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.