The Lady of Lynn

Thinking of all these things, and in blissful anticipation of the discomfiture of all the conspirators, there was an important thing that I quite forgot, namely, to send Molly's letter to her suitor in his room at the "Crown." I carried the letter in my pocket. I undressed and lay down in my bunk. I slept with a light heart, dreaming only of things pleasant, until the morning, when the earliest stroke of the hammer from the yard and the quay woke me up. It was then half-past five. I sat up. I rubbed my eyes. I then suddenly remembered that the letter was in my pocket still.

It was, I say, half-past five. The engagement was for six o'clock. I might have to run, yet, to stop Lord Fylingdale.

It does not take long to dress. You may imagine that I did not spend time in powdering my hair. In a quarter of an hour I was over the side of the ship and in my dingey.

By the clock on the Common Stathe it was five minutes to six when I landed and made her fast. I climbed the stairs, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the "Crown Inn." As I reached the door the clock struck six. Was Lord Fylingdale in his room? I was too late. He had left the house some ten minutes before, and had been carried in his chair across the market-place.

I followed. It was already five minutes past the hour. I should find him in the church, chafing at the delay. I should give him the letter and retire.

The market-place was filled with the market people and with the townspeople who came to buy. I pushed across, stepping over a basket, and jostled by a woman with poultry and vegetables. It was, however, seven or eight minutes past six when I arrived at the church; the doors of the south porch were open. Within I heard the sound of voices – or, at least, of one voice. I looked in.

Heavens! What had happened? Not only was I late with my letter, but – but – could I believe my eyes? Molly herself stood before the altar; facing her was Lord Fylingdale, who held her hand. Within the rails stood the Reverend Benjamin Purdon; beside him, the clerk, to make the responses. And the minister, when I arrived, was actually saying the words which the bridegroom repeats after the minister, completing in effect the marriage ceremony.

"I, Ludovick, take thee, Mary, to my wedded wife …" and so on according to the form prescribed. And again, the words beginning —

"With this ring I thee wed…"

I stood and listened, lost in wonder.

Then came the prayer prescribed. After which the clergyman joined their hands together, saying: —

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

I heard no more. I sat down on the nearest bench. What was the meaning of this sudden change? Remember that I had left Molly only a few hours before this, fully resolved that she would demand an inquiry into the statements and charges made in the two letters; resolved that she would not keep that engagement; her admiration for the proud, brave, noble creature, her lover, turned into loathing.

And now – now, in the early morning, with her letter in my pocket stating her change of purpose – I found her at the altar, and actually married.

"Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

What if the man Purdon was all that he was described? The priestly office confers rights and powers which are independent of the man who holds that office. Whatever his private wickedness, Purdon was a clergyman, and therefore he could marry people.

Molly stood before the altar as had been arranged; she wore a black silk domino; she had on a pink silk cloak with a hood drawn over her head, so that she was quite covered up and concealed. But I knew her by her stature, which was taller than the common, and by the dress, which had been agreed upon.

Then the bridegroom offered his hand and led the bride into the vestry. They were to sign the marriage register.

And here I rose and slunk away. I say that I slunk away. If you like it better, I crawled away, for I was sick at heart. The thing which I most dreaded, the marriage of our girl to a rake and a gamester, had been actually accomplished. Misery and ruin; misery and ruin; misery and ruin would be her lot. And in my pocket was her letter asking for explanations – and withdrawing her promise for the morrow! Could one believe one's senses?

I crawled away, ashamed for the first time in my life of the girl I loved. Women, I said to myself, are poor, weak creatures. They believe everything; Lord Fylingdale must have been with her early. He had but to deny the whole; she accepted the denial; despite her resolution she walked with him to the church as the lamb goes to the shambles. Oh, Molly! Molly! Who would have believed it of you?

I left the church and went away. I thought of going to the captain; of telling my father; of telling the vicar; but it seemed like treachery, and I refrained. Instead, I walked back to the quay, and paddled to the ship, where presently the barges came alongside and the day's work began. Fortunate it is for a man that at moments of great unhappiness his work has to be done and he is desirous to put aside his sorrow and to think upon his duty. But, alas! Poor Molly! Who could have believed it possible?

Well, you see, I did not follow this wedding to an end. Had I gone into the vestry I should have been witness of something very unexpected. Why, had not the Lady Anastasia – who, I now understand, was tortured by jealousy – promised that "something should happen"?

The clergyman had the registers lying on the table open. He took a pen and filled in the forms. He then offered the pen to the bride.

"My lady," he said. "I must ask your ladyship to sign the register. In duplicate, if you please."

The bride sat down, and in a large bold hand wrote her name, "Mary Miller."

Then the bridegroom took the pen and signed, "Fylingdale."

The clergyman sprinkled the pounce box over the names and shut up the books, which he gave to the clerk. This officer took the books and locked them in the great trunk which held the papers and books of the church, putting the key in his pocket.

"And now," said Mr. Purdon, "let me congratulate my noble patron and the newly made countess on this auspicious event. I have brought with me a bottle of the finest port the 'Crown' possesses, and I venture to drink health, happiness, and prosperity." So saying he produced a bottle and glasses. The bride without saying a word inclined her head to the bridegroom and drank off her glass. Lord Fylingdale, who looked, if one may say so of a bridegroom, peevish and ill at ease, raised his glass. "To your happiness, Molly!" he said.

So, all was finished. "You are going home, Molly?" he asked. "For the present. That is to say, for a day or two it will be best. I shall claim you very soon. There is no one but ourselves in the vestry," for the clerk, having locked the box and accepted the guinea bestowed upon him by the bridegroom, was now tramping down the church and through the porch. No one but themselves was in the vestry or the church. "You may, therefore, take off your domino."

"As your lordship pleases." Lord Fylingdale started. Whose voice was that? "As you order, I obey." So the bride removed her domino and threw back the hood.

The bridegroom started. "What is this?" he cried furious, with certain words which were out of place in a church.

"Lady Anastasia!" cried Mr. Purdon. "Good Lord! Then we are all undone!"

"What does it mean? Tell me, she devil – what does it mean? Where is Molly? But this is play acting. This is not a marriage."

"I fear, my lord," said the parson, "that it is a marriage. The registers are in the strong box. They cannot be altered."

"Go after the clerk, man. Order him to give up the keys. Tear the pages out of the registers."

"I cannot," said Mr. Purdon. "I dare not. The man is a witness of this marriage; he has seen the entry in the register. I dare not alter them or destroy a single page. I have done a great deal for your lordship, but this thing I cannot do. It is a marriage, I say. You are married to the Lady Anastasia here."

"Talk! talk! Go after the man. Bring back the man. Tear the keys from him. Silence the man! Buy his silence! Buy – I will murder him, if I must, in order to stop his tongue."

"Your lordship forgets your bride – your happy, smiling, innocent bride!"

He cursed her. He raised his hand as if to strike her down, but forbore.

"I told you," she continued, "that in everything I was at your service – except in one thing. Tear the registers; murder the clerk; but the bride will be left. And if you murder her as well you will be no nearer the possession of the lovely Molly."

The bridegroom sank into a chair. He was terrible to look at, for his wrath and disappointment deprived him of the power of speech. Where was now the cold and haughty front? It was gone. He sat in the chair, upright, his face purple, his eyes starting from his head as one who hath some kind of fit.

The clergyman, still in his white surplice, looked on and trembled, for his old pupil was in a murderous frame of mind. There was no knowing whom he might murder. Besides, he had before this divined the true meaning of the visit to Lynn; and he foresaw ruin to himself as well as his patron.

Lord Fylingdale turned upon him suddenly and cursed him for a fool, an ass, a villain, a traitor. "You are in the plot," he said. "You knew all along. You have been suborned."

"My lord – my lord – have patience. What could I know? I was bidden to be here at six to marry you. I supposed that the bride was the fair Miss Molly. I could not tell; I knew nothing. The lady was in a domino. It is irregular to be married in a domino. But your lordship wished it. What could I do?"

"Send for the key, then, and destroy the registers."

"Alas! my lord, it is now, you may be sure, all over the town that you have been married, and to Miss Molly."

"Where is Molly? Where is Molly, then? Why did she keep away?"

The bride looked on with her mocking smile of triumph. "You may murder me," she said, "but you will not undo the marriage. I have been married, it is true, under a false name; but I am married none the less."

"You have brought ruin upon us all," her husband said. "Ruin – headlong ruin. I am at my last guinea. I can raise no more money – I have no more credit. You, yourself, are as much discredited."

"If you are ruined," the lady replied, "you are rightly punished. How many vows have you made to me? How many lies have you invented to keep me quiet?"

"With submission, my lord," Mr. Purdon stammered, for terror and bewilderment held him, "this is a bad morning's work. Let me advise that before the town is awake we leave the church and talk over the business in her ladyship's rooms, or elsewhere. We must be private. To curse and to swear helps nothing; nor does it help to talk of a jealous revenge. Let us go."

It was with a tottering step, as if he was smitten with palsy, that the bridegroom walked down the aisle. The bride put up her domino, and threw her hood over her head, and so with the parson, in silence, walked away from the church to her lodging, leaving the bridegroom to come by himself.

As yet the market people had not heard the news.

But the news spread. The clerk told his wife. "I come from the church," he said. "I have witnessed the marriage of Miss Molly – Captain Crowle's Molly – with the noble lord who wears the star and looks so grand – a private wedding it was. I know not why. The parson was the Reverend Mr. Purdon, he who reads the morning prayers and preaches on Sunday."

Then the clerk's wife, slipping on her apron – for such folk find the shelter of the apron for their hands necessary in conversation – ran round to the pump room. No one was there as yet, but the two dippers. To them she communicated the news.

Then she went on to the market and told all the people of the town who were chaffering there.

At seven o'clock the captain, walking in his garden, was surprised by the arrival of the horns, who stood before the house and performed a noble flourish. "What the devil is that for?" said the captain. Then there arrived the butchers, with their marrowbones and cleavers, and began to make their music with zeal. The captain went out to them. Up went their hats.

"Huzza for Miss Molly and her husband."

"Her husband? What do you mean?"

"Her husband – his lordship – married this morning."

"What?" The captain stared in amazement. Then he rushed into the house. Molly was in the kitchen. "What is this?" he asked. "The butchers are here and the horns, and they swear you were married this morning, Molly?"

"Why, captain, I have not been outside the door. I am not married, I assure you, and I begin to think, now, that I never shall be married."

The captain went out and dismissed the musicians. But the thing troubled him, and he was already sick at heart on account of the last night's discourse and its discoveries.