and took his usual place.
Then he put his hand into his pocket.

"I have this day received ..."

At the same moment the vicar put his hand into his pocket and began in
the same words.

"I have this day received ..."

Both stopped. "I interrupted you, Mr. Pentecrosse," said the vicar.

"Nay, sir; after you."

"Let us not stand on ceremony, Mr. Pentecrosse. What have you
received?"

"I have received a letter from London."

"Mine is from Cambridge. You were about to speak of your letter?"

"It concerns Sam Semple, once my pupil, now secretary to the Lord
Fylingdale, who has his quarters overhead."

"What does your correspondent tell you about Sam? That he is the equal
of Mr. Pope and the superior to Mr. Addison, or that his verses are
echoes--sound without sense--trash and pretence? Though they cost me a
guinea."

"The letter is a reply I addressed to my cousin, Zackary Pentecrosse,
a bookseller in Little Britain. I asked him to tell me if he could
learn something of the present position and reputation of Sam Semple,
who gives himself, I understand, great airs at the coffee house as a
wit of the first standing and an authority in matters of taste. With
your permission I will proceed to read aloud the portion which
concerns our poet. Here is the passage."

"You ask me to tell you what I know of the poet Sam Semple. I do not
know, it is true, all the wits and poets; but I know some, and they
know others, so one can learn something about all those who frequent
Dolly's and the Chapter House, and the other coffee houses frequented
by the poets. None of them, at first, knew or had heard of the name.
At last one was found who had seen a volume bearing this name, and
published by subscription. 'Sir,' he said, ''tis the veriest trash; a
schoolboy should be trounced for writing such bad verses.' But, I
asked him, 'He is said to be received and welcomed by the wits.' 'They
must be,' he replied, 'the wits of Wapping, or the poets of Turnagain
Lane. The man is not known anywhere.' So with this I had to be
contented for a time. Then I came across one who knew this would-be
poet. 'I was once myself,' he said, 'at my last guinea when I met Mr.
Samuel Semple. He was in rags, and he was well-nigh starving. I gave
him a sixpenny dinner in a cellar, where I myself was dining at the
time. He told me that he had spent the money subscribed for his book,
instead of paying the printer; that he was dunned and threatened for
the debt; that if he was arrested, he must go the fleet or to one of
the compters; that he must then go to the common side, and would
starve. In a word, that he was on his last legs. These things he told
me with tears, for, indeed, cold and hunger--he had no lodging--had
brought him low. After he had eaten his dinner and borrowed a shilling
he went away, and I saw him no more for six months, when I met him in
Covent Garden. He was now dressed in broadcloth, fat, and in good
ease. At first he refused to recognise his former companion in misery.
But I persisted. He then told me that he had been so fortunate as to
be of service to my Lord Fylingdale, into whose household he had
entered. He, therefore, defied his creditors, and stood at bed and
board at the house of his noble patron. Now, sir, it is very well
known that any service rendered to this nobleman must be of a base and
dishonourable nature. Such is the character of this most profligate of
lords. A professed rake and a most notorious gambler. He is no longer
admitted into the society of those of his own rank; he frequents hells
where the play is high, but the players are doubtful. He is said to
entertain decoys, one of whom is an old ruined gamester, named Sir
Harry Malyns, and another, a half-pay captain, a bully and a sharper,
who calls himself a colonel. He is to be seen at the house of the Lady
Anastasia, the most notorious woman in London, who every night keeps
the bank at hazard for the profit of this noble lord and his
confederates. It is in the service of such a man that Mr. Semple has
found a refuge. What he fulfills in the way of duty I know not.' I
give you, cousin, the words of my informant. I have since inquired of
others, and I find confirmation everywhere of the notorious character
of Lord Fylingdale and his companions. Nor can I understand what
service a poet can render to a man of such a reputation living such a
life."

"Do you follow, sir?" my father asked, laying down the letter, "or
shall I read it again?"

"Nay, the words are plain. But, Mr. Pentecrosse, they are serious
words. They concern very deeply a certain lady whom we love. Lord
Fylingdale has been with us for a month. He bears a character, here,
at least, of the highest kind. It is reported, I know not with what
truth, that he is actually to marry the captain's ward, Molly. There
is, however, no doubt that Molly's fortune has grown so large as to
make her a match for any one, however highly placed."

"I fear that it is true."

"Then, what foundation has this gentleman for so scandalous a report?"

"Indeed, I do not know. My cousin, the book-seller, expressly says
that he has no knowledge of Sam Semple."

"Mr. Pentecrosse, I am uneasy. I hear that the gentlemen of the
company are circulating ugly rumours about one Colonel Lanyon, who has
been playing high and has won large sums--larger than any of the
company can afford to lose. They have resolved to demand and await
explanations. There are whispers also which concern Lord Fylingdale as
well. These things make one suspicious. Then I also have received a
letter. It is in reply to one of my own addressed to an old friend at
Cambridge. My questions referred to the great scholar and eminent
divine who takes Greek for Hebrew.

"You ask me if I know anything about one Benjamin Purdon, clerk in
Holy Orders. There can hardly be two persons of that name, both in
Holy Orders. The man whom I know by repute is a person of somewhat
slight stature, his head bigger than befits his height. He hath a loud
and hectoring voice; he assumes, to suit his own purposes, the
possession of learning and piety. Of theological learning he has none,
so far as I know. Of Greek art, combined with modern manners, he is
said to be a master. '_Inglese Italianato Diavolo Incarnato_' is
the proverb. He was formerly tutor on the grand tour to the young Lord
Fylingdale, whom he led into those ways of corruption and profligacy
which have made that nobleman notorious. He is also the reputed author
of certain ribald verses that pass from hand to hand among the baser
sort of our university scholars. I have made inquiries about him, with
these results. It is said that where Lord Fylingdale is found this
worthy ecclesiastic is not far off. There was last year a scandal at
Bath, in which his name was mentioned freely. There was also--but this
is enough for one letter!"

The vicar read parts of this letter twice over, so as to lend the
words greater force. "The man says publicly that he was tutor to Lord
Fylingdale on the grand tour. I have myself heard him. On one occasion
he proclaimed with loud voice the private virtues of his patron. Sir,
I very much fear that we have discovered a nest of villains. Pray God
we be not too late."

"Amen," said my father. "But what can we do?"

"Ay, what can we do? To denounce Lord Fylingdale on this evidence
would be impossible. To allow this marriage to take place without
warning the captain would be a most wicked thing."

"Let us send for Jack," said my father. "The boy is only a simple
sailor, but he loves the girl. He will now be aboard his ship."

It is not far from the "Crown" to the quay, nor from the quay to any
of the ships in port. I was sitting in the cabin, melancholy enough,
about eight o'clock or so, just before the sunset gun fired from the
redoubt, when I heard a shout--"_Lady of Lynn_, ahoy!" You may be sure
that I obeyed the summons with alacrity.

No one else had yet arrived at the "Crown." The vicar laid both
letters before me. Then, as when one strikes a spark in the tinder and
the match ignites, flaming up, and the darkness vanishes, so did the
scheme of villainy unfold itself--not all at once--one does not at one
glance comprehend a conspiracy so vile. But part, I say, I did
understand.

"Sir," I gasped. "This is more opportune than you suspect. To-morrow
morning--at six--at St. Nicholas Church they are to be married
secretly. Oh! a gambler--a rake--one who has wasted his patrimony--to
marry Molly, our Molly! Sir, you will interfere--you will do
something. It is the villain Sam; he was always a liar--a cur--a
villain."

"Steady, boy, steady!" said my father. "It helps not to call names."

"It is partly revenge. He dared to make love to Molly three years ago.
The captain cudgelled him handsomely--and I was there to see. It is
revenge in part. He hath brought down this noble lord to marry an
heiress knowing the misery he is preparing for her. Oh! Sam--if I had
thee here!"

"Steady, boy," said my father again.

"Who spread abroad the many virtues of this noble villain? Sam
Semple--in his service--a most base and dishonourable service. Mr.
Purdon, the man who writes ribald verses." I thought of the Lady
Anastasia, but refrained. She at least had nothing to do with this
marriage. So far, however, there was much explained.

"What shall we do?"

"We must prevent the marriage of to-morrow. The captain knows nothing
of it. Lord Fylingdale persuaded Molly. He cannot marry her publicly
because he says that he cannot join a wedding feast with people so
much below him. Molly shall not keep that engagement if I have to lock
the door and keep the key."

"Better than that, Jack," said the vicar. "Take these two letters.
Show them to Molly and ask her to wait while the captain makes
inquiries. If Lord Fylingdale is an honourable man he will court
inquiry. If not, then we are well rid of a noble knave."

I took the letters and ran across the empty market-place. On my way I
saw the captain. He was walking towards the "Crown" with hanging head.
Let us first deal with him.

He did not observe me, being in gloomy meditation, but passed me by
unnoticed, entered the "Crown," hung up his hat on its usual peg, and
put his stick in its accustomed corner. Then he took his seat and
looked round.

"I am glad," he said, "that there are none present except you two. My
friends, I am heavy at heart."

"So are we," said the vicar. "But go on, captain."

"You have heard, perhaps, a rumour of what has been arranged."

"There are rumours of many kinds. The place is full of rumours. It is
rumoured that a certain Colonel Lanyon is a sharper. It is also
rumoured that Sam Semple is a villain. It is further rumoured that the
Reverend Benjamin Purdon is a disgrace to the cloth. And there is yet
another rumour. What is your rumour, captain?"

"Lord Fylingdale proposes to marry Molly. And I have accepted. And she
has accepted. But it was to be a profound secret."

"It is so profound a secret that the company at the gardens this
evening are talking about nothing else."

The captain groaned. "I have received a letter," he said. "I do not
believe it, but the contents are disquieting. There is no signature.
Read it."

The vicar read it:

    "CAPTAIN CROWLE,--Sir,--You are a very simple old man; you are so
    ignorant of London and of the fashionable world that you do not
    even know that Lord Fylingdale, to whom you are about to give your
    ward, is the most notorious gambler, rake, and profligate in the
    whole of that quarter where the people of fashion and of quality
    carry on their profligate lives. In the interests of innocence and
    virtue make some inquiry into the truth of this statement before
    laying your lovely ward in the arms of the villain who has come to
    Lynn with no other object than to secure her fortune."

"It is an anonymous letter," said the vicar. "But there is something
to be said in support of it. From what source did you derive your
belief in the virtues of this young nobleman?"

"From Sam Semple."

"Who is in the service of his lordship. I know not what he does for
him, but if he is turned out of that service he will infallibly be
clapped into a debtor's prison."

"There is also that grave and reverend divine----"

"The man Purdon. He is notorious for writing ribald verses, and for
leading a life that is a disgrace to his profession."

"There is also the Lady Anastasia."

"I know nothing about her ladyship, except that she keeps the bank, as
they call it, every evening, and that the gaming table allures many to
their destruction."

"My friend," said the captain, "what am I to do?"

"You must make inquiry. You must tell Lord Fylingdale that things have
been brought to you; that you cannot believe them--if, as is possible,
you do not; but that you must make inquiries before trusting your ward
to his protection. You are her guardian, captain."

"I am more than her guardian; I love her better than if she was my own
child."

"We know you do, captain. Therefore, write a letter to him instantly.
There is yet time to prevent the marriage. Tell him these things. Say
that you must have time to make these inquiries. I will help you with
the letter. And tell him, as well, that you must have time to draw up
settlements. If he is honest, he will consent to this investigation
into his private character. If he wants Molly, and not her money bag,
he will at once agree to the settlement of her fortune upon herself."

"I am an old fool, I suppose," said the captain. "I have believed
everything and everybody. Yet I cannot--no, my friends, I cannot think
that this man, so proud, so brave, who risked his life for Molly, is
what this letter says."

"Other letters say the same thing. Now, captain, let us write."

The letter, which was dictated by the vicar, was duly written, signed,
and sealed. Then it was sent upstairs, without the delay of a moment,
to his lordship's private room.




CHAPTER XXXII

A RESPITE


I was as one who carries a respite for a man already in the cart and
on his way to Tyburn; or I was one who himself receives a respite on
the way to Tyburn. For, if the charges in those letters were true,
there could be no doubt as to the results of an inquiry. Now could
there be any doubt that Lord Fylingdale, in such a case, would refuse
an inquiry? I ran, therefore, as if everything depended on my speed,
and I arrived breathless.

Molly was alone walking about the garden restlessly. The sun was now
set, but the glow of the sky lingered, and her face was flushed in the
western light. "Jack," she cried, "I thought we had parted this
afternoon. What has happened? You have been running. What is it?"

"A good deal has happened, Molly. For one thing, you will not be
married to-morrow morning."

"Why not? Is my lord ill?"

"Not that I know of. But you will not be married to-morrow morning."

"You talk in riddles, Jack."

"Would you like to put off the wedding, Molly?"

"Alas! If I could put it off altogether! I am down-hearted over it,
Jack. It weighs me down like lead. But there is no escape."

"I think I have in my pocket a means of escape--a respite, at
least--unless there are worse liars in the world than those we have at
Lynn."

"Liars at Lynn, Jack? Who are they? Oh, Jack, what has happened?"

I sat down on a garden bench. "Molly," I said, "you hold the private
character of Lord Fylingdale in the highest esteem, do you not?"

"There is no better man living. This makes me ashamed of being so
loath to marry him."

"Well, but, Molly, consider. Who hath bestowed this fine character
upon his lordship?"

"Everybody who knows him--Sam Semple, for one. He is never weary of
singing the praises of his patron."

"He is a grateful soul, and, on his own account, a pillar of truth. I
will show you presently what an ornament he is to truth. Who else?"

"The Reverend Benjamin Purdon, once his tutor. Surely he ought to
know."

"Surely. Nobody ought to know better. I will show you presently how
admirable a witness to character this reverend divine must be
esteemed."

"There is Sir Harry Malyns, who assured us that his lordship is
thought to be too virtuous for the world of fashion."

"He is himself, like the parson, a fine judge of character. Is that
all?"

"No. The Lady Anastasia herself spoke to me of his nobility."

"She has also spoken to me--of other things. See here, Molly." I
lugged out the two letters. "What I have here contains the characters
of all these excellent persons; the latest scandals about them, their
reputation, and their practices."

"But, Jack, what scandals? What reputations?"

"You shall see, Molly. Oh, the allegations may be false, one and all!
For what I know, Sam may have the wings of an archangel and Mr. Purdon
may be already overripe for the New Jerusalem. But you shall read."

I offered her the letters. "No," she said; "read them yourself."

"The first, then, is from my father's first cousin, Zackary
Pentecrosse, a bookseller in Little Britain, which is a part of
London. He is, I believe, a respectable, God-fearing man. You will
observe that he does not vouch for the truth of his information."

I then read, at length, the letter which you have already heard.

"What do you think, Molly?"

"I don't know what to think. Is the world so wicked?"

"Here is another letter concerning the Reverend Benjamin Purdon.
Observe that this is another and an independent witness." So I read
the second letter, which you have also heard.

"What do you think of this worthy gentleman, Molly?"

"Oh, Jack, I am overwhelmed! Tell me more what it means."

"It means, my dear, that a ruined gamester thought to find an heiress
who would know nothing of his tarnished reputation. She must be rich.
All he wanted was her money. She must not have her money tied up. It
must be all in his own hands, to do with it what he chose; that is to
say, to dissipate and waste it in riot and raking and gambling."

"Lord Fylingdale? Jack! Think of his face! Think of his manners! Are
they such as you would expect in a rake?"

"There are, perhaps, different kinds of rakes. Tom Rising would spend
the night drinking and bawling songs. Another kind would practice
wickedness as eagerly, but with more politeness. What do I know of
such men? Certain I am that Lord Fylingdale would not scour the
streets and play the Mohock; but that he has found other vices more
pleasant and more (apparently) polite is quite possible."

"I don't understand, Jack. All the gentlemen, like Mr. Rising, drink
and sing. Do all gentlemen who do not drink practice other vices?"

I think that I must have learned the wisdom of what followed from some
book.

"Well, Molly, you have seen the vicar taste a glass of wine. He will
roll it in the glass; he will hold it to the light, admiring the
colour; he will inhale the fragrance; he will drink it slowly, little
by little, sipping the contents, and he will not take more than a
single glass or two at the most. In the same time, Tom Rising would
have gulped down a whole bottle. One man wants to gratify many senses;
the other seeks only to get drunk as quickly as he can. So, I take it,
with the forbidden pleasures of the world. One man may cultivate his
taste; the other may be satisfied with the coarse and plentiful
debauchery. This is not, however, talk for honest folk like you and
me."

"Go on with your story, Jack. Never mind the different ways of
wickedness."

"Well, he heard of an heiress. She belonged to a town remote from
fashion; a town of simple merchants and sailors; she was very rich;
much richer than he at first believed."

"Who told him about this heiress?"

"A creature called Sam Semple, whom the captain once cudgelled. Why,
Molly, it was revenge. In return for the cudgelling he would place you
and your fortune in the hands of a man who would bring misery upon you
and ruin on your fortune. Heavens, how the thing works out! And it
happened just in the nick of time that a spring was found in the
town--a spring whose medicinal properties----" "Ha!" I jumped to my
feet. "Molly, who found that spring? Sam Semple. Who wrote to the
doctor about it? Sam Semple. Who spread abroad a report that the
physicians of London were sending their patients to Lynn? Sam Semple.
How many patients have come to us from London? None--save and except
only the party of those who came secretly in his lordship's train--to
sing his praises and work his wicked will. Why, Molly." I burst into a
laugh, for now I understood, as one sometimes does understand,
suddenly and without proof other than the rapid conclusion, the full
meaning of the whole. "Molly, I say, there has never been any
medicinal spring here at all; the doctor's well is but common spring
water; there are no cures; the whole business is a plan--a bite--an
invention of Sam Semple!"

"Jack; have a care. How can that be, when the doctor has a long list
of cures?"

"I know not. But I do know that Sam Semple invented the spa in order
to bring down this invasion of sharpers and gamblers and heiress
hunters. Oh, what a liar he is! What revenge! What cunning! What
signal service has this servant of the devil rendered to his master!"

Truly, I was carried out of myself by this discovery which explained
everything.

"So," I went on, "they came here all the way from London, their lying
excuse that they were ordered here by their physicians, and we, poor
simple folk, fell into the snare; all the country side fell into the
snare, and we have been fooled into drinking common water and calling
it what you please; and we have built gardens and engaged musicians,
and created a spa, and--oh, Lord! Lord! what a liar he is! What a
liar! This comes, I suppose, of being a poet!"

Then Molly laid her hand upon my arm. "Jack," she said, very
seriously, "do you really believe this story? Only consider what it
means to me." Molly was more concerned about Lord Fylingdale than
about Sam Semple.

"I believe every word of it, Molly. I believe that they have all
joined in the conspiracy--more or less; that they have all got
promises; and that to-morrow morning, if you do not refuse to meet
this man in St. Nicholas Church, you will bring upon yourself nothing
but misery and ruin."

"I have promised to meet him. I must at least send him a message, if
only to say that I shall not come."

"I should like to send him nothing. But you are right. It is best to
be courteous. Well, you may send him a letter. I will myself take it
to the 'Crown.'"

"But afterwards, Jack. What shall we do afterwards? If he is innocent
he will take offence. If not----"

"If you were engaged to marry a young merchant, Molly, or to a
skipper, and you heard rumours of bankruptcy, drink, or evil courses,
what would you do?"

"I would tell him that I had heard such and such about him and I
should ask for explanations."

"Then do exactly the same with Lord Fylingdale. He is accused of
certain things. The captain must make inquiry--he is bound to inquire.
Why, the vicar himself says that he would, if necessary, in order to
ascertain the truth, travel all the way to London, there to learn the
foundations, if any, for these charges, and afterwards into
Gloucestershire, where his country mansion stands, to learn on the
spot what the tenants and the people of the country know of him."

"But suppose he refuses explanations. He is too proud to be called to
account."

"Then send him packing. Lord or no lord, proud or humble. If he
furnishes explanations--if these things are untrue--then--why, then,
you will consider what to do. But, Molly, I do not believe that any
explanations will be forthcoming, and that your noble lover will carry
it off to the end with the same lofty pride and cold mien."

"Let us go into the parlour, Jack. There are the captain's writing
materials. Help me to say what is proper. Oh! is it possible? Can I
believe it? Are these things true? That proud man raised above his
fellows by his virtues and his rank and his principles. Jack, he
risked his life for me."

"Ask no more questions, Molly. We must have explanations. Let us write
the letter."

It was Molly's first letter; the only letter, perhaps, that she will
ever write in all her life. Certainly she had never written one
before, nor has she ever written one since. Like most housewives, her
writing is only wanted for household accounts, receipts for puddings
and pies, and the labelling of her bottles and jars. I have the letter
before me at this moment. It is written in a large sprawling hand, and
the spelling is not such as would satisfy my father.

Naturally she looked to me for advice. I had written many letters to
my owners and to foreign merchants about cargoes and the like, and was
therefore able to advise the composition of a letter which should be
justly expressed and to the point.

    "HONOURED LORD,--This is from me at the present moment in my
    guardian's parlour. [Writing parlour, you see, when I as mate of
    the ship should have written port or harbour.] It is to inform you
    that intelligence has been brought by letters from London and
    Cambridge. Touching the matters referred to in these letters, I
    have to report for your satisfaction, that they call your lordship
    in round terms, a gamester, and a ruined rake; and your companions
    at the spa, viz, Sam Semple, the parson, the ricketty old beau,
    and the colonel, simple rogues, common cheats, and sharpers. Shall
    not, therefore, meet your lordship at the church to-morrow morning
    as instructed. Awaiting your lordship's explanations and
    commands.--Your most obedient, humble servant,

    "MOLLY."

This letter I folded, sealed, addressed, and dropped into my pocket.
Then I bade Molly good-night, entreated her to be thankful for her
escape, and so left her with a light heart; verily it seemed as if the
sadness of the last two months had been wholly and suddenly lifted. On
my way back to the "Crown" I passed the Lady Anastasia's lodging just
as her chair was brought to the house. I opened the door for her and
stood hat in hand.

"Why, it is Jack," she cried. "It is the sailor Jack--the constant
lover. Have you anything more to tell me?"

"Only that Molly will not keep that appointment of to-morrow morning."

"Oh! That interesting appointment in St. Nicholas Church. May a body
ask why the ceremony has been postponed?"

"Things have been disclosed at the last moment. Fortunately, in time."

"What things, and by whom?"

"By letter. It is stated as a fact well known that Lord Fylingdale is
nothing better than a ruined rake and a notorious gamester."

"Indeed? The excellent Lord Fylingdale? Impossible! Quite impossible!
The illustrious example of so many virtues! The explanations will be,
I am sure, complete and satisfactory. Ruined? A rake? A notorious
gamester? What next will the world say? Does his lordship know of this
discovery? Not yet. You said it was a discovery, did you not? Well, my
friend, I am much obliged to you for telling me. You are quite sure
Molly will not be there? Very good of you to tell me. For my own part
I start for London quite early--at five o'clock. Good-bye, Jack."

Then I went in to the "Crown," where I learned that the captain had
been reading another letter containing accusations as bad as those in
the other two.

So we fell to talking over the business, and we congratulated the
captain that he had sent that letter; and we resolved that he should
refuse to receive the villain Sam Semple; and that the vicar should,
if necessary, proceed to London, and there learn what he could
concerning the past history and the present reputation of the noble
suitor. Meantime, I said no more about the intended marriage at St.
Nicholas Church and the abandonment of the plan. As things turned out,
it would have been far better had I told the captain and had we both
planted ourselves as sentinels at the door, so as to be quite sure
that Molly did not go forth at six in the morning.

That evening, after leaving me, Lady Anastasia sent a note to Lord
Fylingdale. "I am leaving Lynn early to-morrow morning. I expect to be
in London in two days. Shall write to Molly."




CHAPTER XXXIII

A WEDDING


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.

[Illustration: "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.




CHAPTER XXXIV

A NEW COMPACT


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 her _ad 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.




CHAPTER XXXV

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?


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.




CHAPTER XXXVI

A DAY OF FATE


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--"there _was 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
L500." 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 L500." 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
L1,200, 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.




CHAPTER XXXVII

THE BUBBLE AND THE SKY ROCKET


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 called
_scandalum 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, for _scandalum 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.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE OPINION OF COUNSEL


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 of _The 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 6 A.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."




CHAPTER XXXIX

THE FRUITS OF SUBMISSION


"Molly, my dear." The captain's voice was broken. "It is my
doing--mine. I am an old fool. Yet I thought I was doing the best for
you."

"Nay," said Molly. "It is no one's fault. It is my great misfortune."

"Must he take all?" asked the captain.

"He will take all he can claim," the vicar answered. "Revenge, as well
as cupidity, is in his mind. I read it through the cold masque of
pride with which he covers his face and tries to conceal himself. He
will be revenged. He is like unto Lucifer for pride, and unto Belial
for wickedness. Molly, my dear, I fear thou wilt soon be poor indeed
in worldly goods. The Lord knoweth what is best. He leaveth thee,
still, the friends who love thee."

The mother resumed the lamentations which she never ceased.

"Molly is a widow who cannot marry again--Molly is a wife without a
husband. Oh, Molly! My poor Molly!"

"It grieves me sore," said the vicar, "to counsel submission. Yet what
could we do? How can we explain this great mystery that he who knew
not your change of purpose should in a moment be able to substitute,
in your place, at the hour fixed, a woman dressed and masked as had
been arranged? There is no explanation possible, and I understand very
clearly that this fact outweighs all the evidence on either side.
There is nothing to be done. We must submit, saving only your personal
freedom, Molly. The man confesses that he has no wish to molest you,
and nothing to gain by any molestation. To be sure, without it he can
take what he pleases. Your presence, indeed, would be a hindrance and
a reproach to his mode of life."

So we talked together, with sadness and heaviness. Yet for one thing I
was well pleased; that Molly had not been forced into daily
companionship with this man. For that would have killed her--body and
soul, if a soul can be destroyed by despair and misery, and cruelty.

"Courage, Molly!" We were on the point of weighing anchor--and we
stood on the quay to say farewell. "Things will get right, somehow.
Oh! I know they will. I cannot tell how I know. Perhaps we shall find
the woman. Then we shall explain the mystery and expose the cheat.
Perhaps--but we know not what may happen. As for your fortune, Molly,
that is as good as gone; but you yourself remain, and you are far more
precious than all the gold and silver in the land."

[Illustration: "YOU ARE FAR MORE PRECIOUS THAN ALL THE GOLD AND SILVER
IN THE LAND."]

So we parted and for five months, until our return, I knew nothing of
what was done.

You may easily guess what was done.

First of all, a letter came from London. It was addressed to Captain
Crowle, and it called upon him to prepare the books and accounts
connected with the estate of Mary, Countess of Fylingdale, for the
information of the Right Honourable the Earl of Fylingdale. It was
written by an attorney, and it announced the intention of the writer
to send down a person--one, Stephen Bisse, attorney-at-law--duly
authorised to examine and to audit the accounts, and to make known his
lordship's intentions as regards the administration of the estate.

The captain, ignorant of the law, took the letter to the vicar for
advice.

"This," said the latter, "may be simply a first step to taking over
the whole of the property, or it may be the first step towards a
system of revenge and persecution. For if the attorney who comes here
to investigate the accounts finds anything irregular, we may be
trapped into legal expenses, and heaven knows, what to follow."

The captain, however, had not commanded a ship in vain; for the
commanding officer of a ship must keep the log and all the papers
connected with the cargo, lading, and unlading, pay of the ship's
company, port dues, and everything. He must, in a word, be as
methodical in his accounts as any quill driver ashore.

"He may examine my accounts as much as he pleases," he declared. "They
are all right."

"Nevertheless, friend, be advised. Place the whole business in the
hands of one who knows the law. In the end it may be far cheaper."

In every port there must be one or more persons skilled in that part
of the law which concerns trade and commerce, imports and exports,
customs, excise, and harbour dues. At Lynn there was such an one,
attorney and notary; a man of great probity and responsibility--Mr.
Nathaniel Redman by name. To him the captain entrusted the papers of
the estate. These papers, which had been accumulating for eighteen
years, and represented the increase and the administration of a very
large estate, were now voluminous to the highest degree. The mere
perusal of them would entail the labour of many attorneys for many
weeks, while the audit of the whole, bit by bit, would engage the same
persons many months, or even years.

"The Earl of Fylingdale will have the accounts audited, will he?" said
Mr. Redman. "Then his lordship is in no immediate want of money."

"Why? Cannot he take what he wants?"

"Sir, you are the lady's guardian; you have to be released from your
trust before you hand over the property. Without such a release you
will keep the whole. That means, that his lordship must wait for the
long and tedious business of a complete audit. I say long and tedious,
because, if the examination of accounts is undertaken in a spirit of
hostility, we can raise in our turn objection after objection by going
back to the commencement of the trust. In other words, captain, if
your papers are all preserved, which I doubt not, we shall be in a
position to delay the acquisition of the estate by the earl almost
indefinitely."

"But at whose charge?" asked the vicar. "For the captain has no means
of paying heavy expenses."

"At the charge of the estate. Oh! sir, do not think that an attorney
of London, to say nothing of myself, would embark upon so large a
business save at the charge of the estate itself."

"It is, then, in your interest to prolong this examination into the
accounts?"

"It is, most certainly, in the interest of this gentleman from London
and of myself; but," he sighed heavily, "if all reports are true, I do
not believe that Lord Fylingdale will prolong the inquiry."

The person who was promised presently arrived with his credentials. He
was quite a young man, apparently about two or three and twenty; his
letter to Captain Crowle described him as an attorney-at-law. He was
quick of speech and of the greatest possible assurance in manner. In
appearance he was small of stature, pasty-faced, and with a turned-up
nose, the possession of which should be regarded by the owner as a
misfortune and personal defect, like a round back. It is said, on the
other hand, to be an indication of great self-conceit.

He came, therefore, was set down at the "Crown," and inquired for the
residence of Captain Crowle, on whom he called without delay.

The captain received him in his summerhouse. He read the letter,
introducing and describing him. Then he laid it down and looked at his
visitor cursorily. "Oh!" he said, "you are the attorney of Lord
Fylingdale, are you, and you want to make an audit of my accounts?
You've come all the way from London on purpose to make that audit,
have you? Well, sir, you will carry this letter to Mr. Nathaniel
Redman, and you will give it to him."

"Who is Mr. Redman? I know of no Redman in this business."

"He is an attorney-at-law, like yourself, young man, and he is a
notary, and this job is turned over to him."

"Oh! I understood, Captain Crowle, that I should confer with you
personally."

"Did you so? Well, sir, if you will see Mr. Redman you can confer with
him instead. The job is his."

The captain, in fact, had been warned not to make any communications
or to hold any conversation with the attorney. He felt himself only
safe, therefore, in repeating that the job was Mr. Redman's.

"We may, however, come to some preliminary, Captain Crowle. The estate
now----"

The captain waved his hand in the direction of the garden door. "The
job, young man, is Mr. Redman's. There is your letter. Take it to
him."

Mr. Bisse accordingly retired and repaired to the office and residence
of Mr. Redman--to whom he gave his letter.

"We shall have no difficulties, I presume," he said.

"I hope not."

"Of course, I know the law in these matters--I can direct you----"

"Young gentleman"--Mr. Redman was well stricken in years--"I could
direct your father. But go on. You will proceed in accordance with
your powers. I shall take good care that you keep within your powers.
Now, sir, what do you propose?"

Mr. Redman spoke from the commanding position of an armchair before a
large table; he was also a large and imposing man to look at while Mr.
Bisse stood before him, small and insignificant, his original
impudence fast deserting him. As for Mr. Redman, his professional
pride was aroused; this young Skip Jack dared to direct _him_ in
matters of law, did he?

"I am, I confess," said Mr. Bisse, "disappointed to find that my noble
client's advances are received with suspicion. I hoped that Captain
Crowle would have met me in a spirit of confidence."

"Come, sir, between ourselves what has your noble client to complain
of? He sends an attorney here. Captain Crowle meets him in the person
of an attorney."

"Well, it matters not. Captain Crowle has, no doubt, reasons of his
own for his action. We must, however, since we are men of business as
you say, demand an exact audit. The interests involved are, I
understand, very considerable?"

"They are very considerable."

"I shall, however, ask for an advance of ten thousand pounds to be
made to his lordship on account."

"An advance? The guardian to advance money before you have audited the
accounts? My dear sir, are you serious?"

"You admit that there will be a great deal more than L10,000."

"I admit nothing that is not proved."

"Then you refuse to give my client anything?" His air of assurance
began to desert him. In fact, he had been especially charged to open
the proceedings by demanding such an advance.

"We refuse to do anything illegal. The papers will show the extent and
the nature of the estate. You can then claim the whole. But you must
first send in your claim and be prepared with the release."

Mr. Bisse hesitated. "My instructions are to demand a strict scrutiny
of all the accounts."

"They are waiting for you. Would you like to see the papers?" Mr.
Redman led him into an adjoining room where on shelves and on the
tables the books and papers were laid out in order--tied up and
labelled. "My clerk," said Mr. Redman, "will go through these papers
with you. I shall look on."

"All these papers?" Mr. Bisse gazed with dismay upon the piles before
him.

"You will have to peruse, to examine, to pass every scrap of paper in
this room. Captain Crowle, sir, is the most methodical man in the
world."

"All these papers? But it will take months."

"Years, perhaps. You have your instructions."

"Sir," said Mr. Bisse, crestfallen, "I must write to my principals for
further instructions."

"That will probably be your best course. Good-morning, sir."

Mr. Bisse wrote accordingly. Meanwhile he made another attempt to
assert his authority. He went to the quay, looked about him with
satisfaction at the proofs and evidences of brisk trade, and entered
the counting-house where the clerks were at work.

"My name," he said pompously, "is Bisse, Mr. Stephen Bisse,
attorney-at-law. I am here as attorney for the Right Honourable the
Earl of Fylingdale."

"What do you want?" asked the chief clerk.

"You will at once show me your ledgers, your day books, and the books
used by you in your daily business."

"You must go to Mr. Redman, sir. His office is beside the customhouse.
Without his permission we can do nothing for you."

Mr. Redman had been before him, you see.

"You refuse me, at your peril," said Mr. Bisse. "I am----"

"You will go out of the counting-house, sir," said the chief clerk,
"and you will leave the quay. We take our orders from Mr. Redman in
place of Captain Crowle."

So Mr. Bisse departed. He walked from the quay to the Common Stathe,
and there, looking at the ships lying moored in the stream, he asked a
waterman if by chance any of them belonged to Captain Crowle.

The man pointed to one. "Then," said Mr. Bisse, "take me to that
ship."

Mr. Redman had been before him here as well. He climbed up the ladder
and was about to step on the deck when the mate accosted him.

"What is your business, friend?" he asked.

Mr. Bisse replied as he had done in the counting-house.

"Well, sir," said the mate, "you can't come aboard here. Strangers are
not allowed aboard this ship without an order from Captain Crowle or
Mr. Redman."

So, Mr. Bisse had to go ashore again.

He found, I fear, the town of Lynn inhospitable. In fact, everybody
was in favour of Molly, and the name of Lord Fylingdale stank. No one
would speak to him. He wandered about waiting for a reply to his
letter asking for further instructions in a disconsolate and
crestfallen spirit, very different from the confident assurance which
he had shown on his arrival.

His new instructions reached him in about ten days. Again he waited on
Mr. Redman.

"Well, sir?" asked the latter. "You are come to direct me in matters
of law?"

"I have received new instructions," the young man put the question
aside, "from my principals. They are to the effect that if you will
draw up for me a schedule of the whole estate, I am to forward it to
London, and to receive orders thereupon as to what part of the
accounts I must specially examine."

"Sir, at the outset I refuse to accept anything but a general release.
You will represent to your principals that every part of this
complicated estate is involved with the whole transactions which
precede it. That is to say, every purchase of a farm or a house has to
be made by combined savings from every source of income, consequently,
any special line of investigation will necessitate a wide and
prolonged examination."

"I perceive that you are determined to give us trouble."

"Not so, sir. We are determined to resist persecution. Your
instructions, if I understand them aright, were to fix upon Captain
Crowle some difficulty, and, if possible, to accuse him of
malversation." Mr. Bisse changed colour. That was, in fact, the secret
instruction. "Now, sir, we have all our papers in order, and you will
find it impossible, while I stand at your elbow, to discover or to
invent a loophole. At the same time, I shall prolong the investigation
if you once enter upon it as much as possible. You may inform your
principals of this, and you will return as soon as you have further
instructions."

"Will you not, at least, prepare a schedule of the property?"

"Certainly. You shall have this prepared in readiness for your next
visit, which will be, I suppose, in another ten days. I hope you find
your stay pleasant."

"No, sir, it is not pleasant. At the inn the people are barely civil,
and I am treated everywhere as if I were a Frenchman."

"No; not a Frenchman, but the attorney of Lord Fylingdale."

Mr. Redman addressed himself, therefore, with the aid of the captain,
to the schedule. The estate was far greater than he had anticipated.

"Why," he said, "you are surprised that a noble earl should marry this
girl for her money. Had the world suspected the truth, there would
have been an abduction every week." He then proceeded to go through
the long list of lands, houses, mortgages, money lying idle, jewels,
and everything. "The only charge upon the estate seems to be an
annuity of L150 a year for the mother. What money have you taken for
maintenance?"

"Why, none."

"None? Did the girl live on air? And what for your own services?"

"Nothing; we lived rent free. It is Molly's own house; and her
mother's money kept the household."

"Well, but--captain--the thing is incredible. You have conducted the
whole business from the death of Molly's father to the present day
actually for nothing."

"It was for the little maid."

"Captain, you have acted, I dare say, for the best. But with
submission, you have acted like a fool. However, it is not too late to
remedy. I shall charge the estate, which will now become Lord
Fylingdale's, with L300 a year, your salary for administering the
estate and for managing the business. It will be impossible to refuse
this claim, and I shall set down L150 a year for maintenance of your
ward."

The captain stared. Here was a turning of the tables, with a
vengeance.

"The claim is just, reasonable, and moderate. I shall not advance it
as a thing to be objected to. You will, meantime, go through the
accounts; take out L450 a year; this for eighteen years, would be
L8,100; but the money must be considered as used for investments. You
will therefore set apart L450 a year, and as soon as that amounts to a
sufficient sum to be represented by an investment, you will set apart
that piece of property as your own. This will represent a much larger
sum than L8,100. Your ward will not, after all, be left penniless, if
you bequeath her your money. Ha! the young man is going to direct
_The Lady of Lynn_ in matters of law--ME, is he?"

In fact the captain was so simple that it had never occurred to him
that he could take a salary for his conduct of the business; or that
he could ask for an allowance for the maintenance of his ward, and
this timely discovery by the attorney in the end saved Molly from
poverty and left her still, in comparison with most girls of the place
or of the county, a very considerable heiress.

When Mr. Bisse, a few days later, arrived with his instructions, he
found drawn up for him a statement for the eighteen years of the
captain's trusteeship. On the working side of the account was shown a
charge of L150 a year as provided by the will of Molly's father for
his widow for life; a similar sum for the maintenance of the ward, and
a salary of L300 to Captain Crowle for managing the business in the
name of the firm as shippers and general merchants. Mr. Stephen Bisse,
by this time, had quite lost his assurance. He attempted no
objections. "I suppose," he said, "you will allow me an inspection of
the books."

"Certainly. You will, however, find them difficult to make out. Are
you acquainted with the routine work of a counting-house?"

Mr. Bisse owned that he was not. "I shall be asked," he said, "if I
have examined the books."

"You shall examine what you please." Mr. Redman understood by this
time the character of this young attorney. "The chief clerk of the
counting-house shall be with you to answer any questions you please to
ask."

He had come to Lynn, you see, by order of his principals, instructed
that the guardian was an old addle-headed sailor, whose accounts would
certainly prove liable to question and very likely open to dispute and
to claims; he was aware that the noble client desired nothing so much
as to ruin this old sailor; that he was also in great necessities for
want of money; and that he was anxious, for some reason unknown to his
attorney that the question of the validity of the marriage should not
be raised or tried in open court. But he had been met by a man of law
and by accounts of a most complicated kind, and by the direct refusal
to part with any money until a final release had been obtained for the
guardian. He, therefore, referred to his principals twice. On the
second occasion he was told that his lordship could not wait; that he
was to guard against fraud by such an examination of the books as was
possible; that he was to get rid of the guardian, grant the release if
the accounts allowed him to do so, lay hands on all the monies
available, and report progress.

This, in short, he did. The amended schedule reserved property
amounting in value to L450 a year as invested year after year, and
therefore at something like compound interest, so that this deduction
gave the captain personal and real property representing some L12,000.
The rest was acknowledged to be the property of the ward, and
therefore, assuming the marriage to be valid, under the control of my
Lord Fylingdale.

The auditor went to the counting-house and called for the books. He
opened one or two at random; he looked wise; he made a note or two,
for show; he asked a question or two, for pretence, and he went away.

This done, he repaired to Mr. Redman's office again and tendered a
full release to Captain Crowle for his trusteeship. The document, in
which Molly was called by her maiden name, and not by that of the
Countess of Fylingdale, when it was signed and sealed, rendered the
old man free of any persecution; but it left the estate entirely in
the hands of the pretended husband.

"You are aware, sir, of course," said Mr. Bisse, "that this release
accepted by Captain Crowle, also accepts the truth of my client's
statements as regards his marriage."

"We are not going to dispute the fact. We have our opinion, but the
weight of evidence and presumption is against us. As his lordship only
wants the fortune he can take it. May I ask what you are instructed to
do about it?"

"My instructions are first to receive all monies in hand, save what is
wanted for current expenses in conducting the business."

"You will see what Captain Crowle has in his strong room. You can take
that money to-day if you please."

"And next, all the jewels, gold chains, bracelets, etc., belonging to
the countess."

"You can have them also."

"As regards the lands, houses, mortgages, and the business, my lord
will consider what is best to be done. I am directed to find some
person of integrity in the place who will receive the rents and carry
on the business. I fear I cannot ask for your assistance."

"You can, and may. It is still our interest that the affairs of the
firm shall be well managed. The chief clerk in the counting-house is
the best man you can appoint. He now receives L90 a year. You can give
him what the captain had, L300."

"I do not know how long the arrangement will last."

"You mean that your client will probably waste and squander the
whole."

"I desire to speak of that nobleman with respect. He is, however, in
expenditure even more profuse than becomes his high rank."

Molly shed no tears over the loss of her jewels. She brought the box
down with her own hands; she opened it, took out the contents to be
verified by the inventory, shut and locked it, and gave the attorney
the key. The captain led him downstairs to the cellar, in a wall of
which a cupboard had been constructed, which, with a stone in front,
removable with a little trouble, formed a strong room. Here were the
boxes of guineas waiting to be invested or employed. I know not how
many there were, but Mr. Bisse carried all away with him.

When he departed the next day for London he was escorted by four stout
fellows armed with cudgels and pistols riding beside his post-chaise.
However, he reached London in safety and delivered his prize.

"I wonder," said Mr. Redman, "how long it will be before instructions
come for the foreclosing of the mortgages and the sale of the
property."

"I am doubtful after all," said the vicar, who always doubted because
he always saw both sides of the question, "whether we have done
rightly. We could have made a good fight, and we could have proved, at
least, that Lord Fylingdale was in desperate straits for money."

"Jack was right," said Molly. "Nothing can be done until we find the
other woman."




CHAPTER XL

ON MY RETURN


These things happened soon after my departure. When six months later I
returned home I found that many things had followed.

First of all, the chief clerk, promoted to the management of the
estate under orders from London, found himself in no enviable
position. He was called upon to send up money week after week--my lord
wanted a hundred--five hundred--one knows not what, and must have it
without delay. If there was no money, then all outstanding accounts
must be collected, mortgages must be foreclosed; but where credit has
been allowed it is not possible to collect accounts suddenly, nor can
mortgages be foreclosed without due notice given. Then the houses must
be sold; but in a place like Lynn, which has more houses than it can
fill, it is not easy to sell a house, and the price which can be
obtained is small indeed compared with the value of houses in London.
Then farms and lands must be sold. But who was there to buy them?

Then came letters of rebuke, answered by letters of remonstrance.
Money must be raised somehow; money had been advanced on the security
of Molly's property; my lord was in difficulties.

It is almost incredible that a man should be able in so short a time
to waste and dissipate so large a sum of money. When we returned, and
I went ashore, the first person I saw was the unfortunate chief clerk,
promoted to be manager.

"Mr. Pentecrosse," he said, "little did I think when I was put into
this charge at a yearly salary of L300--more than ever I hoped or
dreamed of getting--what a peck of trouble was waiting for me. Little
did I understand, sir, how the great live; with what profusion, with
what extravagance! As for that poor young lady--heaven help her, for
her property is vanishing fast! Soon there will be none. I have no
right to talk of my employer's affairs; but you know what has
happened."

"In a word, Lord Fylingdale is getting through Molly's property."

"Worse than that; he is throwing it away. Sir, I wake in the night
with dreams of terror. I think I see a man plunging his hands into a
sack of gold and throwing it about with both hands. I have been
ordered to foreclose mortgages, to sell houses, to sell farms, to sell
everything. When I cannot find a purchaser there come letters from my
lord's attorneys, Bisse and Son--the young man was here himself with
peremptory orders to find a purchaser--any purchaser. Money must be
had."

"Well, there will be, I suppose, an end some time or other."

"The end will come before we look for it. Because, Mr. Pentecrosse,
while the profusion goes on the estate grows less, and it becomes more
difficult every day to answer their demands."

"What is left?"

"I hear that Miss Molly's jewels were carried away by the young man. I
hope he was honest, and kept none for himself. I know that the captain
had a large sum of money in his strong room waiting for a mortgage;
that went away with the young man. Since then I have sent up all the
money as it came in. I have foreclosed the mortgages. Some of the
mortgagors could not pay, and are now bankrupt. The captain would
never press his people so long as they paid the interest. I have been
able to sell some of the farms; but you know this country, Mr.
Pentecrosse; there is not much money among the gentry of these parts;
they have been sold at a sacrifice; I have others in the market; there
are houses, also, but no one will buy them. Well, all will soon be
gone. Then there will remain but one asset out of all the magnificent
property of the work of three generations. Miss Molly's grandfather,
and her father, and herself by means of the captain--only one asset."

"What is that?"

"And soon that will go, too," he replied with a hollow groan. "Sir, it
is the noble fleet and the great business which belongs to the fleet.
If the ships are sold----"

Suddenly I remembered my lord's question on board _The Lady of Lynn_.
"Can," he asked, "a ship be sold like an estate of land?"

"They will be sold," I said, confidently. "You may look to have them
sold as soon as the other assets are expended. The last thing to be
sold will be the fleet of ships, and the business which belongs to the
ships."

"And what will become of me?"

"Why," I said, "somebody must manage the business. Why not you, since
you have been all your life in it, and know what it means and how it
is conducted? But who will buy it?"

"Not all the merchants of Lynn together could find the money to buy
these ships and to carry on this business. No, sir, the whole must go
to strangers."

I left him, having given him the ship's papers, and went on to see the
captain and Molly.

"Jack," she said, ruefully, "you promised when you went away that
there would be a change. None has come, except a change for the worse.
But that we expected."

"In other words, Jack," the captain explained, "everything that
happens must happen before very long, or there will be nothing left.
My lord is spending at such a rate as no fortune could stand. What
does he mean? When it is gone will he find another Molly and marry her
for her money? There is not in all the land another Molly--not even
for her good looks, let alone her fortune."

As for good looks, her misfortunes had only improved poor Molly's face
which was now of a more pensive cast and had lost some of its youthful
joyousness. To be sure she had little to make her joyous.

I observed, and I understood, that she was dressed with the utmost
simplicity, like a farmer's daughter. For, outside, the people spoke
of her as the countess, even while they accepted her story and did not
allow her to be married. She would, at least, present no external sign
of the rank which she denied.

"How does the man spend all this money?" I asked.

"Thank heaven, Jack, a plain person, like you and me, cannot answer
that question. How does he spend that money? Who knows? He has had,
since he began, six months ago, a great many thousands. If he has sold
the jewels he has had I know not how many more, and still the same
cry--'send more money--send more money, my lord wants more money
without delay.' As for that poor man, lately my clerk, he is driven
like a slave and bullied like a raw recruit. He wrings his hands.
'What shall I do, captain?' he asks. 'What shall I do? Whither shall I
turn?'"

Then there came into my head the thought that I might somehow, by
going to London find out what manner of life was led by my lord and in
what ways he wasted and scattered Molly's substance. I could do
nothing to stop or to hinder the waste; yet when one knows the truth
it is generally more tolerable than the uncertainty--the truth is an
open enemy which one can see and avoid, or submit to, or fight; the
unknown is an unknown and an unseen enemy who may attack from any
quarter and by any weapon.

I thought over the plan for some days; it assumed clearer shape; it
became a purpose. Molly, for her part, neither approved nor
disapproved. She was for letting the man, who pretended to be her
husband, work his wicked will and do what he pleased, provided that he
left her in peace.

How was a simple sailor to find out the daily life of a great lord?
The backstairs one would not choose; but what other way was there? I
laid the matter before my father and the vicar. "I know not," said the
latter, "that we can do much good by learning the truth, even if we
ascertain all the particulars of the man's life from his very
companions, but you might satisfy us on certain points. For instance,
about that mysterious woman. I know not how you can find out anything,
but you might possibly chance upon a clue."

"Go," said my father, "to my cousin, the bookseller. He found out
something about Lord Fylingdale's character. He might find out more.
You can at least explain what you want and why."

The end of it was that I went to London, riding with a small company,
and meeting with no adventures on the way; that I put up at one of the
inns outside Bishopsgate, and that I found out my cousin and put the
whole case before him. He was a grave and responsible citizen, a
churchwarden, and of good standing in the Stationers' company.

"You want to know how Lord Fylingdale spends his money. I suppose
there are but two or three ways; of profligates, I take it, there are
only a few varieties; one games; another rakes; a third surrounds
himself with companions who flatter him and strip him. The first two
are possessed of devils; the third is a fool. I do not imagine that my
Lord Fylingdale is a fool, but you will probably find that he is
possessed of both the other devils, and perhaps more."

"But how am I to find out?"

"Why, cousin, I think I know a young fellow who can help you in this
business."

"Who is he? How shall I approach him?"

"He is a gentleman who lives by his wits; not one of the ragged poets
who haunt our shops with offers and projects and entreat work at a
guinea a sheet. No; he is a gentleman, and a wit; his father was a
general in the army; his cousin is a noble lord; he is received into
the houses of the great when he chooses to go. He works for the
theatre, and has composed several pieces said to be ingenious. As for
his acquaintance with me, I would have you to understand that with two
or three other booksellers we bring out a weekly essay like those of
the _Spectator_ and _Tatler_, which, of course, you know."

"I never heard of them."

The bookseller smiled with compassion. "To be sure; at sea there are
no books. Well, cousin, this young gentleman sometimes, when he is in
the humour, will write me an essay in the true vein of an Addison. I
will speak with him. If any one can, he can do your business for you."

It was by the kind offices of this gentleman, whom I found to be a
person of quick wit and ready understanding, besides being of a most
obliging disposition, that I was enabled to see, with my own eyes, an
evening such as my lord loved. As for the details, you must, if you
please, hold me excused. Let it suffice that our observations began at
a gaming house and ended at a tavern. At both places I kept in the
background, because I would not be recognised by Lord Fylingdale.

He came into the gaming table with the same lofty, cold carriage which
he had shown at our humble assembly. He advanced to the table; he
began to play; no one could tell from his lordship's face whether he
lost or won; in half an hour or so my friend returned to my corner.
"He has lost a cool five hundred. They are whispering round the table
that he loses hundreds every evening. All the world are asking what
gold mine he possesses that he can stand these losses?"

"I know his gold mine," I replied, with a sigh. "But it is nearly
exhausted."

We stayed a little longer. It was about ten or eleven in the evening
that his lordship left the table.

"Come," said my friend. "I know the tavern where he will spend the
next three or four hours. I can take you there. The bowls of punch and
the company and everything are provided at his lordship's expense. Mr.
Pentecrosse, it must be not a gold mine, but a mine of Golconda, to
bear this profusion."

"I tell you, sir, whatever it is, the mine is nearly run out."

"It will not be bad for the morals of the town when it has quite run
out."

As regards the tavern and its company it is, indeed, astonishing to me
that any man should find pleasure in such a company and in such
discourse. At the head of the table sat my lord. He appeared to be
neither pleased nor displeased; the drink flowed like a stream of
running water; it seized on all and made their faces red, their voices
thick; the noble leader sat unmoved, or, if moved at all, then by a
kind of contempt. At two o'clock he rose and walked out into the
street, where his chair awaited him.

"This is his humour," said my guide. "Play is his passion; it is the
one thing that he lives for; he has wasted and ruined his own estate,
which will be transmitted to his successor as bare as the back of my
hand; and now he is wasting the wealth of Potosi and the diamonds of
Golconda. He would waste the whole world if he could."

"Why does he entertain such a crew?"

"It is his humour. He seems to delight in observing the wickedness of
the world. He sits and looks on; he encourages and stimulates, and his
face grows colder and his eyes harder. This man is not possessed of a
devil. He is himself the Great Devil--the Prince of Iniquity."

So I had learned all that I wanted to know. It was now quite certain
that we were within a short distance from the end. The lands and
houses in the market would find a purchaser; the fleet and the
business would then be sold. What next?

The day after this experience in the life of a rake I paid a visit for
the first and only time to St. James Park in the afternoon. It was, I
remember, a cold but clear and bright day in January. At the gates
stood a crowd of lacqueys and fellows waiting for their ladies, and
stamping on the ground to keep off the cold. Within, a goodly company
walked briskly up and down. They were the great people of London whom
I saw here. While I looked on admiring the dresses of the ladies and
the extravagances of the gentlemen, who seemed to vie with each other
in calling attention to themselves by their dress and by their
gestures, there passed me, walking alone, a lady whom at first I did
not recognise. She started, however, and smartly tapped my hand with
her fan--she carried the fan although it was winter, just as the beaux
dangled their canes from their wrists.

"Why," she cried, "it is my sailor! It is surely Jack Pentecrosse!"

Then I recognised the Lady Anastasia.

"And what is Jack Pentecrosse doing in this wicked town? And how is
Molly--the countess? Come, Jack, to my house. It is not far from here.
I should like a talk with you, and to hear the news. And I will give
you a dish of tea. Why, I left Lynn in disgrace--did I not? On account
of the grand jury of Middlesex. It was that evening when Lord
Fylingdale turned upon his enemies."

Her house was not very far from St. James's Street. As we walked
along, she discoursed pleasantly in her soft and charming manner, as
if she was made happy just by meeting me, and as if she had always
been thinking about me.

She placed me in a chair before the fire; she sat opposite; she pulled
her bell rope and called for tea; then she began to talk about Lynn
and its people.

"Tell me, Jack, about your friend Molly. Is she reconciled to her rank
and title yet? I believe that she does not live with her husband."

"She denies that she was married."

"Ah! I have heard, in fact, that there is some sort of a story--a cock
and a bull story--about the wedding."

"Another woman was substituted. Molly was at home."

"Another woman? Strange! Why was she substituted? Who was she?"

"I know not. The matter is a mystery. Certain it is, however, that
Lord Fylingdale was married. I myself saw the wedding. I was in the
church."

"You were in the church?" She raised her fan for a moment. "You were
in the church? And you saw the wedding. Who was the bride?"

"I do not know. At the time I thought it was Molly."

"Jack," she leaned over, looking me full in the face. "Have you no
suspicion?"

"None. I cannot understand how, all in a moment, and when he found
that Molly was not there, the bridegroom found means to substitute
another woman dressed as Molly should have been. I cannot understand
it."

"It is, as you say, strange. Do you think you will ever find out?"

"Why not? There are three persons in the plot--Lord Fylingdale, Mr.
Purdon, and the woman. One of the two last will perhaps reveal the
truth."

She was silent for a moment.

"Well, and what are you doing in town?"

"I came to learn, if I could, something of Lord Fylingdale's private
life."

"Have you succeeded?"

"He is a gambler and a rake. He is rapidly wasting the whole of poor
Molly's fortune. In a few months, or weeks, it will all be gone."

"Yes," she replied; "all will be gone."

"First he took the money and the jewels----"

"What?" she sat up suddenly. "He took the jewels?"

"He took them first. Then he sold the lands."

"Oh, tell me no more! He is wasting and destroying. It is his nature.
First he took the jewels. How long ago?"

"Six months ago."

"He has had the jewels," she said. "He has had them for six months."
Her face became hard and drawn as with pain; her smiling mouth became
hard; the light died out of her eyes; she became suddenly twenty years
older. I wondered what this change might mean. You will think that I
was a very simple person not to guess more from all these indications.
She pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet; she walked over to
the window and looked out upon the cold street, in which there were
flying flakes of snow. Then she came back and stood before the fire.
"You can go," she said, harshly, not looking me in the face. "You can
go," she repeated, forgetting her proffered hospitality of tea. "About
that woman, Jack, you may find her yet. Many a wicked woman has been
goaded by wrongs intolerable to confess her wickedness. I think you
may find her. It will be too late to save Molly's fortune; but when it
is all spent there will be a chance for you, Jack." She turned upon me
a wan and sad smile. "Happy Molly!" she added, laying her hand upon my
arm with the sweet graciousness that she could command. "Jack," she
added, "I think we may pity that poor wretch who personated Molly. It
was perhaps out of love for a worthless man. Women are so. It is not
worth, or virtue, or ability, or character that awakens love and keeps
it alive. A woman, Jack, loves a man. There is nothing more to be
said. If he is a good man so much the better. If not--still she loves
him." She sighed heavily. "What do you sailors know about women?
Virtue, fame, and fortune do not make love, nor--Jack, which is a hard
thing for you to believe--does all the wickedness in the world destroy
love. A woman may be goaded into revenge, but it makes her all the
more unhappy--because love remains."

I went away, musing on this woman who sometimes seemed so true and
earnest with all her fashion and affectations. For, as she spoke about
love, the tears stood in her eyes as if she was speaking of her own
case. But I never suspected her; I never had the least suspicion of
her as the mysterious woman.

I took cars into the city and went to my cousin's shop, where there
were half-a-dozen gentlemen talking volubly about new books, among
them my friend who had taken me to the gaming house and to the tavern.
When he saw me he slipped aside. "Mr. Pentecrosse," he said, "your
cousin reminds me that I once told him what I could learn concerning
an unfortunate poet named Semple. If you would like to see him I think
I can take you to him."

I thanked him, and said that I would willingly have speech of Mr.
Semple.

So he led me down little Britain, and so by a maze of streets to a
place called Turnagain Lane. He stopped at an open door. The street in
the waning light looked squalid, and the house mean.

"The darling of Parnassus," he said, "lies in the top chamber. You
will find him there, unless I mistake not, because he cannot
conveniently go abroad."

So saying, he left me, and I climbed up the dark and dirty staircase,
some of the steps of which had been taken away for firewood, and
presently found myself at the top of the last flight before a closed
door. I knocked. A faint voice bade me come in.

There was no fire in the fireplace; there was no candle; by the faint
light which struggled through the window I perceived that I was in a
garret; that all the furniture visible was a bed, and a man in the
bed, a table and a chair. On the mantelshelf stood a candlestick
without a candle and a tinder box.

"Who is it?" asked the man in bed.

"I am in search of Sam Semple. Are you Sam Semple?"

"I know that voice." The man sat up. "Is it the voice of Jack
Pentecrosse?"

"The same. What cheer, man?"

For all answer, he burst out crying like a child.

"Oh! Jack," he said, "I am starving. I made up my mind to starve. I
have no longer any clothes. I have not even a candle. I have no money.
I have not even a sheet of paper to write a letter, and I deserve it
all--yes, I deserve it all."

"Why, this is bad. But let me first get you some food. Then we will
talk."

I went downstairs and found a woman, who told me of a shop where I
could get some necessaries, and I presently returned bearing food and
a bottle of wine, some coals and candles, and a warm coat, which I
thought would be useful.

By the light of the candle and the fire I could perceive that the
condition of the unhappy poet was miserable indeed. Never was there a
more wretched den of a garret. The plaster had fallen from the walls;
the window was mostly stuffed with rags in place of glass; in a word,
everything betokened the greatest extremity of poverty. As for the man
himself, he had neither coat, waistcoat, nor shoes. He sat on the bed
half-dressed, but the rest of his wardrobe had been pawned or sold.
There were no books; there were no papers; there was nothing to show
his calling; and there was no sign of food.

At the sight of my basket and its contents the man fell to. With just
such a rage have I seen a sailor picked up at sea from an open boat,
fall upon food and devour it. Nor did Sam finish till he had devoured
the whole of the cold beef and bread--a goodly ration--and swallowed
the whole of the bottle of wine, a generous allowance. Then he
breathed a sigh of satisfaction, and put on the thick coat which I had
bought for him.

"Well," I said, "can we now talk?"

"Jack, you have saved my life; but I shall be hungry again to-morrow.
Lend me a little money."

"I will lend you a guinea or two. But tell me first how came you here?
I thought you were in the confidence of a certain noble lord."

"He is a villain, Jack. He is the greatest villain unhung. Oh! hanging
is too good for him. After all I did for him! The lying villain!"

"What you did for him, Sam, was to give him the chance of ruining the
property of an innocent and helpless girl."

"I gave him the heiress. Was it nothing to promote the daughter of a
plain merchant and make her a countess?"

"Tell me more. What were you to get for it?"

"It was I who invented an excuse for taking my lord and his friends to
Lynn."

"Yes, I understand. You invented the spa. The water in the well----"

"The water is very good water. It could do no harm. I wrote to the
doctor--I invented the analysis, applying it from another. I told him
about the discovery and the things said by the newspapers. There was
no discovery; nobody had heard of the water; no physician sent any of
his patients there; the only visitors from London were my lord and his
friends."

"They were all his friends, then?"

"All. His reverence is in the pay of Beelzebub, I believe. The colonel
is a bully and a gamester--Sir Harry is a well-known decoy--Lady
Anastasia shares her bank with Lord Fylingdale. They were a nest of
sharpers and villains, and their business and mine was to spread
abroad reports of the shining virtue of his lordship."

"All this, or part of it, we found out or guessed. The vicar publicly
denounced you all at his assembly. But what were you to get by it for
yourself?"

"I was to have an appointment under government of L200 a year at
least."

"Well?"

"I was to have it directly after the marriage. That was the promise. I
have it in writing."

"And you have not got it?"

"No; and I shall not get it. When I claimed it his lordship asked me
to read the promise. I showed it him. I had kept it carefully in my
pocketbook. 'On the marriage of Lord Fylingdale with Miss Molly.' What
do you think he said. Oh, villain! villain!"

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'Hold there, my friend! On the marriage. Very well, although
I say that I am married to that lady, very oddly the lady swears that
she is not married to me. Now, when that lady acknowledges the
marriage I will fulfill my promise. That is fair, is it not?' Then I
lost my head and forgot his rank and my position, and the next moment
I was kicked into the street by his lackeys without salary, without
anything. Oh, villain! villain!"

It seemed as if there was here some opening--of what nature I knew
not. However I spoke seriously to Sam. I pointed out that in
introducing a broken gamester--a profligate--a man of no honour or
principle, the companion of profligates and gamesters, to the simple
folk of Lynn who were ready to believe anything, he had himself been
guilty of an act more villainous even than the breaking of this
contract. I gave him, however, a guinea for present necessities and I
promised him five guineas more if he would write a history of the
whole business so far as he was concerned. And I undertook to leave
this money with my cousin the bookseller--to be paid over to him on
receiving the manuscript.

This business arranged, I had nothing more to do with London. I had
been, however, as you shall presently learn, more successful than I
myself understood, for I had learned by actual presence the daily life
and conversation of this noble lord and I had laid the foundation for
a proof of the conspiracy to disguise his true character, and, what
was much more important, I had unwittingly fired the mind of the
mysterious woman herself with resentment and jealousy.




CHAPTER XLI

THE FIRST AND THE SECOND CONFEDERATE


We were now, indeed, although we knew it not, very near the end of
these troubles.

I returned with the satisfaction of bringing with me the confession of
the conspiracy which we had long known. Still, it is one thing to know
of a conspiracy, and quite another thing to have a plain confession by
one of the chief conspirators. You may imagine that the poet was not
long in writing out a full and complete confession, and in claiming
the five guineas of my cousin, who took the liberty of reading the
document, and of witnessing his signature before he gave up the money.

"Take it, sir," he said, "if to be a villain is to earn a reward of
five guineas, you have earned that reward. Take it, Judas Iscariot.
Take it, and make a poem on the Wages of Sin if you can."

"You trample on the weak. I am a worm who cannot turn. Still, sir, if
you can find honest employment for a pen which adorns all it
touches----"

"Go, sir. For such as you I have no employment. My poets and authors
may be poor, but they are honest. Get thee out of my sight."

I showed the document first to my father and the vicar.

"So far, well," said the latter. "If proof were needed of a more
wicked conspiracy here it is. But in the main thing we are no more
forward than before, Jack. We are not helped by this writing to the
mystery of the strange woman and her intervention. A strange woman,
indeed; she must be--one such as described by the wise king."

"We shall find her yet. What hold can this spendthrift gamester have
upon the woman--his partner in the crime? Some time or other she will
be tempted to reveal the truth."

"We know not. Women are not as men. They love the most worthless as
well as the most noble." Lady Anastasia had said the same thing.

"Love is like the sunshine, my son. It falls upon good and evil alike,
and, like the sunshine, it may be wasted, or it may be turned to help.
We must not expect to find this woman; we must not count upon her
revenge or her repentance."

"We shall find her, sir, I am certain that we shall find her. The
spendthrift wastes and scatters with a kind of madness. He will soon
finish all, and will have nothing left for his confederates. You see
what one confederate has confessed, having been betrayed by his
master."

Said the vicar: "The sweet singer of Israel ceases not to proclaim the
lesson that all the generations must learn and lay to heart--'I have
seen,' he says, 'the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like
a green bay-tree. Yet he passed away, and, lo! he was not. Yea, I
sought him, and he could not be found.' Patience, therefore, let us
have patience."

He fell into a meditation in which I disturbed him not. After a while
he returned to the business of Sam's written confession, which he held
in his hands.

"It is remarkable," he said, "how this young man, who from his boyhood
was a self-deceiver, imagining himself to be somebody, endeavours to
place his conduct in a light flattering to his self-deception. It is
evident, abundantly, that he has been guided throughout by two
motives, the one as base as the other. The first is revenge for the
wholesome cudgelling which the captain bestowed upon him. It was
administered, I doubt not, with judicial liberality--even erring on
the side of liberality--and he left in the man's mind that longing for
revenge which belongs to the weaker and the baser sort. See, he
writes, 'Since Captain Crowle was resolved to marry his ward above her
station, I was quite sure that he would be grateful to me for the
signal service which he could in no way effect by his own efforts of
raising her from her humble condition to the rank of countess.' He
thus betrays himself. And as to the second motive, he says, 'A poor
man has the right to better himself if he can. It is his duty. I saw a
way, an unexpected and an honourable way.' Listen to the creature. 'I
made the discovery that my patron, by gambling and raking, had become,
as regards his affairs, nothing less than what in a merchant would be
called a bankrupt. That is to say, he had spent all he had, sold all
he could, raised all the money possible on his entailed estates, and
but for his privilege as a peer would now be in a debtor's prison. Yet
he contrived to keep his head above water--I found out how, as
well--and still maintained a brave show, though, by reason of his bad
character, he was not countenanced except by profligates like himself.
I therefore laid open to him a way of restoring his affairs. I offered
to introduce him to a great heiress. At first he did not believe that
there was in any country town an heiress with the fortune that I
described to him. But I gave him some proofs and I promised him more.
Whereupon I made known my condition. As soon as he was married to this
heiress he was to procure for me, by purchase or by influence, a post
under government worth at least L200 a year, with perquisites, or
perhaps a benefice, if I could procure ordination, of which I had no
doubt in thinking of my learning and my character for piety.'"

"Ho!" said my father, "his learning and his piety!"

"'My patron is now master of that fortune and is wasting it as fast as
he can in the old courses. He refuses to keep his promise. Nay, he
hath sold the last preferment in his gift to the highest bidder. It
was a rectory of L350 a year.'"

"This fellow," said the vicar, "knows that his patron is at his last
guinea. He knows him to be a loose liver and a gamester, and he has no
hesitation in conspiring to place this innocent girl, by means of her
simple guardian, in the hands of such a man. Yet he whines and thinks
himself ill-used, and a football of fate. Formerly, he thought himself
the favourite of the Muses. The man is a cur, Jack; he has the cunning
and the cowardice and the treachery of a mongrel cur. Take back his
confession. It may, however, be useful."

"What about the great discovery concerning the spa?"

"Why, Jack, it seems as if he drew his bow and shot an arrow at a
venture, yet hit the bull's eye. The doctor has a book, in which he
inscribes cases of cures effected by the waters of the spa. The book
is well-nigh filled. It is true that this Prince of Liars invented and
pretended the discovery of a spa; it is also true, as we cannot but
believe, that the waters have actually done all that he pretended. He,
therefore, unconsciously, seems to have proclaimed the truth. Let the
thing remain as it is, then. Time will show. The next season's cases
and cures will perhaps establish the reputation of the spa on a more
solid basis even than at present."

Time, as I have already told you, did show, for no one came at all.
The spa was neglected in its second season; in the third it was
forgotten; even the pump room was removed, and only the well remained.
But the doctor, who was bitterly disappointed with the failure, was
never informed concerning the true history of the grand discovery.

It was the perfidy of the chief conspirator to every one who assisted
him which brought about the full exposure of the truth. I have been
careful to let you know at every step the whole truth as we discovered
it afterwards. You have understood the conspiracy from the outset, and
the villainy of all concerned. The woman in the pink silk cloak has
been no mystery to you. Perhaps you admire our simplicity in not
guessing the truth. Reader, you are young, perhaps; or you have been
young. In either case, I am sure that you have experienced the ease
with which a woman, lovely, sympathetic, winning, will, with the
combined aid of her beauty, her voice, her witchcraft, so surround
herself with an imaginary air of truth, sincerity and purity, as to
exclude all possibility of treachery and falsehood. Lady Anastasia had
allowed me to discover, whether by inadvertence or not, that she was
jealous; but what did I know of feminine jealousy and its powers? I
might have known, perhaps, that jealousy implies love, or, at least,
the claim to exclusive possession; but what did I know of the strength
and passion of woman's love? I was young; I was inexperienced; I was a
sailor, ignorant of many common wiles; I was easily moved by a woman,
and I had that universal respect for rank which makes us slow to
believe that a lady of quality can be treated as if it were possible
to suspect her. By the same rule I should, you will say, be equally
unable to regard Lord Fylingdale with suspicion. But we are not always
consistent with ourselves. Besides, his lordship was a man and not a
woman. Rank or no rank, we know that a man is always a man. And, in
addition, he stood between Molly and me.

I have said that we were near the end of our troubles. One after the
other the victims of Lord Fylingdale's perfidy and of their own
wickedness come over, so to speak, to the other side, impelled by rage
and the desire for revenge, and made confession. There were five--I
take them in order. The first was our old friend Sam, whose confession
you have heard; the second was Colonel Lanyon. Like the poet, he also
fell upon evil days; but, less lucky than Sam, he lost his liberty,
and became a prisoner for debt in the King's Bench Prison. When such
an one is arrested and thrown into prison he is in grievous, if not in
hopeless case; for, supposing his brothers or cousins to be in a
responsible position, they are ashamed of one who has led the life of
a gamester and a bully and a decoy. They will not help him to begin
again his old life, and if they are like himself, they want all they
have for their own pleasures--rakes being the most selfish of all
men--and so they will not help him. He wrote, therefore, from his
prison, addressing himself to Captain Crowle as the guardian of the
lady for whose capture their snares were set.

"Sir," he said, "I am a prisoner for debt, lying in the King's Bench,
and likely to remain a prisoner for the rest of my life. I have
cousins who are prosperous. They refuse to assist me. Yet my detaining
creditors are few and the whole amount is ridiculously small,
considering my position and my reputation. That my own cousins should
refuse to release me is, I own, a matter which surprises me, for I
have conferred lustre upon a name hitherto obscure by my gallantry, my
bravery, and my many adventures. It is a heartless world. There are
many honest gentlemen in this place, besides myself, who have found
the world heartless and ungrateful."

"Humph!" said the vicar, in whose presence the captain began to make
out this surprising letter.

"My misfortunes are due to no less a person than my Lord Fylingdale, a
man whose treachery and ingratitude are not equalled, as far as I
know, by the history of any villain that was ever hanged."

"Why," the captain interrupted, "here's a fellow catched in his own
toils. Do you read it, Jack; your eyes are better than mine."

So I took it. "When I consider not only his conduct towards myself,
but his systematic deception towards you, sir, I am moved by
indignation to write to you and to expose a plot in which I had a
hand, but in ignorance. Sir, I would have you know that for many years
I have been in the employ of his lordship. It is not an uncommon
thing, when an officer is broken and cannot find employment for his
sword, to enter the service of some patron, whom he must oblige by all
means in his power. In return, he is safe from arrest, and must take
what wages are given him. My own services were those of a decoy to a
gaming table, in which his lordship held a secret interest, and of a
duellist when my sword would be of use. In the former capacity I
served his lordship for four years faithfully, bringing young
gamesters to the table, luring them on, playing high for their
example, and winning pretended sums for their encouragement. This kind
of service is perfectly well known and understood, so that those who
knew that Lord Fylingdale was my patron, knew also that he had an
interest in the bank. On three or four occasions, when my lord's
honour was attacked, or his conduct resented, I went out for him, and
in all such cases rendered it impossible for his adversary to continue
the quarrel."

"So," said the vicar, "the fellow confesses that he is a murderer, is
he?"

"In the pursuit of his lordship's service I have cheerfully incurred
odium that was rightly his. But this kind of odium ends, as I found,
by blasting the reputation for honour, even of a most honourable man,
such as myself."

"Ha!" cried the vicar.

"This odium now follows me everywhere--from Bath to Tunbridge, and
from Tunbridge to London, so that there are not many gaming-houses
into which I am now suffered to enter, and my company has of late
declined to the level of the 'prentice and the shopkeeper. I have also
been driven off the Heath at Newmarket, charged with corrupting the
trainers; and even at the cockpit I have incurred suspicion as to
doctoring the birds. All--all was in the service of my patron."

"Villain! Villain!" said the vicar.

"In May last I was ordered by my lord to proceed to Lynn Regis, a town
of which I had no knowledge. There was to be a gaming-table, in which,
as usual, he was interested. My duty was again to act as decoy. I was
also, at the same time, to lose no opportunity of representing his
lordship as a miracle of virtue. The reason of these orders I did not
ask. I obeyed, however, although it certainly seemed to me that any
praise of virtue on the part of a gamester like myself would be
received with suspicion.

"As regards the performance of my duties at Lynn I say nothing. The
play was miserably low, in spite of my own example and encouragement.
The company considered a guinea a monstrous sum to lose. The bank made
nothing to speak of. As regards my own private concerns there was but
one man with whom I transacted business worth naming. This, however,
was highly satisfactory, for, from this one person, without raising
the least suspicion, I won as much as L1,200, which was to be raised
upon his estate in the county. Three-fourths of this would go to my
lord. I had not made so successful a haul for many years.

"Now, one morning, after a debauch, much heavy drinking and more
losses, this gentleman, Tom Rising by name, came to me, and confided
to me under the oath of secrecy, his intention of carrying off that
very night the heiress of Lynn, as she was called. If he succeeded, he
would pay the whole of his losses the very next day. If not, he must
wait until the money could be raised. In order to effect this object
he would have to go to Norwich; the business would take time. But he
was sure of success. He could not fail. He further described to me the
plan he had formed, and the place whither he would carry the girl.

"By this time I had formed a pretty good guess of my patron's
intention in coming to Lynn. Accordingly I laid the matter before
him."

"After an oath of secrecy," said the vicar.

"He considered a great while, then he said, 'Colonel, this affair may
turn out the most lucky thing that could possibly happen. Be in the
card room in readiness. We will let the fellow go off with the girl,
then I shall follow and rescue her. Do you understand?'

"I understand that he desired the good grace of the lady, and that
such a rescue could not fail to procure her favour unless he had
already obtained it. 'But,' I said, 'this man is a bull for strength.
He will fight for the girl, and he will be like a mad bull. It is
dangerous.'

"'I will myself,' he replied, 'undertake to tame this bull. Man, do
you suppose that a master of fence can fear the result of an encounter
with a fellow always half drunk and on this occasion, which makes the
thing more easy, more than half mad with rage and disappointment.'

"Sir, you know the rest. The abduction of the lady was known
beforehand by my lord and myself. He might have stopped it, but that
he wanted the honour and the glory of the rescue."

"There is no end or limit to the villainy of the pair," said the
vicar.

"The next day, Tom Rising having a sword wound in the right shoulder,
I waited upon his lordship. I pointed out that the serious wound
inflicted on Mr. Rising had brought his life in danger; that even if
he recovered, his old friends, who were very angry with him for the
attempted abduction, would have no more to do with him; that, from all
I had heard, he would with difficulty raise so much money as he owed
me upon an estate already dipped; that he had other creditors; and
that one result of the business was that we had possibly lost L1,200
or a good part of it, of which one-fourth, or L300, would have been my
share, and I asked my lord, point blank, if he thought I could afford
to lose L300.

"My lord laughed pleasantly. 'Shall a trifle of L300 part two old
friends, colonel? Not so; not so. When I marry this heiress, not L300,
but a thousand shall be yours. Remember, write it down. It is a
promise. After my marriage I will give you a clear thousand to repay
your losses and expenses.'

"This was a promise on which I relied. And you may imagine my
satisfaction when I heard that my lord had been married privately at
six in the morning. I waited on him at once for the money. 'Patience,
man,' he said, 'I must first touch it myself. I cannot get at the
money without certain forms. There shall be no needless delay.' So I
refrained.

"I had been put to heavy expenses by going to Lynn and living there. I
had to keep up the outward appearance of substance; I threw money
about; I ordered bowls of punch; I lost over a hundred pounds in
establishing my credit on a firm basis; I won nothing to speak of,
except from Tom Rising. In the end I was publicly insulted and exposed
by a vulgar beast called Gizzard, after his low trade. This was in the
presence of Tom Rising himself, who thereupon swore that he would pay
me nothing. The world is full of men always ready to repudiate their
debts of honour."

"It is, indeed," said the vicar, "and of men who do not act in
accordance with the laws of honour."

"Sir, you will hardly believe me. My lord now refuses to pay even my
expenses. He owes me a thousand pounds promised as my share in the
business. I have spent one hundred pounds in establishing my credit
and another hundred for my personal expenses--in all, L1,200.

"Now, sir, I have a proposition to make. I know the dispute about the
alleged marriage. I believe there was a personation and that I know
the woman who personated your deeply-injured ward in the church. Pay
me L1,200 and I will name her."

"Softly," said the vicar. "To name the lady is not to prove the
personation."

"You cannot hesitate," the letter went on. "Already I am sure my lord
has wasted ten times that sum. I hear from all sides that he is like
one who squanders an inexhaustible treasure. Send me this money and I
will put you in the way of exposing him to the world as a conspirator
and of putting a stop to further robbery. You shall at least be
enabled to save what is left.

"As you may require a few days to deliberate over this proposal I beg
you to let me have by the first opportunity a few guineas in advance.
Otherwise I shall have to part with my clothes. In my line of life a
good appearance is essential. Should I be driven to that necessity I
shall indeed be ruined for life, because I shall have to go over to
the common side where my accomplishments and skill will be of no use
whatever to me."

"He means that you cannot get any profit by cheating at play those who
have nothing. Is that all, Jack?"

"That is all." I folded the letter and gave it to the captain.

"To name the lady, I say," the vicar repeated, "is not to prove the
crime. It might, however, suggest an explanation to the mystery. The
letter proves that there is an explanation. Still, captain, my opinion
is that the writer of this letter should receive no answer. There is
no hardship before him which he has not deserved. Let him lie in his
prison and repent. 'Let the wicked be ashamed and let them be silent
in the grave. Let the lying lips be put to silence.' Captain, let us
have no traffic with this ungodly man. Let him henceforth be silent in
his grave."




CHAPTER XLII

THE THIRD AND THE FOURTH CONFEDERATE


The voice of the third confederate followed. It was a voice from the
tomb. Sir Harry Malyns, the poor old butterfly who had lived for nigh
upon eighty years in the world of fashion; who had spent his
patrimony, and had, in the end, been reduced to the miserable work of
a decoy, as you have heard, was at last summoned to render an account
of his life. What an account to render! So many thousand nights at the
gaming-table; so many thousand at suppers and after; so many
debauches; so many days of idle talk; the whole of his long life
devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, as the people of fashion call
pleasure. However, the old man was at last seized with a mortal
illness; at the approach of death some of the scales fell from his
eyes; his former ideas of honour came back to him. He repented of his
degradation as the secret servant of Lord Fylingdale; he repented of
his share in the deception which led to the promise, if not the
performance, of marriage between his patron and Miss Molly.

And he dictated to some one, who attended him in his last moments, a
brief note which was accepted in the spirit of forgiveness, which he
desired.

The communication was addressed to Captain Crowle. "The following
words," it was written, "were in substance dictated by the late Sir
Harry Malyns in his last illness, namely, the day before he became
unconscious, in which condition he lingered for forty-eight hours,
when he breathed his last."

There was neither signature, nor was the place of the deceased
gentleman's last illness indicated. The following were the words
dictated:

"I, Sir Harry Malyns, baronet, being now, I believe, at the point of
death, am greatly troubled in my conscience over the part I played in
the deception of Captain Crowle, of King's Lynn; his ward, Miss Molly;
and the people of the place, as to the character and principles of the
Earl of Fylingdale. I very soon discovered his design in going to the
town, and his hopes of securing the fortune of the lady called the
heiress of Lynn. My own part, to deceive his friends in the way
indicated, I performed with zeal, being but the creature and servant
of his lordship, with no hope of help from any other quarter, should I
lose his patronage. It was a most dishonourable part to play, unworthy
of my name and of my family. I desire to convey to the young lady my
humble request for her forgiveness, and my hope that a way may be
found for her out of the toils spread for her by myself and others,
his creatures and servants.

"There is, I learn, a denial on the lady's part as to her marriage at
all. Of this I know nothing. But I am assured in my own mind that if
this denial involves any act of treachery, perfidy, fraud, or
conspiracy on the part of his lordship, on that account alone, and
without considering the many virtues, the candour, truth, and
innocence of the lady, I should accept her denial. But in this
crowning act of treachery, I rejoice that I have had neither part nor
lot."

There was no signature, but there seemed no reason to entertain a
doubt as to the genuine character of the communication. The old man on
his deathbed returned to a late recognition of the laws of honour and
a late repentance.

"He was a poor creature," said the vicar. "He was entirely made up of
stays and wig and powder. He ought to have been taken about the
country in order to show the world the true meaning of a fribble and a
beau. It is, however, something to his credit that in the end he
remembered the old tradition, and saw himself as he was. Pray Heaven
that his repentance was thorough!"

"Let us at least forgive him," said Molly. "He seemed a harmless old
gentleman. One would never have thought him capable of acting so
dishonourable a part. But he repented. We must forgive him."

"Meantime, we are no nearer the mysterious woman who personated you,
Molly; nor do we understand why she did it; nor do we understand how
it was done."

A week later came another letter. This time it was from the Rev.
Benjamin Purdon, A.M. It was a truly impudent letter, worthy of the
man and his character.

    "TO CAPTAIN CROWLE.

    "SIR,--I have hesitated for some time whether to address you on
    the subject of your ward's pretended marriage with my late patron,
    Lord Fylingdale. I say pretended because I am in a position to
    expose the whole deception. I can place you in possession of the
    whole of the facts. They are simple; they cannot be denied or
    disproved. Your ward was not in the church at all; she was not
    married; her place was taken by a woman who personated her,
    appearing in your ward's dress, namely, a pink silk cloak, the
    hood thrown over her head. I, who performed the ceremony, was
    deceived. That is to say, I was told the name of the bride and
    there was nothing to awaken any suspicions. At this point, and as
    a proof that part of this story is true, I would ask your ward to
    write her name in full, and I would then ask you to compare that
    writing with the signature in the registers."

"Are we stupid?" cried the vicar. "Have we been struck with judicial
stupidity? Let us instantly, without any delay, proceed to this test.
Molly, my dear, get paper, pen and ink.... So--now sit at the table.
Write your name as you usually write it when you sign a letter."

"But I never write any letters," said Molly.

"She writes the names on the pots of pickles and the preserved fruit,"
said the captain. "Come, Molly, you can sign your name."

The girl blushed and seized the pen. It was not with the pen of a
ready writer that she wrote, in a clumsy hand--a hand unaccustomed to
such writing--her name "Molly Miller."

"Is this your best writing, Molly?"

"Indeed, sir, I am ashamed that it is no better. At school I learned
better, but I have so little occasion to write."

"So long as it is the signature you would use in the church, it will
serve," said the vicar. "Come, let us to St. Nicholas at once, and
send for the clerk. We will examine these registers, and we will read
the rest of the letter afterwards."

The chest was unlocked; the registers were taken out; the books were
opened at the right page. The vicar laid Molly's writing beside that
of the register.

"You see," said the vicar, "the very signature proclaims the cheat. We
have been, of a verity, seized with judicial blindness for our sins."

The differences were not such as could be explained away, for the
signature in the book was round and full and flowing--a bold signature
for a woman--every letter well formed and of equal size, and in a
straight line; the work of one who wrote many letters, and prided
herself, apparently, on the clearness and beauty of her hand. Molly's,
on the other hand, showed letters awkwardly formed, not in line, of
unequal height, and the evident work of one unaccustomed to writing.

"What doubt have we now?" asked the vicar. "My friends, I see
daylight. But let us return to complete my reverend brother's letter."

The letter thus continued:

    "You have now, I take it, satisfied yourself that your ward could
    not possibly have penned that signature. You have no doubt, if you
    had any before, that your ward's denial was the truth.

    "At the same time you do not appear to have considered the matter
    worth fighting. It was not, for assuredly a court of justice, even
    with the handwriting as evidence, would have decided against you.
    So far, you were well advised.

    "You, therefore, withdrew opposition, and suffered the husband to
    take over, what he claimed, control of the estate.

    "From what I am informed, he is pursuing a course of mad riot, in
    which he alone sits cold and composed, as is his wont, for the
    contemplation of wickedness in action is more to his taste than
    becoming an actor himself; he is also playing and losing heavily.
    Therefore, I have every reason to believe that he will before long
    get through the estate of his so-called wife. I hope he will,
    because he will then have nothing left at all, and the last state
    of that man will be as miserable as he deserves."

"This man, too, has his revenge in sight," said the vicar.

    "I come now to the main point. I do not suppose that more than the
    third, or so, of your ward's fortune has yet been wasted. I will
    enable you to save the rest.

    "For a certain consideration, I need not write down its nature, my
    noble patron promised to pay me L12,000 on his marriage with this
    heiress. It is a large sum of money, but the service I rendered
    was worth more."

"It was his own confederacy, I suppose."

    "For the honour of the British aristocracy I regret to inform you
    that Lord Fylingdale repudiates the contract. He says that I may
    take any steps I please, but he refuses to pay. That the
    consideration--but I need not go on; in a word, he will give me
    nothing.

    "Under these circumstances I will expose the whole affair, and put
    an end, at least, to his further depredations. If, therefore, you
    take over this obligation upon yourself I am prepared to draw up
    an account of the whole business; the personation of your ward,
    the reasons and the manner of it, and an explanation of the very
    remarkable coincidence--so remarkable as to seem impossible--of
    the substitution of one woman for another at a moment's notice. I
    further promise that this information will at once turn the
    tables; that you can refuse to let his lordship interfere further
    with your ward's estate; and that you can take steps to declare
    the so-called marriage null and void. Nothing shall be left for
    explanation; all shall be quite simple and straightforward; and I
    can put evidence in your hands which you little suspect.

    "Further, I promise and engage to ask for nothing until I have
    proved all that has to be proved and have established the fact
    that your ward was not married by me.

    "You can send me twenty-five guineas in advance. It can go to
    London to the coach office of the 'Swan with Four Necks,' where I
    will call for it.

    "I am, naturally, after so great a disappointment, much in want of
    money, therefore I shall be obliged if you will make the advance
    fifty instead of twenty-five guineas.

    "(Signed) BENJAMIN PURDON,

    "Clerk in Holy Orders."

We looked at each other in silence.

"To procure thy freedom, Molly," said the vicar, taking her hand,
"there is nothing which we would not do--that honest men dare to do.
But let us not be drawn away from our duty. We will have no part nor
lot nor any traffic with rogues. This man is an arch rogue. This
letter is the letter of a villain, who is, one would say--the Lord
forgive me for saying so of a fellow sinner!--beyond the power of
repentance and beyond the hope of forgiveness. Patience, Molly, I
think that we shall soon be rewarded--even with the loss of all thy
worldly goods."




CHAPTER XLIII

THE FIFTH AND LAST CONFEDERATE


And then came the final revelation--the confession of the fifth and
last confederate--which cleared up the whole mystery and explained
that which, with one consent, we had all declared to be wholly
unintelligible.

The counsel learned in the law gave his written opinion that,
considering that the marriage ceremony was fixed for 6 A.M.,
the bridegroom had no knowledge of the bride's intention not to
present herself; that he left his lodgings a few minutes before six;
that a few minutes after six, one Pentecrosse, well known to the lady,
witnessed the marriage ceremony and believed the bride to be the lady
in question, dressed as she was accustomed to dress, although he did
not see her face; that the parish clerk also recognised the lady; that
the clergyman was ready to swear that the bride was the lady; and that
the register showed her signature. There could be no change whatever
of success in disputing or denying the marriage.

The vicar, perceiving the weight of evidence, and adding to it the
apparent impossibility of procuring at a moment's notice the
personation of the bride, reluctantly advised submission, while being
firmly persuaded that Molly and her mother had spoken the truth, and
that there was devilry somewhere.

We submitted, with what results you have seen.

It is, I believe, a rule that some playwriters, where they have a plot
with a mystery or a secret in it, to keep the audience in ignorance,
and so to heighten their interest, until the revelation in the last
act clears up the mystery and relieves the spectators of their
suspense. Others, again, allow the audience to understand at the
outset that their heroine or hero is the victim of villainy, but do
not explain the full nature of that villainy until the end, when the
plots of the wicked are brought to light.

I have told this tale without the art of the playwright. I have shown
you exactly how things happened, though we only discovered the truth
long afterwards. For instance, you know already what was the full
explanation of the marriage which I witnessed; you know the surprise
with which the bridegroom discovered the truth, and you know besides
the impudent use which, by the advice of the Reverend Benjamin Purdon,
was made of that discovery. Also you know the reason of the
personation and the person by whose indiscreet chattering it became
possible.

I have now to tell you how we ourselves discovered the truth.

After the arrival of the letters already described, nothing new was
learned for some months. That is to say, Colonel Lanyon wrote no more;
the Reverend Mr. Purdon, though he continued to write letters which
threatened concealment and offered exposure, alternately; though his
demand for money dropped with every letter until he had become a mere
beggar, offering to reveal the whole in return for the relief of his
present necessities; gave no hint of the nature of the exposure he
desired to sell. But he had received, so far, no reply to any of his
letters.

Between January and June my ship made another voyage to Lisbon and
back. When I landed, what I had to learn was the continual
solicitation of Mr. Purdon, and the continual waste of the fortune.
The demand for money never ceased. "Send up more money--more
money--more money. His lordship is in urgent want of more money."

By this time a whole year had passed since the pretended marriage and
our submission. Never was a magnificent property so destroyed and
diminished in so short a time. Farms, lands, houses were sold for what
they would fetch--at half their value--a quarter of their value. All
the money out at mortgage had been called in--all the money received
at the quay and the counting-house had been sent to his lordship's
attorneys. In one short twelvemonth the destruction had been such that
in June there was actually nothing left--nothing out of that princely
fortune, except the fleet of ships and the general business. "And now,
Mr. Pentecrosse," said the manager (lately clerk and accountant) "the
end draweth nigh. A few more weeks or months and this great shipping
firm, near a hundred years old, which hath sent its ships all about
the world; the most important house outside London and Bristol, will
put up its shutters and close its door. Alas! The pity of it! The pity
of it!"

"But," I said, "this spendthrift lord, this waster and devourer,
surely will not destroy the very spring and fountain of this wealth."

"I know not. He seems possessed with a devil." Here the manager was
wrong, because he was possessed of seven devils. "His waste is nothing
short of madness. It seems as if he was unable to look before him,
even in such a simple matter as the origin of the money, which he has
obtained by marriage--if he is married--and is now wasting as fast as
he can."

It is in no way profitable, unless one is a divine, to search into the
heart of the wicked man. The psalmist, who was continually troubled by
considering the ways of the ungodly, supplies us with sufficient
guidance as to his mind and his thoughts. In the case of Lord
Fylingdale, I would compare him with the highwaymen and common thieves
in one particular, namely, that they seem to have no power of thrift
or of prudence, but must continually waste and devour what they
acquire without honest labour. It is as if they understood that their
way of life being uncertain, and the end at any time possible, their
only chance of enjoyment is the present moment. Now, Lord Fylingdale
was using the proceeds of an enormous robbery obtained by a fraud of
incredible audacity. I think he felt the uncertainty of his hold. It
depended on the silence of two persons. Should these two persons unite
in revealing the conspiracy he would at least be able to rob no
longer. Now, he had already alienated both of them. The one he had
filled with a passion for revenge; the other ... but you shall hear. I
think, moreover, that he found a gambler's joy in the handling of
large sums and playing with them; that he kept no account of the money
he lost; and that, with his companions, he kept a kind of open house
at certain taverns for the debauches over which he presided, without
condescending in person to join the drunken orgy. Did he find a
strange enjoyment in the debauchery of others? Men have been known--I
cannot understand it--to delight in torturing other men and in
witnessing their agonies; men might also--I know not how--take a
delight in witnessing orgies and in listening to the discourses of
drunken rakes. But it is not profitable, as I said, to dwell upon the
mind of such a man.

It was on the 15th of June--I remember the date well--and shall always
remember it. _The Lady of Lynn_ had arrived two days before, and we
were moored off the quay. At ten o'clock, or thereabouts, one of the
stable boys from the house came aboard bringing a message for me. A
lady, lodging at the "Crown," desired to see me immediately. The lady
had arrived in the evening in a post-chaise, having with her a maid.
She had given no name, but in the morning had asked if my ship was in
port, and on learning that it was she desired that a boy from the
stables might carry this message to me.

I landed at our own quay--I say our own, but it was no longer ours,
that is, Molly's quay. At the door of the counting-house stood the
manager in conversation with the captain of one of our ships. He
beckoned me to speak with him. When he had finished his discourse with
the captain he turned to me.

"Mr. Pentecrosse," he said, "the worst has now begun. Tell Captain
Crowle--I should choke if I had to tell him. Alas! poor man! It seems
as if the work of his life was ruined and destroyed." So saying he
handed me a letter to read. It was from my lord's attorneys, Messrs.
Bisse and Son. "I suppose," said the manager, "that they are really
acting for his lordship. Their power of attorney cannot be denied, can
it? Mr. Redman says that there is nothing for it but obedience."

The letter was short:

    "We have noted your information conveyed in the last schedule. You
    are now instructed to proceed with the sale of one of the ships.
    Let her be sold as she stands on arriving in port with so much of
    the cargo as belongs to your house. My lord is urgently pressed
    for money, and begs that there may be no delay. Meantime send a
    draft by the usual channel for money in hand.

    "Your obedient servants,

    "BISSE AND SON."

"A draft for monies in hand!" cried the manager. "There are no monies
in hand! And I have to sell without delay a tall ship, cargo and all,
as she stands. Without delay! Who is to buy that ship--without delay?"

I returned him the letter and shook my head. My ship, perhaps, was the
one to be sold. She was the latest arrival; she was filled with wine;
the cargo belonged altogether to the house. So I should be turned
adrift when just within hail, so to speak, of becoming a captain. I
could say nothing in consolation or in hope. I walked away, my heart
as heavy as lead. Never before had I felt the true meaning of this
ruin and waste. All around me the noble edifice built by Molly's
grandfather and her father, and continued by her guardian, had been
pulled down bit by bit. But one felt the loss of a farm or a house
very little. It was not until the ships, too, were threatened, that
the full enormity of the thing--the incredible wickedness of the
conspirators, was borne in upon my mind. It threatened to ruin me, you
see, as well as Molly.

Therefore, I walked across the market-place to the Crown Inn more
gloomy in my mind than I can describe. Hitherto, somehow, a ship
seemed safe; no one would interfere with a ship; like Lord Fylingdale
himself, I was ready to ask whether a ship could be bought and sold.
That is to say, I knew that she was often bought and sold, but I never
thought that any of Molly's ships--any other ships as much as you
please, but not Molly's ship--could be brought to the hammer.

The lady sent word that she would receive me. Imagine my surprise! She
was none other than the Lady Anastasia. She was greatly changed in six
months. I had seen her last, you remember, in January, when I met her
in the park. She was then finely dressed, and appeared in good case,
what we call a buxom widow--in other words, a handsome woman, with a
winning manner and a smiling face. This she was when I met her. When I
left her on that occasion she was a handsome woman marred with a
consuming wrath.

Now, I should hardly have known her. She was plainly attired, without
patches or paint, wearing a grey silk dress. But the chief change was
not in her dress, but in her face. She was pale, and her cheeks were
haggard. She looked like a woman who had recently suffered a severe
illness, and was, indeed, not yet fully recovered.

"Jack," she advanced, giving me her hand with her old graciousness,
"you are very good to come when I call. It is the last time that you
will obey any call from me."

"Why the last time, madam?"

"Because, Jack, I am now going to make you my bitter enemy. Yes, my
enemy for life." She tried to smile, but her eyes grew humid. "I can
never be regarded henceforth as anything else. You will despise
me--you will curse me. Yet I must needs speak."

"Madam, I protest--I know not what you mean."

"And I, Jack, I protest--know not how to begin. Do you remember last
January, when we talked together? Let me begin there. Yes; it will be
best to begin there. I do not think I could begin at the other end. It
would be like a bath of ice-cold water in January."

"I remember our conversation, madam."

"You told me--what was it you told me? Something about a certain box,
or case of jewels."

"Molly's jewels. Yes, I told you how his lordship seized upon them at
the first when he claimed control over Molly's fortune."

"You told me that. It was in January. He had seized upon them six
months before. The thing surprised me. He had always told me that he
could not get those jewels--and Jack, you see, they were my own."

"Yours, madam? But--they were Molly's."

"Not at all. Molly, after her marriage, had nothing. All became my
lord's property. The jewels were mine, Jack--mine by promise and
compact."

I understood nothing.

"I have seen in France, the women kneeling at the boxes where they
confess to the priest. Jack, will you be my priest? I can confess to
you what I could never confess to Molly--though I have wronged
her--Jack! Oh! my priest----" Here she fell on her knees and clasped
her hands. "No--no," she cried. "I will not rise. On my knees, on my
knees--not to ask your pardon, but for the shame and the disgrace and
the villainy."

"Madam--I pray--I entreat."

I took her by both hands. I half lifted her and half assisted her. She
sank into an armchair sobbing and crying, and covered her face with
her hands. She was not play acting. No--no--it was real sorrow--true
shame. Oh! there was revenge as well. No doubt there was revenge. If
she had been wicked, she had also been wronged. Presently she
recovered a little. Then she sat up and began to talk.

"I am the most miserable woman in the world--and I deserve my misery.
Jack, when you go back to your ship, fall on your knees and thank God
that you are poor and that Molly has been robbed of her fortune and is
also poor. Oh! to be born rich--believe me--it is a thing most
terrible. It makes men become like Lord Fylingdale, who have nothing
to do but to follow pleasure--such pleasure! Ah! merciful heaven! such
pleasure! And it makes women, Jack, like me. We, too, follow pleasure
like the men--we become gamblers--there is no pleasure for me like the
pleasure of gambling; we fall in love for the pleasure and whim of
it--till we are slaves to men who treat us worse than they treat their
dogs--worse than they treat their lackeys. Then we forget honour and
honesty; then we throw away reputation and good name; we accept
recklessly shame and dishonour. My name has become a byword--but what
of that? I have been a man's slave--I have done his bidding."

"But how, madam"--still I understood very little of this talk, yet
became suspicious when she spoke thus of the jewels--"how came Molly's
jewels to be your own?"

"I tell you, Jack. By promise and compact. I must go back to another
discourse with you. It was on a certain evening a year ago. You had
made the fine discovery that Lord Fylingdale was a gamester and the
rest of it. You told me. You also told me that Molly would not keep
her promise, and would certainly not be at the church in the morning.
Do you remember?"

"I remember that we talked about things."

"We did. Go back a month or two earlier. By a most monstrous deception
I was brought here. I was told first that it was in order to further
some political object, which I did not believe; next, to help him in
getting the command of this money--some women, I said, easily lose
their sense of honour and of truth when they want to please their
lovers. As for marriage, he declared for the hundredth time that there
was but one woman in all the world whom he would marry--myself. Now do
you understand? He had deceived me. Very well, then I would deceive
him. At first my purpose was to await in the church the coming of the
bride and expose the character of the man. Since she was not coming I
would take her place."

"What? It was you, then--you--you?"

"Yes, Jack. I was the woman you saw at the rails. I had a pink silk
cloak like that of Molly; I am about the same height as Molly. I wore
a domino as had been arranged. You took me for Molly."

"But--if you were the bride----"

"I was the bride. I am the Countess of Fylingdale--for my sins and
sorrows--his wretched wife."

"But you would be revenged, and yet you suffered this monstrous
fraud."

"I was revenged. Yet--why did I say nothing? Did I not say that you
could never forgive me. Well, I have no excuse, only I said that
women, like me, with nothing to do, sometimes go mad after a man and
for his sake cast away honour and care nothing for shame and
ill-repute. I say, Jack," she repeated, earnestly, "that I make no
excuse--I tell you nothing but the plain truth. Lord! how ugly it is!"

I said nothing, I only stood still waiting for more.

"When I took off my domino in the vestry, my lord, with the man
Purdon, only being present, he was like a madman. That I expected.
After raging for a while and crying out that he was now ruined indeed,
and after cursing Mr. Purdon for not destroying the registers, he
listened to Mr. Purdon's advice that we should consider a way out of
it. Accordingly, in my lodgings, the man Purdon, who is the greatest
inventor and encourager of every evil thing that lives, set forth the
ease with which this marriage could be claimed, unless there was any
obstacle such as sudden illness which might be proved to have made
Molly's presence impossible. In other words, we were to assure the
unfortunate Molly that she was already married, and we were to act as
if that was the fact. We ascertained without trouble that she had not
left the house that morning. How? We sent the music to congratulate
the bride, and the captain sallied forth in his wrath and drove them
off."

"And to this you consented, out of your passion for the man?"

"Partly. There is always more than one reason for a woman's action. In
this case there was a bribe. I confess that I have always ardently
desired jewels. I cannot have too many jewels. He promised, Jack, that
I should have them all. Perhaps--I do not know--the promise of the
jewels decided me. Oh! Jack, they were wonderful! No such bribe was
ever offered to a woman before."

I gazed upon her with amazement. Truly, an explanation complete! Yet,
what a confession for a proud woman to make! Love that made her
trample on honour and truth and virtue, and a bribe to quicken her
footsteps!

"And now," I said, "you are willing to make this story public."

"I have thought about the business a good deal. It has caused me more
annoyance than you would believe." ("Annoyance!" She spoke of
"annoyance!") "Besides, I have been cruelly abused. I have been the
cause of that poor girl losing a great part--perhaps the whole--of her
fortune. I have been robbed of the jewels. He swore to me, a dozen
times, that he has never had them. I may by tardy confession save
something from the wreck for that poor girl. He has wronged me in
every way--in ways that no woman will, or can, forgive. I revenge my
wrongs by making him a beggar a few weeks, or months, before he can
come to the end of his money."

So in this distracted way she talked till one could not tell whether
she was most moved by the thought of revenge, or by pity for Molly, or
by a wholesome repentance of her sin.

"Jack," she said, "your honest face is pulled out as long as my arm. I
could laugh if I were not so miserable. Tell me what I should do next.
Mind, I will do exactly what you bid me do. I have lived so long among
kites, hawks, crows, and birds of prey, with foul creatures and
crawling reptiles, that merely to talk to an honest man softens and
subdues me. Take me in the humour, Jack. To-morrow, or next day,
should the idea of the man possess my soul again; if he should stand
over me and take my hand, I know not--I know not what would happen.
Perhaps, even for Molly's sake, I could not resist him. I am but a
poor, weak, miserable woman. And he has led me hither, and sent me
thither, and made me his slave so long, that he has become part of my
life. Quick, then, Jack! Tell me what to do."

"Come with me," I said.

So she wrapped herself in a long cloak--not of pink silk--and she put
on a domino and I led her to Mr. Redman's office. And here I begged
her to let me set down in writing what she had told me but in fewer
words, while Mr. Redman stood over me and read what I wrote and as I
wrote it.

"The story, your ladyship," he said, "is the most remarkable that I
have ever heard. You will now, in the presence of witnesses--my clerk
and one whom he will bring from the customhouse will serve. So--they
will sign without knowing what the paper contains."

So she signed in the same bold running hand that we had seen in the
registers.

"What next?" she asked.

"Why, madam, we have to consider the next step. It is obvious that the
confession removes the whole of the difficulty, and explains what has
hitherto seemed inexplicable. How, it was asked, could the place of
the bride be filled at the last moment, and without previous knowledge
that it would have to be filled? And who was the woman thus duly
married and actually, though under a false name, made Countess of
Fylingdale, who did not step forward and claim her rights? Now, madam,
the question is answered. You knew, but my lord did not know, that the
bride could not come to the church. You were there, therefore, to take
her place. You joined in this conspiracy, and kept silence for the
reasons contained in this document."

"Quite so. And now, sir. What next? Will you bring my lord to justice?
Shall I have to give evidence against him?"

"Madam, I know not. You have done your best, not so much to repair a
great wrong as to stop further wrong. If I understand matters aright
it will be impossible to recover anything that has been taken."

"You might as well hope to recover a sack of coals that have been
burned."

"Therefore, what we have to do first, is to stop further pillage.
Next, I apprehend, we must make it clear that your signature in the
register was false."

Lady Anastasia rose and put on her domino again.

"I am going back to London, sir. Mr. Pentecrosse knows my house where
I am to be heard of for the present. It was a bad day's work when I
was married in that pink silk cloak. It may prove a worse day's work
when I confessed."

"Nay, madam," I said quietly, "can it be a bad day's work to stop a
cruel and unfeeling robbery?"

"I have done my part, gentlemen, for good or for ill. In a few weeks
or months the man would have beggared himself as well as that poor
girl. Now he is beggared already. I know not what he will do, nor
whither he will turn."

So I led her back to the Crown and that same day she took her
departure and I have never seen her since. One letter, it is true, I
had from her of which I will tell you in due course.

Then I returned to Mr. Redman.

"Jack," he said, "I am going without further discussion to warn the
manager not to send any more money to these attorneys and to disregard
their orders. I shall write at once warning them that we have now in
our hands clear proof that my client is not married to Lord
Fylingdale, and that we are considering in what manner we should
proceed with regard to the large sums that have been remitted to his
orders. This, Jack, is the way of lawyers. We write such a letter
knowing that we shall not proceed further in this direction, for the
scandal would be very great and the profit would be very small.
Besides, there is the awkward fact that we made no protest, but
submitted. Yet sure and certain I am that the other side will not dare
to go into court, being conscious of guilt, yet not knowing how much
we have learned."

"It seems a tame ending that villainy should get off unpunished."

"Not unpunished, Jack. You young men look to see the lightning strike
the wicked man. That is not the way, believe me. He never goes
unpunished, though he may be forgiven. I look not for the flash of
lightning to strike this man dead, but I look for the vengeance of the
Lord--perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow."

He read over again the paper signed by Lady Anastasia. "It is a
strange confession," he said. "There is the wrath of a jealous woman
in it. He might have beaten her and cuffed her; he might have robbed
her; and she would have forgiven him. But he has followed after
strange goddesses. She spoke about the jewels. I suppose that he has
long since given them to these strange goddesses. Hence her
repentance. Hence her revenge. Jack, I think we ought to have the
other confederate's confession--that of the man Purdon. He wanted
L12,000 for it at first. He then came down to L6,000; he now offers it
for relief of his present necessities. I will send my attorney to see
him. The vicar refuses to have any dealings with scoundrels. In this
case, however, it might be politic to traffic with him. We will offer
him L100 for a full confession. I will instruct my attorney what
particulars to expect."

My story is nearly finished. Molly recovered her freedom with the loss
of by far the greater part of her fortune. She had, indeed, nothing
left except her fleet and the trade carried on by the firm in which
she was sole partner. Still she remained the richest woman in the
town.

There was no difficulty in procuring from the Reverend Mr. Purdon a
full statement of the conspiracy. It was, of course, to be expected
that he should represent Lord Fylingdale as the contriver and the
proposer of the abominable design. However, he gave under safeguards
of witness and signature a plain recital of what had happened, in
which he was borne out by the other confession in our hands.

And here follows the letter from the Lady Anastasia.

"My dear Jack," she said, "news reaches Lynn slowly if it gets there
at all. Therefore I hasten to inform you that an end has come--perhaps
the end that you would desire. My lord is no more. I am a widow. Yet I
mourn not. My husband in name during the last twelve months has acted
as one no longer in command of himself. I cannot think, indeed, that
he has been in his right mind since he entered upon that great crime
of which you know. He would have gone from bad to worse, and I should
have suffered more and still more. He killed himself. He placed the
muzzle of a pistol within his mouth and so killed himself.

"It was yesterday. I went to see him. I had to tell him what I had
done. I expected he would kill me. Perhaps it would have been better
had he done so.

"I found him with his attorney, a man named Bisse, whom I have seen
with him frequently.

"'Pray, madam, take a chair. I am your humble servant. You can go, Mr.
Bisse,' said my lord. 'You have my instructions. Order the manager to
proceed with the sale of the ships.'

"'With submission, my lord. We can send him orders, but we can only
make him obey by proceeding according to law. He finds excuses. He
makes delays. He talks of sacrificing the ships to a forced sale.'

"'You will not proceed according to law, my lord,' I told him.

"'Why, madam?'

"'Because I have been to Lynn myself, and have explained certain
points in connection with the marriage service in St. Nicholas
church.'

"My lord looked at me in his cold way, as if neither surprised nor
moved.

"'Mr. Bisse,' he said, 'I will communicate again with you.' So the
attorney left us. Then he turned again to me.

"'My lord,' I repeated, 'I have made a statement of all the facts.'

"'I thank you, madam. I thank you with all my heart. Let me not detain
you.'

"He said no more, and I rose. But the door was thrown open, and Mr.
Purdon walked in without being announced.

"'Ha!' he said, seeing me, 'we are all three, then, together again. My
lord, I will not waste your time. I have come to explain that since
you have refused to perform your compact, you cannot complain if I
have broken up the whole business.'

"'I thought I had ordered you out of my presence, sir.'

"'So you did. So you did. I have only come to say that I have this day
drawn up a full confession of the conspiracy into which I was drawn by
your lordship, deceived against my better judgment by the promise of a
large sum of money.'

"Lord Fylingdale pointed to the door. 'You can go, sir,' he said. So
the man Purdon obeyed and went away.

"Then he turned to me. 'Anastasia, we were friends once. I treated you
shamefully in the matter of the jewels. Things have gone badly with me
of late. I seem to have no luck. Perhaps I have, somehow, lost my
judgment. That money has done me no good. Curse that scoundrel, Sam
Semple! It is all over now. The game has been played. I have lost, I
suppose. But every game comes to an end at last.' He talked unlike
himself. 'You can go, Anastasia. You had better leave me. You have had
your revenge. Let that consideration console you.'

"I said no more, but left him. It was in the afternoon. An hour later
his people heard an explosion--they ran to find the cause. Lord
Fylingdale was lying dead on the floor.

"So, Jack, we are all punished, and none of us can complain. For my
own part I am going into the country where I have a small dower house.
The solitude and the dullness will, I dare say, kill me, but I do not
care about living any longer.--ANASTASIA."

She did, however, pass into a better mind. For I heard some time after
that she had married the dean of the neighbouring cathedral, not under
the name of Lady Fylingdale, which she never assumed, but that of her
first husband.

As to the other confederates, the poet, the colonel, and the parson, I
never heard anything more about them. Nor do I expect now that I ever
shall.

The rest of Molly's history, dear reader, belongs to me and not to the
world.




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Transcriber's note:

Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected
without note.

Dialect spellings, contractions and inconsistencies have been
retained as printed.



***