Walter Besant
The Lady of Lynn
"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.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE BUBBLE AND THE SKY ROCKET
This was Molly's last appearance at the assembly.
Next day we heard that our distinguished visitors, the Prince of Purity – or the Prince of Darkness, which you please – the Lady of the Green Cloth, Sir Harry Decoy-Duck, and Colonel Bully Barabbas, with the Reverend Ananias and the ingenious Sam, first favourite of the Muses, had all gone away – whether they went away together or separately I never heard.
The opinion of the company as to the exposure and the marriage was divided. For some thought that Molly was nothing better than a woman who did not know her own mind; that she was first dazzled and carried off her head by the brilliant offer that was dangled before her; that, on Lord Fylingdale's request she consented to the private marriage; that she became afterwards afraid of the greatness for which she was not fitted either by birth or education, and thought to escape by hard lying and a strenuous denial of the fact. I fear that this opinion was that of the majority. For, they added, there was without any doubt a marriage; it was performed by the clergyman who by his learning, eloquence, and piety had made so many friends during his short stay, and it was witnessed by the parish clerk. If Molly was not the bride who could be found so closely to resemble her as to deceive the parish clerk?
When it was objected that the private character both of his lordship and his late tutor was of the kind publicly alleged, these philosophers asked for proof – as if proof could be adduced in a public assembly. And they asked further if it was reasonable to suppose that an eloquent divine, whose discourses had edified so many could possibly be the reprobate and profligate as stated by the vicar? As for his lordship there is, as everybody knows, an offence called scandalum magnatum, which renders a person who defames a peer or attacks his honour liable to prosecution, fine, and imprisonment.
"We shall presently," they said, "find this presumptuous vicar haled before the courts and fined, or imprisoned, for scandalum magnatum."
But the vicar, when this was reported to him, only laughed and said he should be rejoiced to put his lordship under examination.
Others there were, principally townsfolk, who had known Molly all her life. They agreed that she was a woman of sober mind; not given to vapours or any such feminine weaknesses; not likely to be carried away by terrors; and incapable of falsehood. If she declared that she was not married, she certainly was not married. The business might be explained in some way; but of one thing they were very sure – that Molly, since she said so, was not married. This view was strongly held by the "Society" of King's Lynn at their evening meetings.
It must be owned that the departure of the vivacious and affable Lady Anastasia with that of the agreeable rattle of seventy-five, Sir Harry, and that of the pious Purdon, who had also become a favourite with the ladies, proved a heavy blow to the gaieties of the assembly and the long room. The card room was deserted; conversation in the garden and the pump room became flat; the gentlemen who had gambled at the hazard table now carried on their sport – perhaps less dangerously – at the tavern; many of them, having lost a great deal more than they could afford, were now gloomy; there were no more public breakfasts; no more water parties up or down the river; no more bowls of punch after the dance. In a word the spirit went out of the company; the spa became dull.
Let me finish with the story of this mushroom. I call it a mushroom because it appeared, grew, and vanished in a single season. You may also call it a sky rocket if you please, or, indeed, anything which springs into existence in a moment, and in a moment dies. Perhaps we may liken it most to a bubble such as boys blow from soap suds. It floated in the sunshine for a brief space, glowing with the colours of the rainbow; then it burst and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the memory of it.
The company, I say, after the departure of the party from London, became almost immediately dull and out of spirits. The music alone was gay; many of the ladies lamented loudly that they had ever come to a place where the nightly gambling had played havoc with their husbands, fathers, or sons. They found out that the lodgings were cramped, dirty, ill-furnished, inconvenient, and exorbitant in their cost; that the provisions were dear; that they had already taken the waters for a month or more; and that, in effect, it was high time to go home. Besides, their own houses in the summer, the season of fruit and flowers, with their orchards and their gardens, were certainly more attractive than the narrow streets and the confined air of Lynn.
Therefore, some making this excuse and some that, they all with one consent began to pack up their baggage and to go home.
The departure of our friends from London took place in the middle of June; by the end of June the season was over – the visitors gone. At first the people expected new arrivals, but there were none – the season was over. The market-place for a while was crowded with the women who brought their poultry and fruit and provisions from the country. When they found that no one came to buy, they gradually ceased to appear. Great was the lamentation over the abundance which was wasted, and the produce of their gardens doomed to ripen and to rot.
Then the strolling players put their dresses and properties into a waggon and went away complaining that they were half starved, which was, I dare say, the simple truth. Next, all the show folk and the quacks, and the Cheap Jacks and tumblers and Tom Fools went away too, and the gipsies brought in no more horses, and the streets became once more silent and deserted, save on the quays and on the river, just as they had been before the spa was opened.
And then the music and the horns were sent away; the master of the ceremonies received his salary and went back to Norwich; the gardens were closed; the dippers vanished; the pump room was left for any who chose to dip and draw for themselves; the hairdressers, milliners, vendors of cosmetics, powders, paint, and patches all vanished as by magic; the coffee houses were closed; the bookseller carried his books back to Cambridge or wherever he came from; the confectioner left off making his famous cakes; and the morning prayers were once more read to a congregation of one or two.
The townsfolk, then, having nothing else to do, began to count their gains. The doctor, you remember, prophesied at the outset that all would become rich. What happened was that everybody had made large gains. The takings of the shops had been far greater than they had at any previous time hoped for or experienced. On the other hand the shopkeepers had laid in large and valuable stocks which now seemed likely to remain on their hands. Moreover, as always happens, the temporary prosperity had been taken for a continuing, or even an increasing prosperity, with the consequence that the people had launched out into an extravagant way of living, the smallest shopkeeper demanding mutton and beef instead of the fat pork and hot milk which had formerly been counted a good dinner, drinking the wine of Lisbon and Madeira where he formerly drank small ale, and even taking his dish of tea in the afternoon for the good of his megrims and the clearance of his ill humours.
Oh! but the next year would bring another flood of fortune; they could wait. Therefore they passed the winter in such habits of profuseness as I have indicated. Spring arrived, and they began to furbish their lodgings anew and to look to their stores and stocks. The month of May brought warmth and sunshine, but it did not bring the expected company. May passed; June passed. To the unspeakable consternation of the town, no visitors came at all – none. With one consent all stayed at home or went elsewhere. I have never heard any explanation of this remarkable falling off. That is to say, there were many reasons offered, but none that seemed sufficient. Thus, the ladies of Norfolk had taken a holiday which was costly and could not be repeated every year. It was like a visit to London, which is made once in a life and is talked about for the rest of that life. Or the losses of the gentlemen at the gaming table frightened them; they would not again be led into temptation; or the grand invention of Sam Semple had to be blown upon; or the rheumatic and the gouty who had taken the waters now found that they were in no way the better; or the scandal of those conspirators in high rank drove people away – indeed, such an exposure could do no good to any place of resort.
There were, therefore, after the event, many explanations offered, and every one may choose for himself. It is, however, certain that no visitors came; that the pump room was deserted, save for the few people of the town; that there was no need to engage music or to provide provisions or do anything, for no one came. The spa had enjoyed its brief hour of popularity, and was now dead.
This was a blow to the town, from which it was slow, indeed, to recover. Many of the shopkeepers were unable to pay their rents or to sell their stocks. Simplicity of manners returned with the fat pork and the hot milk; and as for the promised accession of wealth, I believe that the spa left our people poorer than it found them.
I have been told that this has been the fate of many spas. First there is a blind belief in the sovereign virtue of the well; at the outset the place is crowded with visitors; there is every kind of amusement and pleasure; then this confidence becomes less and presently vanishes altogether, and is transferred to some other well. As faith decays so the company grows thinner and less distinguished. There was formerly, I believe, a fashionable spa near London, at a place called Hampstead. This spa had such a rise, such a period of prosperity, and such a fall. Another spa which also rose, flourished and then decayed and is now deserted, was the spa of Epsom, a village some miles south of London. These places, however, lasted more than a single season. Our spa lived but for two or three short months and then passed away. To be sure it was a pretence and a sham from the outset, but people did not know its origin; Sam Semple, its sole creator, remained unknown and unsuspected.
I know not, I say, how the belief in the doctor's well came so suddenly to an end. I do know, however, that the disappointment of the doctor, and, with him, all who let lodgings, kept taverns, provided victuals, and sold things of any kind, was very bitter when the next spring brought no company. They waited, I say, expectant, all through the summer. When it became quite certain that the spa was really dead, they began sorrowfully to pull down the rooms and to take away the fence, and they left the gardens to weeds and decay. And then the town relapsed once more into its former, and present, condition. That is to say, it became again unknown to the fashionable world; the gentry of Norfolk resorted to Norwich again; they forgot that they once came to Lynn; the place lies in a corner with the reclaimed marshes on either hand; it is inaccessible except to those whose business takes them there; travellers do not visit the town; it is not like Harwich, or Dover, or Hull, a place which carries on communication by packet with foreign countries; it is a town shrunken within its former limits, its courts encumbered with deserted and ruinous houses, its streets quiet and silent. Yet it is prosperous in a quiet way; it has its foreign trade, its port, and its shipping; its merchants are substantial; the life which they lead is monotonous, but they do not feel the monotony. Except for an occasional riot among drunken sailors there is no work for the justices of the peace, and no occupants of the prison. At least we have no great lady using her charms, her gracious smiles, her rank in order to lure our young men to their destruction; we have no profligate parsons; we have no noble lords parading in the borrowed plumes of saint and confessor.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE OPINION OF COUNSEL
Meantime we waited expectant, and in uncertainty. It was possible that the pretended husband would withdraw his claims and that nothing more would be heard of him. It was possible, I say, if we supposed the pretender capable of honour, shame, or of pride, that he would say, in so many words: "You deny the marriage; very well, I will not claim a wife who says that she is no wife." It was, however, far more probable that he would claim his wife and exercise his rights over her property. What should then be done?
The subject exercised the "Society" greatly; every evening the situation was considered from all possible points of view, and always as to the best manner of protecting Molly. It was at this time that the vicar wrote out the statement which he afterwards laid before counsel in London in order to obtain an opinion on its legal aspect.
The case drawn up by him was as follows:
1. There was a betrothal between the two parties A. (standing for Lord Fylingdale) and B. (standing for Molly).
2. It is not denied that a private marriage had been agreed upon by both parties.
3. The marriage was to take place on a certain morning at the time of six at a certain church. B. undertook to wear a certain pink silk cloak with a hood drawn over her head, and a domino to conceal her face, so that the people of the town should not recognise her and crowd into the church.
4. At the appointed hour of six A. presented himself at the church.
5. At the same hour a woman also presented herself dressed as had been arranged, wearing a domino to prevent recognition in the street, and a cloak of pink silk with a hood.
6. The marriage ceremony was performed by a clergyman in due form and on the production of a licence by A.
7. The marriage was duly entered in the register and signed, the woman signing in the name of B.
8. There was present at the wedding, besides the clergyman, the parish clerk, who gave away the bride, read the responses, and signed as witness.
9. Part of the ceremony, including the essential words, was witnessed by one John Pentecrosse, mate of The Lady of Lynn.
10. Since A. had no reason to suppose that B. would not keep her promise, it would seem impossible for him to have found at the last moment some other woman to personate B.
This was the case for A., put as strongly and as plainly as possible. I confess that when I read it I was staggered by the case – especially that of the last clause. Certainly, as I had not delivered Molly's letter, A. had no reason for supposing that B. would fail to keep her promise, and therefore no reason for suborning some other woman into a conspiracy.
However, then followed Molly's case.
1. She had accepted A.'s offer of marriage.
2. She had promised to meet A. at 6 A.M.
3. She had received the evening before this promise was to be kept information which represented A. in a light that made it impossible for a virtuous woman to marry him.
4. This information was embodied in three letters addressed respectively to the vicar, to the schoolmaster and to Captain Crowle. They can be produced on evidence.
5. On receipt of this information she wrote a letter to A. stating that she must have full explanation as to the charges brought against him before proceeding further in the business.
6. This letter was not delivered, the bearer having his mind full of other points connected with the affair.
7. At half-past five B. left her room and joined her mother in certain household work. Nor did she leave her mother during the morning. This fact is attested by the mother and a certain black woman, B.'s servant.
8. The only way out of the house into the street is by the garden. Captain Crowle was walking in the garden from half-past five till seven and saw no one leave the house.
9. At seven or thereabouts the musicians, with the butchers, arrived to congratulate the bride, and were sent away by Captain Crowle.
10. Later on, A.'s secretary arrived with a message from A. He was informed by B. that no marriage had taken place.
11. Captain Crowle then waited on A. and demanded explanation. He received answer that having married the lady, A. was not called upon to give any explanations.
12. In the evening, before the whole company at the assembly, the vicar charged A. with many acts unworthy of a man of honour, and, among other things, with having conspired with a woman unknown to personate B., and to set up the pretence of a marriage.
Opinion was asked as to the position of B. Would she be considered in the eyes of the law as a married woman? Had A. any rights over her or over her property? Could she marry another man? What steps should she take to protect herself and her property? Observe, that unless B. could be declared not to be the wife of A. she could not alienate, give away, or part with any of her property; she could not marry; she was doomed to be a wife at the mercy of a man more pitiless than a tiger, yet not a wife, for she would die rather than marry him. She must wait until heaven should take pity upon her and despatch this man. Such men, it is observed, do never live long, but they may live long enough to inflict irreparable mischief upon their unfortunate victims.
Molly read the case thus drawn up very carefully. "My only trust," she said, "is in the evidence of mother and Nigra. I confess that I cannot understand how, without knowing that I should fail, he could possibly procure that woman to personate me. Has he the power of working miracles?"
"There is no miracle here," I said, "except the miracle of wickedness greater than would be thought possible. Patience, Molly! Sooner or later we shall find it out."
"It will be later, I fear."
"There are three at least in the plot. The clerk has been deceived; Sam Semple has not been consulted. These are the three – Lord Fylingdale, the parson, who is, doubtless, well paid for his villainy, and the woman, whoever she may be. We shall find out the truth through the woman."
"Since his marriage would give him the command of my property, Jack, and since he was ruined, why does he make no sign?"
This was a week or two after the event. I suppose that Lord Fylingdale was making himself assured as to the strength of his position and his rights. However, we were not to wait very long.
"I am of opinion," said the vicar, after many discussions on the case thus drawn out, "that we should lay the facts before some counsel learned in the law, and ascertain our position. If we are to contest the claim in court, we have, at least, the money to spend upon it."
"We will spend," said the captain, "our last penny upon it." He meant the last penny of his ward's fortune, in which, as you will hear, he was quite wrong, because he had now no power to spend any of it.
It was, therefore, determined that the vicar should undertake the journey to London; that my father should accompany him; that they should not only obtain the advice and opinion of a lawyer, but that they should ascertain, through the bookseller, my father's cousin, or any other person, what they could concerning the private life of his lordship. "There is no saying what we may discover," said the vicar. "How, if there is another wife still living? Even a noble lord cannot have two wives at the same time."
It seems strange that one must make greater preparations for a journey to London by land than a voyage to Lisbon by sea. As regards the latter, my kit is put together in an hour or two, and I am then ready to embark. But as regards the former, these two travellers first considered the easiest way; then the cost of the journey, and that of their stay in London; then the departure of others, so as to form a company against highway robbers; they then arranged for the halting and resting-places; hired their horses, for they were to ride all the way; engaged a servant; made their wills, and so at last were ready to begin the journey. Their company consisted of two or three riders to merchants of London, who travel all over the country visiting the shop-keepers in the interests of their masters. They are excellent fellow-travellers, being accustomed to the road, having no fear of highwaymen, knowing the proper charges that should be made at the roadside inns, and knowing, as well, what each house can be best trusted to provide, the home brewed ale being good at one house, and the wine at another – and so forth. They reckoned five days for the journey if the weather continued fine – it was then July, and the height of summer. The vicar thought that perhaps a week or ten days would suffice for their business in town, and therefore we might expect them back in three weeks. Captain Crowle would have gone with them, but was fearful of losing his ward. For the first time in his life he barred and bolted his doors at night, and if he went abroad he left his house in the custody of his gardener, a stout country lad who would make a sturdy fight in case of any attempt at violence. But violence was not a weapon which was in favour with his lordship. And if it had been, the whole town would have risen in defence of Molly.
For three weeks, therefore, we waited. I, for my part, in greater anxiety than the rest, because my ship had now received her cargo, and I feared that we should have to weigh anchor and slip down the river before the return of our messengers. And at this time when we knew not what would happen or what we should do many wild schemes came into my head. We would carry the girl away; we would foreclose her mortgages, sell her lands, and carry her fortune with her; we would sail in one of her own ships across the Atlantic and make a new home for her in the American colonies. However, in the end we had, as you shall learn, to accept misfortune and to resign ourselves to what promised to be a lifelong penalty inflicted for no sins of Molly's – who was as free from sin as any woman, not a saint, can hope to be – but by the wickedness of a man whose life and ways were far removed from Molly, and might have been supposed to be incapable of afflicting her in any way.
Our friends, therefore, started on their journey, arriving in due time at London, when they began their business without delay. Briefly, they were recommended to a very learned counsel, old, and in great practice, whose opinions were more highly valued than those perhaps of any other lawyer. He was avaricious, and it was necessary to pay him a very handsome fee before he would consider the case. When he accepted the fee he gave it his most careful consideration. His opinion was as follows:
"The fact that there was a marriage between A. and some woman – B. or another – is undoubted. The evidence of the parish clerk may be set aside except to prove this fact, because it does not appear that the bride removed her domino. It might, however, become a part of B.'s case that the clergyman did not witness the removal of the domino. What the clerk saw was a woman dressed in a pink silk cloak with a hood over her head, and a domino concealing her face, who signed the name of Mary Miller. For the same reason the evidence of John Pentecrosse rests only on the dress of the bride, and may therefore be taken as worth that and no more.
