declarations.
"Not to either. To another place, where they know not thy name or thy fame. Very good. I thought I could depend upon your loyalty. As for arrangements and time, you will hear from my secretary." So my lord turned on his heel and his chaplain was dismissed. He remained for a moment, looking after his master doubtfully. The order liked him not. He was growing old and would have chosen, had he the power of choice, some fat city benefice with two or three country livings thrown in. He was tired of his dependence: perhaps he was tired of a life that ill became his profession: perhaps he could no longer enjoy it as of old. There was, at least, no sign of repentance as there was no touch of the spiritual life in his face, which was stamped with the plain and visible marks of the world, the flesh and the devil. What is that stamp? Nobody can paint it, or describe it: yet it is understood and recognised whenever one sees it. And it stood out legible so that all those who ran might read upon the face of this reverend and learned divine.
When the levee was finished and everybody gone, Lord Fylingdale sank into a chair. I know not the nature of his thoughts save that they were not pleasant, for his face grew darker every moment. Finally, he sprang to his feet and rang the bell. "Tell Mr. Semple that I would speak with him," he ordered.
Mr. Semple, the same Samuel whom you have seen under a basting from the captain, was now changed and for the better. His dress was simple. No one could guess from his apparel the nature of his occupation. For all professions and all crafts there is a kind of uniform. The divine wears gown and cassock, bands and wig, which proclaim his calling: the lawyer is also known by his gown and marks his rank at the bar by coif and wig: the attorney puts on broadcloth black of hue: the physician assumes black velvet, a magisterial wig, and a gold-headed cane. The officer wears the King's scarlet; the nobleman his star: the sprig of quality puts on fine apparel and assumes an air and manner unknown to Cheapside and Ludgate Hill: you may also know him by his speech. The merchant wears black velvet with gold buttons, gold buckles, white silk stockings and a gold-laced hat; the shopkeeper substitutes silver for gold and cloth for velvet: the clerk has brown cloth metal buttons and worsted stockings. As for the crafts, has not each its own jacket, sleeves, apron, cap, and badge?
But for this man, where would we place him? What calling did he represent? For he wore the flowered waist-coat—somewhat frayed and stained, of a beau, and the black coat of the merchant: the worsted stockings of the clerk and his metal buttons. Yet he was neither gentleman, merchant, shopkeeper, clerk, nor craftsman. He was a member of that fraternity which is no fraternity because there is no brotherhood among them all; in which every man delights to slander, gird at, and to depreciate his brother. In other words he wore the dress—which is no uniform—of a poet. At this time he also called himself secretary to his lordship having by ways known only to himself, and by wrigglings up back stairs, and services of a kind never proclaimed to the world, made himself useful. The position also granted him, as it granted certain tradesmen, immunity from arrest. He had the privilege of walking abroad through a street full of hungering creditors, and that, not on Sundays only, like most of his tribe, but on every day in the week.
He obeyed the summons and entered the room with a humble cringe.
"Semple," said his lordship, crossing his legs and playing with the tassel of his sword knot, "I have read thy letter——"
"Your lordship will impute——"
"First, what is the meaning of the preamble?"
"I have been your lordship's secretary for six months. I have therefore perused all your lordship's letters. I have also in my zeal for your lordship's interests—looked about me. And I discovered—what I ventured to state in that preamble."
"Well, sir?"
"Namely, that the Fylingdale estates are gone so far as your lordship's life is concerned—but—in a word, all is gone. And that—your lordship will pardon the plain truth—your lordship's credit cannot last long and that—I now touch a most delicate point to a man of your lordship's nice sense of honour—the only resource left is precarious."
"You mean?"
"I mean—a certain lady and a certain bank."
"How, sir? Do you dare? What has put this suspicion into your head?"
"Nay, my lord—I have no thought but for your lordship's interests, believe me."
"And so you tell me about the rustic heiress, and you propose a plan——"
"I have had the temerity to do so."
"Yes. Tell me once more about this girl—and about her fortune."
"Her name is Molly Miller: she is an orphan: her guardian is an honest sailor who has taken the greatest care of her property. She was an heiress already when her father died. That was eighteen years ago; she is now nineteen."
"Is she passable—to look at? A hoyden with a high colour, I warrant."
"A cream-coloured complexion, touched with red and pink: light hair in curls and blue eyes; the face and figure of a Venus; the sweetest mouth in the world and the fondest manner."
"Hang me if the fellow isn't in love with her, himself! If she is all this, man, why not apply yourself, for the post of spouse?"
"Because her guardian keeps off all would-be lovers and destines his ward for a gentleman at least—for a nobleman, he hopes."
"He is ambitious. Now as to her fortune."
"She has a fleet of half a dozen tall vessels—nay, there are more, but I know not how many. I was formerly clerk in a countinghouse of the town and I learned a great deal—what each is worth and what the freight of each voyage may produce—but not all. The captain, her guardian, keeps things close. My lord, I can assure you, from what I learned in that capacity and by looking into old books, that she must be worth over a hundred thousand pounds—over a hundred thousand pounds! My lord, there is no such heiress in the city. In your lordship's interests I have enquired in the taverns where the merchants' clerks congregate. They know of all the city heiresses. The greatest, at this moment, is the only daughter of a tallow chandler who has twenty thousand to her name. She squints."
"Why have you given me this information? The girl belongs to your friends—are you anxious for her happiness? You know my way of life. Would that way make her happier?"
The man made no reply.
"Come, Semple, out with it. Your reasons—gratitude—to me—or revenge upon an enemy?"
The man coloured. He looked up: he stood upright but for a moment only. Then his eyes dropped and his shoulders contracted.
"Gratitude, my lord, to you," he replied. "Revenge? Why what reason should I have for revenge?"
"How should I know of any? Let it be gratitude, then."
"I have ventured to submit—not a condition—but a prayer."
"I have read the clause. I grant it. On the day after the marriage if the plan comes to anything, I will present thee to a place where there are no duties and many perquisites. That is understood. I would put this promise in writing but no writing would bind me more than my word."
"Yet I would have the promise in writing."
"You are insolent, sirrah."
"I am protecting
