MOLL DAVIS
A COMEDY
_By_ BERNARD CAPES
AUTHOR OF
“THE LAKE OF WINE,” “A JAY OF ITALY,” ETC., ETC.
LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
RUSKIN HOUSE MUSEUM STREET W.C.
[COPYRIGHT]
_First published in 1916_
(_All rights reserved_)
CONTENTS
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
MOLL DAVIS
CHAPTER I
Somewhere about the western angle now formed by the junction of
Oxford Street and the Charing Cross Road, there stood in the year 1661
“The Mischief” Inn. It was a substantial building, consisting of two
gabled sections, divided by a third and wider having a pent-roof, and
forming with the others a deep recess, in whose ground quarters was
plentiful accommodation for the stabling of horses. At the level of
the first story ran a railed wooden balcony, common to all the
bedrooms behind; and in the yard below were rough benches and
trestle-tables disposed about, where customers might forgather to
discuss, over their pipes and purl, such topics as went seasonably
with them--it might be his popular Majesty’s latest roguery, or “Old
Mob’s,” almost as great a thief and favourite.
“The Mischief,” standing as it did on the great highway running east
and west, formed a convenient terminus for travellers journeying from
the contiguous wilds of Berkshire and Wiltshire, the majority of whom,
for reasons of economy, came by “waggon.” This was a vast road craft,
with a tilt, and tyres to its wheels a foot wide, whose consistent
record of progress never exceeded three miles to the hour. It was
drawn commonly by six sturdy roadsters in double harness, and bearing
yokes with swinging bells at the hames of their collars; and time was
never of the essence of its contract. But it was safe, if slow, being
well prepared and armed against surprises, which were by no means of
infrequent occurrence by the days-long way, especially as London was
approached.
Oxford Street itself, indeed, bore a villainous reputation. It
stretched somewhat on the borders of the town, with wild and wooded
country going northwards from it, and was handy therefore to the
gentry whose profession it was to cut purses from the skirts of
civilization. Latterly, its heterogeneous domiciles had shown a
tendency to increase and multiply, and, by adding to their number on
either side the way, to extend the boundaries of the comparative
security which obtained about the central regions of Westminster and
Whitehall. But it was still a perilous district, the very expression
and moral of which appeared epitomized in the sign which swung on a
high gallows, beside a wooden water-trough, before the front of our
inn, and which depicted a poor unhappy citizen bearing upon his
suffering shoulders a drunken scold. In the neighbourhood of the
building clustered, like disreputable relations, a knot of tenements,
which included a pawnbroker’s and a gin-shop; and southwards from it
zigzagged a muddy bridle-way--known appropriately as Hog Lane--which,
traversing a motley course, half town, half rookery, debouched finally
upon the village of Charing, where in an open place stood the monument
with its gilt cross.
So, approximately, appeared this particle of our London in the year
following that of the King’s Grace’s restoration, A.D. 1661. It is
easier to explain a frog of to-day out of a Pliocene leviathan than it
is to trace the growth of a huge metropolis from such paltry
beginnings. The tendency of Nature is to reduce from the unwieldy to
the workable, while that of man is to magnify his productions out of
all proportion with the simple necessities they are wanted to supply.
That is why towns increase while animals grow smaller.
The yard of “The Mischief” Inn was fairly crowded on that particular
June morning which witnessed the encounter between its landlord and
Mrs. Moll Davis. This young lady had come to town out of Wiltshire, by
waggon, some fortnight or more earlier, and, putting up at the inn,
had succeeded already in outstaying a welcome which was wont to be
continued to such angels only as came franked with a sufficiency of
their golden namesakes. In short, Mrs. Davis could not, or would not,
pay her score; and, since she failed to quit the landlord, and he
declined to release her without settlement, a state of deadlock had
arisen between them, which seemed to promise no conclusion but through
the better ability of one or the other to “throw” its adversary in a
wrestle of wit--a contest in which the lady, at least, need expect no
“law.” And it was at this juncture that Mr. George Hamilton appeared
upon the scene.
He was a very agreeable young gentleman, of cavalier rank, debonair
and smart to foppery, which as yet, however, stopped short of the
extravagance which later came to characterize it. He wore his own long
chestnut hair, and a lingering tone of sobriety marked his dress. The
times, in fact, had not quite pulled free their damasked wings from
the Puritan case which had enclosed them, though certain foreshadowed
iridescences gave promise of the splendour to come; and, moreover, the
gentleman had ridden in that morning from the country, and had been in
no mind to stake his sweetest trappings against the habitual quagmires
of Oxford Street. He dismounted at “The Mischief” for his morning
draught, and, giving his horse to hold to his servant, sat down at a
table in the yard, and hammered for the drawer.
George was a bold youth of his inches--which were sufficient--but
quite immoral and unscrupulous. He fitted amiably into his age, which
expected nothing better of a man than good company. That he supplied,
and could have supplied in purer brand if good-fellowship had been its
inevitable corollary. But there he lacked. Generally he wished no man
good but where he saw his own profit of the sentiment; and he could be
an inhuman friend. He had regular, rather full features, and a rolling
brown eye which took in much that had been kindlier left unobserved;
and, like most of his order, he was infernally pugnacious. While his
ale was bringing, he sat, one arm akimbo, the other crossed on his
knee, conning, as if they were cattle, the group about him, and
humming an abstracted tune. There was no one who interested him much,
or who touched a note of originality in all the commonplace crowd
which surrounded him. Grooms, carters, local traders; a seedy rakehell
or two; a lowering Anabaptist, sipping his ale with a toast in it, and
furtively conscious the while of the scrutiny of a yellow trained-band
Captain lolling by the tap door; a prowling pitcher-bawd, lean,
red-eyed, and hugging his famine as he ogled about for custom--one and
all they conformed to type, and presented nothing beyond it worth
considering. George felt quarrelsome over the matter, as if he had
been defrauded of a legitimate expectation. True, mankind in its
ordinary habits and conversation could hardly be looked to at the best
for more than diluted epigram; yet there should be a limit to the
insipidity of things, and he felt it almost his duty to insist upon
the fact. Possibly his brain was a little fevered from last night’s
debauch.
The seedy Mohawks were his nearest neighbours. Said one to his fellow,
in the words of Banquo’s murderer: “It will be rain to-night.”
Hamilton turned on him.
“Who says so, clout?”
“Sir!” exclaimed the young man, startled aback.
“I say, who says so?”
“I say so.”
“Then a pox on your profanity! Are you to arrogate to yourself the
Almighty’s prerogatives? It shall rain or not as the Lord decrees.”
“Hallelujah, young sir!” boomed the Anabaptist.
“Do you say it will not rain?” demanded George, addressing him.
“Nay,” answered the Fifth-Monarchist; “but I trust it will not.”
“Then you are as bad as the other,” said George, “since you are as
ready to lament the Almighty’s dispensations.” He snapped again on the
luckless first speaker. “I am a man of submission, for my part, and
content to accept whatever comes--even if it be a fool to spit himself
on my rapier-point. I’ll take you on that question of your damned
divinity.”
The landlord came up at the moment, bringing his drink, and
simultaneously there appeared, on the balcony above, the figure of a
young girl. A certain hush had fallen on the crowd, expectant of a
fracas.
“Zoons!” said Boniface sourly; “we’ll have no talk of swords, by your
leave. No swords, my lord, none. This is no hedge-tavern; we want no
fire-eaters here! We’ve a reputation to maintain.”
He was a gross, club-fisted man, with a sooty underlip. It needed such
to keep a grip on the sort of company he dealt with.
“A reputation for mischief, by the token,” said Hamilton derisively,
“or you fly false colours.”
The landlord grumbled violently. “No steel, by God! I say. I’m master
here.” He was already out of temper, and, glancing up, found a timely
butt for his wrath in the figure on the balcony. With an exclamation
of fury, he heaved his shoulders through the mob until he came under.
“Here, you!” he roared. “Who let your ladyship out of duress?”
She nodded and smiled down.
“A hairpin,” she said. “I managed to pick the lock with it.”
She was young--almost a child, with blue eyes laughing in a saucy
face. From under a black whimple, set coquettishly on her head and
garnished with a sprig of rosemary, filched from the kitchen, hung
thick brown curls over dolly-pink cheeks. A deep-falling collar, quite
plain, was set about her slender throat, and loosely knotted into it
was a tasselled cord. An underskirt of stone blue, and an upper one of
brown, bunched at the tail into a little pannier, completed a very
attractive picture. Hamilton, his attention drawn to it, sat up,
interested and mollified at once.
“Then,” cried the landlord, with an oath or two, “you’ll e’en return
whence you came, or I’ll bring the law on you for house-breaking!
Bing-awast! Back you go to your chamber, bobtail!”
The lady nodded again, pursing cherry lips; and prompt the answer came
from them--
“I’ll see you damned first!”
The crowd bawled with laughter; but the landlord, purple in the face,
turned to storm the heights by way of a flight of steps which gave
access to the balcony from the yard corner. Before he had well
started, however, Hamilton’s voice stayed him--
“Hold, vintner! Steel or no steel, I take up this quarrel!”
He had risen, and now advanced to the scene of action, the press
giving way to him. His air, his obvious rank, no less than his hint of
a dangerous temper, were his sufficient passports, not only with the
company but to the landlord’s better consideration. The man scowled
and muttered; but he stood halted. Hamilton blew a kiss to the rosy
nymph before he turned on her persecutor.
“Duress! House-breaking!” quoth he. “What terms are these to hold an
angel fast? Tell us her crime, bluffer!”
“Angel!” responded the landlord deeply. “Aye, a pretty angel, to cully
a poor innkeeper out of his dues! Look you here, master--you that are
so righteous--will you pay your angel her shot?”
“She owes you board and lodging?”
“Aye, she does; seven days and more.”
George looked up at the balcony.
“Is that true, child?”
The girl had already produced a little handkerchief, which she now
dabbed to her eyes, her breath catching very touchingly.
“Sure I would find the money if I could,” she said. “He might give me
credit for my good intentions.”
“I’ll give you credit for nothing!” roared the landlord. “God
A’mighty! She’ll be asking for a cash advance on her good intentions
next!”
George hushed him down.
“Whence do you hail, child,” he said, “and whither make?”
She whimpered. “I’m but a poor maid, out of Wiltshire, kind sir, and
’tis a husband I seek.”
“A husband!” quoth he. “Alack that I’m none myself, to accommodate
your need. But if a bachelor might serve----”
The crowd hooted again.
“Pay her shot, Captain, and hold her hostage for it.”
“Shall I?” said Hamilton. He addressed the childish countenance above,
observing for the first time the tiniest of patches placed under the
corner of its baby mouth. That gave him some sniggering thought. It
seemed to suggest the footlight Chloe rather than the genuine article.
Moreover the baggage appeared, for all her seeming innocence, quite
self-possessed. He wondered. “What do you say, child?” he demanded.
She had fallen back a little, using her handkerchief. Now she started,
as if conscious of some question, and leaned forward again.
“Was it the gentleman with the plum-pudding eye that spoke?” she said.
A clap of new laughter greeted the seeming artless sally. George
cachinnated with the rest, but in a mortified fashion.
“Yes,” says he; “and a very sweet simile, my dear.” He turned to the
landlord. “What is she, vintner?”
“_God_ knows,” answered the man morosely. “A strolling play-actress,
like as not. She’s no good, whatever she is.”
“No good is a better woman than you, you radish!” cried the girl.
“That’s certain,” said Hamilton. “You are answered, bluffer.”
“Answered?” said the man. “Aye, I know her. Trust her young tongue to
answer, though you provoked it in the middle of a song.”
“Song? Does she sing?”
“Does she _not_--like the wicked young syrup she is. Sings like a
kettle.”
The lady laughed.
“And best when in hot water. Shall I sing to you now?”
“Sing for your supper, like Master Tom Tucker,” said the Cavalier.
“Yes, sing, by all means; only come down to do it. I’ll go bail for
her,” he assured the landlord.
The man grumbled, but submitted, and George beckoned the nymph.
“Descend,” said he, “and give us of your quality. You shall not lose
by it.”
She nodded, disappeared for a moment, and returning with a lute, ran
to the stairs, descended to the yard, and stood among the company,
confident and unabashed. And straight and readily she touched the
strings, with slender fingers seeming oddly native to that tuneful
contact, and sang the little song which afterwards came to be the most
associated with her naughty name.
My lodging is on the cold ground,
And hard, very hard, is my fare,
But that which grieves me more
Is the coldness of my dear.
Oh, turn, love, I prythee, love, turn
to me,
For thou art the only one, love,
that art ador’d by me.
I’ll twine thee a garland of straw, love,
I’ll marry thee with a rush ring,
My frozen hopes will thaw, love,
And merrily we will sing.
Then turn to me, my own love;
I prythee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the only one, love,
that art ador’d by me.
There was silence as she ended, for indeed the child’s voice was of
the sweetest, as full and natural as a bird’s; and then came a round
of applause. Hamilton hushed it, rather angrily. “Would ye slam down
the lid of the virginal while the last notes still ring in it?” he
said. “Unfeeling dolts!”
Sweet music touched him; perhaps it was the only gentleness that
could. It wrought a glamour which willy-nilly fooled his better
reason. It did so now, conscious as he was of his own enthralment.
Here was no longer a child adventuress, but a plaintive innocent,
melodiously sorrowing in Nature’s very voice. He was never a giver in
the disinterested sense; now the song decided a point on which he had
hitherto wavered. He turned impulsively to the landlord.
“What is her debt?” said he. “I discharge it.”
“Thirty shillings and a groat,” answered the other promptly.
“Knock off the groat,” said Hamilton, “for your contribution. What,
man, who calls the tune must pay the piper.”
He would hear no remonstrances, but waved the innkeeper away. “Come
aside with me,” he said to the girl; and, very willingly it seemed,
she obeyed. He led her to a table apart, where he sat her down,
himself facing her, and there was none of the company rash enough to
question by so much as a snigger that implied claim to privacy in a
public place. Most dispersed about their business, while the few who
remained gave the couple a respectfully wide berth.
“Now,” said Hamilton, “who are you, pretty one?”
“A poor deserted wife, kind sir,” she answered, “as ever wedded a
villain.”
“A wife--you baby!”
“Please, I was married in long clothes,” said she.
“And who taught you that song?”
“Grief,” she said--“and Mr. Bedding.”
“Your husband?”
“O, no!” says she. “There was no bedding with him.”
He conned her shrewdly. He was already beginning to recover himself,
and to suspect a hussy under this rose.
“Why not?” he said.
“He was that jealous,” she answered, “if the moon looked in at the
window, he would accuse me of making eyes at the man in her.”
“That was in Wiltshire?”
“Where our home was, sure.”
“And so you left him?”
“Mr. Bedding came by, and took me to sing for him. But a strolling
company was never to my taste.”
“So you left it and came to town?”
“I went home again.”
“To your husband?”
“No, he was gone.”
“Gone?”
“He had taken umbrage, as they call it--he was always one to mind a
little thing--and off’d with it to Jericho, leaving me nothing but his
curse--not so much as a sixpence beside.”
“And so you followed him--to Jericho?”
“Not I. I followed my own inclinations, and they brought me here.”
“Well, inclinations spend more than they hoard, as a rule. Haven’t you
found it so?”
“Sure, I’ve no need to hoard, when kind gentlemen pay my bills for
me.”
“That’s as it may be, Mrs. ---- By the by, what _is_ your name?”
“Mary Davis, by your leave, kind sir; but my intimates call me Moll.
Please, what is yours?”
“George Hamilton, Moll.”
“That’s a good name, George. Are you of the King’s Court?”
“I’ve been there.”
“I do so long to see the King--a dear, kind gentleman. They call him
in our parts the father of his people. Is he?”
“Well,--of quite a number of them. Why do you want to see the King?”
“Only--O, just to see him!”
George wagged a finger at the artless young baggage.
“O-ho! Mrs. Mollinda,” says he. “Does the wind lie that way? You have
begun early, true enough; and you’ll not fail for lack of confidence
in your pretty wits. But it’s a long climb from the cradle to the
four-poster.” He laughed. “Upon my word--the baby’s assurance! and by
way of such obstacles!”
She turned pained, troubled eyes on the scoffer, making as if to rise.
“What have I said in my innocence?”
“Nothing at all,” says he. “Your innocence never spoke a word. But, by
God! your looks are voluble. I’ faith, you’re the sweetest darling,
Mrs. Moll, and for that I’ll be your friend, if you will, as a decent
young gentleman should. What would you have me do? Find your husband
for you?”
“Alack! Is that to be my friend?”
“The best, maybe--but by and by. Who knows? He may come to serve us
with royalty yet. Do you trust me, Moll?”
“Sure a poor girl like me must live on trust.”
“So she must, and live very well too. Did that rogue of a landlord
really keep you fast?”
“On my honour he did.”
“Don’t swear by false idols.”
“What have I said now?”
“That he put you on your honour.”
“No, that he did not. My honour’s not for such as him.”
“No, indeed. It flies at higher game. Well, he must keep you still,
for a while.”
“Not he!”
“He must, I say. You must bide here till I can arrange of your
fortunes. I’m but by the road, and will come again anon. Never fear;
I’ll see you well provided. But you must lie close for the moment, if
you would have my help.”
“In what?”
“To see the King, of course.”
She clapped her little hands in artless glee.
“Shall I see the King?”
“See him and sing to him, perhaps. In the meantime you’re mine to
dispose of. Is it a bargain?” He rose, and she with him, her
expression downcast and demure. “That’s well,” said he. “Give me a
buss, Mrs. Moll, in token of our understanding.”
He bent over the table, pulled her to him, and set his lips under the
dangling curls. Then, being released, she ran with a face of fire to
the steps, and, ascending them, to the accompaniment of an
irrepressible guffaw or so from the spectators, paused a moment on the
balcony above, hearing a jackass bray in the stables.
“What an echo there is in this place,” says she to the heads below,
“when you gentlemen all laugh together!” and whisked into her room.
Hamilton, in the meantime, going to arrange terms with the landlord,
grinned agreeably to his own thoughts. The chit had neither imposed on
him nor, comely limb though she was, disorganized his emotions.
Indeed, being deeply engaged at the moment to an intrigue which
absorbed his most passionate energies, he had no appetite for
supplementary complications. Still, beauty was beauty, and to invest
in it, with whatever view to ultimate profit of one sort or the other,
was never a bad principle. He had no conception at present of any use
to which to put these covetable goods which good fortune had committed
to his hands; but that he could find a use for them, and one that
should be personally gainful, he never had a doubt. The only necessity
was promptitude. He had seen enough to know that his hold on the skit
was to be measured by just the length and elasticity of the tether by
which he might strive to keep her under his nominal control. And that
tether must be provided shortly, or she would scamper free of her own
accord. But he was a man of distinguished resourcefulness in such
matters, and he never questioned his own ability to convert this
capture somehow to a profitable end. And in the meanwhile the girl was
well disposed where no prowling town-bull might come by her to steal a
march on him. Indeed, to make assurance double sure, he hinted to the
landlord of a favour contingent on his holding himself responsible, as
heretofore, for the safe custody of his guest, with a suggestion that
locks which yielded themselves to the insidious manipulations of
hairpins were better supplemented by stouter defences. And, having
satisfied himself as to that, he departed.