_How Moll and Mr. Godwin come together and declare their hearts'
passion, and how I carry these tidings to Dawson._
"What!" cries Moll, starting to her feet. "He whom I have treated thus
is--" and here she checked herself, as if recoiling (and for the first
time) from false pretence in a matter so near her heart.
"He is your cousin, Richard Godwin," says the wise woman. "Simon knew
this from the first; for there were letters showing it in the
pocket-book he found after the struggle in the park; but for his own
ends he kept that knowledge secret, until it fitted his ends to speak.
Why your cousin did not reveal himself to you may be more readily
conceived by you than 'twas by me."
"Why, 'tis clear enough," says Moll. "Pressed by his necessities, he
came hither to claim assistance of his kinsman; but finding he was dead
and none here but me, his pride did shrink from begging of a mere maid
that which he might with justice have demanded from a man. And then, for
shame at being handled like a rogue--"
Surely there is something in the blood of a gentleman that tempers his
spirit to a degree scarcely to be comprehended by men of meaner birth,
thinks I.
"When did Simon urge him to dispute my rights?" asks Moll.
"On Sunday--in the wood out there. I knew by his look he had some
treacherous business in hand, and, matching my stealth with his, I found
means to overhear him, creeping from thicket to thicket, as noiseless as
a snake, to where they stood; for, be assured, I should not otherwise
have learnt one word of this."
"How did _he_ receive these hints at my ill doing?" asks Moll.
"Patiently, till the tale was told; then, taking your steward by the
throat with sudden passion, he cries: 'Why should I not strangle you,
rascal? 'Twould be a service to humanity. What have I done to deserve
your love, or this lady your hate? Nothing. You would pit us one against
the other merely to keep your hold upon these lands, and gratify your
insensate love of possession. Go, get you gone, beast!' cries he,
flinging him off; ''tis punishment enough for you to live and know
you've failed. For, had you proved your case to my conviction, I'd not
stir a hand against this lady, be she who she may. Nay,' adds he, with
greater fury, 'I will not stay where my loyalty and better judgment may
be affected by the contagion of a vile suspicion. Away while you may; my
fingers itch to be revenged on you for sundering me from one who should
have been my closest, dearest friend.'"
Moll claps her hands together with a cry of joy and pain mingled, even
as the smile played upon her lips whilst tears filled her eyes.
"Sunday!" cries she, turning to me and dashing the tears that blinded
her from her eyes; "Sunday, and it 'twas o' Monday he refused to stay.
O, the brave heart!" Then, in impetuous haste, "He shall be found--we
must overtake him."
"That may be done if you take horse," says Anne Fitch, "for he travels
afoot."
"But which way shall we turn?"
"The way that any man would take, seeking to dispel a useless sorrow,"
answers the wise woman; "the way to London."
"God bless you!" cries Moll, clasping the withered old woman to her
heaving breast and kissing her. Then the next moment she would be gone,
bidding me get horses for our pursuit.
So, as quickly as I might, I procured a couple of nags, and we set out,
leaving a message for Don Sanchez, who was not yet astir. And we should
have gone empty, but that while the horses were a-preparing (and Moll,
despite her mighty haste at this business too), I took the precaution to
put some store of victuals in a saddle bag.
Reckoning that Mr. Godwin (as I must henceforth call him) had been set
out two hours or thereabouts, I considered that we might overtake him in
about three at an easy amble. But Moll was in no mood for ambling, and
no sooner were we started than she put her nag to a gallop and kept up
this reckless pace up hill and down dale,--I trailing behind and
expecting every minute to be cast and get my neck broke,--until her
horse was spent and would answer no more to the whip. Then I begged her
for mercy's sake to take the hill we were coming to at a walk, and break
her fast. "For," says I, "another such half-hour as the last on an empty
stomach will do my business, and you will have another dead man to bring
back to life, which will advance your journey nothing, and so more
haste, less speed." Therewith I opened my saddle bag, and sharing its
contents, we ate a rare good meal and very merry, and indeed it was a
pleasure now to look at her as great as the pain had been to see her so
unhappy a few hours before. For the exercise had brought a flood of rich
colour into her face, and a lively hope sparkled in her eyes, and the
sound of her voice was like any peal of marriage bells for gaiety. Yet
now and then her tongue would falter, and she would strain a wistful
glance along the road before us as fearing she did hope too much.
However, coming to an inn, we made enquiry, and learnt that a man such
as we described had surely passed the house barely an hour gone, and one
adding that he carried a basket on his stick, we felt this must be our
painter for certain.
Thence on again at another tear (as if we were flying from our
reckoning) until, turning a bend of the road at the foot of a hill, she
suddenly drew rein with a shrill cry. And coming up, I perceived close
by our side Mr. Godwin, seated upon the bridge that crossed a stream,
with his wallet beside him.
He sprang to his feet and caught in an instant the rein that had fallen
from Moll's hand, for the commotion in her heart at seeing him so
suddenly had stopped the current of her veins, and she was deadly pale.
"Take me, take me!" cries she, stretching forth her arms, with a faint
voice. "Take me, or I must fall," and slipping from her saddle she sank
into his open, ready arms.
"Help!" says Mr. Godwin, quickly, and in terror.
"Nay," says she; "I am better--'tis nothing. But," adds she, smiling at
him, "you may hold me yet a little longer."
The fervid look in his eyes, as he gazed down at her sweet pale face,
seemed to say: "Would I could hold you here for ever, sweetheart."
"Rest her here," says I, pointing to the little wall of the bridge, and
he, complying (not too willingly), withdrew his arm from her waist, with
a sigh.
And now the colour coming back to her cheek, Moll turns to him, and
says:
"I thought you would have come again. And since one of us must ask to be
forgiven, lo! here am I come to ask your pardon."
"Why, what is there to pardon, Madam?" says he.
"Only a girl's folly, which unforgiven must seem something worse."
"Your utmost folly," says he, "is to have been over-kind to a poor
painter. And if that be an offence, 'tis my misfortune to be no more
offended."
"Have I been over-kind?" says Moll, abashed, as having unwittingly
passed the bounds of maiden modesty.
"As nature will be over-bounteous in one season, strewing so many
flowers in our path that we do underprize them till they are lost, and
all the world seems stricken with wintry desolation."
"Yet, if I have said or done anything unbecoming to my sex--"
"Nothing womanly is unbecoming to a woman," returns he. "And, praised be
God, some still live who have not learned to conceal their nature under
a mask of fashion. If this be due less to your natural free disposition
than to an ignorance of our enlightened modish arts, then could I find
it in my heart to rejoice that you have lived a captive in Barbary."
They had been looking into each other's eyes with the delight of reading
there the love that filled their hearts, but now Moll bent her head as
if she could no longer bear that searching regard, and unable to make
response to his pretty speech, sat twining her fingers in her lap,
silent, with pain and pleasure fluttering over her downcast face. And at
this time I do think she was as near as may be on the point of
confessing she had been no Barbary slave, rather than deceive the man
who loved her, and profit by his faith in her, which had certainly
undone us all; but in her passion, a woman considered the welfare of her
father and best friends very lightly; nay, she will not value her own
body and soul at two straws, but is ready to yield up everything for one
dear smile.
A full minute Mr. Godwin sat gazing at Moll's pretty, blushing, half-hid
face (as if for his last solace), and then, rising slowly from the
little parapet, he says:
"Had I been more generous, I should have spared you this long morning
ride. So you have something to forgive, and we may cry quits!" Then,
stretching forth his hand, he adds, "Farewell."
"Stay," cries Moll, springing to her feet, as fearing to lose him
suddenly again, "I have not eased myself of the burden that lay
uppermost. Oh!" cries she, passionately, casting off all reserve, "I
know all; who you are, and why you first came hither, and I am here to
offer you the half of all I have."
"Half, sweet cousin?" answers he, taking her two hands in his.
"Aye; for if I had not come to claim it, all would have been yours by
right. And 'tis no more than fair that, owing so much to Fortune, I
should offer you the half."
"Suppose that half will not suffice me, dear?" says he.
"Why, then I'll give you all," answers she; "houses, gardens,
everything."
"Then what will you do, coz?"
"Go hence, as you were going but just now," answers she, trembling.
"Why, that's as if you took the diamond from its setting, and left me
nothing but the foil," says he. "Oh, I would order it another way: give
me the gem, and let who will take what remains. Unless these little
hands are mine to hold for ever, I will take nothing from them."
"They are thine, dear love," cries she, in a transport, flinging them
about his neck, "and my heart as well."
At this conjuncture I thought it advisable to steal softly away to the
bend of the road; for surely any one coming this way by accident, and
finding them locked together thus in tender embrace on the king's
highway, would have fallen to some gross conclusion, not understanding
their circumstances, and so might have offended their delicacy by some
rude jest. And I had not parted myself here a couple of minutes, ere I
spied a team of four stout horses coming over the brow of the hill,
drawing the stage waggon behind them which plies betwixt Sevenoaks and
London. This prompting me to a happy notion, I returned to the happy,
smiling pair, who were now seated again upon the bridge, hand in hand,
and says I:
"My dear friends,--for so I think I may now count you, sir, as well as
my Mistress Judith here,--the waggon is coming down the hill, by which I
had intended to go to London this morning upon some pressing business.
And so, Madam, if your cousin will take my horse and conduct you back to
the Court, I will profit by this occasion and bid you farewell for the
present."
This proposal was received with evident satisfaction on their part, for
there was clearly no further thought of parting; only Moll, alarmed for
the proprieties, did beg her lover to lift her on her horse instantly.
Nevertheless, when she was in her saddle, they must linger yet, he to
kiss her hands, and she to bend down and yield her cheek to his lips,
though the sound of the coming waggon was close at hand.
Scarcely less delighted than they with this surprising strange turn of
events, I left 'em there with bright, smiling faces, and journeyed on to
London, and there taking a pair of oars at the Bridge to Greenwich, all
eagerness to give these joyful tidings to my old friend, Jack Dawson. I
found him in his workroom, before a lathe, and sprinkled from head to
toe with chips, mighty proud of a bed-post he was a-turning. And it did
my heart good to see him looking stout and hearty, profitably occupied
in this business, instead of soaking in an alehouse (as I feared at one
time he would) to dull his care; but he was ever a stout, brave fellow,
who would rather fight than give in any day. A better man never lived,
nor a more honest--circumstances permitting.
His joy at seeing me was past everything; but his first thought after
our hearty greeting was of his daughter.
"My Moll," says he, "my dear girl; you han't brought her to add to my
joy? She's not slinking behind a door to fright me with delight, hey?"
"No," says I; "but I've brought you great news of her."
"And good, I'll swear, Kit, for there's not a sad line in your face.
Stay, comrade, wait till I've shook these chips off and we are seated in
my parlour, for I do love to have a pipe of tobacco and a mug of ale
beside me in times of pleasure. You can talk of indifferent things,
though, for Lord! I do love to hear the sound of your voice again."
I told him how the ceiling of our dining-hall had been painted.
"Aye," says he. "I have heard of that; for my dear girl hath writ about
that and nought else in her letters; and though I've no great fancy for
such matters, yet I doubt not it is mighty fine by her long-winded
praises of it. Come, Kit, let us in here and get to something fresher."
So we into his parlour, which was a neat, cheerful room, with a fine
view of the river, and there being duly furnished with a mighty mug of
ale and clean pipes, he bids me give him my news, and I tell him how
Moll had fallen over head and ears in love with the painter, and he with
her, and how that very morning they had come together and laid open
their hearts' desire one to the other, with the result (as I believed)
that they would be married as soon as they could get a parson to do
their business.
"This is brave news indeed," cries he, "and easeth me beyond
comprehension, for I could see clearly enough she was smitten with this
painter, by her writing of nothing else; and seeing she could not get at
his true name and condition, I felt some qualms as to how the matter
might end. But do tell me, Kit, is he an honest, wholesome sort of man?"
"As honest as the day," says I, "and a nobler, handsomer man never
breathed."
"God be praised for all things," says he, devoutly. "Tell me he's an
Englishman, Kit--as Moll did seem to think he was, spite his foreign
name--and my joy's complete."
"As true-born an Englishman as you are," says I.
"Lord love him for it!" cries he.
Then coming down to particulars, I related the events of the past few
days pretty much as I have writ them here, showing in the end how Mr.
Godwin would have gone away, unknown rather than profit by his claim as
Sir Richard Godwin's kinsman, even though Moll should be no better than
old Simon would have him believe, upon which he cries, "Lord love him
for it, say I again! Let us drink to their health. Drink deep, Kit, for
I've a fancy that no man shall put his lips to this mug after us."
So I drank heartily, and he, emptying the jug, flung it behind the
chimney, with another fervent ejaculation of gratitude. Then a shade of
sorrow falling on his face as he lay it in his hand, his elbow resting
on the table:
"I'd give best half of the years I've got to live," says he, "to see 'em
together, and grasp Mr. Godwin's hand in mine. But I'll not be tempted
to it, for I perceive clearly enough by what you tell me that my wayward
tongue and weakness have been undoing us all, and ruining my dear Moll's
chance of happiness. But tell me, Kit" (straightening himself up), "how
think you this marriage will touch our affairs?"
"Only to better them. For henceforth our prosperity is assured, which
otherwise might have lacked security."
"Aye, to be sure, for now shall we be all in one family with these
Godwins, and this cousin, profiting by the estate as much as Moll, will
never begrudge her giving us a hundred or two now and then, for
rendering him such good service."
"'Twill appease Moll's compunctions into the bargain," says I,
heedlessly.
"What compunctions?"
"The word slipped me unintended," stammers I; "I mean nothing."
"But something your word must mean. Come, out with it, Kit."
"Well," says I, "since this fondness has possessed her, I have observed
a greater compunction to telling of lies than she was wont to have."
"'Tis my fault," answers he, sadly. "She gets this leaning to honesty
from me."
"This very morning," continues I, "she was, I truly believe, of two
minds whether she should not confess to her sweetheart that she was not
his cousin."
"For all the world my case!" cries he, slapping the table. "If I could
only have five minutes in secret with the dear girl, I would give her a
hint that should make her profit by my folly." And then he tells me how,
in the heyday of courtship and the flush of confiding love, he did
confess to his wife that he had carried gallantry somewhat too far with
Sukey Taylor, and might have added a good half dozen other names beside
hers but for her sudden outcry; and how, though she might very well have
suspected other amours, she did never reproach him therewith, but was
for ever to her dying day a-flinging Sukey Taylor in his teeth, etc.
"Lord, Kit!" cries he, in conclusion; "what would I give to save her
from such torment! You know how obedient she is to my guiding, for I
have ever studied to make her respect me; and no one in the world hath
such empire over her. Could it not be contrived anyhow that we should
meet for half an hour secretly?"
"Not secretly," says I. "But there is no reason why you should not visit
her openly. Nay, it will create less surprise than if you stay away. For
what could be more natural than your coming to the Court on your return
from a voyage to see the lady you risked so much to save?"
"Now God bless you for a good, true friend!" cries he, clasping my hand.
"I'll come, but to stay no great length. Not a drop will I touch that
day, and a fool indeed I must be if I can't act my part without bungling
for a few hours at a stretch, and I a-listening every night in the
parlour of the 'Spotted Dog' to old seamen swearing and singing their
songs. And I'll find an opportunity to give--Moll a hint of my past
folly, and so rescue her from a like pitfall. I'll abide by your advice,
Kit,--which is the wisest I ever heard from your lips."
But I was not so sure of this, and, remembering the kind of obedience
Moll had used to yield to her father's commands, my mind misgave me.