  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." |
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