It is, I believe, a rule that some playwriters, where they have a plot with a mystery or a secret in it, to keep the audience in ignorance, and so to heighten their interest, until the revelation in the last act clears up the mystery and relieves the spectators of their suspense. Others, again, allow the audience to understand at the outset that their heroine or hero is the victim of villainy, but do not explain the full nature of that villainy until the end, when the plots of the wicked are brought to light.
I have told this tale without the art of the playwright. I have shown you exactly how things happened, though we only discovered the truth long afterwards. For instance, you know already what was the full explanation of the marriage which I witnessed; you know the surprise with which the bridegroom discovered the truth, and you know besides the impudent use which, by the advice of the Reverend Benjamin Purdon, was made of that discovery. Also you know the reason of the personation and the person by whose indiscreet chattering it became possible.
I have now to tell you how we ourselves discovered the truth.
After the arrival of the letters already described, nothing new was learned for some months. That is to say, Colonel Lanyon wrote no more; the Reverend Mr. Purdon, though he continued to write letters which threatened concealment and offered exposure, alternately; though his demand for money dropped with every letter until he had become a mere beggar, offering to reveal the whole in return for the relief of his present necessities; gave no hint of the nature of the exposure he desired to sell. But he had received, so far, no reply to any of his letters.
Between January and June my ship made another voyage to Lisbon and back. When I landed, what I had to learn was the continual solicitation of Mr. Purdon, and the continual waste of the fortune. The demand for money never ceased. "Send up more money—more money—more money. His lordship is in urgent want of more money."
By this time a whole year had passed since the pretended marriage and our submission. Never was a magnificent property so destroyed and diminished in so short a time. Farms, lands, houses were sold for what they would fetch—at half their value—a quarter of their value. All the money out at mortgage had been called in—all the money received at the quay and the counting-house had been sent to his lordship's attorneys. In one short twelvemonth the destruction had been such that in June there was actually nothing left—nothing out of that princely fortune, except the fleet of ships and the general business. "And now, Mr. Pentecrosse," said the manager (lately clerk and accountant) "the end draweth nigh. A few more weeks or months and this great shipping firm, near a hundred years old, which hath sent its ships all about the world; the most important house outside London and Bristol, will put up its shutters and close its door. Alas! The pity of it! The pity of it!"
"But," I said, "this spendthrift lord, this waster and devourer, surely will not destroy the very spring and fountain of this wealth."
"I know not. He seems possessed with a devil." Here the manager was wrong, because he was possessed of seven devils. "His waste is nothing short of madness. It seems as if he was unable to look before him, even in such a simple matter as the origin of the money, which he has obtained by marriage—if he is married—and is now wasting as fast as he can."
It is in no way profitable, unless one is a divine, to search into the heart of the wicked man. The psalmist, who was continually troubled by considering the ways of the ungodly, supplies us with sufficient guidance as to his mind and his thoughts. In the case of Lord Fylingdale, I would compare him with the highwaymen and common thieves in one particular, namely, that they seem to have no power of thrift or of prudence, but must continually waste and devour what they acquire without honest labour. It is as if they understood that their way of life being uncertain, and the end at any time possible, their only chance of enjoyment is the present moment. Now, Lord Fylingdale was using the proceeds of an enormous robbery obtained by a fraud of incredible audacity. I think he felt the uncertainty of his hold. It depended on the silence of two persons. Should these two persons unite in revealing the conspiracy he would at least be able to rob no longer. Now, he had already alienated both of them. The one he had filled with a passion for revenge; the other … but you shall hear. I think, moreover, that he found a gambler's joy in the handling of large sums and playing with them; that he kept no account of the money he lost; and that, with his companions, he kept a kind of open house at certain taverns for the debauches over which he presided, without condescending in person to join the drunken orgy. Did he find a strange enjoyment in the debauchery of others? Men have been known—I cannot understand it—to delight in torturing other men and in witnessing their agonies; men might also—I know not how—take a delight in witnessing orgies and in listening to the discourses of drunken rakes. But it is not profitable, as I said, to dwell upon the mind of such a man.
It was on the 15th of June—I remember the date well—and shall always remember it. The Lady of Lynn had arrived two days before, and we were moored off the quay. At ten o'clock, or thereabouts, one of the stable boys from the house came aboard bringing a message for me. A lady, lodging at the "Crown," desired to see me immediately. The lady had arrived in the evening in a post-chaise, having with her a maid. She had given no name, but in the morning had asked if my ship was in port, and on learning that it was she desired that a boy from the stables might carry this message to me.