On the morning succeeding the conversation last recorded the
following anonymous communication was received by three of the
individuals most concerned in this history--
_An assignation (vizards) with Kit is arranged for 8.30 this evening
in the Mulberry Garden. The parties to it will be distinguished by, in
the gentleman’s case, a green scarf about the hat, in the lady’s, a
green bow at the bosom._
A Well-wisher.
This note, in facsimile and in a palpably feigned hand, was delivered
by the twopenny post--through its recent establishment in Cloak Lane
near Dowgate Hill--to his lordship the Earl of Chesterfield, to my
lady Countess his wife, and to Mr. George Hamilton, my lady’s kinsman.
Each, in its private turn, pooh-pooh’d over it, each concluded that it
was without question the work of Mrs. Davis, and therefore not worth
consideration in any shape, and each decided, after long and irritable
reflection, that it would lose nothing by going to verify the
falsehood or accuracy of the report. And to each, in conclusion,
succeeded the same inspiration (was it possible that perspicacious
Mrs. Moll had clearly foreseen that contingency?), which was to adorn
itself with the fateful badge, with a view to surprising such secrets
as might reveal themselves to that verdant enigma.
His lordship considered: “This may be nothing but the hussy’s
retaliation on me for my rejection of her advances. And yet--curse
it!--how can she afford to be so definite in her facts without some
ground to go upon? ’Tis my lady that’s meant--that’s sure. There must
be something in some way in it; and, if so, how to surprise and expose
them? Ah! by God, I know.”
My lady thought: “Is she really by chance telling the truth? And is
this her way of revenging herself on me for my reflections on her
character? Yet, if it is all an imposition? A barren vengeance that
would be, defeating its own object. No, there must be something at the
bottom of it, some mischief, some wickedness. ’Tis my lord that’s
meant, without question, and in that case I have a right, a duty, to
perform in being present. But how to penetrate such perfidy, supposing
it to exist? O, I know what I will do! If only I can be there first,
and lead him to betray himself!”
Mr. Hamilton reflected: “What is this, my Mollinda?--for Mollinda’s
work you are. Kit, and an assignation--with whom? Is it man or woman,
you little devil? And so is the enigma to be resolved at last? I don’t
believe a word of it. It is some pretty trick of yours to requite me
for my late unkindness to you. Well, I’ll defeat it. Find me, with a
green scarf to my hat, at the rendezvous, and kiss me for Kit whoever
you may be. Who would have thought of that, now, George, but your own
ingenious self?”
But, in spite of their pretended confidence, they were all three
properly puzzled and nervous, bless you. And one after the other, in
an inconsequent sort of way, they put themselves into positions where
they might hope to run across Mrs. Davis by accident, and question her
casually as to her plans for the evening. But, exasperatingly enough,
Moll was never once in evidence the whole day long, and no one knew
what had become of her. She had vanished from all human ken like the
“baseless fabric of a vision.”