THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE.
"And that it may be better known, there is a porch at the door like a
country church porch."
Thus advertised the redoubtable Keith (at this time languishing in
Newgate, and represented by deputies), the reverend divine who, by
license, performed more clandestine marriages among the upper classes
than any other clergyman had ever done in London. Of course, the "scum
and offal of the clergy," as Keith had more than once termed his rival
practitioners in the Fleet, had, before the passing of the Marriage
Act, united hundreds more couples than he had ever done; but, as he
said, "What would you have? They marry drunken sailors to demireps,
shopboys to their masters' daughters, who, as often as not, must
secure a husband by hook or by crook, and that at once; rich
tradesmen's widows to decayed gentlemen, _et id genus omne_. But I, I
am a gentleman of ancient family myself, and I will meddle with none
but those of my own kidney."
While, since a certain date, namely, February 14, 1752, Keith had been
so puffed up and vainglorious that it seemed as though, henceforth,
nothing short of peers and heiresses, or peeresses and handsome young
men, were considered by him fit for entanglement in his net; and
certain it is that from that date his fees went up. For on that day he
had tied together in bonds, never to be loosened--and which were never
sought to be loosened--James, sixth Duke of Hamilton, to Elizabeth,
second daughter of John Gunning, of Castle Coote, County Roscommon,
who married _en secondes noces_, John Campbell, fifth Duke of Argyll,
and was likewise created a peeress in her own right.
Indeed, he became so puffed up, that gradually he discontinued his
advertisements in the papers, including the above directions, as well
as his charge of a guinea, "inclusive of the license on a crown stamp
and minister's and clerk's fees," and began to squabble and chaffer
for three guineas and five guineas, and sometimes even ten, before he
would perform his office.
Therefore it was five guineas which by his orders his deputy, Peter
Symson, officiating in his stead, had extorted from Beau Bufton when
consenting, on the day before the marriage, to put his chapel and his
clerk and himself at that gentleman's service the next morning.
"So long," said Bufton, "as it ties me tight, I care not. That is the
needful thing. That there can be no breaking of the knot."
"Be very sure there cannot," said Symson; "very sure. This is no
hole-and-corner marriage shop where rakes and libertines can possess
themselves of women's persons and properties, and, after having grown
tired of their wives and abused their wealth, can get relief. Oh, no!
And no tricks can be played here. No marrying under a false name, and
claiming exemption thereby; none of that. Your name may not be
Algernon Bufton, as you tell me it is, and your lady's name may not be
Ariadne Thorne; but, still, that will not serve."
"It will not be required to do so," said Bufton, thrusting out his
long chin at the parson and favouring him with his sneer; "we come
here to get closely padlocked, not to be tied together with a piece of
easily breakable thread."
"That is well; the class of marriages which I, on behalf of my
suffering and injured employer, alone perform. Very well, because,
once I have done my office, you are united until death you do part.
You have sworn to me that your name is Algernon Bufton, and the lady's
Ariadne Thorne; and though your name may be truly John Nokes, and hers
Joan Stokes, as Algernon Bufton and Ariadne Thorne you will be united,
and united you will have to remain. I, too, can swear oaths when
necessary. Now, fail not to be here at your time to-morrow. I have
another union to make at half after ten, also another at half after
eleven. Fail not."
After which lengthy and iterative oration, the deputy parson of the
May Fair Chapel edged the Beau out of the vestry wherein their
conversation had taken place, and wherein, also, the former had
pouched his five guineas, he being cautious to be always paid
beforehand.
Beau Bufton did take care to be there in time, while, to make
assurance double sure, he arrived with his bride, she and Mrs. Pottle
having been fetched by him from the corner of a street hard by the end
of Cowley Street. The girl was very nervous, as he could see plainly,
as well as recognise by the manner in which her hand trembled on his
arm; also, she was white and with no bloom of natural colour on her
cheeks, although Mrs. Pottle had, in its place, carefully applied the
contents of the rouge-pot to them that morning. Otherwise, she was all
that became a bride who did not wish to proclaim her position too
distinctly. For the flowered brocade (which the Beau's eyes, astute in
everything pertaining to clothes and gauds, noticed was not quite new
and fresh, but had indeed been a little worn) was suitable enough to a
young lady going out for a day's jaunt; the great Rembrandt-like hat
matched it well enough, and the fringed gloves, which were brand-new,
gave a pleasing set-off to the remainder of her apparel.
Behind the happy pair, as now they descended from the hackney coach
and entered the chapel, came Lewis Granger, he having on his arm Mrs.
Pottle, while testifying by his countenance that he scarcely
appreciated the honour of being that lady's escort. Yet he had
arranged everything as became the jackal of the lion; he had sworn
deeply, and with many vows, to assist in bringing this marriage to a
successful issue; even the indignity of Mrs. Pottle's company could
not daunt him nor turn him from his resolution. The companionship of
this stern and determined-looking woman at his side must be borne with
for the next quarter of an hour. Though still he cast a glance of
dismay, almost of shame, at two or three of the Beau's overnight
guests who were already assembled and looked brave enough in their
scarlet coats, as they all passed up with Mrs. Pottle to the spot
where Keith's deputy was ready to perform the ceremony.
This deputy, Peter Symson by name, licensed by the Bishop of Salisbury
as priest, seemed by his appearance to verify that which Bufton had
said the evening before with regard to his habits. His face was
extremely red, and the critical might have opined that it had neither
been washed nor shaved this morning; his voice was hoarse and
indistinct as he mumbled hastily the words of the irrevocable
ceremony, as though anxious to get all concluded as soon as possible.
In actual truth, he never performed the marriage ceremony without
great fear that, at some moment of it, the myrmidons of Henry
Fielding's successor at Bow Street might rush in on him and serve him
with a warrant charging him with illegal practices.
Proudly, with a self-satisfied air--the air of one who has fought and
conquered and is now reaping the spoils of victory--Beau Bufton went
through with his marriage, that smile, which Granger thought so
hateful, being on his lips while he uttered his responses clearly and
audibly to all--as who would not do who was wedding a hundred thousand
guineas? His bride also seemed to take courage as the end drew near,
and ceased to shiver and shake as she had done at the commencement.
She looked, too, more than once with a self-satisfied glance at the
three boon companions who were by the door, as well as at Mrs. Pottle,
and--once!--she looked at Granger.
"Sign the book!" exclaimed Symson now, as he closed his own, from
which he had been reading in a gabbling, hurried manner. "Sign the
book. Isaac, pass over the register to those whom the Lord hath joined
together. There is no further fee, yet generous bridegrooms may still
offer the minister a gift if they are so disposed. The clerk, too,
would accept of something if it were tendered."
But Beau Bufton was deaf to these suggestions. He had paid his five
guineas yesterday out of the remnants of the small stock of money left
to him; he was not going to squander any of that new fortune which he
had now secured. Wherefore, having signed his own name, and indicated
with his finger the spot at which his wife should also sign hers, he
turned a deaf ear to the reverend gentleman's suggestions, while, he
turned on Granger a look of triumph--the proud glance of a successful
man.
Then, as he did so, and as still the newly made wife bent over the
greasy register, he heard a voice: it was that of the friend whose
absence he had noticed regretfully as he entered the chapel; the voice
of Lord John Dallas, saying:
"Ariadne Thorne! Ariadne Thorne! That Ariadne Thorne! My God!" While
at the same time Bufton saw that the new-comer--the man who had but
just arrived upon the scene--was making his way to where he and his
wife stood. He saw, too, a strange look upon his face.
"Mrs. Algernon Bufton now," he said, regarding the young man with
surprise; "Ariadne Thorne a quarter of an hour ago."
"Ariadne Thorne! never!" Lord John exclaimed, and, to the Beau's
horror, he saw a glance of recognition pass between him and the woman
at his side, who, to his further astonishment, now trembled no more,
but, instead, stood erect and with a look of defiance on her face.
"Never Ariadne Thorne. I knew it. Knew it. She loves Geoffrey Barry
too well! Ariadne Thorne," he repeated. "Nay! Anne Tremlett, the
actress--the singer at booths--the stroller. God! what have you done?"
"Tremlett! Ah!" and Bufton gasped. "Tremlett."
White as a ghost now; himself shaking, as the woman he had married had
shaken before; his face terrible to behold, Bufton turned round,
observing as he did so that all eyes were on him, while, pushing his
wife on one side, he glared at the name she had inscribed in the
register. Yet, it was not Anne Tremlett--a name of hideous memories to
him--but, instead, "Anne Pottle."
"What does it mean?" he cried hoarsely, his voice changed so as to be
utterly unrecognisable. "Speak! Say, wanton! Speak! I say, or I will
kill you!" he continued, almost in a shriek.
"Be still," cried Granger, clasping his arm, "be still; this is a
church."
"I will know all. Speak, I say, or----" and he made as though he would
tear to pieces the woman who stood by his side. "Speak, damn you!"
"Begone from out this house!" cried Symson now. "Though not a duly
consecrated edifice, it shall not be polluted by you. Begone, I say!"
"I will not go," the wretched man snarled, "till I have an explanation
of why I have been trapped, hoodwinked like this. I will know,
or----" and he made a snatch at the register as though to seize the
leaf which recorded his marriage with Anne Pottle. An attempt
frustrated by Symson, who, big and brawny, thrust himself between it
and the duped Beau.
"Let us do as he bids, let us go," his wife said now, her voice calm,
and upon her face a look of intense hatred. Yet she did not go, but,
standing by her mother's side, said, while all who were present
listened open-mouthed--even the curiosity of the Rev. Peter Symson
being aroused:
"Let me speak now. My sister and I--she was nigh blind--came to London
three years ago, I to earn a living by my voice, she to be dependent
on me, since mother could not ask Miss Ariadne to keep us all, though
God knows she would have done so willingly; and this snake--this
thing whom I have married for retaliation--he--well, he deceived her,
ruined her--so--that--she slew herself. Oh, God! my sister--my dead
sister--my little helpless sister!
"It was under the name of Tremlett, my mother's maiden name," she went
on, recovering somewhat from her emotion, "that I earned my living by
singing at Vauxhall and Ranelagh, and, to save trouble and
explanation, she, too, went by that name; while he, meeting her
at the latter place, where she ever waited for me, persuaded her to
evil--ruined her, cursed her life, caused her to kill herself." And
now the newly made wife wept. Then, suddenly, again recovering
herself, she cried:
"Do you think, all you who are here, that when I met him by chance at
Tunbridge at a masquerade, and learnt that he meditated villainy of a
different kind, to another woman whom I loved dearly, to that Ariadne
Thorne for whom he took me, I would spare him? Never! She was there,
too, at Tunbridge, though not at the masquerade, and she lent me
clothes, fallals, laces, even a fan, to go and make merry myself. Ah!"
she cried, "I am avenged! Avenged! This betrayer of innocent women,
this fortune-hunter, is fooled to the top of his bent----Till death us
do part!" she exclaimed, with a bitter laugh, breaking off, "Till
death us do part!"
"This is no marriage," Beau Bufton said now, addressing Symson, "no
marriage. You know that!"
"I know that it will give you much trouble to break it," the reverend
gentleman said, with a leer of contempt. "I tie all tight. You were
warned yesterday that false names would not save you. And, since she
openly avows her name is Anne Pottle, in the name of Anne Pottle you
are wed. Now, I require you to be gone. Observe, there is another
ceremony to be performed."
While as he spoke he pointed to the door, through which a second
wedding party was entering.
"I renounce her!" Bufton cried now, "renounce her for ever. It is a
trick played by a wanton!" he cried. "A trick that shall never
succeed. You shall be laid by the heels in Newgate--you--you--you
hedge priest--Great God!" he almost screamed, breaking off, "what
brings _you_ here too?" And in his rage he made an attempt to draw his
sword.
For, behind that other small party which had entered the chapel, he
saw the form of a man which he remembered well--had good cause to
remember--the form of Sir Geoffrey Barry, with, leaning upon his arm,
a young and beautiful woman.
"I am here," the new-comer said, "to present you to a lady whom I wish
you to know. Pardon me," he continued, addressing the incoming wedding
party which he had followed, "if I delay your ceremony for a short
moment. But I am desirous of introducing this newly made happy man to
my future wife--Miss Ariadne Thorne."