_Moll plays us a mad prank for the last time in her life._
About once in a fortnight I contrived to go to London for a couple of
days on some pretext of business, and best part of this time I spent
with Dawson. And the first visit I paid him after the return of Moll and
her husband, telling him of their complete happiness, Moll's increasing
womanly beauty, and the prosperous aspect of our affairs (for I had that
day positive assurance our seal would be obtained within a month), I
concluded by asking if his mast might not now be stepped, and he be in a
position to come to Chislehurst and see her as he had before.
"No, Kit, thanking ye kindly," says he, after fighting it out with
himself in silence a minute or two, "better not. I am getting in a
manner used to this solitude, and bar two or three days a week when I
feel a bit hangdog and hipped a-thinking there's not much in this world
for an old fellow to live for when he's lost his child, I am pretty well
content. It would only undo me. If you had a child--your own flesh and
blood--part of your life--a child that had been to you what my sweet
Moll hath been to me, you would comprehend better how I feel. To pretend
indifference when you're longing to hug her to your heart, to talk of
fair weather and foul when you're thinking of old times, and then to bow
and scrape and go away without a single desire of your aching heart
satisfied,--'tis more than a man with a spark of warmth in his soul can
bear." And then he proceeded to give a dozen other reasons for declining
the tempting bait,--the sum of all proving to my conviction that he was
dying to see Moll, and I feared he would soon be doing by stealth that
which it were much safer he should do openly.
About a week after this I got a letter from him, asking me to come again
as soon as I might, he having cut his hand with a chisel, "so that I
cannot work my lathe, and having nothing to occupy my mind, do plague
myself beyond endurance."
Much concerned for my old friend, I lose no time in repairing to
Greenwich, where I find him sitting idle before his lathe, with an arm
hanging in a handkerchief, and his face very yellow; but this, I think,
was of drinking too much ale. And here he fell speedily discoursing of
Moll, saying he could not sleep of nights for thinking of the pranks she
used to play us, our merry vagabond life together in Spain ere we got to
Elche, etc., and how he missed her now more than ever he did before.
After that, as I anticipated, he came in a shuffling, roundabout way (as
one ashamed to own his weakness) to hinting at seeing Moll by stealth,
declaring he would rather see her for two minutes now and again peering
through a bush, though she should never cast a glance his way, than have
her treat him as if she were not his child and ceased to feel any love
for him. But seeing the peril of such ways, I would by no means consent
to his hanging about the Court like a thief, and told him plainly that
unless he would undo us all and ruin Moll, he must come openly as before
or not at all.
Without further demur he consents to be guided by me, and then, very
eagerly, asks when it will be proper for him to come; and we agree that
if he come in a week's time, there will be no thought in anybody's mind
of our having conspired to this end.
As the fates would have it, Mr. Godwin finished his painting on the
Saturday following (the most wonderful piece of its kind I ever saw, or
any one else, in my belief), and being justly proud of his work and
anxious Sir Peter Lely should see it soon, he resolved he would carry it
to Hatfield on Monday. Moll, who was prouder of her husband's piece than
if it were of her own doing, was not less eager it should be seen; yet
the thought that she must lose him for four days (for this journey could
not well be accomplished in less time) cast down her spirits
exceedingly. 'Twas painful to see her efforts to be cheerful despite of
herself. And, seeing how incapable she was of concealing her real
feeling from him whom she would cheer, she at length confessed to him
her trouble. "I would have you go, and yet I'd have you stay, love,"
says she.
"'Tis but a little while we shall be parted," says he.
"A little while?" says she, trembling and wringing one hand within the
other. "It seems to me as if we were parting for ever."
"Why, then," returns he, laughing, "we will not part at all. You shall
come with me, chuck. What should prevent you?"
She starts with joy at this, then looks at him incredulous for a moment,
and so her countenance falling again, she shakes her head as thinking, I
take it, that if it were advisable she should go with him, he would have
proposed it before.
"No," says she, "'twas an idle fancy, and I'll not yield to it. I shall
become a burden, rather than a helpmate, if you cannot stir from home
without me. Nay," adds she, when he would override this objection, "you
must not tempt me to be weak, but rather aid me to do that which I feel
right."
And she would not be persuaded from this resolution, but bore herself
most bravely, even to the moment when she and her husband clasped each
for the last time in a farewell embrace.
She stood where he had left her for some moments after he was gone.
Suddenly she ran a few paces with parted lips and outstretched hands, as
if she would call him back; then, as sharply she halts, clasping her
hands, and so presently turns back, looking across her shoulder, with
such terror in her white face, that I do think her strong imagination
figured some accusing spirits, threatening the end of all her joys.
I followed her into the house, but there I learnt from Mrs. Butterby
that her mistress was gone to her own chamber.
As I was sitting in my office in the afternoon, Jack Dawson came to me
in his seaman's dress, his hand still wrapped up, but his face more
healthful for his long ride and cheerful thoughts.
"Why, this could not have fallen out better," says I, when we had
exchanged greetings; "for Moll is all alone, and down in the dumps by
reason of her husband having left her this morning on business, that
will hold him absent for three or four days. We will go up presently and
have supper with her."
"No, Kit," says he, very resolutely, "I'll not. I am resolved I won't go
there till to-morrow, for this is no hour to be a-calling on ladies, and
her husband being away 'twill look as if we had ordered it of purpose.
Besides, if Moll's in trouble, how am I to pretend I know nothing of the
matter and care less, and this Mother Butterby and a parcel of sly,
observant servants about to surprise one at any moment? Say no
more--'tis useless--for I won't be persuaded against my judgment."
"As you will," says I.
"There's another reason, if other's needed," says he, "and that's this
plaguey thirst of mine, which seizes me when I'm doleful or joyful, with
a force there's no resisting. And chiefly it seizes me in the later part
of the day; therefore, I'd have you take me to the Court to-morrow
morning betimes, ere it's at its worst. My throat's like any limekiln
for dryness now; so do pray, Kit, fasten the door snug, and give me a
mug of ale."
This ended our discussion; but, as it was necessary I should give some
reason for not supping with Moll, I left Dawson with a bottle, and went
up to the house to find Moll. There I learnt that she was still in her
chamber, and sleeping, as Mrs. Butterby believed; so I bade the good
woman tell her mistress when she awoke that Captain Evans had come to
spend the night with me, and he would call to pay her his devoirs the
next morning.
Here, that nothing may be unaccounted for in the sequence of events, I
must depart from my train of present observation to speak from
after-knowledge.
I have said that when Moll started forward, as if to overtake her
husband, she suddenly stopped as if confronted by some menacing spectre.
And this indeed was the case; for at that moment there appeared to her
heated imagination (for no living soul was there) a little, bent old
woman, clothed in a single white garment of Moorish fashion, and Moll
knew that she was Mrs. Godwin (though seeing her now for the first
time), come from Barbary to claim her own, and separate Moll from the
husband she had won by fraud.
She stood there (says Moll) within her gates, with raised hand and a
most bitter, unforgiving look upon her wasted face, barring the way by
which Moll might regain her husband; and as the poor wife halted,
trembling in dreadful awe, the old woman advanced with the sure foot of
right and justice. What reproach she had to make, what malediction to
pronounce, Moll dared not stay to hear, but turning her back fled to the
house, where, gaining her chamber, she locked the door, and flung
herself upon her husband's bed; and in this last dear refuge, shutting
her eyes, clasping her ears, as if by dulling her senses to escape the
phantom, she lay in a convulsion of terror for the mere dread that such
a thing might be.
Then, at the thought that she might never again be enfolded here in her
husband's arms, an agony of grief succeeded her fit of maddening fear,
and she wept till her mind grew calm from sheer exhaustion. And so,
little by little, as her courage revived, she began to reason with
herself as how 'twas the least likely thing in the world that if Mrs.
Godwin were in England, she should come to the Court unattended and in
her Moorish clothes; and then, seeing the folly of abandoning herself to
a foolish fancy, she rose, washed the tears from her face, and set
herself to find some occupation to distract her thoughts. And what
employment is nearer to her thoughts or dearer to her heart than making
things straight for her husband; so she goes into the next room where he
worked, and falls to washing his brushes, cleaning his paint-board, and
putting all things in order against his return, that he may lose no time
in setting to work at another picture. And at dinner time, finding her
face still disfigured with her late emotions and ashamed of her late
folly, she bids her maid bring a snack to her room, under the pretence
that she feels unwell. This meal she eats, still working in her
husband's room; for one improvement prompting another, she finds plenty
to do there: now bethinking her that the hangings of her own private
room (being handsomer) will look better on these walls, whereas t'others
are more fit for hers, where they are less seen; that this corner looks
naked, and will look better for her little French table standing there,
with a china image atop, and so forth. Thus, then, did she devote her
time till sundown, whereabouts Mrs. Butterby raps at her door to know if
she will have a cup of warm caudle to comfort her, at the same time
telling her that Mr. Hopkins will not sup with her, as he has Captain
Evans for his guest at the lodge.
And now Moll, by that natural succession of extremes which seems to be a
governing law of nature (as the flow the ebb, the calm the storm, day
the night, etc.), was not less elated than she had been depressed in the
early part of the day,--but still, I take it, in a nervous, excitable
condition. And hearing her father, whom she has not seen so long, is
here, a thousand mad projects enter her lively imagination. So, when
Mrs. Butterby, after the refusal of her warm caudle, proposes she shall
bring Madam a tray of victuals, that she may pick something in bed,
Moll, stifling a merry thought, asks, in a feeble voice, what there is
in the larder.
"Why, Madam," says Mrs. Butterby, from the outside, "there's the
partridges you did not eat at breakfast, there's a cold pigeon pasty and
a nice fresh ham, and a lovely hasty pudding I made with my own hands,
in the pot."
"Bring 'em all," says Moll, in the same aching voice; "and I'll pick
what tempts me."
Therewith, she silently slips the bolt back, whips on her nightgown, and
whips into bed.
Presently, up comes Mrs. Butterby, carrying a wax candle, followed by a
couple of maids charged with all the provisions Moll had commanded.
Having permission to enter, the good woman sets down her candle, puts on
her glasses, and, coming to the bedside, says she can see very well by
her poor looks, that her dear mistress has got a disorder of the
biliaries on her, and prays Heaven it may not turn to something worse.
"Nay," says Moll, very faintly, "I shall be well again when I am
relieved of this headache, and if I can only fall asleep,--as I feel
disposed to,--you will see me to-morrow morning in my usual health. I
shan't attempt to rise this evening" ("For mercy's sake, don't," cries
Mrs. Butterby), "and so, I pray you, order that no one shall come near
my room to disturb me" ("I'll see that no one so much as sets a foot on
your stair, Madam, poor dear!" says t'other), "and you will see that all
is closed carefully. And so good-night, mother, and good-night to you,
Jane and Betsy--oh, my poor head!"
With a whispered "Good-night, dear madam," Mrs. Butterby and the maids
leave the room a-tiptoe, closing the door behind them as if 'twere of
gingerbread; and no sooner are they gone than Moll, big with her mad
design, nips out of bed, strips off her nightgown, and finding nothing
more convenient for her purpose, puts the ham, pasty, and partridges in
a clean pillow-slip. This done, she puts on her cloak and hood, and
having with great caution set the door open and seen all safe and quiet
below, she takes up her bag of victuals, blows out the candle, and as
silent as any mouse makes her way to the little private staircase at the
end of the stairs. And now, with less fear of encountering Mrs. Godwin
than Black Bogey, she feels her way down the dark, narrow staircase,
reaches the lower door, unbolts it, and steps out on the path at the
back of the house.
There is still a faint twilight, and this enables her to find her way to
the wicket gate opposite Anne Fitch's cottage. Not a soul is to be seen;
and so, with her hood drawn well over her head, she speeds on, and in
five minutes reaches my house. Here finding the door fastened, she gives
a couple of knocks, and on my opening she asks meekly in a feigned
voice, which for the life of me I should not have known for hers, if I
am minded to buy a couple of partridges a friend has sent and she has no
use for.
"Partridges!" cries Dawson, from within. "Have 'em, Kit, for your bread
and cheese is mighty every-day fare."
"Let me see 'em, good woman," says I.
"Yes, sir," answers she, meekly, putting her pillow-slip in my hand,
which perplexed me vastly by its weight and bulk.
"They seem to be pretty big birds by the feel of 'em," says I. "You can
come in and shut the door after you."
Moll shuts the door and shoots the bolt, then tripping behind me into
the light she casts back her hood and flings her arms round her father's
neck with a peal of joyful laughter.
"What!" cries I. "Why, what can have brought you here?"
"Why, I knew you'd have nothing to give my poor old dad but mouldy
cheese, so I've brought you a brace of partridges, if you please, sir,"
says she, concluding in her feigned voice, as she emptied the ham,
pasty, and partridges all higgledy-piggledy out of the slip on to the
table.
"But, Mrs. Godwin--" says I, in alarm.
"Oh, call me Moll," cries she, wildly. "Let me be myself for this one
night."