He possessed both the patent and parchments of nobility; and he intended taking care of them. But he still wanted fortune; and this seemed now before him. Julia Girdwood had consented to become his wife, with a dower of 50,000 pounds, and the expectation of as many thousands more!
It had been a rare run of luck, or rather a chapter of cunning—subtle as fiendish.
But it was not yet complete. The marriage remained to be solemnised. And when solemnised, what then?
The sequel was still in doubt, and full of darkness. It was darkened by dangers, and fraught with fears.
If Fan should prove untrue? True to herself but untrue to him? Supposing her to become stirred with an instinct of opposition to this last great dishonour, and forbid the banns? She might act so at the eleventh hour; and then to him, disappointment, disgrace, ruin!
But he had no great fear of this. He felt pretty sure she would continue a consenting party, and permit his nefarious scheme to be consummated. But then? And what then?
She would hold over him a power he had reason to dread—a very sword of Damocles!
He would have to share with her the ill-gotten booty—he knew her well enough for this—submit to her will in everything, for he knew also that she had a will—now that she was re-established on the ride of Rotten Row as one of its prettiest horse-breakers.
There was something, beside the thought of Fan’s reclaiming him, that vexed him far more than the fear of any mulct. He would be willing to bleed black-mail to any amount convenient—even to the half of Julia Girdwood’s fortune, to insure his past wife keeping quiet for ever.
Strange to say, he had grown to care little for the money; though it may not appear strange when the cause is declared.