This was the day when all the villainy came to a head and did its worst and met with the first instalment of exposure. I have told you what was done at the church and what was our own bewilderment, not knowing what to believe or how to explain things. For my own part, though I might have guessed, because I had discovered the jealousy of Lady Anastasia; yet the truth, even the possibility of the truth, never came into my head. I had no manner of doubt, in my own mind, that it was Molly herself, and none other, whom I saw standing as a bride at the altar rails with Lord Fylingdale for a bridegroom. The fact, I say, admitted of no dispute. Yet, why should Molly change her mind? And why should she deny the fact?

I sought her at the house. I begged her to come into the garden and to talk with me privately. Then I asked those two questions. Her answer to both of them was most amazing.

"Jack," she said, "I know not what you mean. I have not changed my mind. It is impossible for me to marry a man of whom such things can be said unless he can prove that they are false. How can you think that I have changed my mind? As regards this talk about an early wedding, what do I know about it? At six o'clock I was in the kitchen with my mother and Nigra. I have not been out of the house at all."

Then I persisted. I asked her if she could have gone out and had perhaps forgotten.

"Forgotten!" she repeated, scornfully. "Do you suppose that a woman could by any possibility forget her own wedding? But what is it, Jack? What is in your mind?"

Then I told her. "Molly," I said, "last night I forgot your letter. There was so much to think and talk about with these disclosures that I forgot. This morning I remembered. Then I hurried ashore. I ran to the 'Crown'; it was just upon six. I was too late. His lordship had gone out in a chair. I ran to the church. It was just after six. The doors were open; I heard voices. I went in, Molly—do not say that I am dreaming—I saw you—you I say—you, yourself—with your pink silk cloak, the hood pulled over your head, a domino to hide your face—just as had been arranged."

"You saw me, Jack? You saw me? How could you see me?"

"And your hand was in Lord Fylingdale's, and Mr. Purdon was pronouncing the words which made you his wife. 'Whom God hath joined together let not man put asunder.'"

She stared at me with blank amazement.

"In my pink silk cloak? Jack, are you in your right mind or is it I myself who am gone distraught?"

"Indeed, I know not which."

"Did you speak to me? Did you congratulate the bride, Jack?"

"No; I was sick and sorry, Molly. I went out of the church. The clerk, however, has been telling the story of this private marriage all over the town. Everybody knows it. The marriage is duly entered in the registers. It was a marriage by the archbishop's licence. The man Purdon may be all that the vicar's letter exposed, but the marriage was in order."

Molly said nothing for a while. Then she said gently: "The letter from the bookseller, your cousin, spoke of Lord Fylingdale as ruined. If he were to marry a woman with money it would become his own."

"I believe that there are sometimes letters—bills of lading, or whatever they are called—which gives the wife the control of her own property; otherwise, everything becomes her husband's."

"Why did he wish to marry me? There was never a gleam of love in his eye—nor a note of love in his voice. Why—except that he might get my money?"

"That is, I am convinced, the reason."

"Villainy—villainy—villainy. Jack, this is a conspiracy. Some woman has been made to play my part. Then he will claim me as his wife, and lay hands upon all that I have."

"No, Molly, he shall not while you have friends."

"Friends cannot help where the law orders otherwise. So much I know, Jack. Yet you can do one thing for me, you can protect me from the man. He must not take me away."

"All Lynn will fight for you."

"Jack, I want more; I want all Lynn to believe me. You have known me all my life. Am I capable of such a change of mind? Am I capable of so monstrous a falsehood as to steal out to marry this man and then to declare that I have never left the house? Oh, the villain! the villain!" Her cheek was aflame; her eyes flashed.

I seized her hand. "Molly," I cried, "they shall all believe you. I will tell the truth everywhere."

Just then the garden door was thrown open and Sam Semple appeared. With a smiling face and a bending knee he advanced bowing low.

"Permit me to offer congratulations to the Countess of Fylingdale."

"I am not a countess. I am plain Molly Miller."

Sam looked disconcerted and puzzled. I perceived that, plot or no plot, he had no hand in it.

"I am come," he said, "from his lordship——"

"I have nothing to do with his lordship."

"Surely, madam—surely, my lady—there is some misunderstanding. I am sent by his lordship with his compliments to ask when it will be convenient for the countess to receive him."

"You have been informed, I suppose, that I was married to him this morning."

"Certainly, my lady."

"Then go back to Lord Fylingdale and tell him that he is a villain and a liar; that I have learned his true character; that I am not married to him; and that if he ventures to molest me my friends will protect me. Give him that message, sir, word for word."

"I believe, Sam," I said, for his discomfiture and bewilderment made him reel and stagger, "that you have no hand in this new villainy. It was you, however, who brought that man to Lynn, knowing his true character and his antecedents. Let us never see your face here again. Go; if I thought you were in this new plot I would serve you again as the captain served you three years ago."

He went away without another word.

Then the captain came home, his face troubled.

"I know not," he said, "what has happened in this place. I have seen Lord Fylingdale. I told him of the charges and accusations."

"Well? Did he deny them?"

"He denied nothing, and he admitted nothing. He says that you married him this morning, Molly."

"I know. He has sent Sam Semple here with the same story. Captain, you believe me, do you not?"

"Believe you, Molly? Why, if I did not believe you, I should believe nothing. Believe you? My dear, I would as soon doubt the prayer book." He laid his hand upon her arm and the tears came into his eyes. "My dear, I have been an old fool. But I did it for the best. He says that you are his wife. Let him come and take you—if he can!"

"It is not Molly that he would take, it is Molly's fortune."

"Why, sir," she said, "if he takes the whole and wastes and dissipates it, so long as he does not take me, what does it matter?"

Then the vicar came again, and the whole of the business had to be discussed again. At first, he adhered to his theory of unconscious action, because a scholar always likes to explain every theory by examples chosen from Latin and Greek authors. He had looked up several more stories of the kind from I know not what folio volumes in his library, and came prepared to defend his opinion. But the absolute certainty of Molly's assertion; the evidence of her mother, who declared that Molly had been working with her since half-past five; the firm belief of the captain; and my own change of opinion and the possibility of deception shook him. Finally, he abandoned his learned view, and adopted our more modern explanation of the case, viz, that the marriage was a sham, and that the woman was some creature suborned to personate Molly.

"But what woman can she be?" asked the vicar. "She can write. I have seen the registers; she has signed in a full, round hand, without bad spelling. The woman, therefore, is educated. My dear, we may perhaps find the woman. My worthy and pious brother in Orders is most certainly in the conspiracy. Where there are three one is generally a traitor. To begin with, the scheme is both bold and dangerous. It is the first step towards obtaining a large sum of money under false pretences. Their necks are in danger, even the neck of a noble earl.

"It is inconceivable," he went on, after a little reflection, "how a woman could be found to play such a part. She must be the mistress of the earl; no other could be trusted."

"What should be done meantime?"

"We must meet the enemy on his own ground. He spreads abroad the report that he married Molly this morning. We must publicly and openly deny the fact. Captain, there will be a large company at the assembly this evening. You will take Molly there. I will go with you. Jack shall put on his Sunday best, and shall also go with us. We must be prepared for an impudent claim, and we must be ready with a prompt denial. Let us court publicity."

This was clearly the best advice possible. We were left unmolested all the afternoon, though the captain made me stay as a kind of garrison in case of any attempt at abduction being made.

In the evening, Molly, in her chair and dressed in her finery, was carried to the gardens, while the captain, the vicar, and myself formed a bodyguard.

We arrived after the dancing had begun. Lady Anastasia was looking on, but her court of ladies and young men, for some reason, seemed to have melted away. She stood almost alone, save for the support of the old beau Sir Harry. The colonel was also with her. And the Reverend Benjamin Purdon stood behind her.

The music was in the gallery at the end of the long room; the dancing was carried on in the middle. Lady Anastasia was standing on the right of the gallery; most of the company on the left. Molly with the captain and followed by the vicar and myself turned to the left.

On her entrance all eyes were fixed upon the newly made countess. She had come without her lord. Was this part of the secret—a secret known to all the world? Or was his lordship before the whole company about to lead his bride to the first place as became her newly acquired rank? Some of the ladies regarded her with looks of hatred, the successors of the looks of scorn with which they had at first welcomed her. Most of them, however, were kindly; a tale of love always meets with a friendly reception; not a woman in the place but would have taken her place with joy unmeasured; as no other woman could, they were ready to accept their fate and to make friends with the successful and the fortunate winner of so great a prize.

It was a great prize, indeed, if they only knew!

The minuets were over and the country dances were about to begin when Lord Fylingdale arrived, followed, as usual, by his secretary. He stood at the door, he looked around; then, with the cold pride which never failed him, he stepped across the room and bowed low to Molly. "Madam," he said, "with your permission, we will dance this country dance together before I take you away with me."

"My lord," replied Molly aloud, so that the whole company heard and trembled, "I shall not dance with you this evening, nor on any other evening."

"She will never again dance with you, my lord; nor will she hold any discourse with you; nor will she willingly admit you to her presence." It was the vicar who spoke, because the man and the occasion proved too much for the good old captain, who could only roll thunderously between his teeth things more fitted for the quelling of a mutiny than for dealing with such a man as his lordship.

"Pray, sir," said Lord Fylingdale, stepping back, "what is the meaning of this? Pray, madam," he turned to Molly, "what is the meaning of this sudden change? Captain Crowle, have I, or have I not, the right to claim my wife?"

The vicar stepped forward and confronted him. His tall, thin figure, his long cassock, his thin and ascetic face contrasted with the over-haughtiness of his adversary.

"My lord," he asked, "how long has this lady been your wife?"

"We were married," he said, "at six o'clock this morning, by the Rev. Mr. Benjamin Purdon, who is here to bear witness to the fact. The wedding was private at my request, because, as you may perhaps believe, I was not anxious to join in the wedding feast with a company of boors, bumpkins, and sailors."

"Ladies and gentlemen,"—the vicar raised his voice and by a gesture silenced the orchestra—"I have to lay before you a conspiracy which I believe is unparalleled in any history. You are aware that Lord Fylingdale, who stands before you, came to the spa a few weeks ago for purposes best known to himself. You will also doubtless remember that certain persons, who arrived before him, were loud in his praises. He was said by them to be a model of all the virtues. I will not repeat the things that were said…."

"All this," said Lord Fylingdale, "is beside the mark. I come to claim my wife."

"Among those who accepted these statements for gospel was Captain Crowle, the guardian of the young lady beside me. It was to him a great honour to be admitted to converse with so distinguished a nobleman and to be permitted to consult with him as to the affairs of his ward. He even informed his lordship of the extent of the lady's fortune, which is far greater than was generally understood. Thereupon his lordship began to pay attention of a marked character. You have all, I believe, remarked these attentions. Then came the attempted abduction and the lady's rescue by Lord Fylingdale. After this he formally offered his hand and his rank to the lady. The honour seemed very great. He was accepted. He then engaged the lady to undertake a private marriage without festivities, to which she consented. She promised, in fact, to be married at St. Nicholas Church this very morning, at six o'clock."

"All this," said Lord Fylingdale, coldly, "is quite true. Yet why you detain the company by the narrative I do not understand. The lady kept her promise. I met her at the place and time appointed. We were married. Once more, Captain Crowle, I claim my wife."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the vicar continued, "there is but one reply to the last statement, for the lady did not keep her engagement."

"Sir," his lordship advanced a step, "are you aware of the meaning of words? Do you assert that I was not married at that time and in that place?"

The Reverend Benjamin Purdon advanced. "Sir," he addressed the vicar, "like his lordship, I am amazed at these words. Why, sir, I myself, at six o'clock this morning, performed the marriage service, as prescribed by the Church, for the Right Honourable the Earl of Fylingdale and Miss Mary Miller."

By this time the company were crowding round eagerly listening. No one could understand what had happened. The bridegroom claimed his bride; the bride's friends denied that she was married.

"Yesterday," the vicar went on, "there arrived, simultaneously, three letters; one of them, an anonymous letter, was addressed to Captain Crowle; one from a respectable bookseller in London was addressed to Mr. Pentecrosse, master of the grammar school; and one from a certain fellow of his college at Cambridge was addressed to me. All these letters, together, contained charges which show how deeply we have been deceived."

"Have a care! Have a care!" said Lord Fylingdale.

At that moment another arrival took place. It was Tom Rising, the wounded man. He was pale and weak; he leaned upon the arms of two gentlemen; he was followed by a figure, strange, indeed, in a polite assembly.

"By these letters and other sources," the vicar continued, "I learn first as to the noble lord's friends—the following particulars. Pray give me your attention.

"I find that the Lady Anastasia Langston hath been lately presented by the grand jury of Middlesex for keeping a house riotous, of great extravagance, luxury, idleness, and ill fame. She is the third on the list. The first," the vicar read from a paper, "is the Lady Mordington and her gaming house in Covent Garden; the second is the Lady Castle and her gaming house, also in Covent Garden; and the third is the Lady Anastasia Langston and her gaming house, in or near Hanover Square, all in this county.

"I am informed that Lady Anastasia hath held a bank every night in this place to the hurt and loss of many.

"I turn next to the case of the Rev. Benjamin Purdon, who stands before you. He was the tutor of Lord Fylingdale; he is described as the companion of his vices; he was the cause last year of a grievous scandal at Bath; he is the author of a ribald piece of verse by which he has corrupted many. No bishop would sanction his acceptance of the smallest preferment."

"This is very surprising," said Mr. Purdon, shaking his big head. "But we shall see, we shall see, immediately."

"There are next, the two gentlemen known as Sir Harry Malyns and Colonel Lanyon. Their occupation is to act as decoy ducks; to lure young men to the gaming table, and to plunder them when they are caught."

Both these gentlemen started, but neither replied.

"I now come to the noble lord before me. He is a most notorious profligate; he shares in Lady Anastasia's gaming house; he has long since been refused admittance into the houses of persons of honour; he is an inveterate gambler; he has ruined his own estate—sold the family plate and pictures, library, everything; he is, at this moment, unable to borrow or to raise the smallest sum of money. The fleet and the King's Bench Prisons are full of the unfortunate tradesmen who trusted him and the young rakes whom he has ruined.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this was the story which reached us yesterday, fortunately, in time. Miss Molly broke off her promise, and wrote to his lordship for explanations. Captain Crowle called upon his lordship this morning for explanations. He was met with derision; he was told that he was too late, the young lady was already married—there was no necessity for any explanations."

The company murmured. Voices were raised demanding explanations.

Said his lordship, coldly, "These inventions need no reply. I claim my wife."

"She is not your wife," said the vicar. "We are ready to prove that at six o'clock the young lady was already engaged with her mother in the stillroom, or in some other occupations. Of that there is no doubt possible. But"—and here he lifted a warning finger, but his lordship paid no attention—"there was a wedding early this morning. His reverence Mr. Purdon performed the service; the wedding was in the name of Mary Miller as bride; the registers are signed 'Mary Miller.' This is, therefore, a conspiracy."

"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.