When Molly came out of church after morning prayers she stood in the porch to see the company pass out. It was a fashionable company, consisting entirely of ladies who came from the pump room to hear the Reverend Benjamin Purdon, locum tenens for the curate of St. Nicholas, read the prayers of the morning service. This he did with an impressiveness quite overwhelming, having a deep and musical voice, which he would roll up and down like the swelling notes of an organ, insomuch that some ladies wept every morning, while he pronounced the absolution with so much weight that every sinner present rose from her knees in the comfortable faith that her sins were absolved and washed away, and that she could now begin a new series of sins upon a clean slate. Happy condition, when without penance, which the papists enforce; and without repentance, which is demanded by the Protestant faith, a sinner can every morning wipe off the sins of the last twenty-four hours and so begin another day with a robe as white as snow, no sins upon their conscience, and a sure and certain hope. "Let us accept," said this reverend divine, "with gratitude and joy all that Holy Church gives us; above all, her absolution. We have not the sins of yesterday to weigh us down together with the sins of to-day. Madam, your silk apron becomes you highly, pink silk with silver matches the colour of your cheeks. It is the colour of Venus herself, I vow. Ah! there are moments when I could wish I was not an ecclesiastic!"

As a rule the morning prayers at our two churches are but poorly attended. The merchants and the captains are at this hour in the counting-houses on the quay, or assembled at the customhouse, which is a kind of exchange for them; the craftsmen and the sailors and the bargemen are at their work; the shopkeepers are standing behind their counters; the housewives and the girls are in the kitchen, pantry, or stillroom; there is no one left to attend the morning service, except a few bedesmen and poor old women.

But in the company assembled at the spa there were many ladies of pious disposition, though of fashionable conversation, who, having no duties to perform, after drinking the waters and exchanging the latest gossip at the pump room, were pleased to attend the daily prayers—all the more because they were read by a clergyman from London who could talk, when he pleased, like a mere man of the world, or, also when he pleased, with the gravity and the piety of a bishop. The church was, further, a place where one could gather together, so to speak, all the ladies' dresses and receive suggestions and hints by the example of others what to choose and what to avoid.

Among those who came out of the church that morning was the Lady Anastasia, in a long hood lined with blue silk, looking, as she always did, more distinguished than any of the rest. She stopped in the porch, seeing Molly, and laughed, tapping her on the cheek with her fan. The other ladies, recognising the girl who wore the chains and the strings of jewels with so fine a dress at the assembly, passed on their way, sticking out their chins, or sniffing slightly, or giggling and whispering, or even frowning. These gestures all meant the same thing; scorn and contempt for the girl who presumed, not being a gentlewoman, to have so much money and so much beauty. Envy, no doubt, was more in their minds than scorn. They were agreed, without speaking, to treat the poor girl with every sign of resentment. And then, to their confusion, the greatest lady among them stopped and laughed and patted the impudent baggage on the cheek!

"Child," said the Lady Anastasia, "you were at the assembly the other night. I saw you dancing a minuet, and I heard that you were rudely treated at the country dance. I have heard Lord Fylingdale speak about you. He has made the acquaintance of your guardian, Captain Crawle or Crowle. Come, child. Let us be better acquainted. Where are you going?"

"I am going home, madam."

"Take me with you, then. Let me see your home."

Molly blushed to the ears and stammered that it was too great honour, so she walked away, Lady Anastasia with her, while the ladies stood in little groups watching in wonder and indignation, through the churchyard and so to the captain's house in Hogman's Lane, close to the fields and gardens.

Molly led her noble guest into the parlour. The Lady Anastasia looked round. "So," she said, "this is the home of the heiress." There was truly very little to indicate this fact. The floor was clean and sanded; a few chairs stood round the walls; one of them was an armchair; on the walls hung certain portraits—for my own part I always considered these as very fine works of art, but I have since heard that the limmer was but a sorry member of the craft. He was an itinerant painter, who drew these portraits in oils at half a guinea each. They represented Molly's parents and Captain Crowle as a young man. On the mantel-shelf stood a row of china cups and over them a dozen samplers. There was a table and there was no other furniture.

"You are an heiress, are you not, child?"

"The captain tells me so, madam."

"The captain's views as to the nature of a fortune may be limited. What is your fortune?"

"There are ships, and lands, and houses. I know not how many of each. And I believe there is money, but I know not how much."

"Strange! Is it in such a house that an heiress should be brought up? Have you servants of your own?"

"I have my black woman, Nigra."

"Humph! Have you a coach? or a chair? or a harpsichord?"

"I have none of these things."

"Have you friends among the gentlefolk? Who are the people that you visit?"

"There are no gentlefolk in Lynn. I know the vicar and the curate of St. Nicholas and their families, and the schoolmaster and his son."

"And the parish clerk, I suppose; and the man who plays the organ. Have you been educated?"

Molly blushed. "The captain says that I have had the best education possible for a woman. I can read and write and cast up accounts; and I can make cakes and puddings, and brew the beer and make the cordials; and I can embroider and sew."

"Heavens! What a preparation for an heiress! But, perhaps, it is not so great a fortune after all. And do you go about daily dressed like this—in stuff or linsey woolsey?"

"It is my workaday dress. I have a better for Sunday."

"I dare say—I dare say. What do they call you? Molly? It is a good name for you. Molly. There is something simple about it—something rustical yet not uncouth, like Blousabella. Your face will pass, Molly. It is a fair garden of red and white. Your eyes are good; they can be soft and affectionate. I should think they could also be hard and unforgiving. Your hair is delightful; even the tresses of Amaryllis are coarse and thick compared with yours. Your hand, my dear, is a soft and warm hand, but it is too red—you work with it."

"Why, what else should I work with?"

"The only work you should do is the shuffling and the dealing of cards—your hands were made for this purpose—or to handle a fan, or to wear gloves; but not to work, believe me."

Molly looked at her hand. It was a workwoman's hand, being, though small, thick and strong, with fingers square rather than long. She looked and laughed. "What would you say, madam, if you saw me rowing a boat or handling the sail while Jack Pentecrosse steers? I have done much rougher work in a boat than in the stillroom."

"These confessions amaze me, my dear. With ships—actually the plural of the word ship!—and lands—what lands?—and houses, and that sum of money, that you should live in a house like this, without servants, without dress—your clothes are not dress—without a coach—and that you should be allowed…. Pray, Molly, what does your mother think of it?"

"My mother teaches me to do what she herself does."

"Yet you came the other night in a costly dress, and you danced the minuet."

"The director of the ceremonies, Mr. Prappet, taught me the dance."

"You acquitted yourself tolerably, considering your partner, who made everybody laugh. There was, however, too much of the dancing school in your style. A minuet, child, should convey the idea of gesture unstudied. Not natural. Heaven forbid that the world of fashion should ever be natural! No, but springing out of the courtesy of the situation, in accordance with the practice of the polite world. The cavalier woos the maiden, not in the country fashion of swain and shepherdess, whose wooing is a plain and direct question with a plain and direct answer, but with formal advances according to well understood rules, which demand certain postures and gestures. Who dressed you?"

"The dressmaker from Norwich who has a shop in Mercers' Row. She had the dress from London."

"The dress was passable. For most girls it would have been too costly. But it proclaimed the heiress. It also awakened the envy, hatred, and malice of the whole assembly—I mean of the ladies. Then there were the jewels. Child, are you really possessed of all those jewels? Are they truly your own? Are they truly real?"

"I suppose so. They have been locked up for fifty years. My grandfather, who was a ship's captain, brought them from India. They were given to him in return for some service by a native prince. No one has ever worn them except myself. The captain wanted to make the whole world understand that I have these fine things. That is why I took some of them out and put them on."

"The world received this intelligence, child, with envy unspeakable. Since the assembly the ladies have been entirely occupied in taking away your character. You are a strolling actress; your jewels are coloured glass; your silk dress is a stage costume; I will not repeat the many kind things said concerning you."

"Oh! But what have I done? What am I to do?"

"Be not alarmed. Everybody's character is taken away in turns, and nobody is one whit the worse. With a girl like you, so innocent of the world, the more your character is taken away the better it becomes."

"Yet I would rather——"

"Tut, tut. What matters their talk. But about those jewels, my dear. I am curious about them. Will you let me see them all? If you only knew how jewels carry me away!"

Molly went away, and presently returned with a large casket of wood carved with all kinds of devices, such as figures, flowers, fruit, and leaves. Within there were trays lined with red velvet, the colour now somewhat decayed; on these trays reposed the jewels she had worn, and many more. There were strings of pearls; coils of gold chains; bracelets and necklaces; rings, brooches; all kinds imaginable, set with precious stones, diamonds, emeralds, pearls, rubies, turquoise, sapphires, opals—every jewel that is known to men and prized by women.

The Lady Anastasia gazed upon them with hunger and longing; she took up the chains and strings of pearls and rubies and suffered them to fall gently through her fingers, as if the mere touch was sovereign against all ills; she sighed as she laid them down. She sprang to her feet and began to hang them about Molly's neck and arms; she twisted the pearls in and about her hair; she strung the gold chains about her neck; she covered her again, as she had been covered at the assembly, with the glittering gauds.

"Oh!" she cried, sinking into her chair. "'Tis too much! Take them off again, Molly, I burst—I faint—I die—with envy. Oh! that you, who care so little for them, should have so many, and I, who care so much, should have so few. Women have risked their honour, their name, their immortal souls, for a tenth part of the treasures that you have in this casket. And yet you wonder why they take away your character!"

Molly laughed and shut the box. "As I never saw them before yesterday I do not understand their envy."

"No—you do not understand. Ah! how much happiness you lose in not understanding. For you know not the joy of seeing all faces grow black and all looks bitter. Well, put them away, out of my sight."

Then she turned to another subject.

"Tell me, Molly, what your guardian designs for you. Are you to marry some merchant who distributes casks of turpentine about the country? Or a sailor who pretends to be a fine gentleman and dances like an elephant. The handling of this noble fortune is surely above the ambition of such gentry as these."

"Indeed I do not know. The captain says that he must look higher than a merchant or a sailor of Lynn. And he will not think of any gentleman of the country, neither, because they are all hard drinkers."

"The captain is difficult to please. Methinks a gentleman would at least bestow promotion. Your children would be gentlefolk, I dare say, with the help of this great fortune. What does he want, however?"

"He talks about finding a young man of position, who is also virtuous."

"Oh! He is indeed ambitious. My dear, a young man of position who wants a fortune is easily found. He grows and flourishes in the park, like blackberries on a hedge. But when you speak of virtue, the virtuous young man is not so common. 'Tis a wicked world, my dear."

"The captain has spoken on the subject to Lord Fylingdale."

"I believe he has done so. He may, indeed, entirely depend upon his lordship's advice, whether it concerns the placing of your fortune or the bestowal of your hand."

"The captain, I know, thinks very highly of Lord Fylingdale's judgment."

"I hope also of his virtue. Indeed, but for his virtue, his lordship would be even as other men, which would be a pity for other men—I mean, for him."

She then began to give Molly advice about her next appearance at the assembly.

"You must come again; you must come often; I will take care that you find partners. You must not show that you are moved in the least by the treatment you have received. But I would advise a more simple dress. Come to me, my dear, and my maid shall dress you. A young girl like yourself ought not to wear so much silk and lace, and the addition of the gold network was more fitting for a matron of rank than a young unmarried woman. And as for the jewels, I would recommend one gold chain or a necklace of pearls and a bracelet or two—I saw one with sapphires, very becoming—and do not put the diamonds in your hair. And you must on no account come with the bear who flopped and sprawled with you before."

"Poor Jack!"

"Jack? Is he your brother?"

"No. He is my old friend. And he is mate on one of my ships—The Lady of Lynn."

"I dare say he would like to command the other Lady of Lynn. But, Molly, pray be careful. A Jack-in-the-box is apt to jump up high. Take care."

So saying she rose to go, but stopped for a few last words.

"Well, my dear, you must seriously prepare yourself to take the place that belongs to you by right of your fortune. After all, what is rank compared with wealth? I have no doubt that some sprig of quality will be found to take your hand—with your fortune. At first the women will flout you. Keep up your courage. You can buy their kindness; you can buy it by judicious gifts, or by finding out their secrets. I will help you there, my dear. I know secrets enough to crack the reputation of half the town."

Molly shuddered. "You make me afraid," she said. "Am I never to have friends?"

The Lady Anastasia shook her head. "Friends, my dear? What does the girl mean? We are all friends; of course we are friends, and we all backbite each other and carry scandal and intrigue. Friends, my dear? In the world of fashion?"

"I shall never like the world of fashion."

"Not at first. But the liking will come. There is no other way of life that can be compared with it. You will rise at noon after a cup of chocolate; you will spend the afternoon in dressing; you will go out in your coach or your chair to breathe the air of the park; you will take dinner at four; you will go to the theatre or the opera at six; you will sit down to cards at ten. My simple native, you know not half the joys that await you in the dear, delightful, scandalous town."

So she went on, and before she departed she had made Molly promise to visit her and to receive a continuation of those lessons by which she hoped, in the interests of Lord Fylingdale, to make the girl discontented and ready to throw herself, fortune and all, into the arms of herself and her associates. As yet she had made little impression. Molly was not anxious for any change. She would be content to go on as before—the darling of the old guardian—with her friends and the people among whom she had lived all her life—simple in their tastes, homely in their manners; to be like her mother, a maker of bread, cakes, and puddings; a brewer of ale; the mistress of the still-room.

"Why, Jack," she said, telling me something of this lesson in politeness. "I am to go away; to live in London; to leave my mother; never to see the captain any more; never to do anything again; not to make any more puddings—such as you like so much; to play cards every night; to have no friends; and to backbite and slander everybody I know. If this is the polite world, Jack, let me never see it. 'Tis my daily prayer."

You shall hear how her prayer was granted, yet not in the way she would have asked. And this, I say again, is the way in which many of our prayers are granted. We get what is good for us—if we pray for that good thing—but not by the way we would have chosen.