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 £12,000 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."