What followed, by invention and design of the pious ecclesiastic, Mr. Purdon, was a villainy even greater than that at first designed—more daring, more cruel.

The bride, accompanied by the minister officiating in the late ceremony, walked back to her lodging. She was still exultant in the first glow and triumph of her revenge. He, on the other hand, walked downcast, stealthily glancing at his companion, his big head moving sideways like the head of a bear, his sallow cheeks paler than was customary. The bridegroom, for his part, flung himself into his chair, and so was carried to the lady's lodging. A strange wedding procession!

She threw off her cloak and her domino, and stood before her newly-made lord, her eyes bright, her face flushed, her lips quivering. She was filled with revenge only half satiated; but revenge can never be wholly satisfied; and she was filled with the triumph of victory.

"I have won!" she said; "you tried to deceive me again, Ludovick. But I have won. You have been caught in your own toils."

He took the nearest chair, sitting down in silence, but his face was dark. As she looked upon him, some of the triumph died out of her eyes; her cheek lost its glow; she began to be frightened. What would he say—or do—next? As for his reverence, he stood close to the door as if ready for instant flight. Indeed, there was cause for uncertainty because the man was desperate and his sword was at his side.

"Silence!" he said, "or I may kill you."

Then there was silence. The other two did not speak. The lady threw herself upon the sofa, twisting her fingers nervously.

"You have married me, you say. You shall be a happy wife. You cannot imagine how happy you will be."

In a contest of tongues the woman has the best of it.

"So long as you, my lord, enjoy the same happiness, or even greater, I shall not repine. You intended my happiness in another way."

"You have destroyed my last chance. It is a good beginning."

"A better ending, my lord. The fond mistress whom you have fooled so long becomes the wife. It is not the duty of a wife to provide for her husband. Nor will the Countess of Fylingdale allow the Earl to enter her house. She will want the proceeds of her bank for herself. In a word, my lord, you are not only my husband, but you are now privileged to provide for yourself."

He sprang to his feet and fell to common and violent cursing, invoking the immediate and miraculous intervention of that Power which he had all his life insulted and defied. The lady received the torrent without a word; what can one say in reply to a man who only curses? But she was afraid of him; his words were like blows; the headlong rage of the man cowed her; she bent her head and covered her face with her hands.

Then Mr. Purdon ventured to interfere. "Let me speak," he said. "The thing is done. It cannot be undone. Would it not be better to make the best of it? Does it help any of us—does it help your lordship—to revile and to threaten?"

The bridegroom turned upon him savagely. "You to speak!" he said. "You, who are too mealy mouthed and too virtuous even to tear up a page from a register."

"I do not wish to be unfrocked, or to be sent to the plantations, my lord. Meantime, it would be doing you the worst service in the world if I were to tear out that page."

"Oh! you talk—you always talk."

"Of old, my lord, I have sometimes talked to some purpose."

"Talk again, then. What do you mean by disservice? You will say next, I suppose, that this play acting was fortunate for me."

"We may sometimes turn disasters into victories. If your lordship will listen——"

His patron sat down again—the late storm leaving its trace in a scowling face and twitching lips.

"Why the devil was not Molly there? How did this woman find out? How did she know that Molly was not coming?"

"I can answer these questions," said the lady. "Molly would not come because she learned last night, just in time, certain facts in the private life of the bridegroom——"

"What?" Lord Fylingdale betrayed his terror. "She has heard? What has she heard?" He had not, as you have heard, received Molly's letter, nor had he opened the captain's letter. Therefore, he knew nothing.

"She had heard more than enough. You have lost your bride and her fortune. I might have warned you, but I preferred to take her place."

"What has she heard?"

"Apparently, all that there is to be heard. Not, of course, all that could be told if Mr. Purdon were to speak. Merely things of public notoriety. That you are a gambler and a rake; that you have ruined many; that you are ruined yourself. Oh! Quite enough for a girl of her class to learn. In our rank we want much more before we turn our back upon a man. I, myself, know much more. Yet I have married you."

"She has heard—" Lord Fylingdale repeated.

"Dear, dear!" said the parson. "All this is most unfortunate—most unfortunate. Your lordship has already lost your bride—lost her," he repeated; "lost her—and her fortune. Is there no way out?"

"Who brought these reports? Show me the man!"

"Ta-ta-ta! You need not bluster, Ludovick. Reports of this kind are in the air; they cling to your name; they travel with you. What? The notorious Lord Fylingdale? They have come, you see, at last, even to this unfashionable corner of the island. They are here, although we have done so much to declare your virtues. Acknowledge that you have been fortunate so far."

"Are these reports your doing, madam? Is this a part of your infernal jealousy?"

"I do not know who put them about. It is not likely that I should start such reports—especially after the scandal at Bath. I am, in fact, like his reverence here, too much involved myself. Oh! we have beautiful characters—all three of us."

"Who told Molly?"

"I say that I know nothing. She has been warned. That is all I can tell you, and she has been advised to take no further steps until full explanations have been made in answer to these rumours."

"Full explanations," repeated Mr. Purdon. "Dear, dear! Most unfortunate! most unfortunate!"

"Your lordship can refer to his reverence here, or to the admirable Semple; or to the immaculate Sir Harry; or to the colonel—that man of nice and well-known honour—for your character. But who will give them a character? Understand," she said, facing him, "you had lost your bride before you got out of bed this morning. Your only chance now is to imitate the example of Tom Rising and to carry her off. And she will then stick a knife between your ribs as she intended to do to that worthy gentleman. But no, I forgot, you cannot do that, you are already married."

His reverence again interposed. "With submission, my lord, some explanations will be asked. It will not, certainly, be convenient to offer any. There is, however, one way—and only one—that I can suggest." He looked at the Lady Anastasia. "It will be, perhaps, at first, distasteful to her ladyship. It has, however, the very great advantage of securing the fortune, which, I take it, is what your lordship chiefly desires. As regards the girl, she is in point of manners and appearance so far beneath your lordship's notice that we need not consider her in the matter."

"I care nothing about the girl, but hang me if I understand one single syllable of what you mean, or how you can secure the fortune without the girl."

"It is not always necessary to carry your wife about with you. She might be left with her friends. A marriage without settlement places, I believe, a woman's fortune absolutely in the hands of her husband."

Neither of his listeners made the least sign of understanding what he meant.

"Strange!" he said. "I should have thought that this way would have been seized upon immediately. It is wonderful that you do not understand."

"Pray, Mr. Purdon," said the lady, "do not credit me, at least, with the power of following your mind in all its crookedness."

"Let us consider the situation. I was somewhat surprised when your lordship instructed me to come to this place. Surprised and suspicious. Naturally, I kept my eyes open. I very soon discovered what was proposed. Here was a girl whom Semple had represented to your lordship as a great heiress. You want an heiress at this juncture. I followed the course of events with satisfaction. You were civil to the girl when all the company trampled upon her; you were affable to the old fool, her guardian; you made private and personal inquiry into her fortune; you succeeded in representing yourself as a man of virtue and high principle—all this was cleverly managed. But you made one mistake. You concealed your true intentions from the Lady Anastasia."

"It was her infernal jealousy. Why couldn't she let me marry the girl and leave her in Gloucestershire—out of the way?"

"A great mistake. I thought that my pupil knew the sex better. Jealousy, my lord, supposes love; and love can always be directed into the other channel of submission. Well, the marriage was arranged; you had already taken the precaution of getting a licence. Then, at the last moment, these sinister reports began. How far they can be explained away—how many others they involve; how many scandals they revive—we know not. But explanation—explanation—no, no—that would be the devil!"

"Go on, man. You talk forever."

"Had these reports been delayed but a single day—had they arrived after the marriage."

"But they arrived before the marriage."

"Quite so; which brings me to my proposal. Here you are—at your last guinea. So am I. You can raise no more money. If I were not your domestic chaplain I should be in the King's Bench. I have lived on your bounty for ten years and more. I hoped to go on with the same support. To be sure I have earned my money. I have been of service on many occasions, but I am grateful, and I would, if I could, for the sake of old times, assist your lordship on this occasion."

"I want all the assistance I can get. That is quite certain."

"And I want all the money I can get. I always intended, somehow or other, to get a slice of this pudding. If I put it into your lordship's power to claim and to seize upon this fortune, which seems to have been snatched out of your hands at the last moment, I must have my share."

"Your share? What do you call your share?"

"Twelve thousand pounds."

"Twelve thousand devils!"

"You can get nothing without me. If you refuse I can, at least, tell everybody the pleasant truth about this morning's work, and how the biter was bit."

"Go on with your proposal, then."

"You will give me a promise—a bill, if you like, payable in two months—you will not be able to get through all that money in two months—for twelve thousand pounds."

"It is a monstrous sum. But, on condition that you place this girl's fortune in my hands—however, it is impossible. Well, you shall have my promise—on my honour as a peer." He placed his right hand upon his heart.

The clergyman grinned. "Your lordship gives me more than I dare to ask. It is a bill—a written document—not a promise, even on your honour as a peer. Give me that and I will show you the way. Stay—nothing can be done without me—I will tell you my scheme before you sign that paper. Now, listen—you had already lost your bride when you arrived at the church. Her ladyship most fortunately——"

"How, sir, most fortunately?"

"A moment. Madam saw her way to the revenge of jealousy. She took the place of the bride. And she was married as Miss Molly; she signed the name of Molly Miller; the licence was in that name. The clerk who was present has, I am sure, already carried the news all over the place. We have the evidence, therefore, of the bridegroom, the parson, the clerk, the licence, the registers. Who is to prove that the real Molly was at home all the time? Captain Crowle, perhaps, though I doubt. The girl herself—but who will believe her? My lord, you have married Miss Molly, and not the Lady Anastasia."

"What then?"

"You have only to claim your bride."

"Sir. You forget that I am the bride," Lady Anastasia interposed, quickly.

Mr. Purdon bowed and smiled, rubbing his hands softly. "With submission, madam. I do not advise that his lordship should carry her off, nor that he should claim her ad mensam et torum, as we scholars say. His principles would not, I am sure, allow that he should carry off an unmarried woman. Not at all. He will leave her with her friends. Indeed, he would prefer to do so. I suggest only that we should proclaim the marriage and lay hands upon the fortune."

"She is to be the countess. And what am I to be?"

"His lordship's best friend. You will rescue him in his deepest need; you will restore him to affluence; it will be a service, madam, of the purest and most disinterested affection, instead of an ugly and ruinous revenge. Heavens! Can you hesitate?"

Thus did he gloss over the villainy so that the poor woman almost believed that she was entering upon a course of virtuous benevolence, and, as the man said, a service of love.

"But the girl—Molly. She will not consent to be a countess in name."

"She and her friends will protest; but they will be overborne; meantime, she has the virtue and the pride of her station. Will she even consent, do you think, to call herself a countess when she is not married? Why, we actually make a ladder for ourselves to climb thereby, out of her virtue."

He looked at the lady no longer stealthily, but full in the face, with a smile, as if he was proposing a scheme of the noblest kind; as if there was nothing to be hidden, and there were no perjuries to be advanced.

Lord Fylingdale, too, turned to her with a face of inquiry and doubt.

"What is your lordship's opinion?"

"It is a scheme of great audacity. It will require bold handling."

"It shall be boldly handled, if I may advise."

"It is certain to be resisted with the utmost indignation."

"Of that there is no doubt. But the end is also certain. Nothing can withstand the evidence of our case. It is so clear that I myself am of opinion that the bride was actually Miss Molly."

They both looked at Lady Anastasia, who made no response—her eyes in her lap.

"The truth will lie with us three," the tempter went on. "Only with us three. None of us will reveal it."

"As regards jealousy, Anastasia, the girl will be here, and everything will continue just as before."

She threw up her arms and sprang to her feet. "Oh!" she cried, "it is the most monstrous villainy."

"We need not think of the girl. We must think of ourselves."

"A service of love," murmured Mr. Purdon, "a beautiful, a noble service of love!"

"The fortune is immense, Anastasia. It is ridiculous that the girl should have so much. We will leave her a competence. Besides, there are the jewels."

Lady Anastasia gasped.

"You yourself will adorn these jewels. It will be my greatest pleasure to atone for my ill-judged deception by giving you all those jewels—the diamonds, the rubies, the chains of pearls, and all the rest of the pretty glittering things." He took her hands, the parson looking on all the time as a physician looks on at a blood-letting or an operation. "What can that girl do with jewels? They shall all be yours. Forgive me, Anastasia, and let us again work together as we have already done—you and I—with no more jealousy and no more suspicions."

He kissed her hand. His manner was changed almost suddenly; he became soft, caressing, and persuasive. It was the old charm which the poor lady could never resist. She suffered him to hold her hand; she allowed him to kiss her hand; her eyes grew humid.

"Oh!" she murmured, "I must do everything you ask, Ludovick, if you are only kind."

"How can I be anything but kind?" he replied, with a smile. "You must forget and forgive. The thought that all I had schemed and planned was torn from me—and by you, Anastasia—by you—was too much. My mind was upset; I know not what I said. Forgive me!"

"Oh, Ludovick! I forgive."

"And the jewels shall atone—the lovely jewels. You shall have them all."

"You will truly give me the jewels?"

"Truly, my Anastasia. After all, we are man and wife. Henceforth we shall only live for each other. Your happiness shall be mine. The jewels shall be yours."

She yielded; she fell into his arms. There was a complete, a touching reconciliation!

"I agree, then, Purdon," said his lordship. "We both agree. It remains only to choose the best time, the best place, the best manner."

"Let it be the boldest manner; the most public place; before the largest company. Let there be no mistake possible. Leave this to me, my lord. Twelve thousand pounds. Your ladyship will oblige me with pen, ink, and paper? I may point out" (he turned to his former pupil with an ugly grin) "that if this promise, or bond, or bill is not met I shall proclaim the whole business from the housetop."

In other words, Lord Fylingdale was going to declare that it was Molly, and none other, who was married that morning at six o'clock, and to assume the rights and powers of a husband. So that the news of his evil reputation came, after all, too late to be of any use. And as for explanations, who would have the right to ask any explanations of a married man on behalf of his wife.