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
£500." Lord Fylingdale made no sign of any kind of response. "I met
you again at Bath; it was before the time when you were requested by
the master of the ceremonies to leave the place with your friend--ah!
colonel, glad to see you--with your friend Colonel Lanyon."
Lord Fylingdale made no sign whatever of having heard.
"Bath is not very far from Gloucestershire. I made a journey there to
find out for myself your lordship's position. I found your estate in
the hands of money-lenders; every acre mortgaged; your house falling
to pieces; its contents sold. You are already completely ruined. I
went back to London and inquired further; you had lost your credit as
well as your character. You could not show your face at the old
places; the cockpit of Tothill Fields was closed to you; all the clubs
of St. James's were closed to you. Your name, my lord, stank then as
badly as it stinks now." Lord Fylingdale still paid no kind of
attention. "You may consider, my lord, these few remarks as part
payment of that £500." So he turned away.
"Come along, colonel," said Tom Rising. "Bring the colonel to the
front. Don't be bashful, colonel."
Some of the gentlemen obeyed, gently pushing the colonel to the front.
"Well, poultry man?" said the colonel boldly.
"Well, sharper?" returned Jack Gizzard. "Gentlemen, this fellow has
been a bully about the town for twenty years and more; a bully; a
common cheat and sharper. He is now altogether discredited. He was
expelled from Bath with his noble patron last year. If any of you owe
him money do not pay him. He is not fit to sit down with gentlemen of
honour. That is all I have to say about you, colonel."
"What I have to say, colonel," said Tom Rising, "is that I owe you
£1,200, and if I pay you one single guinea--then----" He proceeded to
imprecate the wrath of heaven upon himself if he showed any weakness
in that resolution.
Lord Fylingdale once more turned to Molly.
"Madam, for the last time----"
"Send him away--send him away," said Molly. "He makes me sick."
"We deny the marriage, my lord," said the vicar. "That is all we have
to say."
"At your peril," replied his lordship. So saying he walked away
unmoved, apparently. Mr. Purdon and Colonel Lanyon went with him; both
men were flushed in the cheeks and restrained themselves by an evident
effort. I was sorry for Sam Semple, for he followed, his face full of
trouble and disappointment.
When they were gone, the vicar spoke once more.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we have thought it best to court the
greatest publicity possible in this matter. The people whom we have
exposed will not again trouble this company by their presence. I know
not what the law may decide in this case, supposing his lordship so
ill-advised as to go to law. But the truth, which is above the law,
remains, that an imposture of the most daring kind has been attempted,
and that some woman has been found to personate Miss Molly. I have to
express her sorrow for keeping you so long from your pleasures."
And with these words he offered his hand to Molly, and we withdrew,
and the music struck up a lively country dance.