_We take Moll to Greenwich; but no great happiness for her there._
In the midst of our heroics I was greatly scared by perceiving a cloaked
figure coming hurriedly towards us in the dim light.
"'Tis another, come to succour his friends," whispers I. "Let us step
into this hedge."
"Too late," returns he. "Put on a bold face, 'tis only one."
With a swaggering gait and looking straight before us, we had passed the
figure, when a voice calls "Father!" and there turning, we find that
'tis poor Moll in her husband's cloak.
"Where is thy husband, child?" asks Dawson, as he recovers from his
astonishment, taking Moll by the hand.
"I have no husband, father," answers she, piteously.
"Why, sure he hath not turned you out of doors?"
"No, he'd not do that," says she, "were I ten times more wicked than I
am."
"What folly then is this?" asks her father.
"'Tis no folly. I have left him of my own free will, and shall never go
back to him. For he's no more my husband than that house is mine"
(pointing to the Court), "Both were got by the same means, and both are
lost."
Then briefly she told how they had been turned from the gate by Peter,
and how Mr. Godwin was now as poor and homeless as we. And this news
throwing us into a silence with new bewilderment, she asks us simply
whither we are going.
"My poor Moll!" is all the answer Dawson can make, and that in a broken,
trembling voice.
"'Tis no good to cry," says she, dashing aside her tears that had sprung
at this word of loving sympathy, and forcing herself to a more cheerful
tone. "Why, let us think that we are just awake from a long sleep to
find ourselves no worse off than when we fell a-dreaming. Nay, not so
ill," adds she, "for you have a home near London. Take me there, dear."
"With all my heart, chuck," answers her father, eagerly. "There, at
least, I can give you a shelter till your husband can offer better."
She would not dispute this point (though I perceived clearly her mind
was resolved fully never to claim her right to Mr. Godwin's roof), but
only begged we should hasten on our way, saying she felt chilled; and in
passing Mother Fitch's cottage she constrained us to silence and
caution; then when we were safely past she would have us run, still
feigning to be cold, but in truth (as I think) to avoid being overtaken
by Mr. Godwin, fearing, maybe, that he would overrule her will. This way
we sped till Moll was fain to stop with a little cry of pain, and
clapping her hand to her heart, being fairly spent and out of breath.
Then we took her betwixt us, lending her our arms for support, and
falling into a more regular pace made good progress. We trudged on till
we reached Croydon without any accident, save that at one point, Moll's
step faltering and she with a faint sob weighing heavily upon our arms,
we stopped, as thinking her strength overtaxed, and then glancing about
me I perceived we were upon that little bridge where we had overtaken
Mr. Godwin and he had offered to make Moll his wife. Then I knew 'twas
not fatigue that weighed her down, and gauging her feelings by my own
remorse, I pitied this poor wife even more than I blamed myself; for had
she revealed herself to him at that time, though he might have shrunk
from marriage, he must have loved her still, and so she had been spared
this shame and hopeless sorrow.
At Croydon we overtook a carrier on his way to London for the Saturday
market, who for a couple of shillings gave us a place in his waggon with
some good bundles of hay for a seat, and here was rest for our tired
bodies (though little for our tormented minds) till we reached Marsh
End, where we were set down; and so, the ground being hard with frost,
across the Marsh to Greenwich about daybreak. Having the key of his
workshop with him, Dawson took us into his lodgings without disturbing
the other inmates of the house (who might well have marvelled to see us
enter at this hour with a woman in a man's cloak, and no covering but a
handkerchief to her head), and Moll taking his bed, we disposed
ourselves on some shavings in his shop to get a little sleep.
Dawson was already risen when I awoke, and going into his little
parlour, I found him mighty busy setting the place in order, which was
in a sad bachelor's pickle, to be sure--all littered up with odds and
ends of turning, unwashed plates, broken victuals, etc., just as he had
left it.
"She's asleep," says he, in a whisper. "And I'd have this room like a
little palace against she comes into it, so do you lend me a hand, Kit,
and make no more noise than you can help. The kitchen's through that
door; carry everything in there, and what's of no use fling out of the
window into the road."
Setting to with a will, we got the parlour and kitchen neat and proper,
plates washed, tiles wiped, pots and pans hung up, furniture furbished
up, and everything in its place in no time; then leaving me to light a
fire in the parlour, Dawson goes forth a-marketing, with a basket on his
arm, in high glee. And truly to see the pleasure in his face later on,
making a mess of bread and milk in one pipkin and cooking eggs in
another (for now we heard Moll stirring in her chamber), one would have
thought that this was an occasion for rejoicing rather than grief, and
this was due not to want of kind feeling, but to the fond, simple nature
of him, he being manly enough in some ways, but a very child in others.
He did never see further than his nose (as one says), and because it
gave him joy to have Moll beside him once more, he must needs think
hopefully, that she will quickly recover from this reverse of fortune,
and that all will come right again.
Our dear Moll did nothing to damp his hopes, but played her part bravely
and well to spare him the anguish of remorse that secretly wrung her own
heart. She met us with a cheerful countenance, admired the neatness of
the parlour, the glowing fire, ate her share of porridge, and finding
the eggs cooked hard, declared she could not abide them soft. Then she
would see her father work his lathe (to his great delight), and begged
he would make her some cups for eggs, as being more to our present
fashion than eating them from one's hand.
"Why," says he, "there's an old bed-post in the corner that will serve
me to a nicety. But first I must see our landlord and engage a room for
Kit and me; for I take it, my dear," adds he, "you will be content to
stay with us here."
"Yes," answers she, "'tis a most cheerful view of the river from the
windows."
She tucked up her skirt and sleeves to busy herself in household
matters, and when I would have relieved her of this office, she begged
me to go and bear her father company, saying with a piteous look in her
eyes that we must leave her some occupation or she should weary. She was
pale, there were dark lines beneath her eyes, and she was silent; but I
saw no outward sign of grief till the afternoon, when, coming from
Jack's shop unexpected, I spied her sitting by the window, with her face
in her hands, bowed over a piece of cloth we had bought in the morning,
which she was about to fashion into a plain gown, as being more suitable
to her condition than the rich dress in which she had left the Court.
"Poor soul!" thinks I; "here is a sad awaking from thy dream of riches
and joy."
Upon a seasonable occasion I told Dawson we must soon begin to think of
doing something for a livelihood--a matter which was as remote from his
consideration as the day of wrath.
"Why, Kit," says he, "I've as good as fifty pounds yet in a hole at the
chimney back."
"Aye, but when that's gone--" says I.
"That's a good way hence, Kit, but there never was such a man as you for
going forth to meet troubles half way. However, I warrant I shall find
some jobs of carpentry to keep us from begging our bread when the pinch
comes."
Not content to wait for this pinch, I resolved I would go into the city
and enquire there if the booksellers could give me any employment
--thinking I might very well write some good sermons on honesty,
now I had learnt the folly of roguery. Hearing of my purpose
the morning I was about to go, Moll takes me aside and asks me in a
quavering voice if I knew where Mr. Godwin might be found. This question
staggered me a moment, for her husband's name had not been spoken by any
of us since the catastrophe, and it came into my mind now that she
designed to return to him, and I stammered out some foolish hint at
Hurst Court.
"No, he is not there," says he, "but I thought maybe that Sir Peter
Lely--"
"Aye," says I; "he will most likely know where Mr. Godwin may be found."
"Can you tell me where Sir Peter lives?"
"No; but I can learn easily when I am in the city."
"If you can, write the address and send him this," says she, drawing a
letter from her breast. She had writ her husband's name on it, and now
she pressed her lips to it twice, and putting the warm letter in my
hand, she turned away, her poor mouth twitching with smothered grief. I
knew then that there was no thought in her mind of seeing her husband
again.
I carried the letter with me to the city, wondering what was in it. I
know not now, yet I think it contained but a few words of explanation
and farewell, with some prayer, maybe, that she might be forgiven and
forgotten.
Learning where Sir Peter Lely lived, I myself went to his house, and he
not being at home, I asked his servant if Mr. Godwin did sometimes come
there.
"Why, yes, sir, he was here but yesterday," answers he. "Indeed, never a
day passes but he calls to ask if any one hath sought him."
"In that case," says I, slipping a piece in his ready hand, and fetching
out Moll's letter, "you will give him this when he comes next."
"That I will, sir, and without fail. But if you would see him, sir, he
bids me say he is ever at his lodging in Holborn, from five in the
evening to eight in the morning."
"'Twill answer all ends if you give him that letter. He is in good
health, I hope."
"Well, sir, he is and he isn't, as you may say," answers he, dropping
into a familiar, confidential tone after casting his eye over me to be
sure I was no great person. "He ails nothing, to be sure, for I hear he
is ever afoot from morn till even a-searching hither and thither; but a
more downhearted, rueful looking gentleman for his age I never see.
'Twixt you and me, sir, I think he hath lost his sweetheart, seeing I am
charged, with Sir Peter's permission, to follow and not lose sight of
any lady who may chance to call here for him."
I walked back to Greenwich across the fields, debating in my mind
whether I should tell Moll of her husband's distress or not, so
perplexed with conflicting arguments that I had come to no decision when
I reached home.
Moll spying me coming, from her window in the front of the house, met me
at the door, in her cloak and hood, and begged I would take her a little
turn over the heath.
"What have you to tell me?" asks she, pressing my arm as we walked on.
"I have given your letter to Sir Peter Lely's servant, who promises to
deliver it faithfully to your husband."
"Well," says she, after a little pause of silence, "that is not all."
"You will be glad to know that he is well in health," says I, and then I
stop again, all hanging in a hedge for not knowing whether it were wiser
to speak or hold my tongue.
"There is something else. I see it in your face. Hide nothing from me
for love's sake," says she, piteously. Whereupon, my heart getting the
better of my head (which, to be sure, was no great achievement), I told
all as I have set it down here.
"My dear, dear love! my darling Dick!" says she, in the end. And then
she would have it told all over again, with a thousand questions, to
draw forth more; and these being exhausted, she asks why I would have
concealed so much from her, and if I did fear she would seek him.
"Nay, my dear," says I; "'tis t'other way about. For if your husband
does forgive you, and yearns but to take you back into his arms, it
would be an unnatural, cruel thing to keep you apart. Therefore, to
confess the whole truth, I did meditate going to him and showing how we
and not you are to blame in this matter, and then telling him where he
might find you, if on reflection he felt that he could honestly hold you
guiltless. But ere I do that (as I see now), I must know if you are
willing to this accommodation; for if you are not, then are our wounds
all opened afresh to no purpose, but to retard their healing."
She made no reply nor any comment for a long time, nor did I seek to
bias her judgment by a single word (doubting my wisdom). But I perceived
by the quivering of her arm within mine that a terrible conflict 'twixt
passion and principle was convulsing every fibre of her being. At the
top of the hill above Greenwich she stopped, and, throwing back her
hood, let the keen wind blow upon her face, as she gazed over the grey
flats beyond the river. And the air seeming to give her strength and a
clearer perception, she says, presently:
"Accommodation!" (And she repeats this unlucky word of mine twice or
thrice, as if she liked it less each time.) "That means we shall agree
to let bygones be bygones, and do our best to get along together for the
rest of our lives as easily as we may."
"That's it, my dear," says I, cheerfully.
"Hush up the past," continues she, in the same calculating tone;
"conceal it from the world, if possible. Invent some new lie to deceive
the curious, and hoodwink our decent friends. Chuckle at our success,
and come in time" (here she paused a moment) "to 'chat so lightly of our
past knavery, that we could wish we had gone farther in the business.'"
Then turning about to me, she asks: "If you were writing the story of my
life for a play, would you end it thus?"
"My dear," says I, "a play's one thing, real life's another; and believe
me, as far as my experience goes of real life, the less heroics there
are in it the better parts are those for the actors in't."
She shook her head fiercely in the wind, and, turning about with a
brusque vigour, cries, "Come on. I'll have no accommodation. And yet,"
says she, stopping short after a couple of hasty steps, and with a
fervent earnestness in her voice, "and yet, if I could wipe out this
stain, if by any act I could redeem my fault, God knows, I'd do it, cost
what it might, to be honoured once again by my dear Dick."
"This comes of living in a theatre all her life," thinks I. And indeed,
in this, as in other matters yet to be told, the teaching of the stage
was but too evident.