Devil to Pay by Parkinson C. Northcote Page B

joining in the final chorus:
    And then the grog goes round,
    All sense of danger drown’d.
    We despise it to a man;
    We sing a little, we laugh a little,
    And work a little and swear a little
    And swig the flowing can.
    Flushed and panting, Molly jumped down from the bench, blew her admirers a kiss and vanished. Delancey, who was fond of music, endured the discordant singing and was glad only when it finished. All others were happy in the knowledge that Molly would sing again later and probably with more abandon. Some minutes after Molly’s act Delancey made an excuse to leave the room. Returning from his visit to the backyard, he made to climb the stairs but found his way barred by a formidable matron who asked him where he thought he was going. “I have a message for Miss Molly,” he explained. “I fancy her room will be up there.”
    â€œMaybe it is,” said the frowning hostess. “And maybe it isn’t. But I’ll give her any message that is proper for her to receive.” This was the moment, as Delancey knew, when a half guinea would have solved the problem. His fortune was now to be counted, however, in pennies, which would help him not at all. “I am here on behalf of my master,” he explained. “A gentleman of great fortune and estate. He wishes to pay his respects to Miss Molly and asks whether one day next week will serve.” Met with a frankly incredulous stare, Delancey went hastily into greater detail, making his master a baronet and a colonel, adding to his property and giving him a town house and his own stables at Newmarket. The pity was that so fine a gentleman should be still a bachelor. All this might have been in vain so far as his hostess was concerned but Delancey’s voice had been heard on the floor above. Molly appeared on the landing and asked what the noise was about. “Here’s a man, Miss, whose master, he says, wants to see you next week. I am just about to send him about his business for I don’t believe a word of it.” “But wait, cousin,” said Molly, “it may be a gentleman who has been here before.” “No, alas,” said Delancey, “Sir Edward has not so far had the pleasure of your acquaintance. He wishes, however, to make himself known to you.” There was some further conversation and Molly proved easier to convince. “Very well,” she said finally. “I’ll see Sir Edward on Thursday afternoon at four of the clock.” This announcement alarmed the older woman who hurried upstairs, bidding Delancey to wait. When she eventually returned it was to say that Thursday and Friday were out of the question but that Miss would be free to receive Sir Edward on the Monday following. Any day last week would have served, and indeed the week before, but the coming week was more difficult. Delancey confirmed the appointment and returned to his friends in the tap-room. It turned into a riotous evening, enlivened by song, and Delancey—who had no head for such revelry—was sick before it ended. He slept that night on the tap-room floor.
    After sin comes the time for repentance and the next day, Sunday, was most suitable for this purpose. The church bells rang for morning prayer at the chapel of ease—Cowes being at this time no more than an offshoot of the parish of Carisbrooke. A few carriages headed in that direction. Folk more conspicuous, however, for their piety than for their high social position made their way on foot to one or other of the two nonconformist chapels, one for the Independents and the other for the Wesleyan Methodists. For Delancey the choice was already made, for Hartley was a Wesleyan and it was after the Methodist service that Delancey hoped to meet him again. The atmosphere of this place of worship was highly conducive to penitence and Delancey, with a hangover from the previous evening, looked even more penitent than he felt. The sermon was long and