Walter Besant
The Lady of Lynn
CHAPTER XXVII
THE EXPECTED BLOW
That evening the blow, feared and expected, fell, for then, and not till then, I felt that we had lost, or thought we had lost, our maid.
I found the captain sitting in the summerhouse alone, without the usual solace of his tobacco and his October. "Jack," he said, with a gloomy sigh, "I am now the happiest of men, because my Molly is the most fortunate of women. I have attained the utmost I could hope or ask. The most virtuous of men – I should say of noble-men – has asked the hand of our girl. Molly will be a countess! Rejoice with me!"
I stood outside on the grass, having no words to say.
"She will marry him immediately. Nothing could be more happy or more fortunate. Such rank – such a position as places her on a level with the highest ladies of the land, though the daughter of plain folk, with a shipowner for a father and a sailor's daughter for a mother. There is promotion for you, Jack!"
"She will go away, then, and leave us!"
"Aye; she will leave us, Jack. She will leave us. His lordship – you do not ask who it is."
"Who can it be, captain, but Lord Fylingdale?"
"The best of men. He will carry her off to his country house, where they will live retired for a while, yet in such state as belongs to her rank. We shall lose her, of course. That, however, we always expected. The country house is in Gloucester, on the other side of England. Perhaps she may get to see us, but I am seventy-five, or perhaps more, and Jennifer, her mother, is not far from fifty. I cannot look to set eyes on her again. What matter." He hemmed bravely and sat upright. "What matter, I say, so that the girl is happy. Her mother may, perhaps, set eyes on her once more; but she will be changed, because, you see, our Molly must now become a fine lady."
"Yes," I groaned, "she must become a fine lady."
"Jack, sometimes I am sorry that she has so much money. Yet, what was I to do? Could I waste and dissipate her money? Could I give away her ships? Could I give her, with the fortune of a princess, to a plain and simple skipper? No; Providence – Providence, Jack, hath so ordered things. I could not help myself."
"No, captain; you could not help things. Yet…" I broke off.
"Well, Jack, why don't you rejoice with me? Why the devil don't you laugh and sing? All you want is to see her happy, yet there you stand as glum and dumb as a mute at a funeral."
"I wish her happiness, sir, with all my heart."
"Sam Semple came here this afternoon, by order of my lord. Sam gives himself airs now that he is a secretary and companion. He came and demanded a private conversation with me. It was quite private, he said, and of the utmost importance. So we sat in the parlour, and, with a bottle of wine between us, we talked over the business. First, he told me that his patron, as he calls him, meaning his master, had been greatly taken with the innocence and the beauty of Molly. I replied that unless he was a stock, or a stone, or an iceberg, I expected nothing less. He went on to say, that although a noble earl with a long pedigree and a great estate, his patron was willing to contract marriage with a girl who was not even of gentle birth, and had nothing but her beauty and her innocence. I told him that she had, in addition, a very large fortune. He said that his patron scorned the thought of money, being already much more wealthy than most noblemen of his exalted rank; that he was willing, also, to pass over any defects in manners, conversation, and carriage, which would be remedied by a little acquaintance with the polite world. In a word, his lordship offered his hand, his name, his title, his rank, and himself – to my ward."
"His condescension," I said, "is beyond all praise."
"I think so, too. Beyond all praise. I asked his advice touching a husband for my girl. He promises his assistance in the matter, and he then offers himself. Jack, could anything be more fortunate?"
"I hope it may turn out so. What does Molly say?"
"You may go in and ask her yourself. She will tell you more than she will tell anybody else. The matter is to be kept, for the present, a profound secret between his lordship and ourselves. But since Sam Semple knows it, and Jennifer knows it, and you are one of ourselves, therefore, you may as well know it, too. But don't talk about it."
"Why should it be kept a secret? Why should it not be proclaimed everywhere?"
"My lord says that the place is a hot-bed of scandal; that he would not have Molly's name passed about in the pump room to be the object of common gossip and inventions, made up of envy and malice. He would spare Molly this. When she is once married and taken away from the place they may say what they please. Whatever they say, they cannot do her any harm. Why, some of them even declared that she was one of the company of strolling actresses. There is nothing that they will not say."
I made no reply, because it certainly did seem as if in asking for secrecy his lordship had acted in Molly's interests.
"Well, captain, we must make the best of it. You must find your own happiness in thinking of Molly's."
"What aggravates me, Jack, is the ridiculous behaviour of my cousin Jennifer. She is in the kitchen crying, and the black woman with her. Go and comfort her before you see Molly."
I looked into the kitchen. Molly's mother sat in the great wooden chair beside the fireplace. She held her apron in her hands as if she had just pulled it off her face, and the tears were on her cheeks. When she saw me they began to flow again. "Jack," she said, "have you heard the news? Has the captain told you? The worst has happened. I have lost my girl. She is to be married; she will go away; she will marry a man who scorns her guardian and despises her mother. A bad beginning, Jack. No good can come of such a marriage. A bad beginning. Oh! I foresee unhappiness. How can Molly become a fine lady? She is but a simple girl – my own daughter. I have made her a good housewife, and all her knowledge will be thrown away and lost. It is a bad business, Jack. Nigra has been telling her fortune. There is nothing hopeful. All the cards are threatening. And the magpies – and the screech owl – "
She fell to weeping again. After which she broke out anew. "The captain says he is the most virtuous man in the world. It isn't true. If ever I saw the inside of a man in my life I have seen the inside of that man. He is corrupt through and through – "
"But – consider. All the world is crying up his noble conduct and his many virtues."
"They may say what they like. It is false; he is heartless; he is cold; he is selfish. He marries Molly for her money. Persuade the captain, if you can. He will not believe me."
"How can I persuade him? I have no knowledge. Are they all in a tale? Are you the only person who knows the truth? How do you know it?"
"I know it because I love my girl, and so I can read the very soul of a man. I have read your soul, Jack, over and over again. You are true and faithful. You would love her and cherish her. But this man? He knows not what love means, nor fidelity, nor anything. Go, Jack. There is no help in you or in any other. Because there is none other – " She spoke the words of the prayer book. "None other that fighteth for us, but only Thou, O God! Only Thou, O God!" She covered her face again with her apron and fell to sobbing afresh.
So I went into the parlour where Molly was sitting. "Jack!" she jumped up. "Oh, Jack, I want you so badly."
"I know all, Molly. Except what you yourself say and think about it."
She had a piece of work in her hands, and she began to pull it and pick it as she replied. For the first time in my life I found Molly uncertain and hesitating.
"The captain says that it is the greatest honour that was ever offered to any woman to be raised from a lowly condition to a high rank – and all for love."
"All for love?" I asked.
"Why, what else can it be that made him fight for me with that desperate villain? He risked his life. Whatever happens, Jack, I cannot forget that."
"No. It was doubtless a great thing to do. Has he told you himself that it was all for love?"
"He has not spoken about love at all. He has never once been alone with me. It seems that these great people make love by message. He sent a message by Sam Semple."
"A very fine messenger of Cupid, truly!"
"Offering marriage. The captain cannot contain his satisfaction and sits glum. My mother says she will never be able to see me again and begins to cry."
"Well – but, Molly, to be sure it is a great thing to become a countess. Most women would jump at the chance, under any conditions. Do you, however, think that you can love the man?"
"He hasn't asked for love. Oh, Jack, to think that people should marry each other without a word of love! If he loves me I suppose he thinks that I am bound to give him love in return."
"There, again, Molly, do you love the man?"
"Jack, nobody knows me better than you. What reply can I make?"
"He is too cold and too proud for you, Molly. How can you love him? Perhaps," I added, because I was very sure that she would marry him, "after marriage you will find that his coldness is only a cloak to hide his natural warmth, and that his pride covers his wife as well as himself."
"He is a good man. Everybody says so. Lady Anastasia declares that he is the most honourable and high-principled of men. On that point I am safe. And think, Jack, what a point it is! Why, to marry a drunkard, a sot, a profligate, a gambler – one would sooner die at once and so an end. But I can trust myself with him. I have no fear of such treatment as drives some wives to distraction. Yet he is cold in his manner and proud in his speech. I might find it in my heart to love him if I was not afraid of him." And so she went backwards and forwards. He was so good and so great; his wife must always respect him. He was of rank so exalted – it was a great honour to become his wife. He was so brave – she owed her rescue to his bravery. Yet he had spoken no word of love; nor had she seen any sign of love. I asked her what sign she expected, and she was confused. "Of course," she said, "every girl knows very well when a man is in love with her." "How does she know?" I asked her. "She knows, because she knows." I suppose she felt the man was not in love with her just as her mother felt that his character for virtue and nobility was assumed – "corrupt within," she said. Women are made so. And in the next breath Molly repeated that what his lordship had done was done for love. "How do you know?" I asked again. "Because the captain says so," she replied, with unconscious inconsistency.
"Is the courtship to be conducted entirely by messenger?" I asked.
"No; he will come to-morrow morning and see me. I am to give him an answer then. But the captain has already told him what the answer is to be. Oh, Jack, I am so happy! I am so fortunate that I ought to be happy. Yet I am so down-hearted about it. Going away is a dreadful thing. And when shall I see any of you, I wonder, again? Oh, I am so fortunate! I am so happy." And to show her happiness she dropped a tear, and more tears followed.
What kind of happiness, what kind of good fortune was that which could fill the mind of the captain with gloom and could dissolve Molly's mother in tears, and could herald its approach to the bride by sadness which weighed her down? And as for me, you may believe that my heart was like a lump of lead within me, partly because I was losing the girl I loved, but had never hoped to marry, and partly because from the outset of the whole affair – yes, from the very evening when the news of the grand discovery was read to the "Society of Lynn" – I had looked forward to coming events with foreboding of the most dismal kind.
"Come to see me to-morrow afternoon, Jack," she said. "I must talk about it to some one. With the captain I cannot talk, because he is all for the unequal match, and with my mother I cannot talk because she foretells trouble, and will acknowledge no good thing at all in the man or in the match. Do not forget, Jack. Come to-morrow. I don't know how many days are left to me when I can ask you to come. Oh, Jack, to leave everybody – all my friends – it is hard! But I am the most ungrateful of women, because I am the happiest – the happiest. Oh, Jack, the happiest and most fortunate woman that ever lived."
CHAPTER XXVIII
WARNING
In the evening, which was Wednesday, I repaired to the gardens, paying for my admission, but no longer in the character of a fine gentleman. Lord Fylingdale was not present, nor Molly. Lady Anastasia was there, gracious and smiling as usual. Nothing was said about her approaching departure. After walking round the long room she retired to the card room, and play began as usual. It seemed to me, looking on with a few others at the door, that there was a kind of awkwardness or constraint among the company. They collected together in small groups, which whispered to each other; then these groups melted away, forming new companies, which in their turn dissolved. Something of importance had happened. Presently some of the gentlemen in the card room came out. They, in their turn, became surrounded and formed into another group, who whispered eagerly with each other. They were standing near the door, and I overheard some of their discourse. "I am assured," one of them was saying, "that he has been ordered out of the assembly at Bath for foul play at cards, and I have it on the best authority that he was driven off the Heath of Newmarket." I did not know of whom he was speaking.
"Truly," said another, "we seem to have fallen into the midst of a very pretty set of sharpers. Will Tom Rising, if he gets the better of his wound, have to pay that debt? I think not. A debt of honour can only be contracted with a man of honour."
"On the other hand, sir, if Tom had won he would have looked for payment."
"Why, sir, that is true. But observe, when we played with the colonel we took him for a man of honour. Some of us have won a few guineas of him. Should we return them? No. And why? Because we accepted him as a man of honour, and stood to win or lose as between gentlemen. Now, one does not play with a sharper knowingly. One would not take his money; one would not pay him if we lost."
"Then Tom must not pay."
"If what we hear is true; if the man has been exposed at Bath; if he has been warned off the Heath of Newmarket; most assuredly Tom must not pay a farthing."
"At present the fever is still upon him. Well, but we must wait. All this may be mere rumour."
"It may be, as you say; but I think not. The report comes from Houghton, Sir Robert's place, where a certain cousin of Tom Rising, member of Parliament, I think, for Ipswich, is now staying as a guest. Houghton is only a few miles from Lynn. It lies in the marshland. This gentleman, then, heard of the duel and the wound, and has been to see his cousin."
"Is he still in the town? Can one have speech with him?"
"I think not. He has gone back to Houghton. But he will return. I am informed that he inquired into the whole particulars; that he learned of his cousin's heavy losses at play to one, Colonel Lanyon. 'Lanyon?' says my Parliament man. 'I know that name – Colonel Lanyon? Why, the fellow ought not to show his face among gentlemen,' and then out came the whole story."
"Still," said the other, "he may be mistaken."
"Men are not often mistaken in such matters. But, sir, I can tell you more. There are gentlemen in Sir Robert's party, at Houghton, who profess to know strange things about others of our visitors from London. I will mention no names, yet there will be a surprise for some who pretend to be what they are not. I say no more, except to advise you not to neglect next Friday's assembly. Meantime, silence, let us say nothing."
The little group broke up. I paid small attention to the words. The colonel was quite unknown to me, except as a constant attendant in the card room. But I observed that the whispering went on, and increased, and that every man in every group presently went away and formed other groups, and that more communications were made and more discussions followed, and that on every one was enjoined a promise of the greatest secrecy.
Also I observed that every group contained the same varieties of listeners. There was the open-mouthed man, who gaped with wonder; the wise man after the event, who had always entertained suspicions; the indignant man, who was for immediate measures; the slow man, who would wait; and the critical man, who wanted evidence and proof. I dare say there were more.
Such whisperings and such groups do not create cheerfulness in a company. Suspicion and jealousy were in the air that night; the music played and the fiddlers scraped; the singers squalled; the people walked round and round, after their usual fashion; there was plenty of conversation and of animation; they were excited; they were evidently looking forward to some important event; but they were not laughing, nor paying compliments, nor talking of dress, nor were they listening to the music or the singers.
And a very curious circumstance happened in the card room. There was at first the usual crowd of players sitting and standing; the usual staking of guineas, and laying and taking odds; it was, in fact, an ordinary evening, when the company pressed round the table and the game went on merrily. Then one or two people came in from the long room. There were whispers; two or three left their places and retired from the room. Other people came in from the long room; there were more whispers; more players gave up their seats and left the room. After a while there was no one left in the card room at all except Lady Anastasia, Sir Harry Malyns, and Colonel Lanyon. The croupier still stood at the head of the table, rake in hand, crying the main and proclaiming the odds. Seeing no one else at the table, the two players desisted.
"What does it mean?" asked the lady, looking round. "We are deserted."
"I know not," Sir Harry replied. "Some distraction in the gardens; probably a quarrel; one of the bumpkins has perhaps struck another."
He went out to inquire, but came back immediately. "There is no distraction," he said. "Nothing has happened; the people are walking round as usual."
"Something, surely," said the lady, "must have happened. Why are the tables deserted? Such a thing has never occurred before. Colonel, will you kindly find out what it means? I have the vapours to-night, I think. My mind misgives me."
Colonel Lanyon rose and walked to the door. He looked up and down the long room and returned. "Nothing has happened," he said. "They are all strangers to me. But since there is no more play I will e'en betake me to the tavern."
"And I," said the lady, "will go home. Sir Harry, please call my fellows."
Sir Harry led her through the long room to the door. As she got into the chair, she said, "Sir Harry, there is something brewing. I caught looks of hostility as we passed through the room. Do you think it is the jealousy of the women about that girl with the diamonds?"
"I observed no hostile looks."
"Men never see such things. I tell you I not only saw them, but I felt them. We have given these people mortal offence. They are gentlefolk. We come among them, and we admit to our society a girl who has no pretence to gentility. Lord Fylingdale dances with her; I take her to the assembly. Lord Fylingdale actually follows her when she is carried off and fights for her and rescues her. This is a thing which he might do for any of those ladies, and with no more than the customary jealousies; but with such a girl it makes bad blood."
"Hostile looks mean nothing. What if there is bad blood?"
"Sir Harry – Sir Harry – it is only in London, and not always there, that we account ourselves free from revenge. It is a revengeful world, and there are many people in it who would willingly put you and me and the colonel, not to speak of the parson and the earl himself, in pillory, and pelt us with rotten eggs and dead cats."
So she got into her chair, and the old beau, shaking his head, called his own chair and was carried home.
But Colonel Lanyon who walked to the tavern where his friends met every night found the place, to his astonishment, empty. Then he, too, remembered certain signs of hostility or resentment, notably the desertion of the players, and the cold looks as he left the place. Now, as the worthy adventurer and sharper was by no means conscious of innocence, he began to feel uneasy. To such men as those who live by their wits there is always the danger that some past scandal may be revived, some former half forgotten villainy remembered.
Therefore he became disquieted. He had some reason for disquiet, for, to begin with, he had done very well. Tom Rising would recover, it was thought. He would recover in a week or two, or more. He would then, as a man of honour, have to raise, by hook or by crook, the sum of £1,200, of which, by the compact, one-fourth was to be the colonel's and three-fourths were the earl's. This is a large sum of money to win or to lose. Now, if anything inopportune was to occur, such as the revival of an old scandal – say that of Bath, or that of Tunbridge Wells, or that of Newmarket, these winnings would be in a dangerous situation.
A gentleman who lives by his wits, although he may be a good swordsman and a good shot with a pistol, cannot escape the consequences of a scandal. The thing follows him from place to place. It gets into taverns and hangs about gaming-houses; it stands between him and his prey; it snatches the young and inexperienced player from his grasp; it even prevents the payment of the debts commonly called of honour. Now, the colonel had been about town and in the haunts of gamesters for a good score of years, and, truth to tell, he now found it difficult, anywhere, to be received into the company of gentlemen.
While he sat in the empty room one of the gentlemen, its frequenters, came in. The colonel looked up.
"Why, sir," he said, "where is the company this evening?"
"There will be no company to-night, colonel."
"Ay – ay? No company? Where are they all, then?"
"To be frank with you, Colonel Lanyon, I am deputed to inform you that certain things are rumoured about you which must be explained."
"Certain things, sir?" The colonel sprang to his feet. "To be explained? This is a very ugly word. To be explained. The word, sir, attacks my honour."
"It does so, colonel. You are quite right."
"Then, sir, you and your friends will have to fight me."
"We will willingly fight with – a man of honour. Not only that, but where a man of honour is concerned we should be most willing to offer an apology, if we have attacked his honour. To be brief, colonel, certain things have been said concerning you and your honour. They have been alleged behind your back."
"Well, sir, suppose my assailant meets me face to face. Gad, sir, he shall meet me on the grass."
"Softly, softly, colonel. There will be no fighting, I assure you. As for anything else, that depends on yourself. Frankly, colonel, they are very nasty things. On the other hand, I assure you that, as we have received you without suspicion, we shall stand by you loyally."
"In that case we need not talk of explanations."
"Loyally, I say, unless the explanations are not forthcoming."
"Give me the statements or the charges."
"I cannot, colonel. They are at present vague. But I am instructed to invite you to be present in the card room on Friday evening next, when an opportunity will be afforded you of hearing what has been stated and of replying. Colonel, we have found you very good company. We all desire to retain you as a friend."
"But, sir, permit me. This is monstrous. You tell me of charges, you avoid my society, you refuse to tell me the nature of the charges, and you call upon me to reply on the spot without knowing – "
"Your reply will be quite easy. It really means either yes or no. And if, as I doubt not, you can disprove whatever is alleged, you will yourself entirely approve of our action in separating for a time from a man accused of things dishonourable, of giving him an opportunity of reply, also of my warning."
"Why, sir, if to be grateful for such a warning and for such general charges is a duty, I will be grateful. Meantime – "
"Meantime, colonel, you know your past life better than any one. If there is in it anything of which you are ashamed let me recommend you to present that affair in as favourable a light as possible. Men will quarrel over cards. Accusations are easily made. The duel next morning does not clear away suspicion. If, however, there is nothing, as I hope, come with a light heart and a cheerful countenance, and we shall rally round you as brothers and men of honour. I wish you good-night, Colonel Lanyon, until Friday, after which I hope to sit here beside you, the bowl of punch on the table, and your songs and stories to keep us awake, till we sit down again to the cards."
