"Nay, but, Molly, all I want is to see you happy. Remember us if you will, and remember that we are all, the captain, and your mother and your faithful black and myself, daily praying for your welfare."
So we talked. It was agreed between us that a private wedding was, under the circumstances, much more convenient than a public one, with all the display and feasting in which Lord Fylingdale could not take part. I could not but think the business too much hurried and too secret. As for other reasons, especially the absence of any settlements which would protect the wife, I had no knowledge of such things, and therefore no suspicion.
I bade her farewell—the last time I should see her in private and converse with her as of old—and with tears, we kissed and parted. But there was no question of love or of disappointment. We were like brother and sister who were separated after growing up together. And so I kissed her and said no more than "Oh! Molly, if you had no money, we should not lose you," and she replied with a sigh and more tears, "And if I had no money, Jack, I should not have to leave my own people and go among strangers who will not welcome me, or love me, or give me even their friendliness."
I left her, and walked away. I was too downhearted to stay ashore; I would go aboard and sit alone in the captain's cabin. There is nothing so lonely as a ship without her crew. If a man in these days desires to become a hermit, he should take up his quarters in one of the old hulks that lie in every harbour, deserted even by the rats, who swim away when the provisions are all gone. It is lonely by day, and it is ghostly by night. For then the old ship is visited by the sailors who have sailed in her and have died in her. In every ship there have been many who die of disease or by accident, or fall overboard and are drowned. These are the visitors to the hulk at night. Every sailor knows this, and has seen them. I wanted to be alone, I say, therefore, I thought I would go on board and stay there.
Now, on my way across the market-place, there came running after me a man, who called me by name. "Mr. Pentecrosse—Mr. Pentecrosse," and, looking round, I saw that it was the Lady Anastasia's footman, in the green and gold livery—a very line person indeed, to look at, much finer than myself in my workaday clothes. "Sir," he said "my mistress, Lady Anastasia, desires speech with you. Will you kindly follow me to her lodging?"
I obeyed. What did the lady wish to say to me?
She was in her parlour, half dressed in what they call, I believe, a dishabille. She nodded to the footman, who closed the door and left us alone.
"Mr. Pentecrosse," she said graciously, "this is the second time I have sent for you. Yet I gave you permission to call upon me often. Is this the politeness of a sailor? Never mind; I forgive you, because Molly loves you and you love Molly."
"Madam," I replied, "it is true that I love Molly, but I have no longer any right to love her except as one who would call himself, if he could, her brother."
"So I wanted, Mr. Pentecrosse—may I say Jack?—to learn your sentiments about this affair. I am, of course, in the confidence of Lord Fylingdale. I believe that I know all his secrets—or, at least, as many as a man chooses to tell a woman. You men have all got your secret cupboards, and you lock the door and keep the key. Say, therefore, rather, most of my lord's secrets."