_Moll's conscience is quickened by grief and humiliation beyond the
ordinary._
"Stand aside, Moll," cries Dawson, stepping to the fore, and facing Mr.
Godwin. "This is my crime, and I will answer for it with my blood. Here
is my breast" (tearing open his jerkin). "Strike, for I alone have done
you wrong, this child of mine being but an instrument to my purpose."
Mr. Godwin's hand fell by his side, and the knife slipped from his
fingers.
"Speak," says he, thickly, after a moment of horrible silence broken
only by the sound of the knife striking the floor. "If this is your
daughter,--if she has lied to me,--what in God's name is the truth? Who
are you, I ask?"
"John Dawson, a player," answers he, seeing the time is past for lying.
Mr. Godwin makes no response, but turns his eyes upon Moll, who stands
before him with bowed head and clasped hands, wrung to her innermost
fibre with shame, remorse, and awful dread, and for a terrible space I
heard nothing but the deep, painful breathing of this poor, overwrought
man.
"You are my wife," says he, at length. "Follow me," and with that he
turns about and goes from the room. Then Moll, without a look at us,
without a word, her face ghastly pale and drawn with agony, with
faltering steps, obeys, catching at table and chair, as she passes, for
support.
Dawson made a step forward, as if he would have overtaken her; but I
withheld him, shaking my head, and himself seeing 'twas in vain, he
dropped into a chair, and, spreading his arms upon the table, hides his
face in them with a groan of despair.
Moll totters down the dark stairs, and finds her husband standing in the
doorway, his figure revealed against the patch of grey light beyond, for
the moon was risen, though veiled by a thick pall of cloud. He sees, as
she comes to his side, that she has neither cloak nor hood to protect
her from the winter wind, and in silence he takes off his own cloak and
lays it on her shoulder. At this act of mercy a ray of hope animates
Moll's numbed soul, and she catches at her husband's hand to press it to
her lips, yet can find never a word to express her gratitude. But his
hand is cold as ice, and he draws it away from her firmly, with obvious
repugnance. There was no love in this little act of giving her his
cloak; 'twas but the outcome of that chivalry in gentlemen which doth
exact lenience even to an enemy.
So he goes on his way, she following like a whipped dog at his heels,
till they reach the Court gates, and these being fast locked, on a
little further, to the wicket gate. And there, as Mr. Godwin is about to
enter, there confronts him Peter, that sturdy Puritan hireling of old
Simon's.
"Thee canst not enter here, friend," says he, in his canting voice, as
he sets his foot against the gate.
"Know you who I am?" asks Mr. Godwin.
"Yea, friend; and I know who thy woman is also. I am bidden by friend
Simon, the true and faithful steward of Mistress Godwin in Barbary, to
defend her house and lands against robbers and evil-doers of every kind,
and without respect of their degree; and, with the Lord's help," adds
he, showing a stout cudgel, "that will I do, friend."
"'Tis true, fellow," returns Mr. Godwin. "I have no right to enter
here."
And then, turning about, he stands irresolute, as not knowing whither he
shall go to find shelter for his wife. For very shame, he does not take
her to the village inn, to be questioned by gaping servants and
landlord, who, ere long, must catch the flying news of her shameful
condition and overthrow. A faint light in the lattice of Anne Fitch's
cottage catches his eye, and he crosses to her door, still humbly
followed by poor Moll. There he finds the thumb-piece gone from the
latch, to him a well-known sign that Mother Fitch has gone out
a-nursing; so, pulling the hidden string he wots of, he lifts the latch
within, and the door opens to his hand. A rush is burning in a cup of
oil upon the table, casting a feeble glimmer round the empty room. He
closes the door when Moll has entered, sets a chair before the hearth,
and rakes the embers together to give her warmth.
"Forgive me, oh, forgive me!" cries Moll, casting herself at his feet as
he turns, and clasping his knees to her stricken heart.
[Illustration: "FORGIVE ME, OH, FORGIVE ME!"]
"Forgive you!" says he, bitterly. "Forgive you for dragging me down to
the level of rogues and thieves, for making me party to this vile
conspiracy of plunder. A conspiracy that, if it bring me not beneath the
lash of Justice, must blast my name and fame for ever. You know not what
you ask. As well might you bid me take you back to finish the night in
drunken riot with those others of our gang."
"Oh, no, not now! not now!" cries Moll, in agony. "Do but say that some
day long hence, you will forgive me. Give me that hope, for I cannot
live without it."
"That hope's my fear!" says he. "I have known men who, by mere contact
with depravity, have so dulled their sense of shame that they could make
light of sins that once appalled them. Who knows but that one day I may
forgive you, chat easily upon this villany, maybe, regret I went no
further in it."
"Oh, God forbid that shall be of my doing!" cries Moll, springing to her
feet. "Broken as I am, I'll not accept forgiveness on such terms. Think
you I'm like those plague-stricken wretches who, of wanton wickedness,
ran from their beds to infect the clean with their foul ill? Not I."
"I spoke in heat," says Mr. Godwin, quickly. "I repent even now what I
said."
"Am I so steeped in infamy," continues she, "that I am past all cure?
Think," adds she, piteously, "I am not eighteen yet. I was but a child a
year ago, with no more judgment of right and wrong than a savage
creature. Until I loved you, I think I scarcely knew the meaning of
conscience. The knowledge came when I yearned to keep no secret from
you. I do remember the first struggle to do right. 'Twas on the little
bridge; and there I balanced awhile, 'twixt cheating you and robbing
myself. And then, for fear you would not marry me, I dared not own the
truth. Oh, had I thought you'd only keep me for your mistress, I'd have
told you I was not your cousin. Little as this is, there's surely hope
in't. Is it more impossible that you, a strong man, should lift me, than
that I, a weak girl,--no more than that,--should drag you down?"
"I did not weigh my words."
"Yet, they were true," says she. "'Tis bred in my body--part of my
nature, this spirit of evil, and 'twill exist as long as I. For, even
now, I do feel that I would do this wickedness again, and worse, to win
you once more."
"My poor wife," says he, touched with pity; and holding forth his arms,
she goes to them and lays her cheek against his breast, and there stands
crying very silently with mingled thoughts--now of the room she had
prepared with such delight against his return, of her little table in
the corner, with the chiney image atop, and other trifles with which she
had dreamed to give him pleasure--all lost! No more would she sit by his
side there watching, with wonder and pride, the growth of beauty 'neath
his dexterous hand; and then she feels that 'tis compassion, not love,
that hath opened his arms to her, that she hath killed his respect for
her, and with it his love. And so, stifling the sobs that rise in her
throat, she weeps on, till her tears trickling from her cheek fall upon
his hand.
The icy barrier of resentment is melted by the first warm tear,--this
silent testimony of her smothered grief,--and bursting from the bonds of
reason, he yields to the passionate impulse of his heart, and clasping
this poor sorrowing wife to his breast, he seeks to kiss away the tears
from her cheek, and soothe her with gentle words. She responds to his
passion, kiss for kiss, as she clasps her hands about his head; but
still her tears flow on, for with her readier wit she perceives that
this is but the transport of passion on his side, and not the untaxed
outcome of enduring love, proving again the truth of his unmeditated
prophecy; for how can he stand who yields so quickly to the first
assault, and if he cannot stand, how can he raise her? Surely and more
surely, little by little, they must sink together to some lower depth,
and one day, thinks she, repeating his words, "We may chat easily upon
this villany and regret we went no further in it."
Mr. Godwin leads her to the adjoining chamber, which had been his, and
says:
"Lie down, love. To-morrow we shall see things clearer, and think more
reasonably."
"Yes," says she, in return, "more reasonably," and with that she does
his bidding; and he returns to sit before the embers and meditate. And
here he stays, striving in vain to bring the tumult of his thoughts to
some coherent shape, until from sheer exhaustion he falls into a kind of
lethargy of sleep.
Meanwhile, Moll, lying in the dark, had been thinking also, but (as
women will at such times) with clearer perception, so that her ideas
forming in logical sequence, and growing more clear and decisive (as an
argument becomes more lively and conclusive by successful reasoning)
served to stimulate her intellect and excite her activity. And the end
of it was that she rose quickly from her bed and looked into the next
room, where she saw her husband sitting, with his chin upon his breast
and his hands folded upon his knee before the dead fire. Then wrapping
his cloak about her, she steals toward the outer door; but passing him
she must needs pause at his back to staunch her tears a moment, and look
down upon him for the last time. The light shines in his brown hair, and
she bending down till her lips touch a stray curl, they part silently,
and she breathes upon him from her very soul, a mute "Fare thee well,
dear love."
But she will wait no longer, fearing her courage may give way, and the
next minute she is out in the night, softly drawing the door to that
separates these two for ever.