_Of the great change in Moll, and the likely explanation thereof._
A week before the promised month was up, Moll and her husband came back
to the Court, and lest I should imagine that her pleasures had been
curtailed by his caprice, she was at great pains to convince me that he
had yielded to her insistence in this matter, declaring she was sick of
theatres, ridottos, masquerades, and sight-seeing, and had sighed to be
home ere she had been in London a week. This surprised me exceedingly,
knowing how passionate fond she had ever been of the playhouse and
diversions of any kind, and remembering how eager she was to go to town
with her husband; and I perceived there was more significance in the
present distaste for diversion than she would have known. And I observed
further (when the joy of return and ordering her household subsided)
that she herself had changed in these past three weeks, more than was to
be expected in so short a time. For, though she seemed to love her
husband more than ever she had loved him as her lover, and could not be
happy two minutes out of his company, 'twas not that glad, joyous love
of the earlier days, but a yearning, clinging passion, that made me sad
to see, for I could not look upon the strained, anxious tenderness in
her young face without bethinking me of my poor sister, as she knelt
praying by her babe's cot for God to spare its frail life.
Yet her husband never looked more hearty and strong, and every look and
word of his bespoke increasing love. The change in her was not
unperceived by him, and often he would look down into her wistful,
craving eyes as if he would ask of her, "What is it, love? tell me all."
And she, as understanding this appeal, would answer nothing, but only
shake her head, still gazing into his kind eyes as if she would have him
believe she had nought to tell.
These things made me very thoughtful and urgent to find some
satisfactory explanation. To be sure, thinks I, marriage is but the
beginning of a woman's real life, and so one may not reasonably expect
her to be what she was as a thoughtless child. And 'tis no less natural
that a young wife should love to be alone with her husband, rather than
in the midst of people who must distract his thoughts from her; as also
it is right and proper she should wish to be in her own home, directing
her domestic affairs and tending to her husband--showing him withal she
is a good and thoughtful housewife. But why these pensive tristful
looks, now she hath her heart's desire? Then, finding I must seek some
better explanation of her case, I bethought me she must have had a very
hard, difficult task in London to conceal from one, who was now a part
of herself, her knowledge of so many things it was unbefitting she
should reveal. At the playhouse she must feign astonishment at all she
saw, as having never visited one before, and keep constant guard upon
herself lest some word slipped her lips to reveal her acquaintance with
the players and their art. At the ridotto she must equally feign
ignorance of modish dancing--she whose nimble feet had tripped to every
measure since she could stand alone. There was scarcely a subject on
which she would dare to speak without deliberation, and she must check
her old habit of singing and be silent, lest she fall by hazard to
humming some known tune. Truly, under such continuous strain (which none
but such a trained actress could maintain for a single day) her spirit
must have wearied. And if this part was hard to play in public, where we
are all, I take it, actors of some sort and on the alert to sustain the
character we would have our own, how much more difficult must it be in
private when we drop our disguise and lay our hearts open to those we
love! And here, as it seemed to me, I did hit rightly at the true cause
of her present secret distress; for at home as abroad she must still be
acting a part, weighing her words, guarding her acts--for ever to be
hiding of something from her dearest friend--ever denying him that
confidence he appealed for--ever keeping a cruel, biting bond upon the
most generous impulse of her heart, closing that heart when it was
bursting to open to her dear mate.
Soon after their return Mr. Godwin set to work painting the head of a
Sybil, which the Lord of Hatfield House had commanded, on the
recommendation of Sir Peter Lely, taking Anne Fitch for his model, and
she sitting in that room of the Court house he had prepared for his
workshop. Here he would be at it every day, as long as there was light
for his purpose, Moll, near at hand, watching him, ready to chat or hold
her peace, according to his inclination--just as she had done when he
was a-painting of the ceiling, only that now her regard was more intent
upon him than his work, and when he turned to look at her, 'twas with
interchange of undisguised love in their fond eyes. She ever had a piece
of work or a book in her lap, but she made not half a dozen stitches or
turned a single page in the whole day, for he was the sole occupation of
her mind; the living book, ever yielding her sweet thoughts.
This persevering, patient toil on his part did at first engender in my
mind suspicion that some doubting thoughts urged him to assume his
independence against any accident that might befall the estate; but now
I believe 'twas nothing but a love of work and of his art, and that his
mind was free from any taint of misgiving, as regards his wife's
honesty. 'Tis likely enough, that spite her caution, many a word and
sign escaped Moll, which an enemy would have quickly seized on to prove
her culpable; but we do never see the faults of those we love (or,
seeing them, have ready at a moment excuse to prove them no faults at
all), and at this time Mr. Godwin's heart was so full of love, there was
no place for other feeling. Venom from a rose had seemed to him more
possible than evil, from one so natural, sweet, and beautiful as Moll.