"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."